Let's Get Lost.

by Sarra Manning.

How does Isabel Clark rule the school?The way I see it, school is like one of those doc.u.mentaries 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 s.h.i.t 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'sGetLostOTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOYLet'sGetLostLet'sGetLostSPEAKPublished by the Penguin GroupPenguin 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, EnglandPenguin 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, IndiaPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Sh.o.r.e 0632, New Zealand(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 St.u.r.dee Avenue,Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South AfricaRegistered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, EnglandFirst published in Great Britain by Hodder Children's Books, London, 2006First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008Copyright Sarra Manning, 2006All rights reservedTHE 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 andbrother, and even with her new boyfriend-sixteen-year-old Isabel comes to a dead endand finally confronts issues related to her mother's death.eISBN : 978-1-436-24252-3The publisher does not have any control over and does not a.s.sumeany responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.http://us.penguingroup.comLet'sGetLostDedicated to my mother, Regina ShawThe memory of you emerges from the night around me.-"A Song of Despair"Pablo NerudaWith love and thanks to Jane Davittfor 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'smaybe lost themselves."Angela Chase, My So-Called Life.

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 h.e.l.l 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 cafes 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 Amelie 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. G.o.d, 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 pa.s.ses 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 them 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 a.r.s.e. 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, G.o.d, 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 p.r.i.c.k who's only interested in her money? My father, that's who.Right now, he was contemplating his gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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.' " G.o.d, 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 b.i.t.c.h" 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 f.u.c.k 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 cla.s.sier 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 h.e.l.l 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 p.i.s.s off at any time."There was a gasp of outrage, then he finally shut up. I tried to concentrate on the feeling of the rough wall as I drummed my heels against it and wondered how many stars there were in the sky, but he'd killed the mood.I twisted around so I could look at him. He was slumped on a rickety chair, staring right back at me. He had the most amazing eyes. They were the exact same shade of gentian blue that was my favorite color in my paint box when I still used to go to art cla.s.s.I think I must have been slightly drunk because I told him that, and he sat up suddenly and asked how my course was going."What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?""I wish I'd decided to do the Foundation Art course, too," he said mournfully. "I hate philosophy.""Blah, blah, blah," I chanted, and took another mouthful of wine. "Earth to d.i.c.khead, you've got the wrong girl.""Can I have some of that?" he asked politely, because he was either way drunker than I thought or had skin like a rhinoceros. With a sigh, I leaned over and pa.s.sed him the bottle. He had long fingers and the most bitten nails I've ever seen. "G.o.d, you've changed your hair," he exclaimed. "It looks cool. Very hard-times chic."In the end, it seemed easier to go along with his addled thought processes. Also, being someone else, someone who hung with drunk boys with gentian blue eyes, was more fun than I'd had all week."I fancied a change," I said casually, toying with the end of one of my bunches. "So, when was the last time we saw each other? It's been a while."He furrowed his brow and twisted his lips. He had very pouty lips. "I think it was Glas...o...b..ry. You were with Dean. But you broke up, didn't you?"I hid a smile and shook my head. "Yeah. I dumped him. He was such a loser. Not very good in bed, either." Then an awful thought struck me. "You and me? We've never done it, have we?"He gave a sudden bark of laughter. "Jesus, Chloe! If we had, I'd be really offended that you didn't remember. You're in a weird mood tonight.""Guess I've had too much to drink, just like you," I said carefully, and wondered who Chloe was. He seemed to like her."Hey! Do you remember when we got off with each other?" Gentian boy stretched out his legs and made no attempt to give me back the wine. He was wearing jeans and a beaten-up pair of Jack Purcells; the rubber on the soles was almost worn through. "You tasted really sweet and you said you'd been drinking coffee with lots of sugar in it, and I thought all kisses would be that sweet, but they weren't."There was no stopping him. He went on and on about this party he'd been to with the mysterious Chloe and how they'd had too much to drink and ended up making out behind the sofa. He seemed very hung up about it.In the end, all I needed to do was insert the odd "yeah" or "hmm" into the conversation to keep him happy. He wasn't going to be winning prizes for academic excellence any time soon.It was getting cold, so I closed the window, then decided to get the wine back before he drank it all.". . . and you said it was complicated because of Dean, but he was seeing Molly by then, anyway . . ."As I walked toward him, he leaned back so he could gaze up at me with a slightly dazed expression on his face."Give me back my wine," I ordered in my most imperious voice, which is pretty d.a.m.n imperious. It's, like, imperious to the power of a hundred. I gestured at the bottle, but he suddenlyseized my hand and pulled me onto his lap. It sounds like a really suave maneuver, but in actual fact, I landed in an ungainly heap on top of him.I struggled to get up, but his hands were clamped around my waist. "I forgot how pretty you are," he murmured, and then he tried to kiss me."Hang on!" I yelped, and then his hand stroked the back of my neck and really it had been so long since someone touched me. