Sugar & Squall Page 2

  Only one girl got busted. They’d found pills on her. She was sent straight to the principal’s office for ‘therapy’.

  As Jemma predicted, I was roomed up with her and two other girls. All of the rooms had large bay windows, but ours faced out to the back of the island and not the courtyard. The cold was out in force and angry clouds had collected a bit further out to sea, audible in the distance. You could hear the waves heaving into rocks, booming away like liquid artillery.

  The beds were single and lined up in a row. Mine was right at the end looking out the window. That took the edge off the jail vibe. I liked it.

  There was a small set of drawers next to each bed and a lamp, but that was it. Posters were not allowed. Cells weren’t allowed, not that there was reception, and neither were boys – a rule that was broken frequently if what I’d overheard on the ferry was anything to go by.

  I went with the girls down to the dinner hall. The food was edible, which was one consolation, and then everyone retreated back to their rooms in light of the weather.

  We sat in a circle on the floor.

  “I’m telling you, it had a serious kink in it,” Amy, roommate two, was exclaiming, trying to create the shape of the male appendage in question with her hands.

  “Like a banana,” Jemma offered.

  “No, like a bent spoon or something. I’m talking forty-five degrees here.

  We all laughed.

  “You’re such a slut,” Jemma said.

  “And your pube-in-teeth tale doesn’t qualify you for the club?” Amy retorted.

  “Maybe.”

  “What about you, Kat?” The third roommate, what’s-her-face, was speaking to me. “Got anything to share?”

  My experience with the opposite sex so far hadn’t exactly been another High School Musical in the making. I’d built a pretty solid personal boundary over the years. Most boys gave me ample berth. That was fine by me given most I’d met had the intellectual capacity of soda cans.

  Case in point – Billy Slater. When I’d caught him trying to film the two of us I’d broken his jaw with an alarm clock followed by a fly kick to the face. He was strike one.

  Things had gotten entirely more intimate with my friend Zac. His dad was a senator, too, he understood the life, but instead of having one of those movie nights where the TV watches you and not vice-versa, he’d ditched me for my BFF at the time. When I found her going through my diary, palm strike to the solar plexus, she became strike two.

  Jemma sat back, eyeing me. “Oh, I bet you’re nasty. Tell me I’m not right.”

  I put my hands down on the floor, leaned right into the circle and put on the sexiest voice I could imagine. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” I purred.

  Lights out was at ten. We sunk into bed. It was raining outside. Trails of water slid down the window in front of me. The rhythm of the ocean was still there. It sang through the floor.

  I hadn’t had a chance to unpack my suitcase, so it sat beside my bed. I reached into the flap pocket, pulled out my diary and switched on the lamp, checking over my shoulder the others were asleep. Amy’s snoring was competing with the sea for sub-bass projection. Jemma was only a decibel or two below. They wouldn’t be bothering me anytime soon.

  I’d bought this diary in London just before New Year’s. It was blank save for a single page at the back I’d entitled, rather morbidly, the DNB. Stuff I wanted ‘dead ’n’ buried’ by the end of the year, a list of stupid little goals I’d set for myself. There were five.

  The first was to skinny-dip. It was something in a movie I’d seen over the summer. Hick kids could do it, so why couldn’t I? I’d promised myself this year I wouldn’t be ashamed of my body, and it seemed like the most extreme angle of attack for dealing with any residual self-esteem issues.

  Of course, the DNB was a work-in-progress. I glanced over the other goals, went to add a line to the fifth but thought better of it, instead tucking the diary back away in its pocket and switching off the lamp.

  When I finally put head to pillow, Mystery Boy was there. It was strange to be fantasizing over someone with no name. I hadn’t even said a single word to him. There was a connection, of that I was sure. It was intangible, fleeting, an ember waiting to burst into life. No guy, no boy, no male or man had ever had this effect on me, and it both shocked and delighted me all at once.

  I pictured him conforming to my body behind me, his arm pulling me close. It came and went, the fantasy of it so overwhelming reality would only let it in as glimpses, flicking the light-switch upstairs on and off, off and on.

