by Megan Tayte
I asked about him: ‘What do you want to be when you’re all grown up?’ It was meant to be playful – after all, he looks plenty grown up to me already. But when he answered, I couldn’t work out whether he was being ironic or serious. ‘Good,’ that’s what he said.
~
We’ve progressed from lakeside chats to Jude sneaking into my room after lights out. Sounds dodgy, right? But it’s all quite innocent. We just sit there and talk about stuff. Bands. Movies. Things we do.
He’s really into surfing, and the way he talks about it makes me want to try it. Thinking about Mother and her pathetic ‘the ocean is death’ rants makes me want to try it even more. So I said I’d love to surf, and he offered to teach me. Just like that. I laughed – hardly possible on the lake, I told him. He gave me this look, and said, ‘But you won’t be here forever, right?’
~
He told me he had something to tell me. Something important.
I was sitting on the bed and Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’ came on the stereo and he came to sit beside me. And I thought: Does he want to lie here with me? I was just about to start totally freaking out when Katie burst in, spouting some nonsense about the hockey mistress and the groundskeeper going at it in a tool shed. And that was it. Moment gone.
~
O.
M.
G.
He didn’t tell me the something important. He showed me. And if there was ever an appropriate time for an OMG, this is it.
He took me to the woods at the back of a school, to this squirrel that was just lying there at the foot of a tree. It was seriously manky. Half-dead. He picked it up, and all I could think about was how gross that was. Then he did it. This weird blue light came out of his hands, and the squirrel perked right up. He put it on the ground and it scampered off.
I said what-the-something.
He said, calm as you like: ‘I healed it.’
I had quite a moment. As you do when you find out your new friend is a bloomin’ sorcerer or something.
But that wasn’t all. He led me around the tree and pointed. Another manky animal, this time a rabbit in a bad way. So I’m like, ‘What are you – some kind of animal torturer? That’s sick!’ He swore he’d found them that way this morning, and collected them up to show me.
The poor bunny was in a right state, bloody and panting on the floor. ‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Heal it – quick.’
You know what he said? ‘You do it.’ Just like that, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I had another moment then. It was pretty epic. I scared birds out of the trees with my shouting.
But he insisted. And I was going to turn and walk away, but then I remembered Grandad in the garden at the cottage at Twycombe, stroking a bat that was dying. He’d taught me and Scarlett that we could soothe frightened animals. I could do that now.
I did that. And a whole lot more.
I knelt down and stroked the rabbit and he said, ‘Go on. Heal it.’ And it happened – so easily. Light leaked out of me. Warmth leaked out of me. The rabbit got up and hopped away.
I had another moment. Only this time I didn’t shout. I threw my head back and whooped. I danced about. I hugged a tree. I hugged Jude.
Because apparently…
[Fanfare, please!]
… I’m some kind of sorcerer too.
5: THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
I had to stop. I had to stop reading.
I’d intended to read Sienna’s diary in one go: today, this morning, sitting in bed before I even got up. No more procrastinating. No more hiding from the truth, and from Jude. But it was agonising. Her jagged handwriting, her turn of phrase – I knew them so well, and it brought back all the pain of losing her. It was more than that, though, so much more.
The diary was a window into her life, and it was a life I’d known nothing about. For years – since she’d started at Willake and I’d started at Millsbury Prep when we were eleven – my sister had cut herself off from me. I’d never visited her school. I didn’t know ‘her’ rock. I couldn’t picture the lake, or her room. I didn’t know who Dreary David was. I didn’t know her favourite bands and movies. I didn’t know that the cruise ship dream mattered so much. She’d shared something of herself with a stranger, with Jude, but not with me.
Worse still was the scene she described in the woods, Jude’s grande reveal. She had written about it in her diary, but not in an email to me. The biggest, most derailing thing to have ever happened to her, and she didn’t think to share it with the person who loved her most in the world: her sister.
