Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies

by Lauren Henderson

  And now, I’m watching Plum, and it’s plunged me straight back into the world of St. Tabby’s, Dan McAndrew’s death, and everything I managed to avoid thinking about this afternoon.

  I let out my breath in a long sigh of regret.

  Plum’s sprawled on a big sofa, a smug smile on her face. The quality of the film is really bad (I assume it was taken on a mobile phone) and the sound isn’t great either, but I can clearly see Plum’s face as she sits up straight, flicks back her long mane of chestnut hair, and holds it behind her head with one hand at the nape of her neck. With the other, she reaches out for something on the glass table in front of her, and the camera tilts to capture it. She’s holding what looks like a pencil—no, it’s a straw, a short straw. She puts it to her nose. She leans over the table till she’s hanging over it. And then there’s a sniffing sound and she’s sort of scraping the straw against the glass surface of the table.

  “Can you believe it?” Lizzie breathes.

  Plum puts the straw down, sits back up, and tilts her head back, wiping under her nose and sniffing again. Then she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it.

  “God, that’s good,” she drawls. “Coke and ciggies. Best diet in the world.”

  Someone off-camera makes a comment, and Plum laughs.

  “God, no. Dieting’s for poor people!” she says.

  And, because that’s the perfect end line, the screen goes black.

  We gawp at each other in shock. I lean forward to check the name of the YouTube user who put up the clip, but it’s just a jumble of letters and numbers, designed to make it impossible to guess the poster’s identity.

  “Three different girls sent me the link in the last five minutes,” Lizzie says, her voice much higher than normal.

  Evidently Lizzie’s connection with Plum’s circle is getting stronger, which is definitely worrisome. She’s kind of like a ticking time bomb that way.

  “Who put it up?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head, her face blank. I believe her. She’d be blurting it out if she knew.

  “Never a dull moment with this Plum, right?” Taylor says.

  My phone buzzes, and I jump. A text just came in for me. I’m so focused on what we just saw on Lizzie’s laptop that I immediately think it’s from someone at St. Tabby’s, telling me about the clip of Plum. My heart leaps, hoping that it’s Luce or Alison, my two best friends from St. Tabby’s, who are still, as far as I know, furious with me because I dumped them to go to that fateful party of Nadia’s, where I kissed Dan and he died. If Luce or Alison have decided to get in touch, that would be amazing. I grab for the phone.

  But it’s a number I don’t recognize. I click on it.

  HEY UVE GOT MY NO NOW. SO USE IT! C U @ THE WEEKEND.—JB

  Wow. How could I possibly have forgotten that Jase was going to text me? I was sitting all through dinner on tenterhooks, waiting for my phone to buzz.

  My face must be glowing with happiness. Taylor looks at me and guesses immediately who the text is from. She raises her eyes to the ceiling soulfully and puts both hands over her heart, miming it beating fast.

  Lizzie doesn’t notice anything: she’s too involved in the drama of Plum being seen online doing drugs and laughing about it.

  “She’s in such trouble!” Lizzie says, breathing heavily in excitement. “Ooh!”

  She grabs for her phone, which is loudly tinkling out a pop tune.

  “I know!” she cries. “Yes, I know! Unbelievable! She’s in such trouble! . . . Yes, I know!”

  Taylor and I roll our eyes at each other. This will go on all night.

  “Ooh, I’ve got another call coming in . . . hang on . . . ,” Lizzie babbles. “Yes, I know . . . Unbelievable! . . . Yes, everyone must have seen it by now. . . .”

  “I’m going back to Aunt Gwen’s,” I say, standing up.

  “You want to read his text three hundred million times and then spend hours deciding what to write back,” Taylor says with killer accuracy.

  “No, I don’t,” I say unconvincingly.

  “Liar,” Taylor says amiably. She jerks her head at Lizzie. “You can’t leave her here. I’m not having her sitting in my room all night going ‘Yes, I know!’ and ‘Unbelievable!’ ”

  “Your English accent is getting really good,” I say grudgingly. “Lizzie . . .” She’s so absorbed in her conversation that she doesn’t hear me. I pick up her laptop, close it, and give it to her, jerking my head at the door. She takes it and follows me out, still gabbling away enthusiastically. I can hear her all down the corridor, even though I’m heading in the opposite direction.

