Kiss in the Dark (19 page)

“Yes, I’m at home,” she says. “Yes, I’ll be here. Where do you think I’m going at my age? On the run?” She snorts and hangs up the phone.

“It was self-defense,” she says firmly, plopping herself back into her chair once more. “An old woman like me, with my drunken son on the rampage. I had to protect myself, didn’t I? It wasn’t like my grandson was here to look after me and make his dad keep his hands to himself!”

She’ll get away with it, I think. She’ll stick to that story and she’ll get away with it. There’s no way they’ll put an old lady on trial and try to send her to prison.

Jas Ramu is staring at Jase’s grandmother in amazement. She starts to say something, but Mrs. Barnes hasn’t finished.

“And now, I’ve got something to tell you, before they come to take me away,” she says, staring at Jase. “You probably don’t want your girlfriend hearing this, I’m warning you. It’s about your dad, and it’s as bad as it can be. Now that he’s gone, it’s time for you to hear it all.”

I look frantically at Jase.

“Go, Scarlett,” he says between gritted teeth.

“But, Jase—”

“Please,” he says desperately, “go!”

His grandmother cackles again.

“That’s right. You get out while you can, Scarlett Wakefield. You know, it’s actually a relief to be telling the truth, after all these years?” she adds. “Ooh, I’ve got a lot to get off my chest!”

The next thing I know, Jase has grabbed me. He’s almost frog-marching me across the room, pushing me out the door, his jaw set.

“Jase!” I exclaim, completely shocked at being manhandled.

“I’ll ring you,” he says quickly, “really soon. Don’t fight me on this, Scarlett. Please just go!”

As the door shuts behind me, I stand on the steps to the cottage and listen to his grandmother laugh and laugh, like she’s just heard the best joke in the world. Then I realize something.

I’m actually grateful that Jase just bundled me out of the door in such a hurry. Because, seasoned detective though I am by now, there’s no way that I want to hear precisely what his grandmother’s about to reveal to him so gloatingly.

“PILLOWCASE OR SCISSORS?”

I have to walk. Somewhere, anywhere. My legs are moving on their own, taking me off, away from the cottage and what’s unfolding inside. It’s a survival mechanism, my body taking care of my mind, making sure it doesn’t overload completely. I’m in a glass bubble, closed off from the world, unable to process one more item of information.

Cold air on my face. Hard concrete under my feet. My heart, pumping loudly in my chest. The distant cries of younger girls playing on the stone terraces behind the main school building.

Wow. If girls are throwing balls and jumping rope on the terraces, school must be finished for the day. I glance at my watch: yup, four-thirty. I don’t know where the time has gone. It’s like my life is jumping in huge leaps from one shocking revelation to another, rather than the normal slow, boring routine of my daily existence at Wakefield Hall—lessons, studying, working out, punctuated with spikes of excitement (Jase) or confrontation (Plum).

I look back to the time when all Jase and I had to worry about was his father yelling and chasing us. In retrospect, it seems like a golden age of ease and relaxation.

My feet have carried me through the parking lot, around the new wing and to the entrance to Pankhurst dormitory. I realize that they’re taking me to Taylor’s room. Well, my feet know what I need better than my brain does. Even if Taylor isn’t there, which I hope she is, I can curl up on her bed, text her to come and find me, put on some music, make myself a hot chocolate from her stash, and take refuge from the rest of the world without having to go back to Aunt Gwen’s.

There’s no one on the back stairs of the dormitory, which is a huge relief. I make it up the three flights to the Sixth Form floor and down the corridor. Some of the doors are ajar, music or computer noise streaming out. In the common room a group of girls are watching Music and Lyrics for the umpteenth time, a romantic comedy with Drew Barrymore and Hugh Grant that has become the comfort food of the autumn term. Lizzie, who has predictably gone more mad for it than anyone else, has been singing the songs from it for weeks now. I assume she’s in there, driving everyone else crazy, piping away in her high-pitched soprano.

But I’m very wrong there. Because as I approach Taylor’s room, the door closed as always (Taylor is never going to win a Miss Congeniality contest), I hear Lizzie’s trademark nervous, squeaky giggle from behind it.

Lizzie in Taylor’s room? That’s strange. I instantly picture Lizzie giving Taylor tips on manicures and leg waxing techniques, or Taylor making Lizzie watch American football online while she explains to her interminably why they keep stopping and starting all the time. (Even I refuse to do that with her, despite the fact that I quite like the guys’ shiny Lycra leggings.)

I push the door open, suddenly very curious as to what exactly might be going on inside Taylor’s private sanctum.

Nothing, literally nothing, could have prepared me for what I see inside.

