Let's Get Lost

by Sarra Manning

  Let's Get Lost

  Let'sGetLost

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Let'sGetLost

  How does Isabel Clark rule the school?

  The way I see it, school is like one of those documentaries about big cats on the Discovery Channel. It’s maul or be mauled. It’s not fair. It’s not right. It just is what it is. I spent two years of middle school having my lunch money stolen and my clothes, hair, and teeny, tiny, almost unnoticeable lisp mocked by a bunch of girls who were bigger and uglier than me. So when I got to senior school, it was beyond time to reinvent myself.

  I’m the queen of the rumor. Of the veiled insult. Of the nudge and a wink and a smirk. And that’s how I rule the school. I have my three little minions. I decide who’s on the shit list for that week, and they make that poor girl’s life misery, and the rest of the school follows suit. Maybe they’re not big cats, but stupid, mindless sheep.

  It’s not like I enjoy it. It’s just what I do to get myself through school. My whole queen of the mean shtick is exhausting. I can’t let my guard slip or show my true face for even a second. And I’ve paid such a high price for my status that I wonder whether it’s really worth it.

  But then I remember how it feels to sit at the loser table in the canteen. Or what it’s like to have to skulk in the cloakrooms until everyone’s gone home in the faint hope that this won’t be the afternoon that I get chased through the streets. How it feels to have someone shove your head down a toilet and then pull the chain—not that I’d ever go to those kinds of extremes—and so I do what I have to do.

  Let'sGetLost

  OTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  Let'sGetLost

  Let'sGetLost

  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,

  Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in Great Britain by Hodder Children’s Books, London, 2006

  First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

  Copyright © Sarra Manning, 2006

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Manning, Sarra.

  Let’s get lost / by Sarra Manning.

  p. cm.

  Summary: As she acts out the role of “Mean Girl”—at school, with her father and

  brother, and even with her new boyfriend—sixteen-year-old Isabel comes to a dead end

  and finally confronts issues related to her mother’s death.

  eISBN : 978-1-436-24252-3

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Let'sGetLost

  Dedicated to my mother, Regina Shaw

  The memory of you emerges from the night around me.

  —“A Song of Despair”

  Pablo Neruda

  With love and thanks to Jane Davitt

  for cheerleading and beta-reading,

  Sarah Bailey for never doubting me,

  and Annakovsky for the name.

  Let'sGetLost

  “It’s always tempting to lose yourself with someone who’s

  maybe lost themselves.”

  Angela Chase, My So-Called Life

  Let'sGetLost

  Let's Get Lost

  1

  I knew the party was going to suck. Parties usually do, but I still had this half excited, half scared fluttering in my tummy, like there was a baby bird in there, flapping its wings and trying to take a left just under my rib cage.

  I had a bath and exfoliated and shaved and moisturized, then I tried to figure out what the hell I could do with my hair. I’d had this disastrous experiment with a pair of scissors and, well, it had said Starry Night on the box and I’d been hoping that when I’d finished (after getting black splotches over every towel we possessed) I’d look like a mysterious girl from a French film who had lots of lovers and spent a lot of time in cafés debating the meaning of life. Instead I ended up looking like a total goth. I had to hack six inches off, leaving me with a ragged bob that was more Amélie than Emily Strange. In the right light.

  There still wasn’t even enough hair to scoop into a ponytail, so I fashioned two bunches and fixed them with sparkly hair bobbles that I found lurking in the back of the bathroom cabinet. I sort of liked the finished effect in a strange way. It was edgy. It was striking. God, it was really time to book myself a hair appointment.

  But that was merely the tip of my style dilemma as I stood in my daisy-patterned underwear in front of my bulging wardrobe and tried to decide who I wanted to be that night. I love to explore the possibilities of transforming myself from a lanky sixteen-year-old into somebody thrilling. I could do the Kate Moss boho thing. Or my Topshop version of Marissa Cooper. Rock chick was so very last year, and what had I been thinking when I bought that vintage lace dress with the rip under the arm?

