Kiss in the Dark (2 page)

“She’s flirty with you?” I say, my voice rising dangerously.

“Told me I had nice wide shoulders,” he says, and though the phone light’s gone out now, I don’t need to see his face to hear the smile in his voice. “What, you jealous now?”

I am. Madly.

“You do have nice wide shoulders,” I say, trying to sound airy and unconcerned.

“You don’t need to be jealous, Scarlett.” He wraps his arms around me. “You know that, right?”

This time our kiss is tender, reassuring. It would be lingering, but I break away because of the alarm bell ringing in my head.

“I’ve got to get back,” I say regretfully.

“Okay.” Jase lets out a long slow breath in a sigh of regret. “I’ll stay here for a couple of hours, till Dad’s had enough time to calm down and knock himself out with some more cheap whisky.”

“Oh, Jase.” I squeeze his hand. I’m an orphan, which isn’t exactly a ton of fun, but whenever I think of Mr. Barnes it makes me realize that there might be worse fates in life. “Do you sleep out here a lot?”

“When he’s on the warpath,” Jase says. “He’s always passed out by midnight, though. Then I can go back.” He hugs me. “I’d walk you back to school, but if Dad’s still out and about and catches us together …”

“No, better not,” I say quickly. One encounter per evening with Mr. Barnes is pretty much my limit. “He won’t bother me if I’m on my own. It’s just seeing us together that gets him going.”

Jase lights his Zippo to show me the way down the ladder, holding it high, away from the straw. We’ve got more than enough drama in our lives already without setting a barn alight.

I hate to leave him. And I hate just whispering “Bye” as I make my way out through the gap in the boards.

Because what I really want to say is “I love you.” The words are trembling on my tongue. I want to say “I love you” and then run away, really fast.

Just in case he doesn’t say them back.

AN ARMY OF PLUM-BOTS

I can’t believe I forgot about the “Wakefield Hall Etiquette Guide for Students”! I’m thinking, furious with myself as I sprint across the field, vault over the stone wall, and land on the grassy verge of Lime Walk, back on officially sanctioned school grounds again. Why, why, why didn’t I get rid of it as soon as I realized I was coming here as a pupil?

Because I was in such a state of misery that when I crawled back here, after I kissed Dan McAndrew and he promptly choked to death because of an allergic reaction, I was barely able to remember my own name.

And probably also because the entire etiquette guide episode was so horrific I just tried to purge it out of my brain as soon as I could.

A couple of years ago, my grandmother decided that the young ladies who comprised the current set of pupils at Wakefield Hall Collegiate were falling way below her extremely strict set of standards of conduct and deportment, despite having the aforementioned standards drilled into them every waking minute of their days. She attributed the problem to their home environments. Apparently, parents nowadays simply didn’t know how to teach their children how to behave.

Her solution was simple and elegant. Who better than Honoria, Lady Wakefield, to put together a Wakefield Hall etiquette guide?

And who better, in her opinion, than her granddaughter, Scarlett, to pose for the photographs in the guide, demonstrating how to sit on a sofa, skirt demurely arranged over her knees; how to get out of a car, legs pressed together politely; and how to hold her cutlery correctly, fingertips never touching the tines of her fork or the blade of her knife?

Looking, in other words, like a complete and utter idiot.

Originally, my grandmother’s idea was to send out a copy of the guide to the parents of every girl at Wakefield Hall when she started her first term. Miraculously for me, however, the move turned out to be one of her rare misjudgments. Her faithful secretary, Penny, told me in confidence that a large number of parents complained when the first batch of guides went out. Although some were apparently grateful for it, the vast majority was insulted by the presumption that they didn’t know how to teach their daughters the proper way to hold a fruit knife while paring an apple.

Since it wasn’t possible for the school to send out guides to some parents but not others, the “Wakefield Hall Etiquette Guide for Students” was retired from circulation after just one year. One year too many for me, but a whole lot better than having the wretched thing go out to every new girl at the start of the autumn term for the rest of eternity.

Nowhere in the guide does it say I posed for the photos. And since I wasn’t a pupil at Wakefield Hall then—it was assumed I’d stay at St. Tabby’s until I was eighteen and went off to university—my grandmother firmly overrode my objections by saying that nobody at the school would ever identify me.

And they probably wouldn’t have. After all, at fourteen I was still a skinny girl with her hair in plaits. A big difference between me then and me now, nearly seventeen, with boobs and hips and a bum (all a bit more sticky-out than I’d like, but I’m learning to live with them).

If someone as twisted and sneaky as Plum hadn’t got her sticky fingers on it, my secret would almost certainly have been preserved.