  A fresh start – I repeated it in my head, confident dawn would bring a new day, a new me. This was happening. I was here. I was safe.

  I was wrong.

  2. INVOLUNTARY BREATH HOLDING

  I woke a few times during the night. It was the thunder and lightning mostly, but once or twice I’d shudder and open my eyes, panic waning as I realized where I was. The morning wake-up call was even more intrusive.

  A bell was ringing. It wasn’t a regular clanging, but a mechanical ‘ding, ding, ding’ that resonated around the room. My eyes snapped open, met by the soft light of the morning sun. The sound was omnipresent. Once it had stopped, a woman’s voice came through loud, not clear, and much too jovial for my liking.

  “Good morning, students. Breakfast will be served in the dining hall in exactly one half an hour. Please be prompt.” This was followed by a sharp screeching, a noise that raised the other girls in the room up as if they were the living dead. Amy threw a discarded shoe at the ceiling, and I realized the sound had been coming from, in a very Wizard of Oz kind of way, a speaker in the ceiling.

  I sat upright in bed, hunched over and trying to claw out the sleep in my eyes so each stretched across my face like milky slivers. Out of one corner I noted Amy was already perched on the end of her bed, twisting her ponytail and flicking it forwards and backwards over the shoulder of her terry-cloth pajama top.

  “God, is there any worser sound in the world than that?” It was obviously too early for any kind of constructed language, so this was met by a single ‘mmph’ from the bed to her left.

  “I’d rather suck on hot coals than listen to that racket,” she said, her open palms shaking at the roof. “Right, Kat?”

  This had been thrown directly to me, so I swiveled around to the edge of the bed, folding my legs up into a pretzel.

  “Right,” I replied, with a small smile. “Is it like that every morning?”

  Amy fell back onto her bed, arms folded. “Every single morning bar the weekend. They give us an extra hour to sleep in. Lucky us.” This was interrupted by a long, nasally snore from the bed next door.

  “Jem, I’m going to sew your mouth shut one of these days.”

  The bell had failed to faze Jemma in the slightest, who snored away contentedly as if trying to saw the room in half with vocals alone. Her hair was mopped up around her head. From this angle she hardly looked human at all.

  Just as the snoring reached a crescendo, Amy brought her pillow down onto Jemma’s head with a muffled thud, inner fluff escaping from the sides and spiraling down through the sunlight. The butterfly emerged.

  “Amy?” it mumbled, pushing hair out of its face and mouth all the while. “I was having the best dream.”

  “What was it this time? Guys, limos, clubs... guys clubbing in limos?” Amy offered.

  “Close,” Jemma replied, “but just one guy, and the club was private.” This last part with an upraised eyebrow.

  “Right,” Amy said, with muffled enthusiasm. I saw her head poke out behind Jemma’s in front of me. “And what about you, Kat? Dreaming of a certain mystery candyman last night?”

  Damn. How’d she find out? I gave Jemma a squinty side-glance. I knew how these things escalated, a bunch of gossip-starved girls stuck in a perpetual slumber party. By sundown they’d have us the next Brangelina. I played dumb.

  “Who?” But I was never a good liar. From my furrowed bro
w to my shifty right eye, my body betrayed me.

  “Oh, come on,” Amy exclaimed, jumping up and throwing her arms out in the air. The other girls turned their attention to me. It started to feel like I was on trial.

  Amy continued, “I have it on very good authority—” She threw a quick wink in Jemma’s direction as she paced around the room. “That you’ve got the hots for a certain chiseled boy, no?”

  This was one debate I wasn’t about to win. “Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s not too bad.”

  “Not bad at all,” Jemma echoed, French kissing her pillow.

  Amy was eyeing me suspiciously. “You know what,” she said. “You sort of look like that girl, what’s-her-name, the President’s daughter.”

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  “I wish,” I replied, lowering my head and trying to laugh.

