six

THE ONLY GIRL IN THIS WHOLE SCHOOL

I’m clinging on to Jase’s waist as we weave effortlessly through the slow-moving cars. One thing about having done gymnastics for all those years: it means I’m not a screamy girly-girl on a speeding bike, not when I can see that Jase knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m sure he’s going extrafast to impress me, because that’s what boys do, but he never takes a turn so quick that it freaks me out, or cuts in dangerously close to a car.

This is even more fun than the James Bond film—because in the film, exciting though it was, I didn’t get to lock my hands around Jase’s waist. I hoped he would hold my hand, or put his arm around my shoulders, but he didn’t, which was a bit disappointing. Still, I knew that we’d get back on the bike again at the end of it and he’d glance back at me as I perched myself on the seat and reached my arms around him.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m pretending that Jase and I have just met. Some baddies have started shooting at us so we’ve got to jump on his bike and flee the scene. They chase us, but we’re too swift and smart for them. The country lanes whiz by in a blur of streetlights zipping past, one flash of sour yellowish light after another, cars that we buzz by, and I never want this to end. I close my eyes and lean right into Jase, his leather jacket crinkling against my face, his aftershave crisp and smelling of apples, sweet and delicious, and under the aftershave his own scent, which is even more delicious, darker, not like apples at all.

We’re slowing down.

We’ve stopped.

I look around me, dazed. It takes me a little while to realize where we are, because, despite this being my family home, I’ve never used this road in my life.

Jase puts a gloved hand up to his helmet and slides the panel up. It’s dark outside, but I can see he’s laughing.

“You don’t want to get off, do you?” he’s saying. “You really like the bike.”

I realize that he can’t get off till I do. What an idiot I am! I scramble off more awkwardly than I meant to, and Jase kicks the stand out on the bike, swinging one long leg over and off. He removes his helmet, and I do the same with mine, hoping to God that my hair hasn’t got too squished down.

“You’re a speed freak, aren’t you?” He puts his helmet down on the bike seat, and reaches out for mine.

“I love going fast,” I confess, handing him the helmet.

He takes it, puts it down next to his, and somehow he does it so quickly that my hand is still out and he’s holding it—oh, I see what he did, he took the helmet with his right hand and simultaneously came in with his left hand to hold mine, that’s really smooth. Jase Barnes is holding my hand, and he’s pulling it, very, very gently, but enough so that I find myself taking a little step toward him.

I have to say something. I don’t know why, but I do. Because if I don’t say something, he won’t either, and what might happen then, in the silence, is too much for me right now. I’m scared he’ll kiss me, and I’m not ready. Not yet.

“The film was great,” I say brightly, as if we haven’t said already how much we liked it.

“Which was better, the film or the bike ride?” he asks.

I don’t even need to think about that one.

“Oh, definitely the bike ride. Definitely.”

Jase’s face softens into the most beautiful smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I loved it,” I confess. “It was so cool. I’ve always wanted to go on a motorbike.”

“It’s a great way to get around if you’re in the countryside. But my family wouldn’t let me have one, not for ages. My gran got completely wound up whenever I mentioned it. I saved and saved and finally I got one when I was eighteen. But she’s still not happy about it.”

“Was it worth the wait?” I say, almost at random.

“Of course!” He grins. “First time I went out for a spin I couldn’t stop smiling all day. Literally. I looked like a clown. My gran kept telling me I’d catch flies in my mouth if I wasn’t careful.”

I giggle at the image.

“You were pretty good, considering it was your first time,” he adds.

“Really?” God, I have to stop saying that. I sound like a moron. But I’m so overwhelmed by being so close to him that it’s hard for me to get any words out at all, let alone a whole sentence. And I’m still struggling with the thought that maybe I should say goodbye now, and go, before things get more intense than this.

“Yeah,” Jase confirms. “You didn’t scream or tell me to go slower. And you leaned out really well.”

His hand gently squeezes mine, and I melt a little.

We’ve come onto the grounds of Wakefield Hall through the back gate, up the service road. Jase has parked behind his family’s cottage, where the Barnes family have lived for generations. Lights gleam through a few chinks in the curtains, allowing streaks of golden light through the windows. Beyond the cottage looms the big bulk of Wakefield Hall, the main building obscured from this angle by the modern block, and even the strip lighting in the corridors is far enough away, and gently blurred by the settling night mist, to seem cozy and inviting—light in the darkness, warmth in the cold.

It’s completely silent, apart from our breathing and the creak of Jase’s leather jacket. It’s cold out here, but I warm up when I think about how everyone else is inside, either studying or waiting for dinner.

I’m the only girl in this whole school standing outside in the dark with a boy whose gloved hand is clasped around mine.