Derailing. It was the wrong word to describe Sienna’s reaction. Whatever the truth was, it was devastating me. But not my sister, who danced at the idea of being different. Not for the first time in my life, I wished I had her strength. Her devil-may-care attitude. But I didn’t.
I hurt.
There is only so much the mind can digest at one time. As it was, I was teetering on the edge of an abyss above which was posted a sign with a downward arrow and the words This way, madness. I made a choice: I would break down the reading over the coming week. There were four days left until the Newquay trip. Time enough to finish the diary. In the meantime, I would carry on as normal.
So I got up. I got dressed. I drank coffee. I took painkillers. I hooked Chester’s lead to his collar. And I went out in search of distraction.
*
Cara had a cunning plan. Worryingly, it involved me, lacy lingerie and a grand piano. She told me all about it over coffee in Twycombe’s answer to Starbucks – a tiny cafe by the promenade.
‘It won’t be sleazy at all, I promise. All you do is turn up at Si’s, put on some outfits and drape yourself tastefully on the piano. And other props. Two hours tops. And you’d be doing me a huuuuuuuuuuuuuge favour.’
‘But why me? I get that you need photos of your clothes designs for your new website. Including the underwear line. But surely you could find someone more… modelesque.’
Cara peered at me over the froth of her mochaccino. ‘What on earth does modelesque mean?’
I stirred sugar into my iced latte – not much point watching calories, given the circumstances – and tried to think of some way to explain without offending her, or me, or womankind in general. Finally, I gave up and plumped for an answer from the Cara school of brutal honestly. ‘Skinny and tall, Cara. Like a model.’
She snorted. ‘No, thank you. I’ve nothing against slim people, of course, but the clothes I design are for average women. Did you know, in the UK most women are a size fourteen? With boobs. And a butt. And they’re short enough that they can walk through doorframes without whapping their heads.’
That made me laugh.
‘You’re perfect, Scarlett,’ she said earnestly. ‘You have curves; I design for curves. You’ve already modelled The Dress I customised for you last month, and the shots are great – just what I want.’
I balked at her casual reference to The Dress – a stunning red evening gown Cara had worked hard to redesign for me. It was currently hanging forlornly at the back of my wardrobe, stained and ripped. Because I had stupidly, stupidly, worn it in the sea. Given that Cara had already taken copious pictures of me wearing The Dress, I hoped she’d got what she needed and would never have to know what had become of it.
Oblivious to my guilt, Cara was still in persuasion mode: ‘It’s all set up: a mate of Luke has lent me his SLR camera, and Si says I can use his swanky pad for the location. Now I just need a clothes horse for the outfits. But I have no budget. And you’re the only girl I know who’d model for free…’
‘What about you? You could do it.’
Cara rolled her eyes. ‘Funny ha ha.’
‘I wasn’t joking. Why not?’
‘Hello? A little thing called horrendously scarred legs?’
I laid my latte glass down a little too sharply on the table; the bang made Cara flinch. ‘So what?’ I challenged. ‘You’re gorgeous. A few scars don
’t change that.’
She frowned. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t think you should put yourself down.’
‘I’m not. I’m being realistic. Scars are repulsive.’
‘No, Cara, they’re not. Not if you have the depth to realise what they mean: that the person went through pain and came out the other side. They’re a badge of courage.’
‘O-kay,’ she said slowly. ‘Now it’s official.’
‘What is?’
‘You’re acting strange.’
I’d gone too far. Shown too much emotion. Too much of the girl under the mask.
‘I just don’t want to steal your thunder, Thor,’ I said lightly.
Her eyes lit up. ‘Thor! What a movie. What a Marvel. Chris Hemsworth!’ Strangeness forgotten, she took a long, dreamy sip of her drink.
‘Mmm,’ I said in agreement, though I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about; I’d been referring to the Norse warrior god. ‘So the photo shoot. You’ll bring your thunder?’
‘Behind the camera, yep. Aside from any other reason, it’s poor form for the designer to be the model, you know. Not professional.’
