Hiya!
Do you believe in magic? I do – not conjurer’s tricks or scary spells, but the power of hopes, dreams and wishes. For me, the magic always seems strongest in beautiful, wild, middle-of-nowhere places, and that’s why I’ve set Scarlett on the west coast of Ireland, one of my fave places ever.
Scarlett is an angry girl. Her life is just one long run of trouble, and when she is packed off to Ireland to live with her dad, Scarlett feels like she’s been buried alive. Then she meets a mysterious boy, Kian, and the magic begins…
I hope you like Scarlett. It’s a book for anyone who has ever felt angry, lost or misunderstood, a book for everyone who likes to dream. And whether you believe in wishes or not, they really can come true…
Best wishes,
Cathy Cassidy
xxxx
cathycassidy.com
Books by Cathy Cassidy
DIZZY
DRIFTWOOD
INDIGO BLUE
SCARLETT
SUNDAE GIRL
LUCKY STAR
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published 2006
12
Text copyright © Cathy Cassidy, 2006
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-192607-0
Thanks…
Most of all, to Liam, Cal & Caitlin for their love, support, patience and first-reading skills – I couldn’t have done it without you. Also to Mum, Dad, Andy, Lori, Joan and all of my fab family. Hugs and thanks to Catriona, Fiona, Mary-Jane, Sheena, Zarah, Mel and all my lovely friends – you’re the best.
Special thanks to Elv, for uncovering the story I wanted to write all along, and to Francesca, Adele, Kirsten, Jo, Jodie, Sarah, Rebecca and all at Puffin for being so kind, clever and fab. Thanks to Darley Anderson for just being the best and coolest agent in the world, and to Julia, Lucie and all at the agency. Also to Paul for all his hard work on the website and Martyn for doing the sums!
A big thank you to Siobhan Daly, who helped so much and so patiently with my Irish research, and also to Dermott, Mickey, Tina and Maeve for their input. Thanks to Tania for the hair story, Hazel for the hazelly bits and Tara, who started me thinking in the first place.
I am in trouble, again. It’s big trouble – the kind that requires urgent phone calls and whispered conversations in the school office while I sit on a plastic chair outside Mrs Mulhern’s room, painting my fingernails black.
Sometimes I think that Greenhall Academy is more of a prison camp than a school. Mrs Mulhern is wasted as a Headmistress – with her charm, compassion and world vision she could be running Wormwood Scrubs. She’s always banging on about how the fabric of society will just crumble away if you don’t wear perfect school uniform and excel on the sports field and donate bars of soap and unwanted PlayStation games to the Third World, which is clearly kind of crazy.
Mrs Mulhern just loves rules, and I don’t. That’s the problem really.
I waft my fingernails about, trying to dry them, while Miss Phipps, the school secretary, runs around looking nervous and hassled. She digs out files and answers calls and gives me nasty looks with her lips all crinkled up like she’s sucking a lemon.
‘Scarlett,’ she says sniffily,’I still can’t locate your mother. Her office say she’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. I’ve told them it’s urgent, but they don’t seem to care…’
‘Too bad,’ I sympathize, putting my feet up on the coffee table to see if she’ll say anything. She doesn’t. I think it’s my red wedge sandals that scare her, or possibly the black skull-print ankle socks. She frowns and huffs and hides behind her PC screen.
I’ve been in trouble a million times before, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that hanging your head in shame won’t change a thing. They’ll bawl you out anyway.
With a name like Scarlett, you cannot sneak through life blending into the background – people notice you, like it or not. Of course, they notice me even more these days, since I had my hair dyed the colour of tomato soup, but hey, why not? You can’t fight destiny.
Mum once told me that red is nature’s warning colour, signifying danger, trouble. It warns the other animals to back off, stay away. I like to think that my name and my hair colour are a little clue for the rest of the world to do just the same – back off and leave me alone. If they choose not to take notice of the warning, well, that’s not my fault, is it?
It’s past three by the time Mum appears. She stalks into the office in her swish grey suit and her spike-heeled shoes, her hair swept up in a bun with strands of expensive honey-blonde streaks falling delicately round her face. She kicks my feet off the coffee table with one pointy toe, drops her briefcase on to a chair and leans towards Miss Phipps.
‘So,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘What’s she done this time?’
Things move quickly after that. We’re taken through to Mrs Mulhern’s office and seated in front of her big, leather-topped desk. Miss Phipps brings in a tray of freshly brewed coffee and pours one for everyone except me before bustling back to the outer office. I don’t even get a biscuit. I’m probably destined for solitary confinement and a diet of bread and water, if Mrs Mulhern has her way.
‘I’m very sorry to have brought you here this afternoon – er, Ms Murray,’ Mrs Mulhern begins. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had another incident. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Scarlett isn’t settling in too well at Greenhall Academy. There have been countless problems, from somewhat minor breaches of the school-uniform code…’
She pauses to glower at my feet and hair.
