Jones School's Out!

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-78895-287-3
Verlag: Little Tiger Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 2, 256 Seiten

Reihe: Dragon Detective

'The Dragon Detective Agency. Dirk Dilly speaking.' Holly is desperate to be sleuthing with her partner-in-solving-crime, dragon Dirk Dilly, but instead she's stuck at her exclusive boarding school for children of the rich and famous. She's determined to escape, until she meets Callum, the son of the Prime Minister, who claims he was kidnapped by dragons a year ago and hasn't been the same since. And when Dirk's own investigation into dragon activity brings him to the school, the two cases collide. What if Callum isn't as crazy as he seems? The second instalment in a fun and action-packed detective series for fans of TOTO THE NINJA CAT, HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON and Tom Fletcher's children's books!

Gareth P. Jones is the author of many books for children, including the NINJA MEERKATS, PET DEFENDERS and DRAGON DETECTIVE series, and THE CONSIDINE CURSE, for which he won the Blue Peter Book of the Year 2012. He lives in south London with his family. Visit www.garethwrites.co.uk | @jonesgarethp

Autoren/Hrsg.

Jones, Gareth P.

Leseproben

Holly stopped by the door and, for a fleeting moment, considered making a run for it there and then. The electronic whirring of a security camera brought her to her senses, its automated sensor detecting her movement. This was not the time. Remember the plan. Holly looked up at the lens, stuck her tongue out at it and continued down the corridor to the principal’s office.

The escape would be tonight but it wasn’t going to be easy. William Scrivener School prided itself on being as inescapable as it was impenetrable. Every corridor was watched by state-of-the-art CCTV cameras, monitored around the clock by a private security service. The best time for an escape was at night when there were two guards on duty rather than three and it was easier to hide from the cameras. The problem with a night escape was the external doors, which were opened using coded wristbands. All pupils were issued with non-removable green wristbands but these were programmed only to open the doors during the day, unlike the teachers’ red wristbands that worked 24/7.

Even if you got past the cameras, avoided being seen by the teachers who patrolled the corridors and somehow got through the door, you still had to make it across the school grounds without being picked up by security (or smelled by the guard dogs) and find a way over, under or through the high wire fence that surrounded the school.

Then you were free to begin the ten-mile walk through the large forest to the nearest village, the aptly named Little Hope.

As the school of choice for the ridiculously rich and phenomenally famous, William Scrivener’s security was the most intense Holly had ever encountered, but getting out of school was what Holly did best.

She arrived at the principal’s office and approached the desk where a large woman with carrot-red hair and blue eyeliner was painting her nails purple. Without looking up, she pressed a half-painted nail on the intercom button. “Holly Bigsby is here for your daily meeting, Principal Palmer,” she said, her voice rich with sarcasm.

“Send her in, Angie,” replied the principal.

Holly entered the dark wood office. In the twenty-seven days she had been at the school this was her twenty-eighth visit to the principal’s office, but it was the first time she had got herself sent there on purpose.

“Good morning, Holly,” said the principal, adjusting his tie in the reflection of one of the many shiny awards that stood on the mantelpiece.

“Hello, sir,” replied Holly, glancing at the desk where his red wristband lay. On her previous visits she had noticed that, unlike her wristband, the principal’s was removable and that he took it off on Fridays so that it didn’t clash with his navy blue suit.

“What is it today then, disruptive behaviour or insolence?” he asked, a tanned hand neatening his hair.

“Speaking out of turn, sir.”

“Ah.” Principal Palmer nodded. “What happened?”

“Miss Whittaker told us about When Petals Blossom being on the syllabus.”

“Yes. Terrific news, isn’t it? Our stock has gone up three points.”

Holly said nothing.

“It’s had a lot of press coverage.” The principal grabbed a newspaper off a pile on his desk and read a review out. “Having already written her autobiography at the tender age of eleven, now pop’s most famous offspring, Petal Moses, will be studying it at school…”

Holly edged nearer to the desk, keeping her eyes fixed on the principal.

