Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me (16 page)

I always felt safe when I was with my dad. I know that, even though I don’t remember much about him or my mum. They died when I was five, and the memories I have of them are all blurred at the edges, like old, fading photographs, where the dark is slowly moving in from the sides to obscure the picture.

But I know I always felt safe when he was around.

My dad showed me the shortcut the summer before they died. He was worried about me wandering inside and getting lost, and the shortcut is easy to remember: he made me repeat it till he knew I had it thoroughly memorized. Right, left, right, left, through the dead end, and right again. The dead end is a sort of hidden opening, which you can only find if you know it’s there: you’d swear it was a solid cul-de-sac of hedge unless you went right up to it, and then you see the narrow chink to your right, just room enough for someone to wiggle through. Ted Barnes knows about it, because he’s the one who prunes the maze—it’s his job and he won’t let anyone else do it.

And then I think about Jase Barnes, incredibly handsome Jase Barnes, with his golden eyes and butterscotch skin, and wonder whether, now Ted’s getting older, he’s letting Jase prune the maze hedge, and then I flash to a fantasy of it being Jase walking by my side now, instead of Lizzie, who’s dutifully following me, still rabbiting on about celebrity handbags, and the thought sends butterflies through my stomach, which actually, though it sounds pretty and romantic, is actually quite an unsettling and dizzy-making sensation.

Jase Barnes. Kissing Jase Barnes, like I kissed Dan, feeling Jase Barnes’s hands on me.

Jase Barnes, so tall and handsome, with those wide shoulders  .  .  .

I shiver and push the thought of Jase firmly away from me. I can’t even think about him now. Still, this quest, this need to find out why Lizzie left me that note, is all about Jase Barnes, in a way; it’s not only about what really killed Dan, it’s also about whether I will ever be able to trust myself enough to kiss another boy ever again.

This quest is the single most important thing in my life.

“It’s so dark in here,” Lizzie’s saying in a whiny voice.

I’m nipping through the maze so fast she’s having to trot to keep up. She’s like a Labrador, I realize, silly and trusting, ready to jump up and lick anyone who’s being at all nice to her. I wonder how she got like this. And then I think about what happened to me to stop me being trusting. Lizzie’s like a kid no one’s ever truly been nasty to. She trots on blithely, as if the world were sugarcoated, like a child in the beginning of a fairy tale before she meets the monsters and the evil fairies and has to fight for her life.

I am very jealous of Lizzie.

“Is this really a shortcut?” she’s whining.

Of course it isn’t. I would never show Lizzie the shortcut. It’s a family secret.

“Nearly there!” I say brightly.

And that’s the truth. In a few more twists and turns, we emerge into the center of the maze, and Lizzie gasps in amazement and appreciation.

It’s really pretty in here. The oak trees are trimmed so that on sunny days there’s sunlight streaming down into the center of the maze, no overhanging branches to shadow the marble statue with the bench sculpted into its base, a statue that my great-great-great-grandfather (I think, I get confused by all those greats) had commissioned specially for this place. Then he planted all the yew trees around it, so they would grow to form the maze and conceal the statue.

The oak trees need cutting back, I notice: it’s a bit dark in here, a bit overgrown. But that’s perfect for my purpose today.

You can hide much better in the shadows.

I walk over to the bench and sit down, smiling at Lizzie. “Isn’t it lovely?” I say in the same fake bright tone of voice. I pat the bench next to me. But instead of following and sitting down obediently, like a good little Labrador, Lizzie stands hesitantly in the entrance.

“It’s so dark!” she complains. “And it feels damp! I don’t like the damp.”

“It isn’t damp,” I say crossly, “it’s just a bit overgrown.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” She’s acting as if she’s six years old rather than sixteen. “It’s creepy. Can we go now?”

I brace myself to convince her to stay.

“Come on  .  .  . ,” I start, but that’s as far as I get.

Lizzie turns to look behind her, at the opening in the hedge through which we just entered the center of the maze. And then a figure barrels into her out of nowhere and rugby-tackles her to the ground. They fall in a thrashing mess of tangled limbs and roll over till they come to rest almost at my feet.