I shiver for so many reasons I couldn’t list them all, not if you sat me down with a paper and pen right now and made me.

Jase and I are even closer now, because he’s taken a step toward me, and I can feel his breath on my forehead, the leather of his jacket brushing against the front of my body.

And then I do it. I look up. Knowing what will happen if I do.

His breath is on my face now. There’s a soft waft of menthol, and I think, Not fair! When did he have a mint? but I’d look a bit silly complaining about it. The next thing I know is that his lips are on mine, and I can’t think any more.

I’m so glad I wore my boots with the three-inch heels, even though I thought they might make it hard getting on and off the bike. But I must have been secretly hoping for this, I must have thought that if Jase did kiss me, and I was in trainers, I would be so much shorter than him, and it would be awkward  .  .  . whereas now, though my neck is craning up a bit, I can reach up and put my arms round his neck, pulling him even closer, feeling his body down the whole length of mine. He catches his breath and bites down on my lip and really pushes himself against me now so I almost stumble, and I find myself catching at him, hooking my foot against his leg so I don’t fall, and somehow he’s holding me even tighter, I can hardly breathe, but I don’t care, it’s like I’m breathing his breath instead of my own.  .  .  .

Jase loosens one hand from the small of my back and pushes my hair back from my face. The leather of his glove against my skin is really sexy for some reason, I don’t know why, and I catch my breath and notice that I’m tilting my head, pushing it into his hand like a cat does when you stroke it. He pulls his hand away, and I freeze, thinking I’ve done something wrong.

I’m still so new at this, so inexperienced, and I’m scared it just showed. Was that too much?

Jase is stripping off his glove with his teeth, not wanting to take his other hand from its firm hold on my back. I flush with pleasure as his hand, bare now, reaches back to my head, pushing back my hair, tangling in it, stroking it down, playing with it as he bends to kiss me again. I find myself going up on tiptoes to meet his mouth faster, not wanting to wait even that split second before his lips meet mine. I loved the feel of the leather glove, but his bare hand is so warm as it wraps around my head. It’s so wonderful to feel the contact of skin on skin that I realize I want more of it. I pull my gloves off behind his head, one by one, and drop them to the ground, not even caring where they land. Now I can run my palms over his head, the warm soft skin of his neck, sliding my fingers down as best I can to feel the edge of his sweater, sliding them underneath.

His hands drop to my waist, feeling under my jacket, pulling up my sweater, my T-shirt, touching my bare back, and I gasp and jump because of the simultaneous shock of the cold air on my skin and the heat of his hands.

He misunderstands, and pulls back a bit so he can look down at me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Too much?”

“No  .  .  . yes  .  .  .”

I don’t know what to say. My head’s spinning. I can’t get any words out at all. I want to pull him close and kiss him

again, feel his hands on the small of my back, twine myself around him. But at the same time  .  .  . I want to run away. I’m really confused by my own feelings.

To my horror, I suddenly find myself remembering my kiss with Dan. It’s the last thing I wanted to pop into my mind right now, yet I can’t help it. I know it was six months ago, but I don’t remember Dan being this smooth, this good at kissing. Jase is making everything seem so easy. I want him to touch my bare skin, it seems so natural and right. And I don’t remember having that feeling with Dan—but then, Dan and I were only kissing for such a short time, we hardly knew each other at all. Whereas Jase and I have been talking on and off for a while, making each other laugh, building a sort of connection, sitting pressed against each other on his motorbike.  .  .  .

I’ve tensed up because my brain is insisting on making a series of awful comparisons between Dan and Jase, like a computer running a program that overrides everything else and won’t stop, no matter how many buttons you press. Jase misunderstands my sudden tension. He tugs at the hems of my T-shirt and sweater so they fall back down, covering my back again. He rubs my back through the fabric, brisk strokes, not sexy now, and, despite the fact that I know he thinks I’ve stiffened up from the cold, not a past memory of a dead boy, I’m so grateful for his consideration that I could burst into tears. He’s not being pushy; he’s respecting my feelings, even though he’s read them wrong.

The memories of Dan mercifully start to fade. My body relaxes in Jase’s arms as my brain comes back to the present.

He’s looking down at me, concern in his eyes.

“Warmer?” he says. “Sorry, it’s really chilly out here for October.”

“Yeah,” I manage.

I look up, meeting his eyes, and at the sight of him a smile breaks across my face. No, not a smile. An idiotic smirk. I know if I saw myself in a mirror right now I would die of embarrassment. I duck my head so he can’t see how stupid I look.

“It’s okay,” Jase says, leaning down. He whispers in my ear: “Scarlett? I’m happy too.”

