“So I really think I’ve been punished enough,” I continue. “But if you want to have a go at me, tell me how you feel—go ahead. I deserve it. I know how badly I behaved.”
Alison bites her lip. Luce glances swiftly at her, and then back at me.
“It’s okay,” Luce says, shrugging in her turn. “I mean, we’re over it now.”
Right, I think sarcastically, but don’t say. That’s why you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder ever since we realized we were on the same school trip.
“And living with your aunt must be really awful,” Alison says, shuddering.
I nod.
“Are you okay now?” Luce asks. “I mean, after this morning?”
“You looked really bad,” Alison agrees. “You were all white and sweaty. Miss Carter said you were getting your period, but you never used to look like that when you got it before.”
“It wasn’t my period,” I confirm. “I don’t know what it was.”
I’m staring at them both narrowly, trying to read their expressions, see if there’s any guilt written on their faces. You’d think I would know immediately: these are my oldest friends. Girls who were practically sisters to me from the time we started gymnastics classes together, girls who’ve seen me fall off beams, win competitions, land on my bum or my face, freak about my flat chest and then, eventually, the fact that my chest wasn’t flat anymore. Girls whose own falls and triumphs and body worries I’ve shared in turn.
But since the events of last summer, we’ve all changed. I’ve seen two people die; I’ve found a dead body; I’ve found, and maybe lost, a boyfriend. I’ve learned that I can survive more than I ever thought possible. I don’t know what Alison and Luce have been through in that time, though I hope it’s nothing remotely like what I’ve experienced. But I can see that they’ve changed too. They’re poised, elegant, glossy as the other St. Tabby’s girls.
And I can’t read them anymore.
“You look better now,” Luce comments, and then her head tilts back, her eyes brighten, and her lips pinch together as if she’s doing her best not to squeal with excitement. She’s looking at something over my head. I’m already swinging around when a hand comes down on my shoulder, and a familiar voice says:
“Scarlett! You came! Cool! I didn’t hear back from you, so I wasn’t sure if you’d show.…”
His light Scottish accent is as attractive as ever. And his touch, I must admit, has pretty much the same effect on me as the sight of him had on Luce. He’s dropped to his bare knees on the stage, his kilt brushing over them, and I can’t help noticing his muscled calves under the heavy green wool socks with their incongruous touch of red ribbon.
Now I’m sure I’m blushing. Thank goodness the lighting in here is low and diffuse, shaded sconces glinting into tarnished mirrors, glowing subtly off the paneled walls; no one could tell there’s more color in my cheeks than there was a moment before.
“Hey, Callum,” I say, smiling up at him.
twelve
“WHAT IF I’M NOT THE HEROINE?”
Before we all went our separate ways after our visit to the cemetery, Callum took my mobile number, and Ewan must have taken Taylor’s. They texted us today to let us know that Mac Attack was doing a gig in a pub within walking distance of our school, hoping we could come. I never saw the text, of course, because I haven’t switched on my phone again, but Taylor got hers and was very keen for us to go.
Whereas Alison and Luce, as Taylor deduced, checked out the Mac Attack page on MySpace and saw there that the band was playing tonight, opening for someone called Nuala Kennedy. I introduce them both to Callum and Ewan, and watch with amusement as they babble compliments to the boys and say how much they liked their playing at Celtic Connections.
“Well, thanks!” Ewan says, beaming cheerfully and jumping down from the stage to shake their hands in a way that should be silly, because it’s a bit formal, but is actually charming. “What did you think of the MySpace page? I’m still tinkering with it—you got any suggestions?”
He couldn’t have asked a better question. Luce, who’s always been a computer whiz, dives into her bag, bringing out an iPad, which she turns on, logging on to MySpace to brainstorm with Ewan. Their heads meet as they scan down the Mac Attack page, Ewan enthusiastically narrating what he’s done with it so far.
He may not be the front man of the band, I think, but he’s got the personality for it. He loves meeting new people, chatting them up—unlike Callum, who’s more the strong and silent type.