“Taylor!” I yell, jumping up. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“I thought she was going to try to get away,” Taylor says sullenly.

“Of course she wasn’t going to get away!” I practically yell. “She’s in the middle of the maze! Where would she go?”

“She looked like she was going to make a run for it,” Taylor mutters.

“Ugh!” I shake my head in disbelief. Surely Taylor’s seen enough of Lizzie’s character to realize that she’s too much of a scaredy-cat to seriously contemplate running through the maze on her own. Look at her—one little rugby tackle and a bit of rolling on the grass and she’s crumpled up sobbing helplessly. “Lizzie? Can you sit up? I’ll give you a hand.”

Lizzie looks up tearfully and takes my proffered hand. I pull her up and we both sit down on the bench, as originally planned before Taylor went all ninja on her.

“I’m sorry about Taylor,” I say, glaring at the girl in question. “She gets a bit carried away sometimes.”

“She hurt me!” Lizzie wails.

“Yeah, she doesn’t know her own strength.”

“Hey, stop talking about me as if I was your tame gorilla!” Taylor snaps.

“Well, don’t throw people around like you were starving and they were between you and the banana tree!” I snap back.

Lizzie looks terrified, as well she might.

“You two are really scaring me!” she moans.

“Well,” I say to her, “all you have to do is tell us what we want to know and I’ll take you straight out of here. Okay?”

Lizzie’s expression is pretty much what Little Miss Muffet must have looked like when the spider sat down beside her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says feebly.

“Oh come on, Lizzie.” I’m impatient now. “The note you left in my desk! You’re not getting out of here till you tell me all about it.”

Lizzie wells up like a fountain turned on full blast. “I can’t tell you!”

I sigh, and look at Taylor, who’s pantomiming sticking her finger down the back of her throat to indicate how nauseating she finds Lizzie’s sobfest.

“Lizzie,” I say, “you tell me or I’ll tell my grandmother all about the note, okay? Your choice.”

It’s a totally empty threat, of course I won’t tell my grandmother. But Lizzie doesn’t know that. And she goes white at the thought of being hauled into the headmistress’s study to be cross-examined.

“I know this wasn’t your idea,” I say, taking a guess.

But Taylor and I have talked this over, and neither of us believes that the note originated with Lizzie. She’s such a wimp. It’s hard to believe her generating something like this. My assumption is that she’s acting on behalf of someone else  .  .  . someone who isn’t a pupil at Wakefield Hall. Luce? Alison? Is it far-fetched to think that, while they don’t want to talk to me directly, they might have got Lizzie to leave me a note designed to make me feel better? It’s not much of a theory, but I don’t have a better one at the moment.

“Aaaaaaaaaah  .  .  .” Lizzie’s sobbing so hard I’m getting worried that her eyeballs are going to pop out under the pressure.

Taylor leans forward. She’s clearly decided to up the threat level.

“Listen, you little crybaby,” she starts, in a voice so menacing that I get chills.

“Is everyone okay?” asks someone just around the corner of the maze.

The next moment he emerges. I stare at him, horrified. I might have fantasized about coming into the maze with Jase Barnes, but it didn’t involve having two other girls present as well. And it certainly didn’t involve him catching me in the middle of an interrogation.

THE HOTTEST GARDENER EVER

Jase is carrying a big pair of shears, and his T-shirt sleeves are rolled up to the caps of his shoulders, making his upper arms look bulgy with muscle. His faded old blue jeans hang loose on his lean hips, and there’s the faint sheen of sweat on his cappuccino skin. His tight black curls are a little damp with exertion.

If my grandmother had just entered the center of the maze wearing a bikini and a tiara, she couldn’t have been more effective at getting our attention than Jase Barnes looking like the hottest gardener ever in his sweaty work clothes. We turn, stare at him and promptly freeze to the spot, as if we’re playing a game of Musical Statues.

“Scarlett?” he says. “Are you okay? I was pruning the hedge, and I heard someone crying. I thought they might be lost in here.”

