Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [27]
‘It’s only a fortnight until the end of term,’ Clare says lightly. ‘Perhaps a fresh start, after the summer?’
Dad wavers for a moment, unsure whether to stick with the tough-dad attitude or grab on to Clare’s suggestion. He hates fighting, I remember that much. He’s way better at the fun stuff.
‘We do need to talk, Scarlett,’ he appeals.
‘Sure,’ I say carelessly. ‘We’ll talk later. Have a strawberry, OK?’ I feed him one of the red berries from my dish, to shut him up and sweeten him up, and pretty soon everyone is feeding everyone else ripe strawberries and laughing.
As a diversionary tactic, it lasts a whole thirty seconds.
‘Come on, Scarlett, open up!’ Dad grins, and like a fool I open my mouth and wait for the soft, ripe strawberry to land on my tongue. It doesn’t. Dad just stares, and Holly gulps and when Clare finally looks up to see what’s going on she drops her spoon, spattering cream across the tablecloth. I close my mouth pretty sharpish, but by then it’s too late.
‘Oh, Scarlett,’ Clare breathes.
Dad just puts his head in his hands, distraught. You’d think I just bit the heads off a couple of his pet chickens.
‘It’s just a piercing, Dad,’ I say, but my voice sounds kind of thin and wavery. ‘It’s no big deal.’
‘No big deal?’ Dad repeats, quietly. ‘No big deal? Scarlett, what the hell was your mother thinking of?’
‘She didn’t know about it until later,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘No?’ Dad is struggling to keep his voice steady, and his eyes glitter with pain. ‘You are twelve years old, Scarlett, and you’re acting like you’re on a self-destruct mission! Your hair, your clothes, the way you act – now this! What’s happened to you, Scarlett?’
‘My life’s a mess,’ I tell him. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Dad says. ‘And I think maybe your mum is right – we need to find a counsellor, someone who knows how to help troubled teenagers. We need help. You need help, Scarlett.’
I stand up, a little unsteadily, and walk slowly out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the sky-blue room with the nursery border. I feel sick. My tongue is heavy and my mouth is filled with a sour, metallic taste. I’d take the gold stud out of my tongue, but that would leave a hole, a wound that might never heal. Besides, I’m kind of used to the sour taste, these days.
I think of Kian, I think of Dad and Clare and Holly, and I pull the gold stud loose and chuck it across the room. It rolls across the rug and disappears down a crack in the floorboards, and I’m glad. I don’t care if I never see it again.
There’s a creak on the landing and someone knocks. I ignore it, but Clare’s face peers round the door.
‘Get lost,’ I snap, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She comes right on in and sits down on the end of my bed.
Stepmothers are not meant to be soft and smiley and pregnant, they are meant to be hook-nosed and spiteful, stirring up trouble and making you sleep in the cinders. Clare can’t fool me. I don’t want her pity, I don’t want her kindness. I don’t want her.
Trouble is, what I want isn’t top of anybody’s wish list right now.
‘Scarlett, please,’ Clare says, biting her lip. ‘We’re worried about you – we just want to help.’
I can’t answer her. I want to scream, but I’m terrified that all I have left in me is a whimper.
‘Count to ten, Scarlett,’ Clare says quietly. ‘And breathe, OK? Calm down!’
I take a couple of breaths in, but I don’t feel calm. I may never feel calm again.
‘I’m not crazy!’ I say.
‘I know that, Scarlett.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So stop threatening me with counsellors and give me a chance,’ I say with a shaky voice. ‘Listen to me. Believe in me!’
We sit in silence on the edge of the bed. Whole minutes tick by, and then, finally, Clare speaks.
‘I will,’ she says. ‘I do.’
On Monday afternoon, Dad arrives back from a trip to Westport laden with books, folders and stationery. He dumps them down on to the nearest armchair, while Clare rinses salad leaves and cuts granary bread and cheese for lunch.
‘What’s this?