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I wound my arms around his neck and b.u.mped my nose against his as he tried to capture my lips."Just one little kiss," he begged, and he shut his eyes. Then I kissed him.I'd never really put the moves on a boy unless it involved spinning the bottle and two minutes locked in a stinky cupboard under someone's stairs. Usually I just suffered some guy lunging at me and shoving his tongue in my mouth at the same time that he tried to shove his hand down my top. But his lips were so soft as I cupped his face and planted tiny little kisses against that pouty, defenseless bottom lip of his. I bit it gently and his eyes snapped open, then he was kissing me back fiercely. But no matter how desperate the feel of his mouth on mine, his hand was still painting circles along my neck.After a while, we came up for air and he gasped, "I could die from your kisses." He was really weird."Maybe you're better off dead then," I told him softly, and he kissed me again. I didn't mind it when our tongues got involved, usually it's pretty rank, but he didn't try to do a spin cycle in my mouth. He just stroked the tip of his tongue along mine and one of his hands crept up to tilt my head back . . ."Isabel! G.o.d, there you are, I've been looking for you for ages."I took my mouth away from Gentian Boy long enough to say, "Huh?" at Nancy, who was standing in front of me with her hands on her hips."We're going. This party's dead," Nancy grizzled, and then realized that I was wrapped around someone. "If you can tear yourself away, that is."Gentian boy seemed in no hurry to let me go. His hand tightened around my hip as I tried to disentangle myself, while Nancy stood there, looking like she'd sucked down a whole bag of lemons."Let me up," I hissed, and he blinked a couple of times before relaxing the death grip."Who's your friend?" Nancy demanded, edging toward the door in case the boy made any sudden moves. Like, he'd look twice at her.I realized that there wasn't an agony aunt alive who could give you advice on how to handle the correct etiquette when you've been sucking face with a boy you don't know who thinks you're someone else."n.o.body," I muttered, running a hand over my hair to smooth it down."I'm Smith," he supplied, pulling at his faded green T-shirt. "Where do you know Chloe from?"Nancy flailed her arms, making her bangles rattle furiously. "Who the h.e.l.l is Chloe? She's Isabel, you idiot. Jesus, I can't believe you'd get off with my best friend and not even get her name right. w.a.n.ker!"I stared at the floorboards, and hoped some handy portal would open up and transport me to another dimension where I hadn't just strung along some drunken boy with beautiful eyes simply to get some touch. Sometime between the stairs and here, I'd obviously turned into a ginormous s.l.u.t.When I eventually summoned up the courage to look at him, Smith, which was just the most stupid-a.s.s name ever and his parents must have really hated him, was looking bewildered. But when he saw me glance at him, this sudden grin lit him up from the inside."Oh, Isabel," he whispered so that I was the only one who could hear him. "You've got some explaining to do."But I didn't. I just grabbed Nancy's hand and dragged her the h.e.l.l out of there.Let'sGetLost

2

I'm not too clear on what happened after that. I had a really vague memory of being sick in a toilet that I didn't recognize, then wiping my mouth on one of those tragic crinoline ladies that sit on top of loo rolls so no one gets offended by the sight of naked Kleenex Velvet. Whatevs.Right now I was curled up on the doormat with my keys still in my hand, which really made no sense at all. Though you've got to respect a finely tuned homing instinct-but I guess crawling up the stairs to my own bed, was just one step too far.It was a superhuman effort to lift my wrist so I could squint at my watch (it was just past two-thirty), which nearly killed me, and I collapsed back on the floor with a tiny little sigh. I was tempted to stay there for what was left of the night because it felt like someone had sandpapered the inside of my head.But I could imagine the sour scene that would unfold if Dad came down and found me curled up against the draft excluder, so I crawled up the stairs, thought about getting undressed, and decided to collapse face down on my bed instead. All that alcohol and puking had really taken it out of me-someone could have started drilling for oil underneath my pillow and I'd barely have stirred.It's the summer that Felix was born so I'm seven and she's wearing her white summer dress with the roses on it, stretched tight over her swollen belly.The sand shifts beneath our feet as she holds my hand and leads me down to the water's edge. I've got my red bucket with me, and every now and again, we stop so I can crouch down and pick up a sh.e.l.l or a stone, worn smooth and shiny by the relentless lapping of the waves, and drop it on the growing pile with a satisfying crash."What a clever little girl you are, Belle," she says approvingly, and I dig into the depth of the bucket and pull out the prettiest sh.e.l.l, an orange periwinkle, and place it in her palm. I never speak in these dreams, but she does all the talking for us. "Thank you, baby," she murmurs, and then she straightens up and looks out to sea, a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, her dark hair glinting in the brilliant light so it almost looks alive."You stay here, Belle," she tells me, dropping my hand and pressing down on my shoulders, so I plop down on the sand and watch as she begins to wander toward the water, her gaze on the ground, searching for something.The tide's started to come in, and she doesn't seem to notice it covering her feet with its frilly white edges, and I want to call out. Want to warn her, but when I open my mouth, nothing happens and I can't move, either. All I can do is watch her wade into the depths so the skirt of her dress billows around her so there are roses floating on top of the water.My bucket is filling up with tears and it's getting hard to see her through blurry, sticky eyes-just the top of her head bobbing on the water remains. I scrub at my eyes with my fists, and when I can see again, she's gone and I can scream now, even though there's no one to hear, no one to help, and I can't stop the noise, can't stop screaming until I'm hauled to my feet and he's shaking me hard."What did you do to her?" he shouts, and he's