Secrets, Lies, and Locker 62

by Lil Chase

  ‘It looks like she meant it,’ I tell Karmella.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, looking angry again. ‘I don’t care anyway.’

  But I know she does care. I know she isn’t as tough as she makes out. Deciding that honesty is the best policy again, I take a deep breath and say, ‘I know you entered a poetry competition.’

  ‘What?’ she says, and looks around to see if anyone’s heard me.

  ‘And you won.’

  Karmella looks shocked and starts blinking rapidly.

  ‘“L is heLL”. You put it in the locker.’

  I watch as she works out that I know everything. She looks terrified, and actually it’s quite sweet.

  ‘I think the poem is great! You shouldn’t be ashamed—’

  She points her finger at me. ‘If you tell anyone—’

  ‘I would never tell anyone,’ I say. ‘I’m your friend now, remember? Friends keep each other’s secrets.’

  She looks confused. ‘Wow, Maya, you’re actually … nice, aren’t you?’

  I shrug because I kind of assume that’s how everyone is.

  ‘Rochelle has been my friend for ages,’ she continues, ‘but even she calls me a bitch behind my back and snogs the boys I like. Not like you. You’re a real friend.’

  ‘Yes, Karm,’ I say. I’m not sure if she’s being genuine or just telling me what I want to hear. ‘I want to be your real friend.’

  She tilts her head to one side. ‘Well, let’s do that, shall we?’

  She hugs me tight. Being in the cool group is going to be the best.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke is still staring at me.

  Chapter 27

  ‘Maya, where do you think you’re going?’

  Busted.

  I’m trying to sneak out after chemistry without Mr Holt noticing, but it’s too late.

  ‘Come back here, please.’ Not a request. An order.

  As the rest of the class leaves, they stare. One person even shouts, ‘Good luck.’ I’ve been hanging out with Karmella and Rochelle all week and now that I’m popular everyone speaks to me. I turn round slowly and look up at Mr Holt.

  ‘Sir?’ I say, in the cold, bored voice that Karmella uses.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks. ‘We’re supposed to be having a meeting about the poetry competition. Did you forget?’

  ‘But it’s Friday!’ I protest.

  ‘What about all the other meetings you’ve missed?’ He’s using that tone that says, ‘I’m not angry, I’m just confused’. The one adults always use when they are trying to relate to you. But no one can relate to the three weeks I’ve had since I started here.

  I shrug. ‘I forgot.’

  He sighs. ‘But you arranged them!’

  Turns out he is angry after all. I shrug again.

  He holds my gaze and then looks over at Zeba. I didn’t notice she was still in the room.

  ‘You two aren’t sitting next to each other in class any more. What happened?’

  I say nothing. And for the first time ever, Zeba doesn’t speak either. She just looks up at me from under her heavily made-up lashes. She looks sad, and I take that as a sign that she might want to forgive me and be friends again. I dare to smile at her.

  Slowly her painted red lips curl and she gives me a half-smile back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Zeba,’ I say. Then turn to Mr Holt. ‘Sorry, Mr Holt.’ Then I look back at Zeba. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Mr Holt looks relieved that he won’t have to get involved and he shakes his head and carries on. ‘Good, take a seat.’ He motions to the seat next to Zeba.

  I grin at Zeba as I sit down and she smiles – not a proper smile, but wider than before, and I know we’ll be fine. Karmella and Rochelle will just have to accept that Zeba’s part of our group. Now that they’ve learned how to be nice, I’m sure it’ll all work out.

  ‘We’ve made some headway with plans …’ says Mr Holt, but he stops when the door opens.

  It’s Miss Draper. ‘Hi, everyone,’ she says. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘No, no, you’re perfect. As usual,’ he says.

  She blushes and fumbles with her things as she puts them on the desk next to him. ‘So, where were we?’

  ‘The prize-giving is next Saturday and we need to have the logistics finalized,’ starts Mr Holt.

  ‘Yes, the logistics, yes,’ Miss Draper replies like a mumbling idiot.

  I get out my notepad from my bag and write something at the top of the page. Then slide it a little bit towards Zeba so she can read it.