His voice trails off as he takes in the scene. Suddenly I see the situation through Jase’s eyes. One girl, slumped on the bench, crying her eyes out. Two girls, standing over her menacingly. Taylor and I must look like a pair of really nasty bullies.

And I hate bullies. How did I get myself into this? Because, although my motives are good, what we’re doing is bullying Lizzie. No question about it.

I feel like a piece of dog poo.

Taylor and Lizzie flick their gaze in my direction, though they seem physically incapable of actually turning their heads away from Jase. I know exactly what they’re thinking: this hunk of gorgeous boyhood, this slightly sweaty essence of handsomeness, actually knows my name? Knows me well enough to talk to me this familiarly? How lucky am I?

“Um, Lizzie was upset,” I say weakly, “and we were trying to cheer her up.”

“Doesn’t seem to be working, does it?” Jase points out, and there’s an edge to his voice now. He puts down the shears and comes over to the bench, kneeling down in front of Lizzie.

“You all right, love?” he asks gently.

Lizzie’s ducked her head now and is rubbing at her face furiously. Finally, she lifts it to look at Jase, and Taylor and I involuntarily take a step back. Even Jase can’t help jerking his head back reflexively. Lizzie looks like she’s got hives. Her face is swollen and red and blotchy, and because of the rubbing, her eyeliner’s all smudged, giving an extra Goth-y touch to the horror of her facial swelling.

“Um, you don’t look good,” he says with concern. “Anyone got a tissue?”

“I do,” Lizzie whispers, and fumbles in the chartreuse abomination. She produces a pack of tissues and blows her nose. I’m amazed that she’s got any fluid left in there at all—it sounded as if she’d cried it all out by now.

“That better?” Jase says.

Lizzie nods, her eyes now fixed on his golden ones.

I realize that I am horrendously jealous of Lizzie once again. How dare she be monopolizing Jase’s attention like this? I’m the one he talks to, the one whose name he knows.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Jase asks, and he reaches out his hands to take hers.

My envy is so acute now I have to curl my toes till they hurt to stop me leaning forward and dragging the two of them apart. I’m the one whose hands Jase holds! I am! Not Lizzie!

Lizzie parts her lips, staring at him, and I realize with horror that she’s about to talk. She’s going to tell him everything. And when she does, it will all come out. Lizzie may not know whether I’m the Kiss of Death girl, but I’ll have to explain it to him so he understands the whole picture, why Taylor and I were ganging up on her, and then he’ll realize who I am and never want to come near me again, in case he drops dead because of kissing me, too.

“She’s scared of doing trampoline!” Taylor blurts out.

Oh no, I think in panic, why did Taylor have to say that? It’s the explanation Lizzie gave her of why she was crying in the classroom, but Lizzie surely must have been crying about something to do with leaving me the note.  .  .  . Jase isn’t going to believe this for a moment!

Jase turns his head to stare at Taylor.

“You what?”

“Yeah! She has to do it in gym class, and she hates it, but she’s too scared to tell our coach she doesn’t want to do it!” Taylor rattles out at high pitch.

Jase looks disbelievingly back at Lizzie.

“Is that really true?” he asks.

There’s a long pause. Lizzie’s hands are still in his, and she’s showing no inclination of pulling them away. She gulps hard, still looking at him, and I know I need to get her attention now, or she’ll break down and tell him everything.

“I was suggesting I could talk to my grandmother about it,” I break in. “You know, she shouldn’t have to get on a trampoline if she doesn’t want to. People have accidents sometimes. On the springs. Um, it really does happen. So I thought, if I talked to my grandmother, she might change the rule that everyone has to do it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Taylor nodding in appreciation of the way I’ve gone along with her flash of inspiration. The only thing that mattered in my little speech was emphasizing my close connection to the headmistress—i.e., reminding Lizzie of my threat to tell my grandmother about the note unless she came clean about it to us.