blocking out the sun so all I can see are the shadowed, angry lines of his face. "Stop making that b.l.o.o.d.y racket and tell me what you did!"I crashed back into consciousness, sitting bolt upright and screaming again, even though my throat felt rubbed raw, as I saw him glaring down at me, Felix peering out from behind his back with an anxious expression. Big faker. Underneath that whey-faced, wimpy little body clad in Superman pajamas for extra cuteness is a violent thug. When it's not the middle of the night and his big sister is screeching like a banshee, he spends the daylight hours punching, pinching, and flaunting his bodily functions in my face."For G.o.d's sake, Isabel," Dad barked. "You're hysterical. Stop it this instant."My mouth snapped shut so suddenly that I bit my tongue and couldn't help the whimper that escaped from my mouth, which just made his jaw tighten up."Is? Are you okay? You sounded like you were being attacked by killer zombies." Felix sidled out from behind Dad and pulled a disgusted face. "Urgh! You're all sweaty."The black dress was clinging damply to me and I'd pulled the bottom sheet off the mattress.If it was possible, Dad was looking at me with even more distaste. "I think this is an object lesson in the consequences of going to parties and no doubt drinking yourself into oblivion," he intoned darkly. "And please don't go to bed with your shoes on again, you'll rip the sheets.""I had a bad dream," I muttered, and then shut up. He was giving me a careful, a.s.sessing look that was painfully familiar. Like, when I'm just about to give away the triple-word score on a game of Scrabble, or I've told one too many lies, dug myself a great big pit and all he has to do is apply some gentle pressure so I fall right in.But he decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Oh, go and have a shower, Isabel, and then get back to bed. You've wasted quite enough time with your melodramatics as it is."I couldn't sleep after that. I listened to the sounds of the night; a car speeding up the road, the angry yowling of a couple of cats, and the hum of the streetlight outside my window, but none of it was loud enough to drown out the buzzing in my ears, and in the end, I gave up on sleep, rolled over, and switched on the TV so I could watch old black-and-white films without the sound on, until the sun started creeping in through the curtains, leeching all the darkness out of the room, and I could sleep.Let'sGetLost

3

School was meant to be this big deal now that we were doing A-levels. Like, we were suddenly adults because we didn't have to wear the revolting bottle-green uniform and had permission to go into town when we didn't have lessons. That was the general idea, but as I sat on a hard-backed wooden chair in Mrs. Greenwood's office with Ella, Nancy, and Dot, she was doing her utmost to make us feel like naughty Year Eights."I absolutely do not want a repeat of what happened last term," Mrs. Greenwood said sternly, eyes scanning our faces for signs of contrition. I could feel Dot practically shaking beside me, but I faced down Greenwood's bifocal glare. "I will not tolerate bullying, and the prolonged campaign you waged against certain members of your form was inexcusable." She tapped her pen sharply on the desk. "We had to call in a guidance counselor! And all mobile phones now have to be left with your teachers before first bell."Ella choked back a giggle at that, while Nancy wore a faint expression of confused pride that her Nokia antics had had such far-reaching consequences."As you know, the subject of suspension was mooted, but in light of subsequent events, the governors felt that the matter should be left to die a natural death . . ."There was a collective gasp, and Mrs. Greenwood dropped her pen. "I'm sorry . . . Isabel, that was a very tactless way of putting it . . ."I gave her my most serene smile. "Don't worry about it, Mrs. Greenwood. It's fine. I didn't even notice . . . much."She inclined her head in a gracious nod. "So, despite no action being taken last term, I'll be watching the four of you very closely. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to split you up because Isabel's father felt that she needed the support of her friends at such a difficult time."There was another t.i.tter from Ella, which Mrs. Greenwood quelled with a pointed cough before blathering on for a few more minutes about how the younger pupils looked up to us blah, blah, blah, and we had to apologize to Lily Tompkins yadda, yadda, yadda, and finished with a rousing chorus of "Year Twelve privileges can easily be revoked, you know."I couldn't wait to get out of there and scrub her monotone drone out of my head, but Mrs. Greenwood motioned for me to stay behind.I turned around to see Dot close the door with a shrug and a "what can you do?" expression before swiveling around to find Mrs. Greenwood doing the head tilt. I was so sick of the head tilt because it was always a prelude to, yup, here it came. . . ."So, Isabel, how are you holding up?" she asked, concern dripping like honey from every syllable. "Really.""Okay," I said, studying the hangnail on my index finger."I've spoken to your father about this wonderful family therapist I know who does a group session with teenagers in a similar-""I'm not going!" I yelped immediately. Sit in a room and listen to a whole bunch of sad sacks whining about how depressed they were? I got enough of that at home."That's what your father said. Though he was a little less strident. " She smiled thinly. I could imagine exactly how that conversation had gone. "But if you change your mind . . .""All I really need to do is arrange a time to re-sit my Maths GCSE."That totally took the wind out of her. I think she thought we'd have a cozy little chat and I'd break down and confide in her about how sucky life without a mother was shaping up but, h.e.l.lo, never going to happen.Instead, she looked down at my school folder. "Well, you have an excellent academic record, and we have high hopes of a place at Oxford for you, but if you feel that things are getting too intense, you should let me or your form teacher know.""They won't," I stated firmly. I had a perfect A-grade for well, everything, and it was going to stay that way. "I just want everything to be normal, like it was before.""Isabel, I'm afraid that nothing is going to be like it was before," she said softly, fingers tapping out a quiet tattoo on the desktop. "You've lost your mother."People kept saying that all the way through