  How are you?

  She reads the note and scribbles something on her own note pad.

  Ok. U?

  I’m OK.

  Good.

  She writes, then stops to think for a moment. Then she writes loads. I lean over and read it:

  What happened to you? You lied to me and Frankie and how we’re not friends any more. I miss you. I even miss Frankie, and I can’t believe you would sell us both out like that. Now you’re friends with Karmella and Rochelle when you said they were bitches.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t really know what to say, but I’m happy that Zeba got it all out in the open. I write:

  I was an idiot. I wanted to be cool so much I forgot about everything else.

  Zeba looks at the piece of paper and then away into the distance. She’s weighing things up, deciding if I’m good enough to be her friend, and who can blame her?

  ‘Oh, Mr Holt,’ says Miss Draper, laughing and gently touching him on the arm. ‘Stop being silly!’

  He laughs at her. ‘I’m being silly!? You’re the one who thinks Shakespeare is better than Marlowe!’ He pushes back his chair and takes her hand.

  ‘Come live with me, and be my love;

  And we will all the pleasures prove …’

  ‘Mr Holt!’ says Miss Draper. ‘Here’s me thinking you were all chemical formulas and Bunsen burners.’

  ‘There’s more to me than what I hide in the fume cupboard,’ he says.

  As he goes on I write:

  What’s up with those two?

  I look at Zeba and she sticks her finger in her mouth, making a sick face. I hide a snigger behind my hand. Finally I can relax. Zeba has forgiven me and, if we both work at it, we can get Frankie to forgive us too.

  Zeba becomes serious. She starts writing again.

  I’ve been busy. I’ve been trying to find Hillary Randle.

  I shoot her an astonished look and write:

  And???!!!

  She looks smug and writes:

  Progress …

  I had no idea Zeba’s detective skills were so good!

  I’ve also been looking into people called Raphael. It’s not anyone in our school.

  Even though I am no longer an uncool freak, I haven’t stopped thinking about that secret. I still think it’s Luke’s, but if no one in the school is called Raphael, how do we find out?

  She’s still writing:

  I looked back at the records for the last ten years. There has never been anyone with that name in this school.

  I have to think about this for a minute before it hits me – it makes perfect sense!

  I write:

  It’s definitely Luke!

  She gives me a don’t-be-ridiculous look. I insist:

  It is!

  Zeba scrawls a giant question mark on the page.

  I continue:

  Raphael must have gone to his old school. Maybe he broke that boy’s leg to stop him from hurting this Raphael person!

  Zeba rolls her eyes. She writes:

  Wow, Maya. I knew you were the creative type, but this is some story.

  I reply:

  I reckon Luke’s a hero, not a bully!

  Zeba smiles at me and shakes her head in dismay.

  You are tragically deluded!

  Maybe she’s right. I mean, I did see him picking on that boy – Angus McAllister. He was pinning him back and threatening him. W
hat more evidence do I need? Maybe I am tragically deluded. I lean back on my chair as I think about it.

  ‘Have you two got any favourite poems in the ones we’ve seen so far?’ asks Miss Draper, who’s suddenly remembered that we’re here.

  But something on Zeba’s page catches my eye. Something about the word tragically. I’ve seen it before.

  ‘There are a few I like,’ says Zeba, but I’m hardly listening, transfixed by the word on her notebook. Written in purple ink. With a star over the i.

  ‘What was the name of that one that I told you I liked, Maya?’ Zeba asks me.

  The new girl is tragically uncool.

  I stand up and point at Zeba. ‘You passed that note!’

  Zeba leans back in shock. ‘What?’

  Mr Holt frowns at me. ‘Maya, what are you talking about?’

  I ignore him and continue to glare at Zeba. ‘You passed the note about me on my first day!’

  ‘Oh,’ says Mr Holt. He remembers as well as I do.

  ‘I don’t know what—’ Zeba says, but she’s gone white. Whiter than normal.

  ‘I know it was you!’ I say, growling at her. ‘I found the secret where you confessed all.’