It must be a practical joke. A really twisted, weird practical joke played by someone with a very underdeveloped sense of humor.

Crowded round Taylor’s computer are Lizzie, Susan, and Plum. Given how much Taylor does not like company, I’m absolutely stunned to see them here. In fact, it’s kind of like walking in on my grandmother and Mr. Barnes smoking cigars and doing tequila shots.

“What did I tell you, ladies?” Plum’s trilling as she clicks on the screen. “Aren’t these photos to die for? Oh my God. Look at this one. It looks like a bunch of lesbos in an Ugliest Butch contest!”

I sneak a look over her arm. The image is of Taylor and a cluster of girls wearing bright yellow and green tops, jumping up to a hoop at a basketball game. Honestly, I’m beginning to think that this harping on about lesbians has more to do with Plum than with Taylor. All I see in that photo is a bunch of sporty, sweaty girls with big legs and bigger grimaces. I mean, they’re not grabbing each other’s boobs instead of the ball, are they?

But where’s Taylor? My God, if they’ve sneaked into her room to spy on her behind her back, she’s going to go nuclear on them when she returns. Their lives will literally not be worth living.

And then, half hidden behind them, I see a fourth figure, sitting on the bed. It’s unmistakeably Taylor. I recognize the wide shoulders and the white T-shirt immediately.

I don’t identify her by her face. I can’t. Because pulled down over it, covering even her neck, is one of her own pillowcases.

A red mist floods my eyes. It doesn’t blind me completely, though, because how else could I storm across the room, shove Susan aside, grab hold of the pillowcase, and drag it off Taylor’s head? How else could I see that, unbelievably, the pillowcase isn’t tied or taped or fastened in any way, meaning that there’s no reason Taylor couldn’t just yank it off herself? How else could I reach to the shelf behind her, snatch a pair of scissors out of the Cornell mug in which Taylor keeps all her pens and markers, and, holding the pillowcase in one hand and the scissors in the other, turn to confront Plum, Susan, and Lizzie, with an expression that must be so menacing that Lizzie actually falls back, whimpering in fear?

“What is going on here?” I demand furiously.

“Scarlett! Such a flair for the dramatic!” Plum says quickly, recovering from the initial shock I’m sure I saw in her eyes. “I thought you had more than enough of that going on in your own life right now.”

“Who put this over Taylor’s head?” I’m so angry I think I can taste blood.

“We shouldn’t have,” Susan wails. “I knew we shouldn’t have, but—”

“Was it you?” I point at her. Her blue eyes widen and I see her swallowing, too paralyzed by fear to speak.

“Why don’t you ask Taylor?” Plum cuts in, smiling now with anticipation. “That should clear things up for you.”

I look over at Taylor. She’s pushing her tangled hair off her face; it must have been hot under the pillowcase. Her mouth is set in a hard straight line, her brows drawn together. She looks angry enough to punch someone in the face.

I don’t understand why she’s still just sitting there. Why she isn’t jumping to her feet, picking Plum, Susan, and Lizzie up one by one and throwing them out the door.

And even less do I understand when she mumbles to me, “I put it on, Scarlett.”

“What?”

“I put the pillowcase on myself.”

“I suggested she might want to,” Plum adds, leaning back in Taylor’s desk chair and crossing her legs at the ankles. “So she didn’t get in the way while we were looking at her photographs.”

This is insane. I take a deep breath, restoring some degree of self-control. Come on, it’s obvious what’s happening. Plum has much more of a hold over Taylor than you realized. And Plum is enjoying herself immensely flaunting it.

This can’t go on. I won’t let it.

I advance on Plum, who still has a taunting smile on her lips. She seems absolutely sure that she’s invulnerable. That there’s nothing I can do to touch her, because she’s made it clear that she controls Taylor, and if I hurt her, Taylor will suffer for it.

She’s gone too far now. This is war.

I reach out and grab hold of Plum’s hair, twisting her ponytail around my left hand, pulling her up till her back’s straight.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” I say icily as she shrieks in protest. “Either you put that pillowcase on your head, right now, just like Taylor did, or I’m cutting your hair off.”

I brandish the scissors.

“You know I’ll do it. Look in my eyes. Put that pillowcase on right now, or I’ll start cutting.”

“Scarlett,” Lizzie moans in protest. “You can’t! Not her hair!”

Still holding Plum’s ponytail in an iron grip, I glance over at Lizzie and Susan, who are huddling together against the far wall, their faces as frightened as if they were watching someone being disemboweled in a 3-D horror film.

“You know Jase Barnes is my boyfriend, right?” I say to them. “You know his dad died the other day and there were police around?”