summer. All the well-meaning relatives and neighbors trooping through the house with food that tasted of the Tupperware containers it had been stored in. And that was how they phrased it, "lost your mother," like I'd left her on the bus and she was propped up in a corner of some Lost Property Office waiting for me to claim her.Mrs. Greenwood was still waiting for me to prostrate myself on her office carpet, so I shuffled around on my chair. "I'm going to be late for French," I reminded her, and she gave this gusty sigh that fanned through the papers in my case folder."Fine," she said, straightening up from the head tilt and losing the "I'm your friend, not just your headmistress" expression pretty d.a.m.n quick. "Fine. And though it might not have been your phone that that disgusting picture was sent from, I'm under no illusion as to who was behind it. You're on your last promise, young lady."I could feel her eyes boring into me as I walked out of the room and shut the door with just enough force to let her know that she hadn't totally whipped me.I walked into cla.s.s as the register was being called. There was a moment of perfect silence as all heads swiveled to see my entrance. And for once, it wasn't to see what the most popular and feared girl in the school was wearing or what color I'd dyed my hair. They thought I'd changed over the summer because life had c.r.a.pped all over me and that they'd be able to see it on my face. Like the tracks of all the tears that I didn't cry would have worn grooves into my cheeks.The minute you show any sign of weakness, they start circling around you like sharks who've just smelled blood in the water. So I pasted on my trademark supercilious smile and sauntered over to the empty seat next to Ella. There was an audible sigh of disappointment.The fierce whispers trailed behind me for the rest of the week. I was kind of used to that. Not because I was the prettiest girl in school or the funniest or even the cleverest. Those A-grades were the result of serious slog and staying up past midnight with ink-stained fingers and a mound of boring textbooks.No, my place at the top of the school pecking order, heading up the inner clique of all inner cliques, is a result of being the biggest b.i.t.c.h to ever stalk down the hallowed halls of Brighton School For Girls.The way I see it, school is like one of those doc.u.mentaries 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 s.h.i.t list for that week, and they make that poor girl's life a 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. I can't wait to leave, to head off to University and be someone else. Because my whole queen of 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.And what we did to Lily Tompkins-she so had it coming. She'd been shooting her mouth off about Nancy getting knocked back by one of the boys from the local grammar school. I don't even know all the details. Just that if I hadn't nipped it in the bud, she'd have weakened my power base. So when Dot saw her disappear into the bathroom at a party with Nancy's brother's friend, who always wears a baseball cap back to front, like he's so b.l.o.o.d.y ghetto . . . well, she brought it on herself.I'd sidled up to Nancy, who was staring at the heir to her heart while he macked on some giggly blonde. "I'd love to know what Lily's doing in the loo with Pimp My Ride," I'd muttered. "Maybe she's showing him where her navel piercing went septic. I can't think of another reason why he was peering down her top."I didn't tell Nancy to go charging in there, though taking a picture on her camera phone had shown initiative I didn't know she had. "G.o.d, I wish Dot was here, she'd love to see that. It's so very Paris Hilton," I'd said when she showed me the surprisingly clear picture of Lily on her knees.In a lot of ways, I was entirely blameless. It wasn't my idea to send the picture to everyone in Nancy's address book, who all promptly sent it on to everyone in their address books. Lily had the photo sent to her before she'd even come out of the bathroom, surrept.i.tiously wiping her mouth with some toilet tissue. But even if she hadn't seen it, the fact that everyone was making "gobble gobble" noises might have clued her in.She'd stormed out in tears and took, like, five junior Disprin and went to hospital and had her stomach pumped because she's such a drama queen. My last week at school was all letters home and disciplinary warnings and then the meeting that never happened. So if Lily was on my s.h.i.t list before, now she was right there at the top with her name in six-foot-high letters.I'd been keeping my head down for the week-I was still coasting the wave of my newfound notoriety as "The Girl Who Lost Her Mother "- which meant people stayed away from me if they knew what was good for them, so I was a little surprised when Lily herself came tripping over to our table Friday at lunchtime.I lifted my head from my plate of wilted chicken salad, gave her a bit of my patented evil eye, and went back to talking to Dot."It's blue with this tiny geometric print," I explained, trying to describe the skirt I was planning to buy on the weekend. "It's Marc Jacobs via New Look.""Sounds cool," Dot said, slanting her eyes over at Lily who was shifting from foot to foot."It is, but I don't know if I've got anything that goes . . .""Isabel, can I talk to you a minute?"I could hear Lily perfectly, but I carried on extolling the virtues of the skirt to Dot, like it was the finest example of haute couture."Look, Isabel, I think we should try to clear the air or something. "Dot smiled thinly. "Hey, Is, did you just hear this weird squeaking noise?"I've spent years perfecting the nonchalant shrug that I gave. "Maybe it was just your imagination."Lily must have had a total death wish because she pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat down. Worse than that, she touched my arm. I stared at her stubby fingers curled around my sleeve and very gently shook my wrist."What happened last term . . . We both did stuff . . . Y'know, and I thought . . ." She was giving me nothing but word salad, before she exhaled angrily. "Isabel, I'm trying to apologize!""Are you going to manage a complete sentence before the bell goes?" I rested my chin on my hand and watched her bottom lip tremble. "What exactly do you want to apologize for?"I could see her mentally count to ten, though she got stuck around five. "I thought we could forget what happened and I wanted to tell you this all week, but well . . . I'm sorry