My arms tighten around his neck, and my head tucks into his shoulder as we hug. For a moment I feel really safe, enfolded in his arms. Ick, that sounds like something out of a romance novel.

A bell rings in the distance.

“Is that for you?” Jase asks into my hair.

I giggle.

“Yes, it’s the special ring my grandmother does for me. She goes up to the bell tower and rings it herself.”

“Cheeky!” He tickles my ribs. “You know what I mean.”

I sigh. “Yes,” I say, reluctantly pulling away from his warmth. I look up at him. “It’s the dinner bell, I have to go.”

“That bloody bell,” Jase says, though with amusement rather than anger.

“I suppose you’ve got school all week?”

I nod. “But half-term starts on Friday,” I inform him. “I won’t be so busy then.”

“Cool. D’you have a mobile?”

“Of course I have one,” I say, a bit insulted. How sheltered does he think I am?

He pulls out his phone and I give him my number.

“I’ll text you,” he says, “and then you’ll have mine.” He clears his throat. “You could even send me a text back to say you got it.”

“I think I could manage that,” I say flirtily.

Wow. That came out just right. I know it did, because he gives me a sexy grin and says:

“Don’t strain yourself, will you?” in a really nice, jokey way, and I come back with:

“I’ll be careful. You know how delicate I am.”

That makes Jase burst out laughing—he’s seen me doing gymnastics on the Great Lawn and knows that if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s delicate.

And then we both jump, because the door of the Barnes house swings open so fast that it slams against the wall outside, and a man’s voice yells:

“Jason! That you?”

The laughter drains from Jase’s face so fast I don’t even see it go.

“Yeah, Dad,” he calls back, in a flat voice. “Just coming in.”

Jase’s father appears at the front door. With the light behind him, it’s hard to see him clearly, but he’s a stocky shape, with big burly shoulders, and I’d never have guessed he was Jase’s dad from seeing his silhouette—though Jase has nice muscly shoulders, he’s much longer and leaner.

“Well, don’t lurk round outside, will you?” his dad yells, and I’m very taken aback to notice that his fists are clenched at his sides. His whole stance is menacing, and I just don’t understand why. What are Jase and I doing that’s so wrong? Why would it make him this angry?

Because he really is angry. He ducks his head forward, as if he’s glaring at us, and involuntarily, I find myself flinching back.

“We weren’t lurking, Dad,” Jase protests.

“Oh yes, you were. You want to watch that! I’m likely to think you’re a pikey and fire off a couple of shots at you and whatever little tart you’ve got out there with you.”

“Dad!”

“You heard me!”

Mr. Barnes reaches out to grab the door handle, and as he does I can see him momentarily in the light from inside the room. He’s red-faced, with short gray curly hair, and a nose that looks stubby and swollen. His eyes are small and sunk in pouches of flesh: he’s not really fat, but he looks unhealthy, and a bit like a pig. An angry pig. I can’t see any resemblance to Jase at all. Grunting with the effort, he stamps back inside, pulling the door shut behind him with a slam that makes its hinges squeak in protest.

I gape at Jase, shocked by what I’ve heard. He doesn’t meet my eyes, though, and it’s awkward. We stand in silence for a while. I’m expecting him to say something, explain away his dad’s foul temper, but he doesn’t.

At last, because I can’t bear the silence any longer, I ask:

“What’s a pikey?”

“Like a gypsy,” Jase mutters. “It’s a word they use round here. We’re not keen on them. Well, Dad isn’t. He hates pikeys.”

I clear my throat. “Does your dad have a gun?”

“A shotgun, yeah. For scaring crows. Dad’s just joking about using it on people,” he adds defensively.

But I don’t think he was. And neither, I can tell, does Jase.

“I’m sorry about  .  .  . ,” he starts, but he trails off.

I know he’s talking about his dad calling me a little tart.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, ducking down to grab my gloves. “I should dash, I’m really late for dinner already.”

He looks very grateful.

“I’ll text you, yeah?” he says.

“Cool.”

Thank God I have to run off for dinner roll call. I sense that Jase wants me gone as soon as possible, and I understand why. I run off down the path that leads to the dining hall, still shocked by what just happened. Jase’s dad is horrible. It must be so nasty for Jase. I think of him having to go into that house now for his own dinner, and the picture that calls up is awful. I hope at least his mum is nice, but it must be awful for her too, married to a man who’s such a bully, who’d shout incredibly rude things at people he doesn’t even know who haven’t done anything bad to him. And talking to Jase like that in front of me! That was horrible of him.

There’s nothing good about being an orphan. Nothing. But sometimes, you meet a parent who’s so unpleasant that for just a little while, you can’t help thinking that being an orphan might not be the worst fate in the world after all.