They nod in unison, their eyes so big I can see the whites all round their irises.

“Plum told the police that Jase and I were together,” I inform them. “Jase got in huge trouble because of what she said.”

It’s the cardinal sin, the worst thing one girl can do to another. Cutting off Plum’s hair would be infinitely less culpable in our moral lexicon than tattling on her to someone in authority—a teacher, a parent, let alone a police officer. Susan’s beautiful face and Lizzie’s overly made-up one are identical masks of incredulity as they turn to stare at Plum, who is squirming and huffing but not uttering a word.

“You can’t trust her,” I say with infinite satisfaction, knowing that I’ve landed a killer blow. “You think if you stick with her you’ll be safe, don’t you? You think it’s better to be on her side, even if that means doing something as shitty and mean as bullying someone and laughing at her photos. But it isn’t. Plum will turn on you any time she wants to. If she can sneak on someone to the police, she’s capable of anything.”

I can’t see Plum’s face. But the way Susan and Lizzie are staring at her with repulsion must mean my words are having their effect. I’m sure my own expression is vindictive beyond belief. I feel like I’m snarling down at her.

“Get out,” I say, nodding brusquely toward the door. “No, wait. Apologize to Taylor, and then get out.”

They tumble over each other to stutter their “sorry’s” at Taylor and scramble out the door.

“Pillowcase or scissors?” I ask Plum.

“Piss off,” she hisses at me, trying to twist away and yelping in pain as I pull back on her ponytail.

“Right, then,” I say. “Scissors it is.”

“No!” Plum screams.

“Don’t do it, Scarlett,” Taylor says grimly.

“She can’t get away with this.” I know that if Plum isn’t stopped now, things will escalate to a degree that I can’t possibly fathom.

“Please!” Plum begs. “Not my hair!”

It’s awful how much I enjoy hearing her grovel. Power really does corrupt. I let her ponytail go, step back, and hold out the pillowcase to her. Silently, her eyes narrowed slits of rage, she takes it and pulls it down over her head. I take the bottom corners and knot them tightly enough so she won’t get it off in a hurry. Then I grab her shoulders and frog-march her out of the room.

After which I yell, “Hey, everyone! Plum’s trying out a new Halloween costume!” loudly enough so that throngs of girls come out of their rooms all down the corridor, and out of the common room. They stare in amazement at Plum tottering as she tries desperately to wrest the pillowcase up and over her head.

Once one girl starts to giggle, it starts a chain reaction, and soon everyone is laughing at Plum. I don’t feel a shred of sympathy whatsoever.

“Somebody help me!” she screams, tugging so hard on the pillowcase that she pulls on her chin, overbalances, trips, and slams into the wall.

Lizzie and Susan are in the crowd, looking at each other. Some silent communication takes place between them. I notice that neither of them steps forward to help Plum. It’s Sharon Persaud who finally steadies Plum’s shoulders and starts helping her off with the pillowcase while everyone else keeps laughing hysterically.

I shut the door and turn to confront Taylor. I place my hands on my hips and stare at her sternly.

“Will you please tell me what the hell is going on between you and Plum?”

Taylor is slumped on the bed, looking drained. Her hair is sweaty from being pasted down. Without a word, she stands up and walks over to the computer, scrolling through the photos.

I remember Plum’s comments about Taylor and the basket ball girls. I brace myself for what Taylor might be about to show me. My guess is some picture of her kissing a girl.

Suddenly, with a flash of insight into my own motives, I think: So what? So what if she’s kissing a girl? And then I realize why I may have been so confused about the entire idea.

It’s not because I’m freaking out that Taylor might be gay. It’s because I hate the idea that Plum might know more about my best friend than I do.

This revelation is such a big relief that my limbs go all loose and floppy. I even hear myself giggle a little, a silly titter of release.

“What’s so funny?” Taylor asks incredulously over her shoulder.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I’m just so wound up with everything that’s been going on. It was just a nervous thing.”

And then I see what she’s been searching for on the screen, and my eyes widen. This is not at all what I was expecting.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

It’s an older, male version of Taylor. Dark shaggy hair, pale skin, green-gray eyes under dark brows. Taylor’s high cheekbones are unmistakable, but the square jaw, the dark stubble, are unequivocably manly. He’s frowning, just like Taylor. And he’s a few years older, closer to a man than a boy.

“Let me guess,” I say. “A distant relative?”

“Funny,” Taylor says with a faint trace of a smile.

No question that this is Taylor’s brother, Seth. The one who goes to Cornell University in America. I had no idea they were that alike.

“What does this have to do with Plum?” I ask, totally bewildered.

Taylor heaves a long sigh, and swivels her chair round to face me.