I sighed. ‘Okay. You win. I’ll do it.’
‘Hooray!’ Cara reached over the table to hug me. ‘You won’t regret it! It’ll be a blast!’
‘When do you want me?’
‘Thursday suit you?’
‘Fine. It’s not like I have much else to do.’ I took a gulp of my drink.
‘Speaking of… What are your plans? Now that your summer stay’s extended and you’re deferring uni to stick around here with us?’
The question sent lightning through my head. I gasped and grabbed at it.
‘What is it? Oh, flash headache. Serves you right for downing iced coffee.’
The ice in my latte had long since melted, actually, and it was lukewarm.
‘So, this year…?’
‘I haven’t really thought about what to do.’
‘Really?’ Cara looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d have a plan. You’ve always seemed like someone who has a plan.’
I’d come to Twycombe with a plan – determined, single-minded. The plan had been simple: to find out why my sister had taken her life. I knew that now, and a whole lot more besides. Now, there was no plan. Nothing ahead. Just a vast, empty void.
I shifted uncomfortably on my chair. ‘I don’t know. I just want to spend as much time as I can here, with you guys.’
There was no sign of Cara’s signature dimples now as she surveyed me across the table. ‘What is it?’ she said seriously. ‘You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m footloose and fancy free and looking forward to winter in the cove.’
My wan smile didn’t fool her. ‘You’re lying. Something’s wrong. Why do you keep it all in, Scarlett? I want to help – let me help.’
I fiddled with a sugar packet silently. I couldn’t bear to lie again, to tell her I was fine when she knew damn well I was not.
‘It’s not… you’re not down, are you? You’re not thinking… like Sienna…’
‘No! Of course not!’
‘Phew! I could do without losing my best friend on top of everything else.’
I stared at her with dawning horror. Oh God, I may not be about to kill myself as Sienna had, but what Jude had said…
I was going to leave her.
I was going to die.
‘Scarlett?’
Standing abruptly, I grabbed my bag. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I need to get back now – get Chester fed and settled. I’ll see you Thursday?’
Startled, she nodded.
‘Great! Later!’
And before she could say another word I swept out of the cafe.
6: UNORDINARY
I went to see The Bewitching Hour at the cinema last night, even though I usually hate that paranormal stuff. I grinned through the whole film. At the end, Katie said, ‘What’s up with you wiggling your hands about all evening – you got some urge to be witchy or something?’ Ha! If only she knew!
~
Happy birthday me. The usual:
Gift voucher from Katie & Co.
Gift voucher from Father.
Gift voucher from Mother.
Gift voucher from Scarlett.
Only Jude got me something real. Okay, it’s a bit random, a chunk of crystal stuff. But it’s the thought that counts, right? And he’d thought about it. The blue: it’s the colour of the light. OUR light.
He came to the birthday party Katie threw me in the common room. He drank a beer from the case Sarah smuggled in. He ate some cake. Then his phone went, and he whispered in my ear that he had to go.
‘Hot date?’ I asked him.
‘Horrifically hot,’ he said.
And he walked out the door.
~
It was all over the news this morning: an explosion at a nearby factory last night. A dozen workers pulled out by firefighters. But none of them seriously injured. ‘Miraculous’ was the word the reporters were using.
I got detention in two classes for not focusing. I kept remembering Jude’s face last night, when he said, ‘Horrifically hot.’ It was fierce, almost. Like a guy steeling himself to do something dangerous?
~
Jude was there. I asked him straight, and he told me. He was at the fire. He healed the worst of the injuries. That’s all he would tell me, though I asked him plenty. He was very serious about it all, until I said to him:
‘I thought you were a sorcerer.’
He fell about laughing then and said, ‘What, like Harry Potter?’
Actually, I’d been thinking a young, broody Merlin, but I wasn’t going to admit that.
I said, ‘I get it now: you’re some kind of angel.’