about your mum.""What about her?" I asked flatly. "What are you sorry about?"She laughed nervously and looked at Dot for some clarification but Dot was staring at her bag of crisps like they were about to break into song."I'm sorry about your mum," Lily repeated. "About what happened.""You should be," I said gently. " 'Cause, if you think about it, it was your fault really."It was really fascinating to watch the color drain out of her face as if someone had adjusted her contrast b.u.t.ton. "That's a terrible thing to say," she gasped, her pink lip gloss even more garish against her blanched skin. "I thought you'd be different."I knew she did. Everyone did. They wanted me soft and weak so they could stop being scared of me. They were going to have a long wait."Well, I'm not," I said, feeling my top lip curl with disdain and that b.i.t.c.h-G.o.ddess tone edge into my voice. "Business as usual. Now why are you still sitting there?"Lily scrubbed her hand over her eyes, which were leaking tears, as usual. "Your mum died!" she screeched, ensuring that everyone in the canteen was now giving us their undivided attention. "And if you weren't such an evil cow, then you'd be upset about it."I put my hand to my heart and made an "ouch" face, like I was bothered. "Listen, sweetie, so I'm one parent less-that doesn't change the fact that you gave that baseball cap-wearing t.w.a.t a b.l.o.w.j.o.b and everyone knows you're a skeevy ho. Sucks to be you, huh?"She was rooted to the spot, opening that famous mouth of hers as wide as it would go. Didn't look like she was going to be moving anytime soon, which just made it easier to nudge my half full can of Diet c.o.ke with my elbow as I got up so she was drenched in a sticky deluge of brown droplets that soaked into her white top."You should really wear more black," I advised her, gathering up my jacket and bag. "Doesn't show the stains quite so much, does it?""You b.i.t.c.h," she breathed as if she couldn't quite believe she'd just had a Diet c.o.ke shower.Dot b.u.mped her shoulder as she brushed past. "I should totally go and see Mrs. Greenwood and tell her what you said about Is's mum," she hissed.As I slowly made my way through the canteen, it occurred to me that I had something to thank Lily for because now the other girls weren't sorry for me. They were looking at me as if they were scared that it would be their turn next. And that, I knew how to handle.Let'sGetLost

4

One minute it was all still and silent, the next the curtains were being yanked back with a deafening swish so that the room was flooded with retina-burning light.My hands groped for the pillow so I could pull it over my head, but Felix was already bouncing on the bed. "Get up, Is! It's nine, I've been awake for ages."I felt fragile and English Patient-y. Dot had come over after school yesterday and totally outstayed her welcome. First she'd freaked out because all we had in the fridge was a jar of artichoke hearts and some moldy cheese so she wouldn't be able to keep her Diet c.o.ke levels topped up. Then she'd wanted to TALK, or rather she'd wanted me to talk about my feelings and s.h.i.t so she could coo sympathetically. In the end, I'd had to push her out of the front door and shut it before she'd had time to register what was going on, her aggrieved little face peering at me through the frosted-gla.s.s panel.And it had taken me hours to persuade my body that it wanted to snuggle down and get some sleep. I'd even hauled the Henry James out of my bedside drawer to see if his turgid sentence structure would make me drop off. Eventually, I'd flicked on the TV and watched late-night poker until the cards had gone blurry.I opened one eye in time to see Dad snap off the TV, which was emitting static, and then turned over so I could get a few more minutes snoozing in.Alas, it was not to be, as I felt hands s.n.a.t.c.hing the covers off me as I made like a ball and whimpered, "On fire? Are we on fire?" I was sure I could smell burning, but that might just have been the dream I was having before I was so rudely awakened. This time she'd walked into our old house in Alfriston, and as she disappeared through the front door, the whole building burst into fierce flames."No, Isabel, no one's on fire," he bit out, and what do you know? He'd actually managed to shave, though he had a wicked-looking nick under his chin. "Is it too much to expect you to get up at a reasonable hour?"I didn't say anything. I certainly wasn't going to raise the issue that medical research proved that teenagers needed to have long lie-ins."I'm going to have a shower," I mumbled, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and waiting for the dizzy feeling to stop. Then I swiped at Felix, who'd picked up my pillow and was trying to whack me over the head with it. We really needed to start cutting down on his sugar intake."I had the most appalling woman-your friend Dot's mother-on the phone," Dad said querulously, as I rubbed a big piece of sleep out of the corner of my eye. "She was remarkably shrewish for a Sat.u.r.day morning and informed me that I had no food in the house and that you and Felix were on the verge of malnutrition." He sniffed contemptuously, as if the lack of five pieces of fruit and veg every day was beyond his control. "But then I tried to do some washing, and we have none of those strange little ball things."I felt like . . . well, like I'd managed two hours sleep punctuated by really horrible nightmares and he just. Would. Not. Shut. Up."I've been using washing powder, in the drawer . . ." I mumbled vaguely. "I'm going back to bed. I feel like c.r.a.p.""Isabel." He has this special way of saying my name like he can't even bear the sound of it. "You're to have a shower, get dressed, and then we're going to the supermarket.""Come on, Is, it'll be fun," Felix cried, and gave me an expectant look that roughly translated as "Please, for the love of G.o.d, don't leave me alone with him.""Fine, whatever . . ."And obviously his mission in life for today was to work my last nerve, because Dad gave me his most condescending smile (I think it might have been a personal best) and said, "A little less petulance, please."As trips to the supermarket go, and they don't really rate too highly on my list of fun things, it started off all right. Since . . . well, he never drives unless he really has to, he decided that we'd walk to Waitrose, even though Felix and I did try to point out that lugging heavy shopping up the hill was unpaid child labor."Nonsense, it will