Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [41]
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.
‘And her lip, of all places,’ Dad continues. ‘What were you trying to do? Make her into – into – a freak? Like you?’
My mouth feels dry and there’s a sick, sad feeling in my throat. I can’t remember my dad ever saying something so mean, so hurtful.
‘Wasn’t it bad enough, encouraging her to paint her face and give up meat?’ Dad says. ‘No. You had to push it one bit further, didn’t you? You had to talk her into this!’
‘No,’ I argue. ‘She wanted me to do it. And it was meant to be her nose – the badge pin slipped. I’m sorry!’
‘So you say’ Dad retorts. ‘I suppose we should be grateful you didn’t sever a main artery!’
I glance over at Holly, the injustice of it all bubbling up like the sour taste of guilt. Blackmail, I think. That’s why I did it. I wanted to keep Kian a secret, keep my new-found good-girl image, and Holly threatened to blow it all. I can’t admit it, though – not now, not ever. Holly could speak out, explain what happened, smooth it all out, but she’s acting like I’m some kind of axe murderer, like I meant for this to happen. She stares at the tabletop, slides her hands over her eyes to keep my glare at bay.
It’s Clare who looks up and meets my eye. She doesn’t look angry, just sad. ‘I thought you liked it here,’ she says softly. ‘I thought you were settling in. I thought you and Holly were friends – that you were good for each other. I thought we could trust you, Scarlett.’
My eyes prick with tears, but I can’t cry, I won’t. ‘You can trust me!’ I protest. ‘It was just a stupid mistake, OK?’
Clare shakes her head. In that one movement, I can see my summer falling apart. I try to see this evening’s events through Clare’s eyes, and it doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.
‘You can trust me,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I’m happy here.’ But Clare turns her face away, and I can feel that happiness slipping away, falling through my fingers like sand.
I chuck some stuff into the fluffy backpack, layer on a fleece and a jacket, slip on my ugly, sensible sandals. I pocket a handful of euros from my dressing table, a chocolate bar left over from earlier. I creep down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step three from the bottom, but still a door creaks open on the landing. When I look up, Holly is looking down over the banisters, her hair sticking out like straw, her eyes heavy with sleep. The dressing has come away from her wound in the night, and I can see the beginnings of a dark red scab just centimetres from her mouth.
‘Terrible place for a stud,’ I say, and Holly smiles faintly, just a flicker of something that might be forgiveness.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispers.
I put a finger to my lips, then turn away.
The lane is spooky at night. An owl hoots in the distance, and there’s a noise beyond the hedge that sounds like an old man coughing, although I think it’s only sheep.
I’ve messed up plenty of times in my life, but this time I’ve done it with style.
What did it matter, anyhow, messing up at school? There was always going to be another place, another bunch of teachers to annoy, another gang of bad-girl friends. What did it matter, dyeing my hair red, piercing my tongue, clomping through the streets on three-inch wedges? Nobody was looking, anyway. Nobody cared.
Mum would just huff and stress and pack me off somewhere safely out of sight, then change her mind and decide it was all a fuss about nothing. Back I’d come to carry on like nothing ever happened. Not this time, though. This time, it’s different.
I thought it’d be the worst thing in the world, being sent to this middle-of-nowhere hole to live with Dad and Clare and Holly. I wanted to hate them, and I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t. I walked into that cheesy little cottage and even though I was angrier than I’ve ever been, I could feel the happiness there. I guess