two

THE PRINCESS FANTASY

Every little girl has a princess fantasy, even if it’s only a fleeting moment here and there, watching a Disney film or picking up a Princess Barbie. Even if it makes her feel awkward and wrong, because she’d really rather be climbing trees and throwing balls while wearing the kind of tomboy clothing that would make Princess Barbie faint in horror.

A girl can’t grow up without having princesses rammed down her throat to some extent. They come with all the best adjectives. Beautiful. Perfect. Worshipped. A princess is the kind of girl who doesn’t need to do anything to get noticed, apart from walk into a room looking drop-dead gorgeous.

Alison, Luce, and I all love those films where the ugly gawky girl in glasses gets told that she’s really a princess, a fairy godmother spinning in to transform her magically (i.e., without plastic surgery) into a knockout beauty in contact lenses (maybe colored ones). I think we all used to go to sleep at night cherishing that fantasy. But then harsh reality kicked in. For me it was at fourteen, when I realized that I wasn’t the princess in my life story.

Someone else was.

I expect every school has a reigning superstar, the ideal to which every other girl aspires. When I first arrived at St. Tabby’s, I thought that girl was Cecily, a burgeoning supermodel who was about ten feet tall, weighing in at about 110 pounds, with blond hair to her waist and eyes as blue as Wedgwood china. Cecily was so beautiful she could come into school with a stinking cold, eyes red-rimmed, nose swollen, wearing jeans and a big sweater, and still look more beautiful than everyone else at St. Tabby’s put together. But Cecily was too shy to say a word to anyone, which put her out of the princess stakes.

Because princesses need to rule. They need a court to command. And for that, they need to be able to give orders and keep discipline in the ranks. And there’s no one better at ruling a court than Plum Saybourne.

I’ve reached the foot of the fountain steps. The sun is shining straight into my eyes, dazzling me. Typical of Plum to seat herself with her back to it, providing herself with a golden halo.

Nadia is behind me, and as I pause, not knowing where to sit, she says impatiently, “Go on, then!”

But I don’t know which step I should be sitting on, or how high to climb. It sounds ridiculous, but I know if I get it wrong I could be in trouble.

“Scarlett!” drawls Plum, flicking back her hair. “Nice of you to join us. You know everybody, right?”

It’s like she owns the park. I have to admire her blatant sense of entitlement. Must be nice to be that self-confident.

Plum gestures to a step below her. “Well, sit down.”

Nadia follows behind me. She tugs on her skirt hem and sits down carefully, making sure she’s got enough material in front of her to at least cover her knickers. Her skirt is so short she can’t even cross her legs.

I sit down next to her. It seems a safe choice, considering it was Nadia who invited me. I feel like such a frump in the track pants I pulled on over my gym shorts. I never worry about what I look like after gymnastics, because I’m just going home to shower, or back to Alison or Luce’s. Now my thighs look all bulky because of the two layers of clothes I’m wearing, particularly sitting next to Nadia, with her skinny, naturally pale-brown legs.

“So, Scarlett,” Plum continues. “You’ve certainly developed overnight, haven’t you?”

All the girls laugh sycophantically. That’s how it works. Plum rules with an iron fist in an iron glove.

There doesn’t seem to be much of an answer to that, so I don’t say anything. Apparently, Plum isn’t expecting a response, because she plows right ahead with her next comment.

“Let’s all be careful not to bump into Scarlett from behind,” she says. “She’ll fall right on her face. What are those, Scarlett, thirty-four Ds?”

God, this is humiliating. The truth is that I’m a bit confused about how to measure them. I was going to ask Luce and Alison to come with me to one of those big department stores where the saleswoman does it for you, but I can’t think about Luce and Alison right now, it makes me feel too guilty.

“Venetia would kill to have thirty-four Ds, wouldn’t you, Venetia?” Plum says.

“Oh God, yes,” says Venetia, quite unembarrassed.

Venetia is a super-posh girl, flat-chested, mousy-haired, freckled in all the wrong places, with a bum as wide as the Channel. But she’s got the absolute confidence that comes from her family’s having owned most of the North of England since Queen Elizabeth came to the throne—that’s Elizabeth I, of course.

“I’d bloody love it,” Venetia says wistfully. “Did you see that picture of me in Tatler at Ross’s seventeenth birthday party? I looked like a boy in a frock! I showed it to Mummy and told her I was dying to have a boob job, but Mummy says I have to wait till I’m eighteen and get my trust fund. She won’t pay for it herself, the cow.”