be good for you," he scoffed, setting off down the road at a brisk pace. I clamped my iPod earbuds in so I didn't have to listen to Felix c.r.a.pping on about all the stuff he c.r.a.ps on about.There was a tense moment when Dad became slightly baffled by the whole concept of shoving a pound coin into the slot before you could take a trolley, but he adapted pretty well, and soon we were freewheeling around the fresh produce aisle like we were born to it.I wasn't exactly sure who was going to be cooking all the squash and leeks and broccoli that he was blithely selecting while Felix pulled agonized faces at me behind his back. But really, I didn't want to do anything to break the fragile peace treaty, so I concentrated on fruit because you just eat it as it comes and it stops you from coming down with a severe case of rickets.It wasn't until we hit aisle 18-crisps, nuts, and snacks-that our family bonding excursion turned ugly. I innocently s.n.a.t.c.hed a variety pack of Walkers from the shelf, but you'd have thought I was trying to do a trolley dash through the cigarette kiosk."Oh no," he hissed, tugging them out of my hands. "I'm not having junk food in the house."Felix already had his arms full of Wotsits. "But we can't live just on vegetables," he exclaimed, his voice rising with indignation. "Mum always let us . . ."It was kinda weird to hear him say the "M" word, like someone swearing in church. None of us had said it out loud in weeks."I beg your pardon?" Dad demanded, permafrost coating every syllable."I didn't do anything wrong." Felix's bottom lip was trembling like a kite on a windy day. "Why aren't I allowed to . . . ?""Just leave it." I gave him a warning punch on the shoulder."Obviously potato snacks are right up there with crack cocaine and, oh, I don't know, drinking yourself into oblivion every night."Dad grabbed hold of the trolley, his knuckles white as he gripped the bar. "Is there something you'd like to say, Isabel, or are you happy to continue with your barbed remarks?"And the thing is, I never know when to keep my mouth shut. I don't. I can't. I never could. So I shrugged, and I knew the smile I was wearing was so smug that if I'd seen it on my face, I'd have wanted to smack it right off."Nope, just y'know, if a couple of bags of salt and vinegar are going to bring down Western civilization, then I guess we won't be loading up on bottles of red wine, either."Apparently, discussions about the huge amount of booze he guzzles were forbidden, too. His eyes narrowed so much, it was a wonder he could still steer the trolley round the corner. "You really are incredibly obnoxious," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at Felix, who was trailing miserably behind us. "Oh, go and get your sodding crisps, then."I watched Felix drag his heels away. "I get that you pretty much hate my guts, but don't take it out on him," I said.That got me another flinty glare, as he practically hurled a bottle of fabric softener into the trolley. "I do not 'hate your guts,' Isabel. I just find you rude, willful, and thoroughly unpleasant."Felix was padding toward us, clutching a mult.i.tude of variety bags, chin set like he was expecting another argument, not realizing that the first one hadn't finished."I can see I've been entirely too lenient with you, Isabel,"Dad continued. "But these tantrums have gone on long enough and . . ."I turned to him and gave him the calmest smile I could muster, which threw him. "Oh, p.i.s.s off," I said, and flounced away.It was really liberating, the acting out or whatever you want to call it. Like, I'd drawn a line between us, one that had been there, anyway, but we didn't have to tread around it anymore.My foot was poised to step off the curb so I could cross over Western Road and head down to the beach, when his hand came crashing down on my shoulder. G.o.d, I bet he wished that they'd never made spanking illegal."How dare you talk to me like that?" he spluttered. "Apologize at once.""Get your hand off my shoulder," I told him pretty reasonably, considering it felt as if he was trying to mold my collarbone into a new and exciting shape.He let go of me and we stood there, staring at each other. I wondered if he could even really see me as anything other than the shopping list of adjectives that summed up what a major disappointment I was."I'm still waiting for that apology, Isabel."A guy pushed past us-and something in the way he held himself, the way his hair looked like it had had an accident with a vat of perming lotion, seemed familiar, even though I couldn't see his face. It was that boy, Smith, or whatever his name was, from the party."I don't have time for this," I told Dad, and walked away. I knew he wouldn't come after me again-that would actually have required some effort on his part.Smith walked fast with a loping gait, almost bouncing on the soles of his sneakers, and I liked that he was so free, so unaware, not knowing that I was looking at him. Like, when you're on the bus and you stare into someone's front room and you see them watching television or slumped on the sofa, and it's like you're taking a tiny piece of them home with you.He ambled into a couple of charity shops and rifled through piles of battered vinyl records and tattered paperbacks. I loitered by the racks of musty-smelling polyester dresses-I was going for this whole melting into the walls vibe, but I just looked really shifty, if the suspicious attention I was getting from the blue-rinse brigade manning the tills was anything to go by.I hadn't been able to get a good look at him before. It had been dark, and there had been huge quant.i.ties of alcohol involved, but daylight softened out the slant of his cheekbones and the hard lines of his jaw, so he looked less thuggish. Didn't do anything to lessen the effect of his nose. If you were being kind you'd call it aquiline; if you weren't, you'd call it beaky. And I could see those lips that I'd kissed-how they looked as pillowy as they'd felt. His hair was still ridiculous, he'd obviously never got intimate with a pair of straightening irons. But what I liked about him (and I did appear to like him, even though he had a stupid name and needed to stop kissing girls at parties because he thought they were other girls he'd kissed at other parties) was his serenity. There was something utterly calm about him, no matter how fast his elegant hands leafed through records or pored over books. It was as if everything was out of focus except him.He brushed past me on his way toward