Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me Read Free Page B

“Well, I suppose I could, just for a bit.”
    “Great!” Nadia says, sounding genuinely pleased.
    I don’t believe any of this is happening. It can’t be me who’s bending to the bench to pick up my bag; who’s managing to avoid making eye contact with Luce and Alison, because I know the fury and betrayal I’ll see if I catch their eyes. It can’t be me who’s turning to Nadia, throwing a casual “See you tomorrow” over my shoulder at the girls, ignoring their deafening silence. It can’t be me crossing the road, walking side by side with Nadia Farouk, Plum’s number-one sidekick, heading for the fountain.
    But it is me betraying my friends, selling them out, leaving them behind the second something more glossy and shiny beckons. Ninety-nine percent of me is fizzing with excitement when I allow myself to think that the golden doors are really opening to me, that I can at last be part of the world I’ve always wanted to join.
    But the last one percent is saying: Someone who would do this deserves everything she gets.
    No prizes for guessing which part of me was right.

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