FLOURISHED SUN
London, England 3rd of November, 2011
“Does anyone know why I’m missing fifteen students on a Thursday morning?” Mrs. Garino asks, standing by the electronic whiteboard at the front of the class, arms crossed. The final morning bell races in echoes down the hall and into classrooms, signalling the start of the school day. “Is there an eight AM rave that I’m not aware of?”
A few tired chuckles come from my classmates, but no one offers any explanation. As I sit in the second row, I have to turn around to see that, indeed, there are quite a few desks empty. The one I focus on, though—a row to my left, two desks back—relieves me from the worry I’ve felt since stepping out of my car and onto the school grounds earlier this morning. Ernest Winland, with unruly brown hair falling along his forehead, is slouched in his seat, fiddling with a pen between his fingers. If I knew no better, I would believe he has been sitting there for half an hour. But I do know better, and since he didn’t meet me in the school yard or walk with me to class, like most mornings, I know he likely overslept and arrived by the skin of his teeth.
He catches my gaze and knows he can’t fool me with his calm demeanour. As if he’s certain that I will have questions about his tardiness, he mouths later, and winks. Even after a year of us being together, Ernie never fails at being able to send my freckled cheeks blushing the colour of my hair.
I turn around as Mrs. Garino sighs. “Regardless, class shall continue as normal. So, if everyone will please direct their attention to the board, we’ll watch the morning announcements and go from there.”
Many classes skip over watching the announcements each morning, believing they take away too much time that could be spent teaching. But as this class focuses on many current events, local and worldwide, it’s mandatory to watch them every morning. Mrs. Garino turns off the lights, allowing what little sun peeking through the early November overcast to stream through the open blinds. Soon, even that’s cancelled out by the glow of the projector hitting the white board, and the video starts playing.
The student director of the school newspaper also doubles as the host of the announcements, wearing a button-down shirt, bowtie, and glasses. A model student. Even his accent sounds posher and over enthused during the video.
“Goooood morning, students! It is officially Friday Eve, which means the weekend is so nearly here, but we can’t get excited just yet. Though, what we can get excited for is Taco Thursday. Who’s with me?!”
A silly animated illustration flashes up of two dancing tacos and confetti. An unconvincing cheer comes from one student in the back before the host returns into the frame.
“But without further ado, let’s get into the news, shall we? Prime Minister Burrell stood before Parliament yesterday to propose a new law on immigration…”
On cue, I divert my eyes and doodle in the margins of my paper to feign boredom. I get to the second eye of a face before my phone buzzes. I only reach for it when I know Mrs. Garino is occupied with the announcements.
Ernie: please direct your attention to the screen, Miss Francie Pants. I might have to call your father if you keep misbehaving like this!
My eyes roll at his nickname for me—derived from my middle name, Francesca—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to do it at him.
Delaney: bugger off will ya? I’m trying to listen to the news
As I look back up, the segment about the Prime Minister seems to have finished. I stow my phone away.
“Now, I know we’ve been hearing a lot of worrying news out of America recently, but here’s something that might shine some light for the whole world! The head scientist at the University of Massachusetts Medical School has announced major steps in creating a cure for Down Syndrome. The cure, according to the scientist, is meant to neutralise the extra copy of the twenty-first chromosome. This study has been ongoing for many years, with copious amounts of information discovered by the University. All documentations and reports can be accessed on the University’s website, if you’re interested in researching more of this.
“Before signing off, I want to advise all students and teachers to practice good hygiene because a virus is currently making its rounds in the city. It is not airborne, but can be spread from close contact between people.”
The host begins to say goodbye as a cough sounds behind me. I look back at Ernie, who coughs again, with quizzical eyes. Are you sick? I mouth as the lights come back on. It would explain why he didn’t arrive at school at his usual time, but he shakes his head and mouths back whilst pointing to his neck: there’s something in my throat.
“Miss Burrell,” Mrs. Garino calls. I snap my head forward to look at her, feeling like disappearing with her use of my last name. I know almost all eyes are on me at the sound of my last name, an unnecessary reminder to my schoolmates of who my father is. “I suggest you not let Mr. Winland distract you if you want to pass my class. Eyes up front, everyone.”
I sink into my seat and start doodling again.
***
After the last class of the day, mine being math and his being gym, Ernie walks with me to my car, hair damp from the shower he just took after sweating for ninety minutes. We walk slowly, in no rush to approach the black vehicle sitting idle at the curb, Union Jacks waving tall and proud on the hood. In one hand, he holds his worn-down skateboard, and in the other, my hand.
“Wanta tell me why you were late this morning?” I ask. “I’m not used to not seeing you in the courtyard.”
“Mum had left for work, and I was almost ready” —he coughs—“to walk Ty to school when I realised”—another cough—“the little bugger had been in his room way too long. Turns out he felt bad and overslept. Asked the elderly lady next door” —and another—“if she could watch him for the day as I came here.”