  I took a deep breath and padded into my parents’ bedroom. If I’d stopped to inhale, which I didn’t, I knew I’d still be able to smell the faint aroma of Calvin Klein’s Eternity. I really don’t know how he can bear to sleep in here every night, which is why he usually passes out in the study.

  All her clothes were neatly arranged by color. A rainbow array of dresses and skirts hanging there with no place to go. I was doing them a huge public service just by rifling through the rails. Eventually, I found a plain black dress, which I don’t think I ever saw her wear. It was regulation-issue, with three-quarter-length sleeves that fashion magazines would describe as understated and chic. Maybe I could do understated and chic, I thought as I wriggled into it. It was meant to hug my curves, but I didn’t have much to hug, so it kinda skimmed over th
em and ended up somewhere just above my knees, which was odd because she’d been taller than me. But then I’d grown a lot over the summer. I dug a pair of fishnets out of one of her drawers, which accessorized perfectly with my pink kitten heels, and stole some smudgy gray eye shadow from the dressing table.

  I looked older, which was good because it meant that I might actually be able to buy cigarettes and wine without having to get into this whole thing about my date of birth and who the prime minister was on the day I was born. All I needed was some cold, hard cash to give to the nice man in the liquor store.

  Getting money from my dad is a finesse job. Luckily, I have finesse coming out of my arse. I barged into his study without knocking, marched across to his desk, and held out my hand. “Give me twenty pounds,” I snapped. “I need twenty pounds. Give it to me. Now!”

  My father is not like other people’s fathers. No sir. When they made him they broke the mold, probably after orders from on high. He teaches American literature at the University, which is why my little brother, Felix, and I are named after characters from Henry James’s novels. I tried reading Portrait of a Lady once to show willing because the heroine, Isabel Archer, is my namesake. It’s about the only time in the last two years that he managed to look even faintly pleased with me. But I gave it up after the first chapter. I mean, God, would it have killed Henry James to use a comma or, like, a period occasionally? I saw the film with Nicole Kidman in it, though. And what kind of freak names their only daughter after a poor girl who has to marry some misogynistic prick who’s only interested in her money? My father, that’s who.

  Right now, he was contemplating his glass of red wine, but he looked up and blinked slowly, then blinked faster as he took in my stylish little ensemble. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  “Clothes,” I explained, not wanting to get sidetracked from the mission. “Twenty pounds, Dad.”

  “Are you going out somewhere, then?” he inquired archly, like he’d invented the rhetorical question.

  “Yes. It’s Friday night. I’m going out, I’ll be home before eleven. Now give me twenty pounds.”

  “There’s no need to be quite so shrill, Isabel.” He gave me one of his piercing looks, but after sixteen years they’ve lost their effectiveness. “And why should I give you twenty pounds?”

  “Fine,” I said, like it was no big deal. “I’ll just go out and when it’s time to come home, I’ll walk the dark streets just as the pubs are emptying out because I haven’t got any money for a cab. I’m sure I’ll be all right. And even if I’m not, well, at least you’ve managed to save yourself twenty quid.”

  I hadn’t even finished my Oscar-worthy speech before there were two crisp ten-pound notes fluttering on my outstretched palm.

  “Now will you stop yammering and leave me in peace?”

  “Consider it done,” I said, backing out fast before he had a chance to change his mind. “Have fun with the dead Americans.”

  “Don’t be late,” he warned me, but I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it, and he was already reaching for his glass before I closed the door.

  We sent Nancy into the liquor store to take advantage of their “four bottles for twelve pounds” promotion because she could easily pass for twenty-one. All those tanning sessions had given her skin this orange leather look you don’t see on most sixteen-year-olds.

  “Get the Sauvignon Blanc,” I demanded as I rummaged in my bag for some liquid eyeliner, because Dot was looking way too vanilla to get through the door of even the lame student party we were going to crash.

  As I brandished the brush at Dot and grabbed hold of her chin so she couldn’t get away, I could see Ella pull a face at Nancy. “Can’t we just get some Bacardi Breezers?” she whined.

  “Why do we have to always get wine? There’s never a corkscrew at these parties and . . .”