the door, and I pressed myself against a rail of coats. I waited for the door to shut behind him, then cautiously slunk out in time to see him disappearing into the newsagent's next door.Luckily, I could pretend to read the ads for exotic Swedish ma.s.sages while I peered through the window and watched Smith buy a packet of cigarettes and some chewing gum. As he was walking down the length of the shop, I realized my cover was about to be blown, so I dived into the nearest doorway, which happened to be a hardware shop and looked with feigned interest at the display of screwdrivers and oooh, power saws. Imagine the damage I could do with one of them.At first I thought it was the wind brushing against me, but then it happened again, someone was tapping me on the shoulder. Even before I turned around I knew it was him.I'd forgotten how blue his eyes were. I wanted to compose sonnets in my head about ocean depths and cloudless skies because I was obviously suffering from severe sleep deprivation. He was frowning at me, this little furrowed line popping up between his eyebrows.I felt like I'd finally been caught shoplifting. My cheeks were burning traffic-light red as he fixed me with an intractable look. "Are you following me?"There wasn't really much I could say in my defense, and besides, talking suddenly became this really difficult art that I hadn't quite mastered. I just shrugged and shuffled my feet instead, focusing my attention on my scuffed-up ballet flats."Well . . . ?" Smith prompted.I wound a strand of hair around my finger for a bit until he tapped his foot impatiently. "Go and find someone else to annoy."I finally looked up and he was all I could see. I could already feel my mouth getting ready to form the words, though my brain was trying to slam the brakes on. "I don't want to," I said, and my feet weren't moving away, so it must have been true.The faint ghostly blur of a smile danced across his mouth. "Can you only speak in monosyllables?""Yeah." If I couldn't be quiet then monosyllables seemed like the way to go. And less is more. Maybe he thought I was mysterious and enigmatic-and I might have been until my stupid stomach let out an unG.o.dly roar to remind me that it hadn't had anything to eat since the moldy cheese omelet I'd made last night.That hateful, stupid blush flared up all over again as if my whole body had been immersed in Deep Heat. But Smith just laughed."Seems like your tummy has plenty to say even if you don't," he said, and smiled at me properly. It was the kind of smile that could knock a girl into the middle of next week, if I was that kind of girl, which I so wasn't."My tummy never knows when to shut up," I replied as my belly let out another gurgle just to remind me that it was righteously p.i.s.sed.There was a moment's pause. "Well maybe your tummy would like me to buy it lunch," Smith offered casually. "You could come, too, if you like."It was strange walking along the street with him. Like, if people saw us they'd automatically a.s.sume that we were together. In reality, I was actually racking my brains for some amusing conversational gambit and coming up empty. Smith didn't seem to mind and when we crossed the road, he gently held my elbow as if he thought I might suddenly plunge headfirst into the oncoming traffic.I've been mauled by boys for the last two years. It leaves me cold and worrying that I'm a freak because a sweaty hand on my t.i.ts and a tongue tickling my esophagus does nothing for me. But Smith's hand on my elbow made me tingle all over.When we got to the other side of the road, I tugged myself away from his touch, as if it was radioactive. He didn't say anything, but then he kept this six-inch distance away from me at all times, as if he was worried I was going to go off on this s.e.xual hara.s.sment rant. I knew, I just knew, that he wished that he'd never invited me along for lunch. I could see the fricking words hovering above his head.But it was all right when we got to the cafe. The smell of bacon and freshly ground coffee made my growly stomach kick up a notch, as we snagged a table in the corner. There was the whole menu thing to deal with, but after the waitress had taken our orders, it was just the two of us and the condiment tray."So what's your name again?" Smith asked, tearing the cellophane off of his cigarettes."Isabel," I answered unwillingly. "It's a stupid name. But everyone hates their own name, I suppose."Smith was rummaging in his jacket pocket and eventually pulled out a box of matches. "Why do you think I use the name Smith?" he commented cryptically. "Anyway, Isabel seems pretty not stupid to me."That was easy enough for him to say. I decided to turn the tables. "So, Smith isn't your real name?"He shook his head and grinned. And really he should do that more, because it creased his face into a pleasing pattern of white teeth and smile lines. "Nope, surname, and before you ask, I'm not gonna tell you what my first name is."I was intrigued. "Why? Is it a state secret?" I asked as the waitress brought our coffees.Smith nodded solemnly, but his eyes were dancing with mischief. "I could tell you . . .""Yeah, yeah, but you'd have to kill me," I finished neatly for him, and took a cautious sip of my coffee."Are you making sure that the five sugar cubes were enough?"He really thought I was a freak. "Well, it's just I need a sugar rush to get me kick-started."Smith grinned again and looked pointedly at his watch. "It's lunchtime.""Exactly."There was another pause, and I sipped at my coffee and tried not to notice how he was looking at me. I knew there wasn't enough concealer in the world to get rid of the dark circles under my eyes, and there hadn't been time to do anything with my hair but try to sc.r.a.pe it back into a tufty, scraggly ponytail. I was wearing Felix's Sea Scouts T-shirt and school cardie with my jeans because they were the only clean things I could find. If I'd been some fashion b.i.t.c.h, I'd have called it androgynous chic, but it's hard to pull that off when you're a gawky sixteen-year-old."You never told me why you were called Isabel," he said gently, leaning forward. "I got the feeling there might be a story there.""Isabel Archer. She's this character in a Henry James novel," I added, even though he probably didn't have a clue who Henry James was. There still didn't seem to be much evidence that he was packing a big old brain in that not-so-pretty head of his."Portrait of a Lady?""Well, yeah," I spluttered, taking one of his cigarettes and lighting