His explanation is riddled with breaks, so he can cough.
“You think it’s that virus?”
We unfortunately make it to my waiting car. He opens the back door for me as I toss my rucksack in, letting my driver, Brandon, know I’ll be ready in a moment. Ernie and I stand with the door between us, but still only inches apart.
“Likely. I’ll get him back home and find out what medicine he needs. I should probably take some, too.” He coughs again, as if proving himself.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” I agree. “Guess I shouldn’t kiss you either.”
“I would disagree, Miss Francie Pants.”
“Oh, now you’re definitely not getting a kiss,” I tease, stepping into my car and shutting the door as he groans. I roll down my tinted window as soon as the car comes to life. Ernie rests his forearms at the top of the door, ducking his head down to see into the car. “Get better, and maybe, maybe, tomorrow.”
He shuts his eyes and coughs before responding. “Fine, but if the doctors find I overdosed on Vitamin C tonight because I was trying to get better, it’s all your fault, love.”
My eyes roll at his terrible joke, and I would flip him off just for the banter, but my car is already pulling away. I settle into the black leather seats of the Jaguar, pulling out a book that’s required to be read for my American Literature class. Brandon, who’s focused on the road, doesn’t see that I’m attempting to finish the book when he starts a conversation.
“I trust school was well, Miss Burrell?”
Closing my book to engage in the chat, I say flatly, “Just as well as any other school day, Brandon.”
His gaze leaves the road for a split second to look at me through the rear-view mirror. We both break out into grins and chuckles. He knows I hate being asked about school—because school is school, and never deviates from normal—and he knows it. Just like he knows I hate him calling me by my last name. Still, he continues to use them without fail.
Brandon is, regardless of his flaws, my favourite security member. He’s twenty-nine, the youngest staff my dad has employed, and his personality is vastly different than the others. He’s much more friendly, and is always ready to joke around—unless the situation requires a more serious approach. I had one different driver before Brandon, who was dreadfully boring and always stern. The moment Brandon replaced her was the moment I was eternally grateful that my father could see the work relationship wasn’t working.
And since he’s been my driver and personal guard for the last year, we’ve grown to know each other quite well. He doesn’t speak to his family anymore, for reasons he always tells me aren’t important. But his lack of familial commitment made him perfect for a potentially life-threatening job, protecting the Prime Minister and his daughter. He knows more about my relationship with Ernie than anymore, probably even more than my dad, simply because he’s almost always around when I’m with Ernie. He knows I’m rarely serious, and finds it hilarious when I try to be.
Besides Ernie, Brandon is the only other person I really consider a friend.
He pulls through the opening gates and stops at the front door of 10 Downing Street, my home and Father’s personal office. Wishing I didn’t have to endure the publicity act every time I want to return home, I step out of the car with my bag hanging off one shoulder, saying a quick thanks to Brandon. I’m ready to flash a smile to the reporters across the street as he pulls away, but I notice the scene isn’t as usual. Only half dozen reporters are on the other side of the fairly small, dead-end road, behind metal barricades that are specifically designated for them. When they see me, their cameras turn on, and they speak into the microphones and then hold it out for my reply, but over the car engine that’s still close by, I can’t hear their words. It doesn’t help that many of them are wearing white medical masks around their mouths, hooked behind their ears.
They must not want to catch the virus, I assume. Or maybe they already have it and don’t want to spread it.
Regardless, I make my way inside, shutting the black door and locking it. I call out for my father, the high ceilings and marble stair cases allowing my voice to travel further. Typically, he’s home by the time I’m back from school, unless there is urgent business to be handled elsewhere. Brandon didn’t tell me my father hasn’t returned home, though, so I begin to ascend the stairs, calling for him again.
I decide to start looking for him in the most obvious of places: his office. The sound of my school shoes is muffled by the long, light green rug that runs the length of the hallway decked out with prestigious paintings. My father’s office is situated between a large library filled with numerous book, old and new, and his bedroom, each of the rooms connecting to the next.
“Dad?”
His office door is cracked open, enough that when I peer into it, I can see my father sitting behind his grand oak desk. He isn’t looking down at papers, however. His head is lifted to stare in front of him. “Dad, are you alright?” I question, pushing the door open further to see what he’s seeing.
A dozen, if not more, men stand in the spacious office, making it look more cramped than it should. They’re all dressed in suits and ties, looking back at me with stern gazes. Some I recognise from government dinners and social events I attend with my father, but others I’ve never met before. I quickly realise I’m not meant to be here. That I’ve walked into a meeting not meant for my ears.
“Darling,” my father addresses me. His eyes look tired and unfocused. I swear he’s grown a hundred new grey hairs overnight. “I thought I heard you come in. There’s been an impromptu meeting come up—we should be done very soon. We’ll have dinner afterwards, and talk about the day, okay?”