  Amy kept staring. “Damn it. What’s her name? You know who I mean, right?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I get it a lot. Don’t worry.”

  “Hurry up, guys. Showers are probably packed by now.”

  Thank you.

  It was the third girl in our room. She was quite tall, but waifish all the same, a teen tooth-pick. She’d been quiet last night. I assumed she was one of those perpetual clock-watchers. I was just happy she’d interrupted Amy’s line of questioning.

  After quickly assembling toiletries and pulling freshly pressed uniforms out of plastic, we grouped together and headed pack-like into the hall.

  Last night, Carver had seemed spacious, an uninhabited castle. Today it was extreme hustle and bustle as girls clambered over each other for precious space at the sinks or showers in the sole bathroom per floor.

  I felt like I was back on the wharf with that same air of anticipation wafting about, but it was more frantic here. It was a city in miniature, and this was rush hour.

  Thirty minutes seemed like a lot of time, and I wasn’t one to mess about with foundation or the like. I was unquestionably in the minority.

  Girls stacked three or four deep around mirrors, some with combs or curling irons and others frantically rummaging through bags. I just stood against the door frame, mouth slightly aghast.

  I wasn’t a fan of the uniform. It was traditional, tartan blue. The pleated skirt felt like a cardboard box around my hips. The shirt wasn’t much better. Worse, it was all topped off with silly little white socks I imagined Little Red Riding Hood might have worn trotting off to Grandma’s.

  My last school was inner-city and casual. The only thing ‘uniform’ about it was we all couldn’t have cared less, about anything.

  The dining hall had changed overnight. In natural light it appeared rather dull, just like any other cafeteria. The serving area was in front of the kitchen to the left, with large lead-framed windows looking out into the center courtyard. The hall was half the size of a football field in the middle, and true to that, full of guys. It seemed makeup took precedence over eggs and bacon for most of the girls.

  Food wasn’t going to be an issue. There was plenty of it, pretty fresh for being stuck out on an island, but I wasn’t hungry. I barely managed to stuff down a single croissant.

  We sat with a few more girls at a central table. I looked around. No Mr. Mystery, and though I had no idea why, no control over it, my heart sank ever so slightly.

  After breakfast, everyone lined up at the office to collect their timetables. Jemma had taken me on as a special case, which worked out well, as we had most of the same classes. The timetable sheet was laminated and color-coded – quite elaborate. Then again, I’d seen the fees for this place, so I was surprised the whole building wasn’t plated in gold.

  There were no elevators on campus, meaning a constant stream of students, almost indistinguishable from each other now, moved up and down the central staircase. All of the classrooms were in the middle building with bland alphanumerical names like ‘B1’ or ‘D4’. Jemma and I had pre-calc in C-something, which I found rather appropriate considering that was the grade that usually found its way onto the top of my math papers.

  Inside, the classroom looked like two dorm rooms stuck together. A plasma TV stood out somewhat mounted up on the wall, as did a short middle-aged man at the front of the room casually reclining against a large wooden desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a tall ship.

  “Morning class,” he boomed. “Welcome once more to the magical realm of mathematics.” Predictably, this was met by a communal sigh.

  “Okay,” he continued, picking up a red clipboard off his desk, “since you’re all just bursting with enthusiasm, we’ll start with the roll.”

  We were set out in two-seater desks marginally spaced apart and facing the front of the room. Like Jemma had said, the ratio of girls to guys was vastly out of proportion. Not wanting to attract attention, I hung my head and was thankful for the tunnel-vision my tawny curtains allowed.

  I hated public speaking with a passion. Memories of being forced to stand up and speak to a bunch of strangers, introduce myself, pushed its way into my memory like an ice pick.

  Names were being read out, a firing squad. I took a deep breath in anticipation. ‘Here’ – It’s a single syllable, I told myself.

  It never came.

  The teacher placed the clipboard back on the desk, unfolded his arms and started to open his mouth, but his eyes caught mine. Dread washed over me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are?”