  Zeba’s mouth flaps open and shut. ‘I … I …’

  ‘You must have known I’d find it eventually.’

  ‘I thought you would tell me,’ she says. ‘I thought I could explain.’

  ‘Come on, girls,’ says Mr Holt. But neither of us is listening.

  ‘So it was you,’ I say, nodding my head. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’ I shout.

  Zeba looks at the teachers, then she pushes her chair back and runs out of the room.

  I watch her go. Zeba is a complete traitor. I hate her.

  ‘Maya,’ asks Miss Draper, ‘what’s going on?’

  Luke was right: you can’t trust anyone. No wonder he’s nasty to everyone. No wonder Karmella acts like she does. You have to be like that to survive. Dog eat dog.

  An idea comes into my head.

  ‘It’s silly!’ I say, smiling at Miss Draper. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure, Maya?’ says Mr Holt. ‘You and Zeba have been frosty with each other all week.’

  ‘Everything is fine. In fact …’ Time to put Karmella’s plan into action. ‘I’m glad I can speak to you alone because I’ve chosen my winner for the competition.’

  ‘Really?’ says Miss Draper. ‘Who?’

  ‘She’s too modest, but I think Zeba’s entry is superb.’ I push Zeba’s poem towards them.

  Miss Draper picks up Zeba’s poem and skim-reads it. ‘It’s outstanding,’ she says with an appreciative nod. ‘What do you think, Mr Holt?’

  He reads it too. ‘You’re the expert,’ he says. ‘But I do think it’s very good.’

  ‘So it isn’t a fix if you think she should win too,’ I say. Miss Draper and Mr Holt nod in agreement. My smile broadens. ‘But, so she doesn’t think we’ve set it up, or feel awkward, let’s not tell her.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Maya,’ says Miss Draper.

  ‘And also,’ I add, ready to complete my plan, ‘I think it would be a good idea to invite her parents to the prize-giving. As a surprise.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be very proud,’ says Mr Holt.

  ‘How nice you are, Maya,’ says Miss Draper.

  I grin. ‘What are friends for?’ I say.

  Chapter 28

  I walk down the halls of Mount Selwyn High School, still in shock. It’s after five o’clock on a Friday so luckily everyone has left for the day and no one can see how angry I am.

  I hear footsteps running behind me.

  ‘Maya! Wait!’

  I wish I had some sort of magic machine that would take me away from here so I don’t have to confront her. Her hand lands on my shoulder and she spins me around.

  ‘Maya,’ Zeba says, panting. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I scowl at her, tears filling my eyes.

  ‘It was … I didn’t mean it …’ she says.

  ‘You didn’t mean it? Don’t act dumber than you really are. Which is pretty dumb!’ I’m learning this stuff from Karmella and Rochelle. Zeba looks like I’ve punched her in the stomach.

  I revel in my chance to watch her squirm. ‘There was only one secret that I kept from you and Frankie. I was embarrassed because it was about me.’

  Zeba gulps.

  ‘I found it at the top of the pile, just milliseconds before I first met you.’

  Zeba looks at her feet.

  ‘I remember it off by heart because I haven’t stopped thinking about it.’ I narrow my eyes as I look at her. ‘Perhaps we could recite it together:

  ‘I passed the note about the new girl.’

  Zeba sobs but I continue:

  ‘I want Karmella to be MY friend, not her friend. The new girl is tragically uncool.’

  I put extra emphasis on those last two words, so she knows how much they hurt.

  ‘Maya—’ she starts.

  ‘You ruined everything for me here! After St Cecilia’s I needed a fresh start. But you made sure that couldn’t happen.’

  The tears falling down her face means her make-up comes away in hideous streaks.

  ‘You did it because you wanted to be friends with Karmella. I thought you didn’t care what people thought about you. I thought you liked being weird!’

  ‘Of course I care what people think about me!’ Her eyes are squeezed shut as if she wishes she could be anywhere else but here. ‘I want to be popular. I hate not having any friends just because I like strange music and dress differently.’

  ‘So you decided to target me?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Maya. It was … I was … I didn’t …’

  ‘What?’ I say, shouting now. I have never heard my voice like this. ‘How can I believe one word that comes out of your lying mouth?’