‘… To rather more serious issues, which, as you know have already resulted in two periods of exclusion from the school.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mum responds. Just tell me what she’s done.’
‘The incident began with a demonstration in the school lunch hall,’ Mrs Mulhern says. ‘I believe Scarlett has recently become vegetarian?’
Mum rolls her eyes, exasperated.
‘She was leafleting students as they came into the hall,’ Mrs Mulhern continues. ‘With these.’
She pushes a crumpled flyer across
the desk at Mum, who picks it up between finger and thumb as though it might be contaminated. I’m proud of those leaflets – they really caused a stir. Personally, I think it was the crimson blood-splash motif that grabbed people’s attention.
‘The leaflet is just the tip of the iceberg,’ Mrs Mulhern goes on. ‘Some pupils were distressed, refusing to eat the meat-based meals, and the cook became a little upset…’
A little? That’s a laugh. She was purple with rage, and when I tried to explain the links between a meat-based diet and high blood pressure, she said a few things that shocked even me. Are dinner ladies supposed to swear?
‘Things got a little nasty,’ Mrs Mulhern ploughs on. ‘Chicken nuggets were thrown, and bottles of ketchup squirted all over the walls. It came to a head when Scarlett lifted up a large tray of Irish stew and threw it all over the lunch-room floor.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Mum.
‘Oh dear, indeed,’ echoes Mrs Mulhern. ‘We have never had a riot at Greenhall Academy before. But then again, we have never had a pupil quite like Scarlett.’
‘You can’t blame her for the whole thing,’ Mum says reasonably. ‘She’s certainly behaved badly, but –’
‘But nothing,’ Mrs Mulhern snaps. ‘In the midst of the fray, Ms Murray, my cook was assaulted by your daughter.’
‘She slipped!’ I protest.
‘She had to be taken to casualty, although fortunately nothing seems to be broken. She has also handed in her notice after more than twenty years at Greenhall.’
She’s missed out the bit where the old bag chased me with a spatula and pelted me with semolina pudding, but I doubt whether these details will help my case any.
‘Ah.’ Mum sighs. ‘I see.’
‘I’ve no option but to exclude Scarlett from Greenhall Academy. A third exclusion, as you know, is a final one. We have a reputation to maintain, and we cannot tolerate incidents indeed, pupils – such as this. You will need to make alternative arrangements for Scarlett. I regret to tell you she is no longer a pupil at Greenhall Academy.’
‘Whoop-de-doo,’ I mutter, arranging the hem of my black school skirt so that it sits neatly across my knees.
‘Mrs Mulhern,’ Mum appeals, ‘are you saying my daughter has been expelled?’
The Headmistress gives a slow, solemn nod.
‘There’s nothing I can say or do to make you reconsider?’
‘Sadly, no,’ Mrs Mulhern replies. ‘Scarlett is a bright girl. She could have done well here, but she has major problems with authority – and with her temper. A broken home can affect young people in so many dreadful ways. Scarlett is quite one of the angriest twelve-year-olds I’ve ever come across.’
Mrs Mulhern stands up, offering a podgy, pink-taloned hand for Mum to shake. ‘Have you ever thought that family counselling might be a solution?’ she adds as an afterthought, and Mum drops the hand like a hot potato. Her face flushes with fury as she ushers me into the outer office.
‘Everything OK, Ms Murray?’ Miss Phipps calls sweetly, getting her own back at last for an afternoon wasted leaving urgent messages for my mother. ‘Scarlett?’
Like she doesn’t know. All afternoon, she’s probably been typing up official forms and letters kicking me out of the school. She smirks at me from behind her PC.
Mum sails past as though Miss Phipps is invisible, but I find time to pause in the doorway and reveal my last and, possibly, my finest assault on the school-uniform rules. I’ve kept it secret for six whole weeks, which hasn’t been easy, but hey, it’s going to be worth it.
I open my mouth and stick my tongue out at Miss Phipps, wide enough and long enough for her to see the gold stud that pierces the middle of it. Then I close my mouth, smile sweetly and slam the door behind me.
Goodbye, Mrs Mulhern. So long, Miss Phipps. It’s been fun.
Of course, getting kicked out of Greenhall Academy is no joke. Head teachers and school secretaries don’t scare me, but Mum – well, that’s a different story.
We travel home on the tube in stony silence, which is not good news. The first time I got excluded from Greenhall, Mum laughed and said that dyeing your hair green in the school toilets was hardly a criminal offence.
OK, I shouldn’t have nicked that bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the chemistry lab, but I’d heard the stuff was used in hair dye, and I was trying to get a few cool blonde streaks. I didn’t know it’d turn my hair into something that looked, felt and smelt like clumps of mouldering seaweed. Attractive – not.
Mum booked me into her swish Covent Garden hairdresser’s and told them to cover up the mess, and I couldn’t find a shade of brown I liked so I ended up going red. Mrs Mulhern nearly had a seizure when I walked back into school after my three-day exclusion with chin-length curls the colour of tomato ketchup.