“God, considering how much surgery your mum’s had, that’s a bit rich,” Plum comments.

“I know,” Venetia sighs. “So unfair.”

Plum talks about plastic surgery with the airy carelessness of someone who doesn’t remotely need it—or certainly not for decades to come. As befits a princess, she’s naturally gorgeous, though she certainly maintains herself well. She has long, shiny hair the color of autumn leaves (i.e., brunette with lots of expensive coppery highlights), slightly slanty green eyes (contacts, I swear), and blusher-tinged cheekbones high enough to give her a haughty expression.

“I must say, Scarlett, you look a bit pink and sweaty,” Plum comments.

“I just came from gymnastics,” I say defensively.

“Much too energetic for me,” Plum sighs. “I get tired just walking on the treadmill, don’t I?”

There’s a general murmur of assent.

“Can someone lend Scarlett some lip gloss or something?” Plum asks with a hint of disdain. “I mean, she’s looking a bit too fresh-faced, don’t we think?”

This is classic Plum, ending almost every sentence with a question that you’re not really meant to respond to—out loud, anyway. A girl sitting below me holds up a tube of Lancôme lip gloss. Someone else hands me a slim, handbag-sized spray of Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers. Mumbling thank-yous, I duly smear my lips with gloss and spritz myself with the perfume, which is, much to my relief, light and not at all cloying.

I hand the gloss and perfume back to their owners. Just as I’m sitting back up again, a rustle runs through the group.

Lips are bitten, cheeks are pinched, and shoulders are straightened. Suddenly, everyone’s on full alert.

Plum is flicking her hair and swinging her legs as if she’s signaling with them. And in a way, she is. She dips her head a fraction to look over the top of her designer sunglasses. The other girls are trying so hard not to turn their heads that they look frozen in place, like a whole series of statues; Plum’s the only one moving.

I can’t help it. I’m curious. I turn my head to look.

Oh God. I’m such an idiot. I was so swept away by the flattery of being invited to join Plum’s coterie that I forgot briefly about one of the main reasons that entry to this group is so prestigious: it comes with access to the sixth form of the neighboring boys’ school.

But only the most eligible boys. The richest, the poshest, the best-looking. Five or six of them are coming up to the fountain right now, slouching, their hair artfully messed up and hanging over their faces. They’re doing their best to look as casual as possible, as if they couldn’t care less about hanging out with this group of girls. But I can tell how keen they are to see us by the very fact that they’re looking so exaggeratedly laid-back, almost as if they barely notice us sitting round the fountain till they’re standing right in front of it.

I look at them all, and my heart sinks—he’s not here.

“Hey, Plum,” the leader says.

“Oh, hi, Ross,” Plum says equally lightly, playing along with the game of fancy-seeing-you-here.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Plum answers. “We thought we might get a coffee later or something.”

“Cool.”

This must be the Ross of the seventeenth-birthday celebration that was considered socially important enough to be photographed for Tatler, the snobbiest glossy mag for posh people in the country. I’m convinced now that Plum has invited me here to play some really cruel joke on me. I fit in with this smart set about as well as a troll would at a princesses-only slumber party.

The boys arrange themselves around the fountain, most of them leaning against it. Ross pulls out a pack of cigarettes, which is a cue for all the smokers present to light up themselves. Lighters click, matches snap, little flames shoot up. Everyone takes their first drag and then breathes out in unison. I look at Ross while everyone is distracted. He’s in the middle of a nasty acne outbreak, but he looks so unfazed by his bright red itchy-looking spots that he almost carries them off. Posh people really do care less about what the rest of the world thinks. Maybe I can learn the secret of that from them. That’s what I want most in the world: to lose my self-consciousness and ooze this kind of confidence.

“Cigarette?” asks a boy standing next to me.

“Uh, no, thanks,” I say.

“Don’t smoke?”

I shake my head.

“Very sensible. Isn’t any good for you, is it?”

“Well, I do gymnastics,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to run out of breath halfway through a routine.”

“Gotcha,” he says. “You mind?”

He gestures to the step I’m sitting on. I nod a bit shyly, and he sits down next to me.

“I’m Simon,” he says with a warm smile.

I smile back. “Scarlett.”

Simon isn’t bad-looking, but there’s nothing distinctive about him either, apart maybe from his bright pink cheeks. He has fair hair, brushed forward, and he’s maybe a little overweight, though it quite suits him. His mouth is very red, with puffy lips, in that way that happens sometimes with people with really fair skin and blond hair.