  “Are you twelve? Do you want some candy and ice cream to go with your Breezers?”

  “Ow! You nearly had my eye out!” Dot yelped, and I was forced to turn away from Nancy and Ella, who were still griping about my choice of alcoholic beverages.

  I could have compromised and told Nancy to get a bottle of vodka and some mixers, but I’ve learned from bitter experience that it’s best to squash any imminent signs of rebellion immediately. “Sauvignon Blanc,” I repeated implacably. And then, because a good leader is a benevolent one, I conceded ever so slightly. “I guess you could get just two bottles and you could have red wine, if you wanted.”

  Nods, grudging smiles, Dot still whimpering about conjunctivitis as I attempted to make her eyes a little less piggy with a couple of sweeps of eyeliner: I guess we were good to go.

  I was right about the party. El muy sucko. It was wall-to-wall University students back for the start of the school year. As we trooped into the lounge with our carrier bag of clinking bottles, I actually heard one girl say to her friend, “So, I was all like ’Mummy, you don’t understand, I’m a free spirit.’ ” God, I loathe students. They’re so up themselves.

  I separated from the others immediately because Ella had already spilled red wine over herself and none of us were going to get any sweet boy action if we clumped together. I snagged a bottle of the Sauvignon Blanc and wandered into the kitchen to find a corkscrew. There was the regulation group of people in there talking about some lame TV program because they had zero personalities and nothing else to bond over. This boy with a gross birthmark on his face tried to come on to me as I wrestled with the cork, but I made it perfectly clear that I was way out of his league and he called me a “stuck-up bitch” and went back to banging on about Doctor Who. As if I’d ever be interested in a port-stained geek.

  Clutching the bottle in my hand, I moved through the party, taking it all in, listening to the thud, thud, thud of industrial techno and occasionally getting told to fuck off as I interrupted people getting off with each other or rolling joints like they were wild desperadoes living on the edge of the law.

  It was really hard not to die from sheer boredom. There was a girl crying on the stairs because she’d had a row with her boyfriend; a couple getting horizontal on the sofa and a small group of spoddy boys standing in a puddle of their own drool watching them; a queue for the toilet that stretched across the landing; and someone throwing up in the sink. Just like every other party I’ve ever been to. I really needed to find some classier places to hang out.

  There was a child safety gate across the stairs, but I climbed over it and sneaked up to the third floor. Most of the doors were locked, but as I tried the last handle, it opened and I found myself in a junk room filled with boxes and crates. It smelled kind of funky, so I tugged up the stiff window and leaned out to take greedy gulps of the cold night air before I hauled myself up onto the windowsill and sat there with my legs dangling out, drinking the wine and wondering why I’d thought coming here was going to break life’s never-ending cycle of extreme suckitude.

  I was about halfway down the bottle and pleasantly buzzed when the door behind me slammed against the wall. After I’d managed not to land with a splat in the front garden and break my spine in thirty different places, I peered over my shoulder into the dark room.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said a slurred voice, and then the room was flooded with light from the single bulb that dangled precariously from a fraying cord. I put my hand up to shield my eyes.

  “Thanks for nearly killing me,” I grumbled. “You’re not meant to be up here, anyway.”

  “Neither are you,” he said, staggering toward me so I could get a good look at him. Hair. He had a lot of hair and a really big nose. Whatever. And why was he still talking? “I just fell over that gate. Wouldn’t have the gate if they wanted anyone in here.”

  I shrugged and turned back to gaze at the sky so he could get a super-sized portion of cold shoulder. Unfortunately, he was too drunk to notice.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, coming up behind me. “I don’t think sitting on the sill is safe.�
��

  I rolled my eyes and took a swig of the now lukewarm wine. “I’m just enjoying the quiet,” I said pointedly. “That was a hint, by the way, for you to either leave or shut the hell up.”

  He shuffled away, then there was a creak as he sat down. “You’re really rude,” he mused, like stating the obvious was his life’s vocation.

  “You’re really annoying,” I replied in a bored voice. “Feel free to piss off at any time.”