The next time was worse. I had a scrap with my biology teacher, Miss Jessop, a turnip-faced dictator who tried to get me to cut a worm in half in class. I mean, who wouldn’t object?
‘I can’t,’ I’d argued, faced with a Tupperware box of worms to hand round to my fellow pupils. ‘Seriously. It’s against my religion. I’m… um, a Buddhist. I cannot harm any living animal.’
‘Do it, Scarlett,’ she’d barked. Her eyes were pinkish as she tried to stare me out, and her skin was pale and flabby. She looked kind of like an overgrown worm herself. ‘Scalpels ready, class…’
I’d looked down into the Tupperware box of pink, squiggling creatures and even though they were the least cute and cuddly animals ever, I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let anyone else do it either. What makes it OK to chop up a worm but not a frog or a kitten or a person? It’s just not right, is it?
‘No way!’ I’d shouted at Miss Jessop, shaking my fist at her. OK, I was still holding the scalpel, but there was no need for her to scream like that. I wasn’t into cutting up worms, even outsize ones. I was on a rescue mission – I yanked open the first-floor window and flung the box of worms out. I had some vague idea they’d land on a patch of grass and wiggle away to live happily-ever-after, but sadly they landed on Miss Phipps, who was walking past below. I was in deep trouble – again.
‘You threatened your biology teacher with a knife?’ Mum asked me later, aghast.
‘I didn’t!’ I protested. ‘I may have had a scalpel in my hand, but…’
Mum closed her eyes and took a long breath in, and I could tell that this time she didn’t see the funny side.
‘You have to stop this,’ she told me after that second exclusion. ‘No more breaking the school rules, no more winding up the teachers. I’m sick of it, Scarlett. I want you to make a go of Greenhall. This is your last chance, OK? I mean it. Don’t throw it away.’
I promised I wouldn’t.
Oh well. It’s not like I planned for this to happen, is it?
We get separated in the scrum at the Angel tube station, Mum striding on ahead, her lips set in a thin, hard line. Her mobile rings just as we reach the flat. It’s her boss.
‘No, no, I won’t be back today,’ she says. ‘Something’s come up. I’ll work late tommorrow to make up for it. Sure. No problem.’
She snaps the mobile shut and glares at me. I let myself into the shared hallway then clomp up the stairs and let myself into the flat. I have my own key because Mum works late most nights. She follows me in, kicks off her shoes, chucks her briefcase down on the sofa.
‘So,’ she says at last. ‘Another broken promise.’
I can’t meet her gaze.
‘Another last chance thrown away,’ she continues. ‘Another school glad to see the back of you. And now they’re telling me you need counselling! Ha!’
I study my sandals, three inches of swirly-red wedge heels with pink-and-orange print uppers and criss-cross red-ribbon ties. There’s a dull brown stain on one that may date back to the Irish-stew incident. I struggle to keep my expression blank.
‘Scarlett, what’s going on?’ Mum explodes suddenly. ‘What are you trying to do? Get chucked out of ev
ery school in London?’
I think that’s a bit unfair. There are probably hundreds of schools in London I haven’t been chucked out of yet.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Scarlett. You promised me you’d work on that temper, and there you go again, worse than ever, attacking a school cook –’
‘She started it!’ I protest. ‘And anyway, I didn’t attack her, she slipped.’
Mum ignores me. ‘This is a new personal best, even for you,’ she snarls. ‘Four months, you lasted at Greenhall. It’s a joke!’ But neither of us is laughing.
‘I didn’t mean it –’ I begin, but she cuts me short.
‘No, you never do. You don’t mean it, and I try to be understanding, I give you a fresh start – and you throw it back in my face, Scarlett, every single time! Five schools in two years! Are you proud of that?’
Maybe I am, in a funny kind of way.
‘It’s only five schools because you sent me away’ I point out. ‘You got sick of me and packed me off to Nan’s. She got sick of me and packed me off to Uncle Jon’s, and then he decided he’d had enough too and here I am back with you. Don’t you think that would make me just a tiny bit angry, Mum? Don’t you see that?’
‘You know why I sent you to your nan’s,’ Mum growls.
I shake my head. Can there ever be a good reason for sending your eleven-year-old daughter miles and miles away to live with people she only ever sees at Christmas? I don’t think so.
‘You’re out of control!’ Mum rages. ‘You’re a selfish, destructive little troublemaker! I work hard trying to make a nice home for you. When was the last time I had a holiday? When was the last time I really got to relax? I work hard, Scarlett, and my career is taking off!’
‘Lucky you,’ I say sulkily.
‘Don’t I buy you nice things?’ she rants on. ‘The clothes you like? CDs, DVDs, Xbox games? You get a good allowance. What more do you want?’
I laugh out loud. A life? A family? But you can’t argue with Mum when she gets like this. You just have to ride out the storm.
Scarlett Page 1