And it seems to have worked. Lizzie gulps again, and says to Jase in such a small voice it’s almost a whisper:

“I am scared of the trampoline. I always think I’m going to fall. It’s really  .  .  . bouncy.”

Taylor does her best to stifle a snort of laughter, but Jase catches it.

“Hey, she’s scared!” he says angrily to Taylor. “You should respect that. Everyone’s scared of something.” And then to Lizzie he adds dubiously, “Is that really it? Is that really why you were crying so hard you sounded like you were going to burst a blood vessel?”

Jase is no fool. He can tell there’s more to this than meets the eye. I hold my breath, but Lizzie nods her head, her eyes widening.

“There are these springs! On the edge of the trampoline!” she says. “I’m always scared I’m going to land on them and hurt myself! They look really dangerous, I can’t believe they actually make us jump near them! I told my dad but he said he was sure the school knew best, and he’s so busy all the time anyway, but I really hate doing it and I’m sure Miss Carter makes me do it on purpose because she’s mean like that.”

My God, it’s true. Lizzie really is scared of the trampoline. Taylor and I exchange glances of disbelief. And Jase has realized by now that once Lizzie gets started babbling, she won’t stop of her own accord. He lets her hands go (about time, too!) and stands up.

“And you two were teasing her about it, were you?” he says to me and Taylor.

“We were trying to help,” I lie. “We just weren’t doing a very good job of it.”

“You can say that again,” he says dryly, and when his eyes meet mine there’s none of the warmth I’ve come to expect from him. “I’ll get going, then. That hedge isn’t going to clip itself, more’s the pity.”

He picks up his shears from the grass beside the bench.

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asks Lizzie. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

He doesn’t trust us. Me and Taylor. He doesn’t trust us to take care of a sobbing, upset girl. And the worst part is that he’s absolutely right.

Lizzie looks up, and her face illuminates for a moment with hope, hope that she’ll be able to leave the maze now, with Jase as her protector, save herself from any more blackmail by me and Taylor. And then she catches sight of me, and I shake my head, the tiniest of motions—I hope to God Jase didn’t see it—but enough to convey to her that there’s no easy escape for her, no flight with Prince Charming. She has to stay here and face the music, that’s what the shake of my head says, or I’ll go straight to my grandmother.

“No, I’m fine,” she mutters. “Thanks. I’ll stay here.”

Jase shrugs, a big circling of his muscular shoulders that comprehensively conveys his wish to put this whole messy scene behind him and get on with his work. He looks straight at me for a second as he turns to exit through the gap in the hedge, but it’s a cold, direct stare, nothing friendly about it at all. And then he’s gone.

I want to burst into tears. I want to run after him and throw myself into his arms and confess everything. But that would be ridiculous. I barely know him. And telling him wouldn’t solve anything. I had to make a choice, and that’s what I did: look good in front of Jase, or push forward on finding out what happened to Dan. And I chose the latter. What I need to focus on is right here in front of me: Lizzie, who has a piece of the puzzle in her fluffy little brain. Lizzie, whose information will get me one step closer to solving the mystery of Dan’s death.

I tell myself it’s better this way. It’s better that Jase thinks I’m a bully and a bitch. Because if he does, he’ll stay away from me, and I won’t have to deal with my attraction for him while Dan’s death is unresolved. I won’t be tempted to kiss him and have to push him away, afraid that my weird curse will somehow transmit itself to him.

I tell myself all that, but it doesn’t help at all. Jase’s eyes, always so warm and glowing and golden when they look at me, were like frozen metal just now, icy and hard. I hate that he looked at me like that. Hate it.

I gulp. Taylor’s looking at me, frowning, her straight dark brows drawn together over her slanting green eyes. It’s as if she screamed, “Pull yourself together, Scarlett!”

I nod at her. Then Taylor and I both look at Lizzie. We don’t even need to speak. Lizzie is broken by now, broken by having cried so hard, having had several opportunities to tell Jase the truth and taken none of them, having been offered passage to safety through the maze by him and rejected it. I know that one good hard menacing stare from both of us will be more than enough to make her give up her secret.

And so it proves.