  ‘I only—’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ comes a voice from behind me. It’s low and growling and I recognize it. I turn round and see Luke Marino walking down the corridor towards me, his fists clenched.

  ‘Luke,’ I say, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Detention,’ he says. ‘What are you doing?!’

  Zeba lets out a whimper and I turn round to see that she is backed into the wall. I am standing very close to her, my finger pointing in her face and she’s crying. This doesn’t look good.

  I quickly take a big step back.

  ‘Luke,’ I say, ‘I—’

  Now that she’s free, Zeba uses the opportunity to run away down the corridor. I watch her go and wish I could follow her, but Luke has already reached me and now he’s the one looking angry and threatening.

  ‘Maya,’ he says, ‘when did you become such a bully?’

  The b-word makes my breath catch in my throat. I try to speak. ‘I’m … I’m not a—’

  ‘It looks that way to me.’

  Visions of those girls from St Cecilia’s taunting and teasing me – their noses just inches from mine – fly through my mind. But instead of feeling scared, I feel angry.

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ My anger makes me brave. ‘Everyone knows who the school bully is!’

  I can’t believe what I’ve just said. I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. But when I open my eyes I see he’s looking thoughtful.

  ‘OK,’ he says in a soft voice. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t judge you when I don’t know the whole story.’

  ‘I’m not a bully …’ I tell him. ‘I can’t stand bullying.’

  I remember the way those St Cecilia girls locked me in the supply cupboard and took my phone so I couldn’t get help. I remember the huge chunk Gloria Fairchild cut out of my hair in physics, so Mum had to pay for a short-short boy-cut.

  ‘Me too,’ says Luke.

  Wait. What?

  ‘If you can’t stand bullying,’ I say, ‘why does everyone think you are one? That doesn’t come from nowhere.’

  Luke shakes his head. He�
��s not going to answer the question, and the secret – I didn’t do what they think I did … – comes back to me.

  ‘I thought you and Zeba were friends,’ he says.

  I give a heavy sigh and let the adrenalin leak out of me. This is bad. I think I’m going to cry. ‘I thought so too. But … you probably don’t remember … but on my first day at Mount Selwyn, someone passed a note about me.’

  ‘I remember,’ he says, sounding sympathetic.

  ‘It was Zeba who wrote that note. And I thought she was my friend!’ I barely get out the word friend before the tears erupt. I cover my face with my hands, ostriching, pretending that if I can’t see him, then he can’t see me. Luke probably can’t wait to get away from this ugly mess bawling in the hallway.

  But instead I feel his arm around me. Then his other arm. At first I’m really shocked. With my face buried deep in his chest I open my eyes to check that this is really happening and he’s not trying to smother me to death. But this hug is nice. He smells of washing powder and I feel safe in his big warm arms.

  After about five minutes there are no more tears left in my reservoir and I pull away, very aware of the wet patch that’s appeared on Luke’s shirt, a little dirty from my mascara.

  I point and give him a lopsided smile. ‘Sorry about that.’

  He laughs. ‘It’s OK. My mum’s cleaned off worse than a little saltwater.’

  We stand there looking embarrassed because of our hug.

  ‘Umm,’ he says, shrugging and kicking at nothing on the floor. ‘Do you want to go and get some chips?’

  I sniffle and say, ‘OK.’ And Luke and I head for the door.

  Only when we reach the high street do I realize: this is my first date.

  Chapter 29

  Luke and I are standing outside the chip shop. The sun’s setting and the heat from the chips is warming my hands. There aren’t that many people around, and I haven’t seen anyone from Mount Selwyn. That’s probably a good thing.

  I pick up a chip with the wooden fork, blow on it and pop it in my mouth.

  Luke shoves in a forkful of chips and then starts huffing and blowing. ‘Ah … Oh … Mwwwhere’re a bwwit hwwot!’

  I laugh. ‘I can’t understand you with your mouth full,’ I say.

  He huffs a little more, then finally manages to swallow. ‘Well, excuuuse me,’ he says.