“…after it was selected for the English curriculum.”

Holly reached out towards the wristband.

“Described by one critic as ‘a deeply insightful account of what it means to grow up in the full glare of the harsh media spotlight’, the book will be studied by Year Seven students, including Petal herself.” The principal chuckled at this and looked up. Holly quickly lowered her hand.

He smiled and continued. “‘Petal Moses is one of our most talented students and that’s saying something,’ said Larry Palmer, Principal of William Scrivener School.” He beamed at Holly and placed the paper back on his desk.

Holly needed that wristband.

“Could you read me another one?” she asked.

Principal Palmer raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Yes, of course,” he said, picking up another paper. “Studying her own autobiography won’t be an unfair advantage for precocious Petal Moses…”

Holly’s hand inched towards the wristband once more.

“…because most critics agree that spoiled pop brat Petal didn’t actually write it…’”

The Principal slammed the paper down and Holly whipped her hand away again. “Yes, well, there’s always some degree of negativity from the cynics,” he said. “Petal’s your roommate, isn’t she? Aren’t you pleased for her?”

Holly scowled. Petal Moses was pleased enough for herself. To say that Petal got everything she wanted was an understatement. She got much more than that. If she wanted a new party dress, she was flown out by private helicopter to an exclusive department store, where a personal shopper waited. If she liked a new pop band, they would be brought to the school for a private performance, which only she and her friends could attend. Even some of the teachers pandered to her. Miss Whittaker, their English teacher, had been beside herself when she announced that they would be studying her book, and Petal’s fawning friends had burst into applause.

“What happened when Miss Whittaker told you?” asked the principal.

“I said that I thought the title was stupid because petals don’t blossom. I said that flowers blossom. Petals just fall off and die.”

“I see, and you said this in front of the whole class, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Holly, you really must try to make an effort to fit in. William Scrivener is the finest school in the country. Your parents were very lucky to get you in at all. And you should feel honoured to be sharing a room with a student as special as Petal.”

“Special?” said Holly. “There’s nothing special about her!”

Principal Palmer sighed. “I know that your mother is important too. MPs are important people, even backbenchers.”

“She’s my stepmum and she’s not a backbencher. She works in the Ministry of Defence now,” Holly interrupted. “Dad says she might make the cabinet this year.”

“Very impressive, I’m sure,” he replied. “But Petal’s mother is known all round the world.” The principal clapped his hands together and, as though it was the highest compliment anyone could ever be paid, added, “And she’s American.”

“Well, I hate her and I hate this stupid school,” Holly shouted, lashing out and knocking the pile of newspapers to the floor.

“Holly Bigsby!” barked the principal, diving to pick them up.

Holly seized the opportunity, snatched the wristband and thrust it into her pocket.

The principal placed the papers back on to the table, careful not to crease them.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he said sternly, “but if you think you can get excluded from this school as you did with your previous schools, you can think again. Your parents have paid a lot of money to keep you here.”

This was Holly’s sixth school. She was taken out of her last one after only one term when her dad’s wife had decided to send her away. A general election had been called and she didn’t want Holly’s bad behaviour attracting any negative press attention. Dad hadn’t phoned since she’d been there but she guessed he was busy with the campaign.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” said Holly, her voice full of fake remorse.

He smiled kindly and tilted his head. “You know, this school can open many doors in life but only if you let it. Why don’t you make some friends?”

Holly didn’t want any of these people as friends. They were all the same – spoiled rich kids, who rode their ponies on Saturdays and argued over who lived in the biggest house or whose parents were the most famous.

The only real friend she had made was Little Willow, but she didn’t want to admit this because Little Willow was a mouse. Holly had found her under the bed when she first arrived in her dorm and named her after her cat Willow, who she had left behind with a private detective she knew, Dirk Dilly.

She missed Willow.

She missed Dirk too. She had written to him twice a week...