“Knees together when you slide out of a car, ladies! That way no one can tell if you’re wearing a thong or nothing at all!” comes Plum’s high-pitched drawl, easily audible though I’m on the other side of the common-room door. “Personally, I think she’s wearing granny pants, don’t you? Or gym knickers. Big brown gym knickers to preserve her maidenly modesty! Because she’s definitely a maiden, don’t you think?”

A round of tittering laughter greeted this salvo of comic brilliance. Bracing myself—Taylor behind me, both of us having just sprinted up the main stairs of Pankhurst dormitory—I push the door open and step inside.

Jase thinks you’re gorgeous, I tell myself for courage. The handsomest boy you’ve ever seen thinks you’re gorgeous and wants to kiss your face off. Be strong.

But the scene inside is even worse than I imagined. Plum has practically thrown a party to celebrate her discovery of the Wakefield Hall etiquette guide. Almost all the common-room chairs have been arranged in two half-moon rows, and the chairs are full of girls. Their backs are to me; they’re all facing the cleared area, the open space in the center, where the last chair is placed. As if it’s on a stage.

And Plum’s performing. She’s sitting on the chair, knees squeezed tightly together, feet in the air, halfway through copying the large black-and-white photo in the guide, which she’s holding in one hand, high up and facing out, so that everyone in the room can see it as clearly as possible.

It’s me, in the terrible, stomach-turning “How to Exit a Car with Grace and Dignity” section.

Plum turns her head and spots me standing there. I have to give the cow some credit for her nerve; she doesn’t look at all taken aback at having the object of her mockery walk in halfway through her act.

“Scarlett! How fortuitous!” she exclaims, dropping her feet to the ground, her heavily mascara’d green eyes opening even wider. “I mean, you’re the expert on this whole etiquette subject, aren’t you? Come over here, will you, and show me how to keep my legs together? It’s something I seem to have a little problem with from time to time, but I’m sure it isn’t an issue for you!”

Sycophantic titters greet this latest sally. Everyone turns to look at me, craning their necks over the backs of their chairs. And I realize with horror that it’s happening all over again.

Plum and I were at St. Tabby’s together, up till last summer, when I was asked to leave because of all the media attention surrounding Dan McAndrew’s death. I was just another insignificant student who did gymnastics after school almost every day and stayed well away from the ruling clique of girls, because any attention they gave me would definitely be negative.

While Princess Plum—beautiful, rich, and socially from the top drawer—was the supreme ruler of all she surveyed. She was so influential that girls copied her slavishly, hoping to win her approval and avoid being on the receiving end of her sharp tongue.

But St. Tabby’s was one of the smartest, most socially important girls’ schools in England. When Plum got expelled and sent here instead, I really hoped that her particular brand of mean-girl nastiness wouldn’t work as well at Wakefield Hall, where brains are valued much more highly than the number of times you’ve been in Tatler that year.

Clearly, I was wrong.

Because every single head turned to me looks like an amateur version of Plum.

Plum’s hair is pulled loosely up on her head with an elastic; all the girls with long-enough hair to imitate her are wearing theirs in a similar style. Their eyelashes are mascara’d just like Plum’s, their lips glossed like hers. Now that I get a good look at the room, I can see that Plum’s lounging outfit of skinny-fit T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and furry slippers has been reproduced, as closely as possible, on every girl present. Her wrists are encircled with bracelets made of big silvered glass beads, which she’s been wearing nonstop since she came back from the Christmas holidays, and most of the other girls have tried to copy them, buying versions as close to Plum’s originals as they can, but, of course, not quite succeeding.

In the space of just a few weeks, Plum has managed to create a whole new army of Plum-bots.

Complete with matching jewelry.

The only person who hasn’t succumbed to Plum’s brainwashing is Taylor, who promised me that she’d stand quietly by my side during this confrontation, unless I gave her the signal to use her amazing intimidation skills. Although when I glance at Taylor, who is standing with her arms crossed over her chest and grimacing at Plum as though she’d strangled Taylor’s dog, I realize she doesn’t have to say anything in order to put the fear of God into someone. Taylor is, quite frankly, toughness personified.

Which is why I’m grateful that she’s in my corner.

“Give me that,” I say, marching round the rows of chairs, advancing on Plum and snatching the etiquette guide out of her hand.

“But, Scarlett!” Plum mimes shock, one hand to her mouth. “You can’t take that away. Without it, how will we all learn to be properly behaved young ladies?”

“It’d take more than an etiquette guide to teach you that,” I snap.

