Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy by Paula Berinstein
Chapter 3
A Detective’s Mystique
After the orientation, Amanda studied her class schedule, which was printed on a bright yellow piece of paper the color of some crayon shade she couldn’t remember the name of. It was so different from the usual fare that she couldn’t process what she was looking at.
Spring Term First-Year Class Schedule
Monday
8:00 – 9:15. History of Detectives, Also
9:30 – 10:45. Evidence, Scribbish
11:15 – 12:30. Observation, Sidebotham
12:30 – 1:30. Lunch
1:30 – 2:45. Logic, Ducey.
Tuesday
8:00 – 9:15. Crime Lab, Stegelmeyer
9:30 – 10:45. Observation, Sidebotham
11:15 – 12:30. Self-defense, Peaksribbon
12:30 – 1:30. Lunch
1:30 – 2:45. Logic, Ducey.
Wednesday
8:00 – 9:15. Pathology, Hoxby
9:30 – 10:45. Observation, Sidebotham
11:15 – 12:30. Evidence, Scribbish
12:30 – 1:30. Lunch
1:30 – 2:45. Disguise, Tumble.
Thursday
8:00 – 9:15. History of Detectives, Also
9:30 – 10:45. Crime Lab, Stegelmeyer
11:15 – 12:30. Self-defense, Peaksribbon
12:30 – 1:30. Lunch
1:30 – 2:45. Observation, Sidebotham.
Friday
8:00 – 9:15. Logic, Ducey
9:30 – 10:45. Evidence, Scribbish
11:15 – 12:30. Pathology, Hoxby
12:30 – 1:30. Lunch
1:30 – 2:45. History of Detectives, Also.
What a strange array of topics. Pathology, whatever it was, had to be medical and therefore incomprehensible. Logic sounded dry, as did history of detectives, which she’d heard over and over already from her parents, and evidence, which was just a lot of boring fingerprints and stuff. Self-defense was PE—ugh. When she saw she was going to have to suffer through a lab she felt ill again. She wasn’t good at science and she absolutely wasn’t about to dissect any more frogs. But observation and disguise—those were her things. You couldn’t make movies without observing every detail of behavior, appearance, setting, and lighting, and disguise was just costuming. She felt herself get just a little excited about the prospect of those classes. A little.
She put the schedule in her bag and headed for her room. The girls’ dormitory was in the east section of the north wing. The whole campus comprised a patchwork quilt of buildings, wings, and sections, including a series of basements, towers, outbuildings, and tunnels, all built at different times and in different fashions. It was ever expanding and mutating, she had discovered, which meant that one year there would be a lot of vacant space, and another virtually none, depending on the enrollment and the amount and location of construction. The school was host to a variety of styles and environments: the ancient, simple 18th century manor and chapel, with their zigzaggy joists and beams and fly-eyed mullioned windows; the ornate 19th century classrooms, common rooms, and dining room, with their rich paneled walls and gothic arches; and the late 19th century dorms, which were close and tight and secret, with narrow hallways and tiny rooms not unlike rabbit warrens.
Holmes House was all the way at the top, which in the U.S. would be called the third floor but in England was the second, the first floor being the ground floor. Whatever it was called, it was quite a schlep up the stairs. There was an elevator, but it was a horrible-looking thing with a metal grille around it and Amanda didn’t trust it. It seemed that no one else did either because it never seemed to move. Maybe it was stuck.
Amanda was to share a room with two other girls, a fact that did not amuse her, particularly because said room was so small. As an only child she’d always had her own room, and she quailed at the loss of privacy. Where would she block out her scenes? Where would she keep her costumes, lights, storyboards, wigs, and makeup kit, not to mention her camera? She was sure her parents were paying a lot of money for her to go to Legatum. The least they could do was give you a decent amount of space.
But there didn’t seem to be a solution, so she opened her trunk and started to unpack, throwing everything on the bed first so she could sort her clothes by color and type. That’s what all costumers did. You had to be able to find the right item instantly when you were shooting. Filming delays cost money.
As she dug down to the bottom of the trunk, she started. Without her knowledge or permission, her mother had hidden several of the books she’d written in her luggage. Amanda was so furious that she picked up the top one and threw it across the room, where it hit a wall and fell down behind a dresser. How could she? She had no right, no right to invade her privacy and try to propagandize her with that detective junk. She threw the other two books under the bed and practically ripped the rest of her clothes out of the trunk.
Her roommates had yet to make an appearance. She had visions of mean girls with svelte figures and porcelain complexions. She supposed they’d be blonde too. It would figure. She’d be the dark, fat, short one with the flyaway hair, stubby hands, and baby face, and they’d be the beauty queens. What else was new?