  “Kat.” Somehow I’d gotten it out, but it was barely above a whisper. I was aware of the class’s collective eyes probing into my personal space.

  “Kat…?”

  “Collins,” I answered, quiet as I could.

  He turned back to the clipboard, quickly skimming his way down the list.

  “You’re not on my list, Kat. New, yes?”

  I nodded, thankful for a non-verbal response.

  “Not to worry. I’ll run it through with admin later.” He looked past me to the back of the class. “You there,” he said, gesturing behind me. “You’re new as well?”

  I didn’t turn.

  “Yes, sir,” came a male voice from the back. “Logan Maddock, sir.”

  The teacher scanned the roll again. “Okay, Mr. Maddock. It doesn’t look like you’re here either.” He made a quick note on the clipboard before placing it on the desk. “Anyone else before we get started?”

  Silence.

  “Now…” And with that he plunged straight into the finer details of differential equations.

  I found it hard to concentrate in class. Chairs squeaked, bodies shuffled. I caught the odd phrase, adjusted my legs. Jemma was busy scrawling away something in her notebook. A stolen glance told me pentagrams were probably not part of the syllabus.

  Finally, the bell rang. The room exploded with limbs and bags.

  The teacher had his head raised, shouting across the top of everyone fleeing en-masse.

  “Don’t forget to pick up your homework from the front desk,” he managed. “Just a few simple equations.”

  I was still seated, stuck in a trance, when I noticed Jemma bobbing up and down over at the doorway, waving me over.

  I jumped up, threw my things together, bag underarm, and headed her way. I decided to make a last-minute dart to the front desk for homework. I picked up the sheet, turned and he was there, right in front of me – Mr. Mystery.

  At such proximity it was almost too much, like staring at the sun. Katherine Collins was clearly printed onto the school-supplied textbook I was pressing to my chest. His eyes flicked to it and then to mine. I made out ‘Logan Maddock’ on the folder under his arm. New guy. He seemed surprised. My mouth opened slightly, but my brain was fried. I turned and hastily made my way to the door.

  Jemma’s eyes were wide. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she mouthed. I was thinking the exact same thing. She stepped forward when I reached her, looping her arm under mine.

  “What was that?” She looked at me as if I’d
left my brain back on the ferry. Given my reaction, maybe I had.

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to keep my voice down in the hall. “I just freaked out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “His name’s Logan, though, Logan Maddock.”

  “Yeah, I caught that.” Jemma looked up to the ceiling in contemplation. “Logan. We can work with that.”

  Her eyes reverted back to normal. A smile stretched its way across her lips. Somewhere in my garbage compactor head I thought I might be able to redeem myself in the next class. Wink his way? No, too cliché.

  What was I doing anyway? I didn’t chase guys, flirt or fool around. I stepped back into my body and regained composure.

  I clipped someone’s shoulder in the crowd and turned to see the janitor giving me stink eye, mop in hand. An ugly scar ran across his face.

  Jemma slapped me on the arm.

  “Don’t look at him. He’s a serious perv, always snooping around. Most of the male teachers are, too. Pay particular attention to Mr. Hamilton. He’s got a thing for freshman, juniors – whatever takes his fancy.

  “He does?”

  “Of course. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would they want to come out here?”

  “Money,” I suggested.

  “Touché,” Jemma replied, pronouncing it phonetically, and I couldn’t help but suppress a snigger as we made our way to D6.

  #

  I need not have worried. Logan wasn’t in my next class. This was hardly surprising considering it was drama. There wasn’t a single guy there.

  But Jemma was, and I was left hammered by hypotheticals and what-ifs. My mouth thoroughly dry, when the bell rang for lunch I practically flew out the door, Jemma in tow.

  We sat at the same table for lunch. Other girls joined us, bringing numbers to seven. One of the newcomers was describing a guy she’d gone down on over the holidays. That kept most enthralled. I pushed peas around my plate, listening to every intricate detail of the act unfold until it started to sound more like some wildlife documentary than a heated sexual encounter.