it. "Have you read it or have you just seen the film?" I didn't wait for him to reply. "My Dad's a professor of American literature and he was having this big Henry James thing when I was born, and it's the most depressing book ever and Isabel just gets, like, totally suppressed by this guy she has to marry, and why would you call your daughter after some character in a book who's miserable and hates her life?" I finished off with this angry exhalation of breath that gusted the napkins across the table, then I closed my eyes.Why couldn't I just sit across the table from a moderately cute boy and be normal? Like, ask him questions about himself and giggle when he cracked a joke and generally be charming and witty and like ninety-nine percent of the rest of the girl population. Instead I was, well, being way too much like me."I'm sorry," I muttered so quietly that I didn't think he heard me, but he gave me a contemplative look and then leaned closer."Can I trust you to keep a secret?""What kind of secret?" I asked him suspiciously."The secret kind of secret. You do know what a secret is, don't you?""Yes," I snapped, and his eyebrows shot up. "Please . . . will you tell me? See, I asked nicely."He let the suspense mount for about ten seconds, staring at me just enough so that I was beginning to get wigged out all over again before he relented."I'm named after someone in a book, too," he announced in a hushed voice, looking furtively over his shoulder, which was a touch too overkill-y."Yeah? Who?""You ever read To Kill a Mockingbird?"I stared at him in disbelief. "No way! Oh, my G.o.d, did your parents name you Boo? That sucks."He gave a throaty little chuckle. "You've just ruined my punch line.""Whatever." I rolled my eyes. "So what's your name, then? Let me think. Jem? Scout? It can't be Calpurnia . . ."He remained admirably stoney-faced while I threw names at him."Atticus? You kinda look like an Atticus, now that I come to think of it," I mused, and his nose twitched almost imperceptibly, which must be an occupational hazard when it's that big. "Atticus! I don't f.u.c.king believe it!""Keep your voice down," he hissed, reaching over to tap my arm. "It's not something I want to see on the front page of The Argus."I crushed the end of my cigarette in the ashtray. Really mashed it down hard because I hate it when they keep on smoldering. "That's a big name to live up to.""My parents were all into anti-apartheid and banning the bomb, and I think they had this deluded idea that I'd go into politics and make the world a better place." He smiled faintly.I clapped my hands in glee. "Like, hey, come on, help us fight racism, little baby Atticus." I giggled. "Did you have an Anti-Fascist Action logo on your onesie?"Anytime soon, I was actually going to shut up, but Smith didn't seem to mind. Or else he was hoping that day release would soon be over and I'd go back to the psych ward."You're really pretty when you smile," he said, tilting his head. "You should do it more often."He didn't say it like it was some line to get me to drop my knickers, but I still had to clamp my mouth shut not to snap a reflexive denial. Instead, I looked around for the waitress because really, how long does it take to shove some cheese on a jacket potato and nuke it?And just once, something in the universe went my way, because two steaming plates appeared at the serving hatch so I could turn to Smith, who was drumming his fingers noiselessly against the tabletop, and mutter, "I think our food's coming."It took every last sc.r.a.p of willpower I had not to lower my head and shovel the food into my mouth. I managed to cut myself delicate, girl-like bites and not make any embarra.s.sing moaning noises as my taste buds suddenly kicked into life.Every time I looked up, our eyes met, and he'd open his mouth like he was trying to think of something to say and I'd shoot him a vague smile and carry on eating.Eventually, short of licking a few crumbs of potato and a bit of stringy cold cheese off my plate, I was done. He'd been super nice to me and bought me lunch, so I started to think of how I could extricate myself politely."So what kind of music do you like?" he asked abruptly."Different things. The Shins; Babyshambles, though Pete Doherty is so tragic; everything ever recorded by Belle & Sebastian. Maybe a little Destiny's Child for some light relief." I dug my iPod out of my pocket so I could show him my eclectic song stylings."Cool . . . cool . . . I can't believe you like him," he sneered as he saw my Bright Eyes playlist. "Camera Obscura? I'm impressed. Wanna swap?""Wanna swap what?" I asked, but he was already pulling out his iPod."I'll let you have mine for a week," he explained, scrolling down my playlists and wincing. Probably because he'd just seen the McFly alb.u.m. "You take mine. I do this all the time with my mates.""You sure this isn't some elaborate plan to stick me with your broken iPod?" I asked warily, and he gave me another of those elastic grins."G.o.d, you have serious trust issues. Look, I'll even keep my own headphones because they're a little on the gross side," he said, whisking them away before I could see any ear gunk."Well, how do I know I'm going to even like what you've got on yours?""How do you know you won't?" he replied with a mild smile.I pouted, but I let him place his iPod in my hand, even though this whole scheme seemed a little dubious. "But what if I break it? Or, like, drop it if I have to run for the bus and what if-""Stop having so many what ifs and give me your phone number so we can arrange to meet next week and swap them back," he continued imperturbably."I'll have to give you my home number. I don't have any money to top up my phone." I frowned. "I so need to get a job.""I thought you were a student," he remarked, still spinning my click wheel. "How old are you?"I didn't even break a sweat. "Eighteen, and you?""Oh? Just turned twenty. So what's your number, and is it Isabel with an 'a' or an 'o'?"He put my number into his phone, and I shifted his iPod from one hand to the other. It seemed imbued with unfathomable significance. All those songs-the ones he listened to when he was sad and the ones he listened to that reminded him of girls-that he played again and again; they were the soundtrack to his heart. And then there were the songs he played that were fast and frantic, and he'd crank up the volume and bounce down the street. Songs let you see into someone's soul.I was just telling him that he wasn't to call me during the day under, like,