  I scurry down the stairs, in a hurry to get back to Aunt Gwen’s (I never call it home, because it isn’t). Taylor wasn’t completely right. I do want to read Jase’s text over and over again—though maybe not three hundred million times—and then agonize about what to text him back.

  But as I walk back, I realize just how much that video of Plum has really screwed me up. I can’t stop thinking about Dan now, in that obsessive way that I used to do when I collected all the articles on his death and stashed them someplace safe where no one else could touch them (except for bloody Taylor, that is). I’m having this uncontrollable urge to rifle through the stack of newspapers and magazines again, although I haven’t done that in a while. My gut is telling me that I’ll find something there, but I don’t know why. I must be going crazy.

  I unlock the front door and creep in. There’s a light on in the living room: Aunt Gwen must be watching the telly. But even if she were out, I wouldn’t go in and curl up on the sofa. It’s so much Aunt Gwen’s place that I don’t feel at home anywhere but in my room.

  I go upstairs, my emotions such a mix at this point after the day I’ve had. I keep hearing Nadia’s ridiculing voice, calling me clueless, mocking me because I didn’t know Callum and Dan were close. Which makes me think all the more that I’ll discover a link between them somewhere in my twisted assortment of articles. I rummage through my desk, remove a panel in the back of one of the drawers (my new hiding place, thanks to Taylor), grab my folder, and rifle through the articles one by one. I’m grinding my teeth so that I can stop my heart from pounding. Every time I see the bits about me (“16-year-old minor who cannot be identified for legal reasons”) my pulse races. In the middle of the stack, I come to Dan’s obituary. It’s a bit wrinkled so I flatten it out with my hand. I read each word carefully. It’s as though I’m looking at this with new eyes and no memories.

  When I get to the last sentence, I stare at it, my limbs totally numb. My clenched jaw falls open and my heart pounds ferociously. Because my miraculous hunch has really paid off.

  “Daniel McAndrew is survived by his parents, of Castle Airlie, Ayrshire; a sister, Catriona, 21; and a brother, Callum, 17.”

  Callum and Dan were brothers.

  I drop the folder onto my desk, my head spinning like the wheels on Jase’s motorbike. I have no idea what to do. For a second, I think about trying to meet up with Lucy Raleigh, but dismiss the idea almost immediately. How far would that get me? Even if I used Lizzie or Nadia to get to her, Lucy probably isn’t stupid enough to reveal any motive she or, God forbid, Callum, might have for killing Dan.

  I’m having trouble breathing, so I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I’ve never actually done this before, but people do it on TV all the time. It’s even more of a shock than I was expecting. The sudden chill of the water calms me down and brings me a moment of clarity. And, staring at myself as the water drips down my face, an idea begins to form in my mind of what my next step could be.

  I reach for a towel and dry my face, the idea getting clearer and clearer, like adjusting a camera lens to bring an object into focus. But the better I see it, the more frighteningly extreme it is. What if it works, and I have to deal with the consequences?

  I’ll just try the first step, I think. Just the first step. Then I’ll decide later, once I’m through, if I feel brave
enough to go ahead and finish what I’ve started.

  I walk back into my bedroom, sit down at my desk, and take a few sheets of the former stationery that my grand—I mean, Lady Wakefield—had printed for me when I turned sixteen.

  Dear Mrs. McAndrew, I write, my fingers quivering as I scribble in my best cursive.

  I hope you don’t think it’s too weird strange that I’m writing to you, but I thought it was best to let some time pass before I got in touch. I really wanted to talk to you at the inquest, but you were so upset, I thought it might upset you even more.