I look at Callum, who’s doing a final tuning up of his violin, his chin squashed into it, an expression of serious concentration on his handsome face. He has the photogenic looks; there’s a reason why, on the CD jewel case, Callum’s in the center of the group, looking brooding and mysterious. But Ewan’s the one who’ll be great in interviews and for working the fans, who’ll send out chatty MySpace bulletins and project an infectious enthusiasm that will keep them coming back.
They’re a great team, I reflect. Like me and Taylor.
As if he’s read my mind, Ewan’s looking round for her now.
“Hey! Taylor!” he calls across the bar, waving at her, a big smile on his face, completely unembarrassed about yelling a girl’s name across a crowded space.
Taylor grins back at him, even raising a hand to wave, calling a degree of attention to herself that she would usually very much dislike. But it’s impossible to resist Ewan. He’s like a big friendly dog—not the brainless retriever that I’ve compared Lizzie to in the past, but a sheepdog who wants to round everyone up, collect us all into one big party together.
“Catch you later!” he calls, jumping up onto the stage and going over to grab his guitar.
I nod at Alison and Luce, and they actually smile back at me.
“See you after the gig,” I say, noticing that they’ve softened considerably toward me. Alison even says:
“Great!”
Luce is bending down to slide her iPad back into her bag. And as she does so, I can’t help noticing something else in there. It’s a notebook, looking very old-fashioned next to the iPad, its cover battered and half torn off with wear, so that I can see the page beneath it, covered in Luce’s small, neat writing. White paper, printed with a faint pale-gray grid of tiny boxes.
That’s why the paper of the note left in my and Taylor’s room looked so familiar, I realize. Luce has always had notebooks like that, all the years I’ve known her.
I turn away, processing this information, my brain racing. I’m suddenly aware of how very much I don’t want Alison and Luce to have been behind the attacks on me. There’s a real, physical pain in imagining friends to whom I’ve been so close turning on me so aggressively, playing tricks on me that could quite easily have led to my being seriously injured, or worse. I’m refusing to believe it, thinking up reasons instead that absolve them of guilt.
Lots of people have notebooks like that, I tell myself.
“So it went well?” Taylor asks as the members of Mac Attack—squashed together on the very small stage—raise their instruments.
“Really well,” I say, hopping back up onto my stool. “I said sorry a lot, but what mostly swung it was knowing Callum and Ewan. Alison and Luce were really excited to meet them.”
“Hmm, it’s actually pretty neat,” Taylor says, considering this. “You dumped them for a cool party, but then you make up for it by introducing them to some cool musicians. Sounds fair to me.”
It is neat. I think Taylor meant that more in the American way, where “neat” seems to be a general term of approval; but it’s neat in the English sense too, which means that everything has turned out tidily, tit for tat, no loose ends hanging.
“The only thing is,” I say slowly, “I just saw a notebook in Luce’s bag that’s exactly like the paper from the note that was left in our room after the smoke bombs went off.”
“Huh.” Taylor digests this. “You didn’t see a stencil, did you?”
&n
bsp; I shake my head.
“Nah, that’d be too easy,” she says dryly. “Whoever did it, if they have any sense, that stencil’s in the bottom of the trash by now.” She looks thoughtful. “All I’m going to say right now,” she adds, “is that there are tons of notebooks like that. Lots of girls at school have them. On its own, it doesn’t prove a thing.”
I nod, feeling relief at her words that’s disproportionate to what she’s actually said, because she hasn’t truly acquitted Alison and Luce of suspicion. I really, really don’t want it to have been them; I’d give a great deal to have it proved, here and now, that they’re innocent of everything but being snotty to me. Mercifully, just then Mac Attack launch into their first song, and the music’s loud and tuneful enough to distract me from the complicated tangle of my thoughts.