“I think I’ve seen you around St. Tabby’s,” he says. “Don’t you hang out over there some afternoons?”

He gestures to the bench where I was waiting today with Alison and Luce. Automatically, my eyes follow his hand, and I see with a great deal of relief that Alison’s dad must have come to pick her and Luce up; there’s no one there.

“Yeah, sometimes I’m there with, um, friends from gymnastics.”

I have a bit of trouble saying the word friends, out of guilt, but Simon doesn’t notice.

“Right.” Simon blows out a puff of smoke. “You all look so  .  .  . healthy.”

I laugh. “That’s a polite way to put it. Plum just made me put on some lip gloss because I looked all sweaty.”

For some reason, I get a little flush of pleasure after I mention this; I can’t help but think it was nice of Plum to try to help me look pretty, even if she was probably only doing it so I would fit in better with her group. But if she didn’t think I would fit in, why did she invite me over?

I ponder this, confused.

Simon clears his throat. “Hmm, well, I wouldn’t think you needed that,” he says. “I mean, you’re very pretty already, you don’t need anything else.” I feel myself blushing, and am thankful that there’s a buzz of conversation now, so that probably no one heard him. I really don’t hang out with boys that much; I’m not used to this kind of thing, and I don’t know what to say in return. “Thank you” sounds much too prissy.

Still, Plum must have sensed that Simon just paid me a compliment. “Is Simon flirting with you, Scarlett?” she says, leaning down. “You’ve got to watch him, you know, he’s terribly naughty.”

Now it’s Simon who’s blushing; he’s so pink already that he goes bright red.

“Still, he’s a great catch!” Plum adds, winking at me, which just completes my and Simon’s embarrassment.

Neither of us can look at each other. I stare at my feet. Simon looks straight ahead, dragging so hard on his cigarette that it looks as if he’s going to drain it down in a couple of seconds.

“Hey, everyone, what’s up?”

It’s a new voice, calling from further down the path. I register that its owner must be pretty confident to announce his arrival that clearly, and curiosity makes me turn to look.

I gulp so hard my throat hurts. I actually think I’m going to choke. My eyes water, and I start to cough. Simon thinks it’s because of the smoke from his cigarette, and instantly stubs it out on the stone, apologizing profusely.

But I barely hear what he’s saying. When I’ve got my breath back, I realize that my heart is pounding so hard I can’t hear anything over the racket it’s making.

This, more than anything else, is the reason I was so eager to jump at Plum’s invitation. This is what I’ve been staring at longingly from that enormous distance that separates the bench outside school from the Promised Land here at the fountain. This, the opportunity to be so close to the hottest boy I’ve ever seen, close enough now to reach out and touch him, now that he’s coming up the steps. I sit on my hands so I won’t be tempted to do that very thing.

“Hi, Dan,” says Simon.

And Dan McAndrew—gorgeous Dan McAndrew—jumps the last two steps, swings himself up onto the lip of the fountain so easily you’d never know what prime, protected real estate it is, and actually dares to put out a hand and ruffle Plum’s hair.

“Having fun, Plum?” he asks cheerfully. “Si, all right, mate!”

He leans over to grab Simon’s hand and do one of those funny twisting handshakes that boys seem to consider so essential. I always thought his eyes were gray, but now I realize that they’re just as much green as gray, the color of a lake in winter, and so thickly fringed with dark lashes that it almost looks as if he’s wearing mascara. His dark-brown hair is falling forward in a silky wash over his forehead. I long to reach up and push it back.

Dan McAndrew is six feet tall, with wide shoulders and long legs. He’s on the school cricket, rugby, football, and tennis teams. He plays violin in the school orchestra, and he’s on the debating team. He’s as handsome as the lead singer in a boy band. He’s always got a ton of friends hanging round with him.

Plum is rearranging her hair, smoothing it out with her fingers, frowning crossly at Dan for having messed it up. She shifts along the stone lip of the fountain, pointedly turning her back on him, facing Ross instead.

“God,” she mutters, “he’s such an oaf sometimes.”

I’m watching her, amazed that anyone could actually complain about being touched by Dan McAndrew, when I hear him say “Hi,” and it takes me what feels like hours to realize that he’s talking to me.

I look up and meet his eyes. Then I faint. But just for a fleeting moment. I get such a quick grasp on myself that I don’t think anyone but me noticed that I actually lost consciousness.

“Hi,” he repeats. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?