Suddenly a tiny girl wearing sunglasses entered the room with the most beautiful golden retriever Amanda had ever seen. Amanda was so startled she almost said something she would have regretted. Her roommate was blind! Whoever had heard of a blind detective? At least she wasn’t blonde. Her hair was so coppery that it lent a reddish sheen to the entire room, or at least Amanda imagined it that way. The girl would be perfect in a sixties-era film surrounded by psychedelic pinks, reds, and oranges. Or against a verdant outdoor setting in a period piece, perhaps in Ireland or even here in the UK. In fact—
“Hello. I’m Ivy,” said the tiny girl. “Ivy Halpin.”
“Amanda Lester,” said Amanda, rushing to shake her hand.
“And this is Nigel,” said Ivy, presenting her dog.
“Why hello, Nigel,” said Amanda. “He’s beautiful!” The dog’s yellow coat gleamed. It was as if the two of them, girl and dog, had been polished, they were so luminous. Amanda envisioned lighting them from various angles and settled on a backlight that would outline them in gold.
“Yes, he is,” beamed Ivy. “I’m afraid he does shed a bit, but he’s very tame and frightfully intelligent. Do you like dogs?”
“Oh, yes,” said Amanda. “My parents would never let me have one, but I do adore them.” What was this? She’d been in the country for two days and she was starting to sound like an English person already. She’d have to watch that. Sometimes her natural ability to mimic got her into trouble, and she had enough of that on her hands.
“What is that?” came a harsh voice from the doorway. “A dog?”
“Yes, this is Nigel,” said Ivy proudly.
“Get it out of here,” said the tall, plump, dark-skinned girl in the doorway. “You can’t have a dog in here. It’s a school.”
“She’s blind,” said Amanda. “Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Hey, you’re the one who threw up,” said the nasty girl, eyeing Amanda.
Amanda thought she would just about die. “What’s it to you?” The best defense was a good offense. The girl glared at her.
“Well, of course I’m blind,” grinned Ivy, ignoring the incipient argument. “It’s nothing to be sensitive about. I’m blind, you’re a short brunette with a nice nose and small feet,” she said facing Amanda, “and you,” she said turning to the girl in the doorway, “are tall, wearing earrings, and a bit red-faced at the moment. You also have long black hair. And yes, Amanda threw up. So what? I throw up all the time. Don’t you?”
“Hey,” said the tall girl. “How did you—am I red-faced? Really? And how do you know about my hair?”
“I may be blind but I’m not dumb,” said Ivy, grinning so wide that Amanda thought her face would split in two. “First, you’re embarrassed, and second, I can hear
“But I’m English,” the girl protested.
“So am I, but our families aren’t from here, are they? Can you tell about me?” She grasped her hair on both sides and pulled it out from her head as if to offer a hint.
“No.”
“Well then,” said Ivy in such a nice way that no one could possibly be offended “you’ve got a project to work on, haven’t you?” She turned to Amanda. “You’re from Southern California. I’d say Los Angeles. Not the Valley, but close to it.”
“You are kidding!” said Amanda. “You’re right. Calabasas.”
“Cala-who?” said the tall girl.
“Calabasas,” said Amanda. “It’s in the Santa Monica Mountains. It’s just past the San Fernando Valley. Lots of horses. That was amazing. You’re really talented.” She suddenly wondered what it was about the way she spoke that had given her away. Was there a Calabasas accent? She was sure there wasn’t.
“Thank you,” said Ivy. She turned to the tall girl. “And of course you’re from East Anglia, definitely Cambridge, but with a touch of central London, and I’m from Dorset, although as you will be able to tell once you’ve done your project, my family is from Dublin. Oops, I gave it away.” She clapped her hand over her mouth as if she were divulging the secret of the Holy Grail, then laughed.
“But how did you do that?” said the doorway girl, softening.
“I hear things,” said Ivy.
“You can’t hear what someone is wearing, or how tall they are, or what color their hair is,” said the girl.
“Yes, you can,” said Ivy. “You have to work at it, but you can.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” said the girl. “By the way, I’m Amphora. Amphora Kapoor.”
“Hello, Amphora,” said Ivy and Amanda in unison.
“And I’m sorry about what I said. He’s a lovely dog. Sheds a bit, though, doesn’t he? Is he going to be staying in this room with us?” Amphora seemed to be accepting him but she made no move to pet him and was still eyeing him with suspicion.
“Yes, indeed,” said Ivy.
“Yes, of course he would,” said Amphora. “How silly of me. He’s your guide dog. How else could you get to the loo in the middle of the night?”
“I have my ways,” said Ivy, still beaming.
“Um, I’m Amanda,” said Amanda. “I make movies.”
“We know,” said Ivy.
“Yes,” said Amphora. “It’s obvious.”
What was that supposed to mean? Amanda hoped it was a compliment. Oh well. If she had to be insulted, better that it be for her filmmaking than her genes.