I sit back on my stool, propping my back against the wall, retrieving my glass of cider and watching the band, feeling the tension in my body dissipate as they play. It’s not just that they’re really good, or that, in their kilts and tight black T-shirts, the muscles in their arms working as they play their instruments, they’re also very easy on the eye. Being in a crowded room, everyone listening to the music, their attention completely focused on the boys onstage, is more of a relief to my sore heart than I could possibly have imagined. I’m in company, but no one’s talking to me. No one wants anything from me. I can just be myself, let my thoughts wander, be soothed by the music, happily anonymous.
I let out a long, quiet sigh as the violin swirls high above the other instruments, winding a sweet, piercing tune around us, drawing everyone into an enchantment, smoothing out any rough edges. Across the roomful of people seated at the tables I see Alison and Luce tilting their heads back, staring up at Callum as he leads the group, the violin and bow like a conductor’s baton. And I see the leather bag slung over the back of Luce’s chair, the bag that contains the notebook that’s sent me spinning into awful speculations.
It’s just a notebook in a bag, I tell myself. It proves nothing. No way could Alison and Luce be vindictive enough to put me in that much danger—not once, but twice.
Vindictive. Of course, when that word pops into my brain, Plum’s name is the first one that immediately follows it. And no, I can’t see Plum running around getting her own hands dirty lighting smoke bombs. But I can easily picture her getting someone else to do that part while she shoves me over a stair rail and slips a nasty note into my room for me to find.
And out of everyone on the school trip, Plum is the sneakiest. Her twisted, conniving brain is more than capable of coming up with something as clever and cunning as composing a hate note with a stencil.
I think about Plum and Nadia, heads together, walking round Holyrood Palace, laughing at their own jokes, looking at the world with identical expressions of superiority and disdain. Examining their nails, heads cocked to the side, as if their fingertips were the most important things in the world.
If Plum and Nadia have teamed up again, we could all be in a lot of trouble. They ran St. Tabby’s like their own personal kingdom, with Plum as the princess and Nadia her head lady-in-waiting. No detail escaped them; they spotted, and ruthlessly trampled on, every tiny attempt by a girl to step out of the sphere to which Plum and Nadia had assigned her. It’s no wonder that Luce and Alison are flourishing now that Plum has left St. Tabby’s, enough to experiment with smart clothes and new hairstyles without fear of ridicule. Clearly Nadia on her own isn’t strong enough to crack the whip over everyone’s backs at once.
Their feuding brought them both down. It got Plum expelled from St. Tabby’s, and saw Nadia’s powers weakened without Plum’s authority to back her up. But if they’ve reunited—realized that they’re much stronger together than they are as deadly rivals—they’ll be more dangerous than ever.
And who but me would they decide to target first? Plum hates me, and though I have dirt on her, she knows that I play fairer than she does. Which means I wouldn’t use that photo I have of her unless I have solid proof that she’s behind the attacks. And Nadia has used me and Taylor in the past. She’s very well aware how resourceful we can be. It would be very easy for Plum to talk Nadia into launching a preemptive strike.
And who would they get to do their dirty work? I ask myself.
The answer comes immediately: Lizzie. Who’s now new best friends with Sophia.
Between them, Lizzie and Sophia have the brains of a ginger tomcat (a notoriously stupid animal). But they’re both born followers. They’ll wear what Plum says, go where Plum goes, laugh when Plum says something mean, jump when she snaps her fingers. Plum probably has plenty of embarrassing information on both of them: that’s how she operates. Enough to make them do her dirty work, certainly. I don’t think they’d stoop to pushing me over a stair rail for Plum, but they’d certainly let off smoke bombs, as long as they were given clear, detailed instructions. And they’d lie to protect her with the straightest of faces. Lizzie and Sophia would swear up and down that black was white if Plum told them to do it.
Perhaps that’s why Lizzie and Sophia are hanging out together on this trip. The sidekicks are bonding: partners in crime.