I’m Dan.”

It’s all I can do to get any words out at all. I can barely remember my own name.

“I’m Scarlett,” I manage.

“Great name,” he says appreciatively. “It suits you.”

“Really?”

I must be goggling at him. I’ve always felt that Scarlett was a real curse of a name. In my eyes, you either have to be a redhead or fantastically beautiful, like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind, to be called Scarlett.

I’m not a redhead. My hair’s medium brown, not particularly interesting. And let’s just say that we can rule out the fantastically beautiful part as well.

But Dan McAndrew is smiling at me, his gray-green eyes are sparkling. At least I can tell that he’s not setting me up for a fall, saying something nice just to see if I’ll believe him, before cutting the ground out from under my feet.

Which means  .  .  . which means  .  .  .

Behind his shoulder I see Ross clicking at a Zippo lighter that isn’t working. He shakes it angrily, and tries again. No go.

“You try, mate,” he says, chucking it to Dan. “You’ve got the magic touch.”

“Do something, Ross!” Plum adds petulantly. “I’m dying for a ciggie.”

Dan shakes the Zippo, gives it one sharp tap on the fountain’s edge, and flicks the wheel. It catches.

“Thanks,” Ross says, taking it from him. “Here you go, Plum.”

He bends toward her, lighting the cigarette that she dangles at the end of her fingers, making him come into her space, do all the work. I admire her technique. Ross lingers a little too long, staring at her beautiful profile, before he sits back again.

“Plum, you shouldn’t smoke,” Dan says, sitting up again. “And you shouldn’t either, Ross. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, stop nagging, Dan. You’re worse than my bloody mother,” Plum snaps, not even looking at him.

“Yeah, Dan, pack it in,” Ross agrees.

Dan’s forgotten about me for the moment; his attention has been drawn elsewhere, and I have to admit, I’m almost relieved. Having Dan McAndrew look at me, really look at me, his gray-green eyes focusing on mine, was so intense I had trouble breathing. I’m grateful for a respite.

“Sorry about making you cough,” Simon says to me.

I don’t have any problem looking at Simon, because I don’t fancy him. He’s pink and white, like a Battenberg cake with yellow icing on top, which is his hair. His eyelashes are so pale yellow that they practically disappear into his face. He’s staring at me intently, but I can’t quite remember what he’s referring to.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say.

He clears his throat. “Um, are you coming to the party on Saturday?”

This is way too much for me.

“I don’t know anything about it,” I confess. No point pretending to be cooler than I am.

“It’s at Nadia’s,” Simon says. “Her parents are away.”

“Her parents are always away,” says Venetia, giggling.

“I’m beginning to believe you don’t actually have any parents, Nadia!”

I sneak a glance at Nadia. She’s frowning and biting her lip, so cross with Venetia that she’s forgotten to care about messing up her lip gloss.

Venetia’s too insensitive and busy laughing at her own joke to notice that she’s upset Nadia.

“When are we going to have a party at your house, Venetia?” Plum says with a little smile.

This must be a nasty dig, because Venetia stops laughing so suddenly it’s as if Plum has flipped a switch in her back. Having dealt with Venetia, and underlined her power in the process, Plum gives Nadia a single swift glance, which seems to encompass me, and sits back on the fountain step, looking smug.

“Yeah, come to the party, Scarlett,” Nadia says. “Everyone will be there. You’re not doing anything else Saturday night, are you?”

I shake my head, though it’s a lie. I was supposed to see a film with Luce and Alison. This is a whole series of betrayals, I realize, not just the one. I feel terrible. But I also feel incredibly excited that I’ve been invited to Nadia’s party. I’m so confused I don’t know what to think.

“Great,” Simon says enthusiastically. “That means you’re coming, right?”

I nod.

And then I look up at Dan, hoping he’ll be as enthusiastic as Simon. He meets my eyes and smiles at me, and my heart turns over.

Hah. Little do I know that by the end of that longed-for party, I’ll be looking back and yearning for the chance to take back that nod. To rewind this entire encounter, like running a DVD backward on fast speed, as I get up, walk backward down the path, seemingly followed by Nadia, cross the road backward (not too safe, that, but I don’t get knocked over), reach my friends, and press Stop and then Play again—and change the outcome. To say to Nadia, “No, thanks, I won’t come and hang out with you if Alison and Luce can’t come, too.”

But by the time the party ends, it’ll be too late.

Dan McAndrew will be dead.

And it’ll be me who killed him.