  I really hope this letter doesn’t upset you too much, either. But I felt that I ought to be writing it because Dan said something to me before he died and it was about you and your family. I would like to tell you all what he said. Also, I have something that belonged to him that I would like to give back to you. If I could meet you and your family and do that, it would be great amazing really nice

  I sit for ages, staring at the heavy vellum paper. This is proving really hard to write. All these lies. And even though I tell myself that, by finding out how Dan died, I’m doing what his parents would surely want, what happens if it turns out that the truth of his death is something they would much rather never have known?

  I shiver.

  really kind of you to let me. I am having a very hard time with what happened, as you must be too. I do feel that maybe by meeting up with you and your family Dan’s brother and sister, and talking about it, we would all feel better afterward, even if it’s weird difficult.

  My phone number, address, and e-mail are below. Please get in touch with me when you can. I could come up to where you live if that’s easiest. I hope you will say yes.

  Best wishes Very sincerely,

  Scarlett Wakefield

  I stare at the black ink for a while, thinking about what this means. I’m angling for an invitation to meet the McAndrews—the family of the boy who died in my arms. I remember Mr. and Mrs. McAndrew at the inquest, though I could hardly look at them, it was so upsetting. Mrs. McAndrew cried all the time, and Mr. McAndrew might have been carved from a single piece of granite. Am I really considering sitting down with them face to face and talking with them? Even if it’s the one chance I have of getting close to Callum and Lucy?

  I read the letter over. I don’t think it expresses everything as well as I would want to, but it’ll have to do. God, I think that was the hardest thing I ever had to write, harder even than the Tacitus essay last week, which strained my brain so much I thought blood was going to spurt from both my ears.

  I’m trying very hard not to think about the fact that, if this comes off and I find out that Callum is in any way involved, through his girlfriend Lucy even, that would be horrendous news for the McAndrews. I know that might be a possibility, awful though it would be. But not for a moment does it make me think I should stop here, while I still can, with the knowledge that I have no responsibility for Dan’s death apart from having accidentally eaten the wrong thing and kissing him afterward.

  I can’t stop, though. I have to keep going. I have to find out the truth even if it burns me and everyone else involved with it.

  Dan died in my arms. I’ll do whatever I can to find out how that happened. I owe that to him.

  And maybe when I find out the truth, I’ll stop having nightmares.

  eight

  ROUGH JUSTICE

  “Taylor! No bouncing! How many times do I have to tell you?” shouts Miss Carter. The last bit is clearly not a question, as she doesn’t wait for a response, but continues: “This is netball. We do not bounce in netball!”

  “Sorry, Miss Carter!” Taylor yells, shoving her hair back. Her face is corrugated into one enormous frown, her dark brows pulled down so far that I can barely see her eyes.

  “You’re in England now,” Miss Carter says, rather unnecessarily, as I feel Taylor is all too aware of which country she’s in.

  “Sharon Persaud bounces in netball,” I mutter to Taylor in an attempt to cheer her up. Like me, Sharon Persaud has a well-developed chestal area, but unlike me, Sharon has clearly not bothered to work out that she needs to wear a minimizer and a sports bra to stop her boobs swinging around like a pair of oranges being juggled by a blind person. The effect actually adds to Sharon’s general scariness on the sports pitch—not only has she apparently taken out at least one girl’s front teeth with her terrifying lavender hockey stick, but as she plows toward you, her boobs look like extra weapons, bouncing violently in all directions.

  Taylor doesn’t even snigger at my joke. She takes team sports incredibly seriously. Which I don’t, not in the same way. I spent years and years doing gymnastics, which is really competitive, of course, but although technically you’re on a team, when it counts it’s just you and you alone out there on the bars or on the mat. I preferred it like that: being dependent on no one but myself, and trying to better my own best performance. It’s funny, because Taylor is actually more of a loner than I am. But she loves team sports, which is why she’s trying so hard to excel at netball. Even though, because she’s used to basketball, she keeps trying to bounce the ball. . . .

  “Right, net practice!” Miss Carter blows her whistle. “Blue team, stretches; red team, practice shots! Five minutes each team and then change over. Off you go, girls!”

  Taylor and I, wearing blue tabards over our T-shirts and gym skirts, run over to the side of the netball court where the rest of the blue team is heading for stretches.