That word sobered him up. He didn’t like it at all. He told me he’s not an angel – we’re not angels. And not only because we don’t rock halos and feathery wings. I got the impression he didn’t think he was good enough to call himself that. If so, he has a point: in what world would a girl like me, with my heart, be an angel?
I asked the right word to describe us. He told me: Cerulean.
That was earlier. Now he’s gone, I’ve been thinking: I want to go with him next time. To the factory or wherever it’s all kicking off. I want to be in the thick of it, taking risks, being kick-ass. That’s a real life. This one – algebra, hockey sticks, chapel on a Sunday – it’s never been me.
I was never meant to be just ordinary.
~
Home for Christmas. Bloody miserable here, as always, on my own. Father hasn’t even bothered to come back – on a ‘business’ trip in the Seychelles. The usual from Mother – nag, slug of wine, self-pity, nag, slug of wine, self-pity. I can’t really blame Scarlett for holing up in her room. Though I can think of a zillion better things to do than study. Actually, no, I can’t. This place is boring, boring, boring.
You know what? It’s more than boring. It’s suffocating.
Hollythwaite isn’t a home, it’s a mausoleum. We’re all dead. Dead in ourselves and dead to each other. The only hope of survival is to break away from here. Away from being a Blake.
~
Back at school for one day, and it’s going to be my last.
I’m leaving.
I’m doing it.
Screw school. Screw family. I’m eighteen now, old enough to make my own choices. And I choose freedom.
I’ve been thinking it for ages – since Jude, since the woods and the rabbit. But two weeks at Hollythwaite was the last straw. There has to be more to life than sitting at a dining table laid out with an untouched Christmas feast, pulling paper crackers with a drunken parent and a silent sister.
I’m going to Twycombe. I’ll use the cottage – it’s just been standing there, empty, since Grandad and Nanna passed.
Jude came over earlier, and I told him. He didn’t try to talk me out of it. Maybe he didn’
t want to. Or maybe he just knows me well enough by now to realise I don’t let anything, or anyone, stand in my way. He says he’ll meet me there, at the cove. He’s going to teach me to surf. Better yet, he’s going to teach me how to use the light.
7: CAKE OR DEATH
I felt lousy enough that afternoon to do a Mother – I took to my bed. I tried to doze, but every time I closed my eyes my mind tortured me with two images: my name scrawled in my sister’s diary and Cara’s face as I fled the cafe.
The first angered me. Our sisterly connection laid out in ink amounted to just a few words in pages of handwriting. Surely I deserved more than that? I was nothing more than a passing reference, and what she wrote of me – it was unfair. Yes, I sent her a gift voucher for her birthday. But it wasn’t unthoughtful, impersonal; it was for West End theatre tickets. For two. Because I’d hoped we would go together. And as for Christmas, what else could I have been but silent over Christmas lunch, with Sienna and Mother so caught up in yet another row? And I hadn’t locked myself away to study all of the holiday – I’d built a snowman, I’d gone sales shopping, I’d ice-skated at Somerset House, all with Sienna. We’d had fun, I thought. But clearly she’d seen that time with me as ‘boring, boring, boring’. And she’d meant me to read those words – hadn’t Jude said she’d wanted me to have her diary? It was typical Sienna: no conversation, no chance to defend myself, just her side of a story delivered as fact but riddled with fiction. The row we’d have when I saw her again…
When I saw her again.
My dead sister.
Unthinkable thoughts that led me straight back to the cafe. To Cara’s flippant comment: ‘I could do without losing my best friend.’
I so badly wanted to tell Luke and Cara what was going on. To keep them in the dark was lying by omission, and I hated that. But how could I tell them? Jude hadn’t told me specifically that the existence of the Ceruleans was to be kept a secret, but surely it was implicit in all he’d done and said. And even if I could tell them, why would they believe me? Blue light? Miraculous healing? Bert’s spirit passing over? Death coming for me? They’d probably have me committed.