I nod warily, backing out of the entryway, dragging the door with me. “Okay. I’ll be in my room doing some work.”
Voices start firing off before I can fully secure the door in its place. I do go to my room, but I’m distracted from trying to complete homework. What kind of meeting, unscheduled or not, requires a dozen government officials to gather in our home? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait for tomorrow?
Whatever it is must be extremely important, though, as two hours pass by, the clock hand reaching five before there’s a knock at my door. Dad pokes his head in, still looking like he could sleep for a year, but now wears a smile.
“Ready for dinner?” he asks.
I push away from my desk littered with papers and book, responding, “I’m always ready for food. It shouldn’t even be a question, Dad.”
We exit my room, following a series of hallways and one staircase to reach the dining room. Dad keeps walking through the room, towards the set of doors leading to the kitchen. The dining room is empty, which surprises me. “Are the people from your meeting not staying for dinner?”
It’s not uncommon to have guest over for meals, almost always to discuss some form of business, government, or world affairs. The dining room, set up with a grand, wooden table that seats two dozen easily, would always serve as the setting for these dinners.
“The meeting was so sudden that the kitchen staff would not be able to prepare such amounts of food on short notice, so no. They also have families to return home to, just as I have a daughter I much prefer to eat dinner with in the kitchen over those buggers any day.”
Anytime I hear my dad, one of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom, use such informal language, I can’t help but laugh. It’s so rare to see that particular side of him, mainly because I don’t see him as often as other daughters would see their fathers. That’s one of the many reasons that, when it’s just us eating together, we choose to dine on stools at the kitchen bar. The dining room is too big, too ornate, to feel comfortable in on a day to day basis.
“I really like it, too, Dad.”
Harriet greets us when we enter the main kitchen. She’s the head chef in our house, slightly older than my father, but with a far more youthful soul than him. We chat mostly about cooking related subjects as my father and I fill up our plates and she frosts cupcakes. Dad insists she take the leftovers home to her family, so she wouldn’t have to cook yet another dinner.
As Dad and I begin to eat, I ask her, “How has your son been?”
She smiles at talk of her only son. “He’s glad to be home from his study abroad in Boston, but he’s been feeling a bit poorly the last few days. Must be that bug going around. Apparently, it’s making rounds in America as well.”
“You should take home some cupcakes as well, then!” I reply. “They’ll surely brighten up his day.”
She agrees, likely because she knows I won’t let her leave without at least half of the sweets she made. And when she does leave against her own volition, Dad and I are still eating, commenting about our days as a small telly sitting in the corner of the counter drones on in the background.
There’s a lull in conversation, so I pick up a cupcake and think of a new topic. “There were many kids absent from school today, you know? Probably from that same virus Harriet’s son has.”
Dad doesn’t immediately respond, he doesn’t even meet my eyes, as he chews over his food. It sets me on edge. There aren’t many things my dad strays from talking about, and almost everything he refrains from is classified and government related and meant to stay that way.
“I think Ernest’s little brother has it, too.”
That catches his attention.
“Is Ernest also sick?” he asks, setting his fork down and standing from his stool. He collects the remaining dirty dishes to wash in the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. On nights like this, when Dad sends the kitchen staff home early, one of us usually cleans up the mess left over. It’s a small tradition we started when we moved in, to keep up grounded and humble to have such amazing staff working with us.
I shrug even though his back is turned towards me. “He had a cough this morning, but nothing too bad. Why? Is there something wrong?”
He turns on the faucet and starts washing his plate. “There’s nothing wrong, sweetheart.”
“Do you know what kind of virus it is? Is it like the flu, or something?”
“No, but many doctors are looking into it.”
“Is that what the meeting was about today?”
I know I’m treading a delicate rope when he turns off the water and finally turns towards me. He wipes off his hands before leaning onto the opposite side of the bar, looking directly at me. “Delaney, you know there are some things I can’t speak of. But as your father, not the Prime Minister, I think it’d be in your best interest to keep some distance from Ernest. At least until all of this virus nonsense goes away.”
My eyebrows knit together. “If it were nonsense, then I shouldn’t have to stay away from Ernie.”
He sighs, “It wouldn’t be wise to be around him if he’s getting sick.”
“Well, geez, Dad, I could get sick from anyone for that matter! Doesn’t mean I’m going to stay away from everyone,” I say exasperated. “You say it’s nothing, but if you can’t give me one good reason to not see him, then you can’t request I follow your advice.”
He looks conflicted at my statement. I can almost see the weights on his shoulders, pushing him down and down and down. And then he cracks. “Someone has died.”
My face drops. “W-what?”
“This virus has killed someone in England. And that could just be the one we know about.” He threads pruned fingers into his hair. “So, the meeting today was to discuss what we need to do.”
“And that is?”
He looks at me straight on, no longer afraid, it seems, to divulge information.
“First, I am going to start with shutting down the schools.”