I’ve been so absorbed in speculation that I haven’t noticed the music changing as songs end, or the audience applauding after each one. But that must have happened; Mac Attack’s set must be over, because the people around me are pounding their feet on the boards and yelling “More! More!” as Callum, Ewan, and the other boys bow at the waist, faces flushed. Then Callum says into the mike:
“And now we’re really lucky—Nuala Kennedy is going to join us for our encore before she plays her own set, so put your hands together for her, ’cause she’s a really big deal—”
Callum’s pronounced it “Noola,” but I know it’s written Nuala, because her name is in big letters on the posters for tonight that are stuck up on the walls. She walks onto the tiny stage carrying a flute, a slender woman in a floral dress with what I think of as classic Irish prettiness—white skin, dark hair, and small, delicate features. She smiles at the audience, raises the flute to her mouth, and starts to play, the sound of the flute sweet and throaty and so beautiful that I hear people in the audience sigh with pleasure. Mac Attack join in, and after a little while I realize that the tune is really familiar: it’s the song Callum sang at Celtic Connections, “The Blooming Bright Star of Belle Isle.” Sure enough, Nuala Kennedy takes the flute from her mouth and starts to sing the chorus in an exquisite clear soprano, Callum chiming in with the harmony. I can tell from his concentrated expression how hard he’s focusing on his singing, and when the song finally winds to an end, he’s pink in the face and frowning with the effort.
“Let’s hear it for Callum, eh?” Nuala Kennedy says into the mike, over the wild applause. “We’re all trying to get him to sing more, and he’s not too shabby, is he?”
Alison and Luce, I see with amusement, actually scream at this, as if they were twelve-year-olds at a Disney teenybopper gig. And they’re not the only ones. Other female cries of appreciation turn Callum’s face from pink to red now.
“He’s gonna have to get used to it,” Taylor yells in my ear, grinning. “All the girls squealing for him.”
Callum’s blush is fading, but still present, by the time he and the rest of Mac Attack have packed away their instruments, clearing the stage for Nuala Kennedy’s band, who are setting up now. He and Ewan cross the room to where Taylor and I are sitting, pausing to slap a couple of boys’ hands in high fives. Although Callum and Ewan texted us asking us to come, it’s still hugely flattering to watch them walking toward us; there’s no denying that having boys play really good music, then jump down off the stage and come to find you, is one of the coolest things that can happen. I wriggle on my barstool with excitement. Even Taylor, I see, glancing at her, is holding on to her seat with both hands to stop herself jumping down, to avoid looking too eager: her eyes are sparkling and she’s smiling with anticipation.
“You were great!” s
he exclaims to them. “And she was right, Callum—you should sing more.”
“We’ve all been saying that,” Ewan says, smiling at her. “He’s the one with the voice. And a band needs a singer to really make it.”
“I always thought Dan was the one with the voice,” Callum says, looking down. “You know, Ewan. He could charm the birds off the trees.”
Ewan looks sober at this mention of Callum’s dead twin, and I hear myself say:
“No reason you both couldn’t have good voices, is there? I mean, you looked just like each other—why couldn’t you both be good singers too?”
Callum’s gray eyes meet mine, genuinely shocked, though it seems that what I’ve said is the most obvious thing in the world. He looks lost for words. Luckily, just then Alison and Luce come up, shyly handing Ewan and Callum CDs of theirs bought at the Celtic Connections concert that they want the boys to personalize, and that’s enough distraction for Callum to get himself together, swallow down the tears that I had the feeling were prickling at the back of his throat.
“I hate to say this,” Taylor announces, “but it’s, like, nine-thirty, and I have to allow for getting us a little bit lost walking home.”
“You have to go?” Ewan says, looking so dejected that I hope Taylor is over the moon at how obviously keen he is on her. “Oh, no! We were hoping you could hang out for Nuala’s set—she’s amazing.”
“We could walk you back to your school afterwards,” Callum says hopefully. “It’s Fetters, right? We know the way.”
“We have a ten o’clock curfew,” I say regretfully.
“Really?” Ewan’s eyes widen. He has incredibly long, curling eyelashes, I notice. Like his long, curly red hair, but darker. “Can’t you, I dunno, sneak in later or something?”
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