Plum’s eyes narrow into slits.

“You were nothing at St. Tabby’s,” she hisses. “Nothing. And then you got invited to one party—one!—and a couple of boys noticed you, mainly because you were just fresh meat, and you got your head swelled almost as much as your ridiculous, fake-looking boobs!”

There are gasps from the rows of spectators at this round of insults. All the girls are leaning forward as if they were at the circus and we were doing life-threatening stunts.

“Oh, just go and buy yourself a Wonderbra,” I cut in. “Honestly, it’s tragic how obsessed you are with my boobs. Maybe if you didn’t starve yourself you’d have some of your own!”

More gasps. Plum tosses back her head theatrically and glares at me.

“I do not starve myself,” she barks.

“No, you’ve got other ways to keep skinny, don’t you?” I snap back. “Ways that don’t work for poor people, right?”

Lizzie Livermore, sitting in the front row, claps her hands over her mouth in shock that I’ve brought this up. Lizzie has always been a Plum-bot, even before Plum landed at Wakefield Hall. Insecure, fashion-obsessed, and very, very rich, Lizzie hangs out with Plum and her clique in London, buying her entrance to their smart party set by using the credit cards her father gives her instead of the attention she really wants from him.

Ever since Plum arrived here, Lizzie’s run around after her like a yappy little dog. And Lizzie knows exactly what I’m referring to, the reason Plum had to leave St. Tabby’s. Plum’s best frenemy, Nadia Farouk, posted a video clip on YouTube of Plum snorting coke and saying that “dieting is for poor people.”

I may have gone too far, however. Plum practically hisses like a snake at this.

“At least I haven’t killed anyone!” she says furiously, pointing one manicured finger at me.

But I can tell from the malign expression on her face what she’s about to spit out, and as soon as she opens her mouth I’m saying equally loudly, covering her words:

“Outside! Now!”

I can see that no one expects Plum to obey. There are more gasps of surprise as, reluctantly, she pushes back the chair and stands up.

Damn. I’m in trainers, and Plum towers over me. It was a lot easier to face off against her when she was sitting down. No girl who isn’t as tall and slim as Plum herself would be comfortable in her skin standing next to Plum. I feel as squat and stumpy as a pillar. In the dark glass of the window behind us I see our reflections, and I wince at the comparison.

I can’t compete with her in looks, either. I’m pretty enough—with my dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, I’m a dead ringer for the Wakefield women in most of the family portraits. But Plum’s photogenic, chiseled cheekbones, perfect straight nose, and mesmerizing green eyes put her way beyond mere pretty, securely into the “beautiful” category.

I really don’t want to be standing next to her with everyone else gaping at us. I swivel and walk quickly past the rows of girls, heading for the door. Though I double-take briefly as, acknowledging Lizzie with a swift nod, I see who’s sitting next to her: a girl called Susan, who’s in my Latin class. Tall, blond, and willowy, Susan is one of the prettiest girls in school, but has always been shy and seemingly uninterested in her appearance. Now, with her white-blond hair pulled back from her face, her thick lashes mascara’d and her near-invisible eyebrows penciled to light brown, she’s a total knockout.

She could give Plum a run for her money in the beauty stakes, I think savagely. Hope Plum doesn’t destroy her for it.

“Want me to come with you?” Taylor asks.

I shake my head. “Just keep an eye on everyone else, okay?”

Taylor nods in agreement, then scans the group for any interlopers who might want to follow Plum and me outside.

I stalk out into the corridor and down to the far end, by the fire door, an isolated spot where no one can sneak up on us and eavesdrop. Plum walks as haughtily down the corridor in her fluffy slippers as if she were strutting down a Milan catwalk. Behind her, Taylor exits the room and leans against the wall, making sure that everyone else stays inside the common room.

“Wherever did you find such a butch bodyguard, Scarlett?” Plum says sarcastically.

I have to admit, Plum has nailed Taylor’s posture. Taylor is wide-shouldered from all the pull-ups she does, and her equally muscly arms are folded across her chest. She could easily pass for a bouncer if she shaved off the shaggy dark hair that’s falling into her eyes. Plum made the comment loudly enough for Taylor to hear, and I see Taylor’s thick dark brows pull together in annoyance; though she’s resolutely nongirly, she hates it when people comment on her looking mannish.

That’s the trouble with Plum. She’s incredibly talented at homing in on people’s weaknesses, inserting the knife tip to test for flinching, and then twisting it deep. The best thing to do is ignore these comments, but right now I don’t have the mental fortitude to remind myself of that.

“You crossed the line,” I snarl.