  “Front splits?” Taylor suggests. We sit down facing each other on the cold tarmac, our legs wide. I put my feet against the inside of her thighs and we clasp each other’s forearms. I lean back, pulling her toward me.

  “Nose to the ground,” I chant, “nose to the ground . . .”

  “Ow!” Taylor says as I pull her forward, straighter and straighter.

  “You’re lucky I’m not sitting on your back,” I say. “Ricky, my gym coach, used to come around and do that. Honestly, sometimes I thought something was going to split, he weighed so much.”

  “Scarlett! Taylor!” a familiar voice cries faintly.

  Taylor pulls on my arms so I’m sitting upright again.

  “Guess who?” she whispers. “It’s the neediest girl in the world!”

  “Be nice, okay?” I turn my head to watch through the net surrounding the court as Lizzie runs toward us across the grass of the hockey pitches. “All we do is bully her and make her do things she doesn’t want to do.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s like a Lab my aunt used to have. My cousins were really mean to that dog, they’d kick it and tease it and pull its ears, and it still ran after them, wagging its tail. ’Cause it would rather have negative attention than none at all,” Taylor says cynically.

  “Could you be any more depressing?”

  “Plumgotexpelled!” Lizzie cries. “Plumgotexpelled!”

  She crashes into the netting and hangs there, holding on to it with both hands, panting like—well, the Labrador Taylor was just talking about. To be honest, it’d be a fair comparison.

  “Ijustheard! Venetiatextedme! Plumgotexpelled!” she gasps.

  “Because of the YouTube clip?” Taylor asks.

  Lizzie nods, winded. People in the smart set are finally letting her in enough and giving her real gossip, which she is obviously salivating over. This is not good. Still, I have to pretend I’m not bothered by this.

  “Well, even St. Tabby’s wouldn’t exactly be keen on one of its pupils being filmed doing drugs,” I say.

  “That’s not all!” Lizzie’s recovered some breath, enough to allow her to space her words out a bit more. “It was Nadia! Nadia put that clip on YouTube!”

  Taylor and I look at each other. I can see that she’s processing this information as fast as I am, and coming to the same conclusion.

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Taylor says.

  I shake my head.

  “What can’t?” Lizzie asks eagerly. But when we don’t answer, she rushe
s on: “I can’t believe Nadia did that to Plum! It’s like they’re at war now! I mean, they were best friends! But Nadia told Venetia it was her who did it! Isn’t it unbelievable ?”

  A whistle blows practically in my ear.

  “What’s going on over here?” Miss Carter bellows—again, not really a question. “I said stretch, not gossip! Lizzie Livermore, stop distracting Taylor and Scarlett right now or I’ll make you jog round the hockey pitches!”

  Lizzie falls away from the netting immediately, eyes and mouth so wide with horror at the thought of jogging that everyone bursts out laughing. Miss Carter blows her whistle again.

  “Switch over, girls! Blues shoot, reds stretch! And Taylor—”

  “No bouncing!” the entire courtful of girls shouts back.

  “You know what this means,” Taylor says as we walk back to school after netball practice.

  “Nadia used us,” I say. “She got us to wipe that video from Plum’s phone and then she put up the video she had of Plum.”

  “No question,” Taylor says. “They must have been in this Mexican standoff.”

  “Mexican standoff?”

  “It’s like you’re each holding a gun on each other, so neither of you wants to shoot ’cause then the other one would too.”

  “Why is that Mexican?” I’m as bemused by Taylor’s American expressions as she is by our English ones.

  “No idea. But anyway, that’s probably what happened.”

  I nod. “That explains why Plum didn’t show that video to anyone. I never quite believed that she wouldn’t have sent it to a few people. So I guess Nadia couldn’t show anyone the clip of Plum doing drugs—not until you deleted Plum’s clip.”

  Taylor looks at me. “You pissed at Nadia?”

  I think it over.

  “Well, yeah, because it feels shitty to be used,” I say. “And besides, if you’d been caught going through Plum’s bag, you’d have been in real trouble.”