Toward a Secret Sky Read online

  As if disengaging invisible powers, a young man emerged from the woods. I had been staring in that exact spot and didn’t see him until he came crashing toward me. He wore a rough-looking kilt of green-and-brown plaid. The pattern clearly did a perfect job of camouflaging its wearer.

  Even though I knew the boys back home would mercilessly call it a “skirt,” there was nothing girlish about Scottish kilts, especially this one. Its ragged edges fell across his tanned knees in a way that was more masculine than any pair of jeans. His hands were as rough as his clothing, but he gave the overall impression that he could take care of . . . anything.

  As he got closer, his eyes flared for just a second as if he recognized me, but then the look passed. I desperately wished I did know him.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered, taken aback by how beautiful he was. I’d never thought that word, beautiful, about a boy, but it popped into my head instantly, and in this case, it definitely applied. He was the most breathtaking guy I had ever seen, and—thank you, God!—seemed to be about my age. His wavy, chestnut-colored hair fell over his forehead, but not enough to hide his dark blue eyes. He was tall and broad shouldered, but had a thin waist. He carried his bulging frame like he was wearing football shoulder pads, but I could see from where his white tunic shirt hung open at his chest that he was all bare skin and muscle.

  “You should be,” he answered. His accent was thicker than anyone else’s I had heard in Scotland, but I had no trouble understanding him. In fact, the way he spoke, his particular cadence and rhythm, seemed to suck the breath out of me. He was literally making me dizzy.

  I’d never gotten dizzy over a boy, and I certainly wasn’t going to start with a baby deer killer. I had to pull myself together.

  “Well, come to think of it, I’m not sorry,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t crack. “That’s my deer you were trying to murder.”

  “Your deer?” He cocked his head. “Is that right?” One corner of his mouth rose in a half smirk, and I wasn’t sure, but I think he winked at me.

  “Yes, it is,” I answered. “My deer. My baby deer. I came out here with the specific purpose to find her and make sure no one harmed her—like you were about to!”

  He crossed over to the tree, and pulled the arrow out of the bark as easily as if it were attached by Velcro, not lodged three inches deep. Despite my best effort, I was impressed by his strength.

  “Well, seeing as this is my forest, you’re going to have to come back every day if you want to save that doe, because I intend to kill her.” He looked so intently, directly into my eyes, that even though he said “kill her,” I was sure I heard “kiss her” in my head. For one insane second, I didn’t know if he was talking about me or the deer.

  In the ultimate act of betrayal, my knees buckled, and I tumbled to the ground. I blinked, and he was instantly standing over me. His entire face blocked out the sun, so that when I looked up, he had a golden halo of light around him.

  “Are you a’right?” he asked, looking at me with such earnest concern, it almost made me cry. His voice made me feel like no one in the world had ever cared for me so much. It was unnerving.

  “I’m fine,” I said, completely mortified. Before I could jump up on my own, he extended his hand to help me. Instinctively, I took it. Touching his hand as he pulled me up sent a small shockwave through my body—a warm electricity that didn’t fade away even when he let go. I brushed the leaves off the back of my jeans.

  “That’s good,” he answered. “Because I’ve no time to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  “I’m not a damsel in distress,” I argued, slightly irritated at the label. “I just tripped on something.”

  He took a few steps back, shouldering his giant bow. “Are you sure? ’Cause from where I’m standing, it kind of looks like you fainted.” His teasing mixed with his gorgeousness tormented me.

  “I didn’t faint,” I said, probably too quickly. “I’ve never fainted in my life. I don’t faint.”

  “If you say so,” he said. He turned as if he was going to walk away. My heart sank. I had to stop him.

  “I’m Maren,” I blurted out. It worked. He looked back over his shoulder with a dazzling smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Maren,” he answered. “I’m Gavin.”

  When he said my name, I got the same glorious drop in the pit of my stomach as I did when I drove too fast over a small hill. I searched my brain for something else to say to keep him around a little longer.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked lamely. I was desperate for him not to leave. I didn’t know why, but there was something about him. Something that pulled me to him. Something I wasn’t ready to let go of.

  “Aye,” he answered.

  “Where?” I pressed, realizing a specific answer would mean nothing to me since I didn’t know the local area, but not caring as long as he kept talking in his amazing accent.

  “Across the way,” he answered. He leaned against a tree, folded his arms across his chest, and waited. It was maddening, his short answers and long silence. I studied my shoes. He’d effectively killed my attempt at a conversation. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that wasn’t completely idiotic.

  “Is that it?” He raised his eyebrows, and his brilliant blue eyes danced a bit. He was enjoying my frustration.

  “Is what it?”

  “Are you done interrogating me?”

  A new heat—anger—washed over me. I was furious he was having an effect on me that I couldn’t control. And now he was making fun of me for it. “I’m not interrogating you,” I shot back. “I was just making polite conversation.”

  “Asking where a perfect stranger lives is polite conversation?”

  “It’s . . . I’m new here, and I just wondered . . . I thought maybe you were a neighbor or something,” I stuttered.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to know?” he asked. “My height? My hobbies? What I ate for breakfast?” He smiled, and I swore I saw him wink again. My ears prickled.

  “No, I’m good.” I tried in vain to sound casual.

  “Well, you best be getting home then,” he said. “It’s not safe out here after dark.” Almost as if he willed it, the sun went behind a cloud, and mist seemed to roll in from nowhere.

  “Why?” I asked.

  A piercing cry echoed through the forest, as if a bird had been struck down from the sky midflight. It reminded me of the inhuman scream at my mother’s funeral. A cold wind blew around inside of me. I stroked my arms to dissipate it.

  Gavin stiffened and raised his head, like an animal sensing a predator . . . or a predator catching a whiff of his prey.

  “I have to go,” he said, ignoring my question. “Can you find your way out?”

  “Yes,” I said. The woods did suddenly look a hundred times creepier, but I was pretty sure I could get home. And after hearing that sound, I wanted to.

  He didn’t look so convinced. His face was tense, as if he was torn about something. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s no problem. I never get lost,” I lied.

  “Like you never faint?” His entire face lit up when he teased me. It was mesmerizing. I blushed. He took a step toward me and leaned in so close, I could feel his warm breath on my lips. “Promise me you’ll go straight home?”

  I nodded ever so slightly, afraid the tiniest movement would break the spell and he would move away from me.

  “You have to say it, or I can’t leave,” he breathed.

  A sweet warmth flooded my entire body. I fought the completely irrational urge to throw my arms around his neck and rest my head on his chest.

  “I promise,” I gulped.

  “Thank you, love.” He grinned like he had just won a prize.

  My heart leapt at the tiny, affectionate nickname. Anything that came out of his mouth, however short, sounded like poetry.

  Love. I was looking at this strange—although incredibly handsome—boy and thinking about love. How was that
even possible? I had never been in love before. I’d never even been in deep like. But my heart was jumping around inside my chest and sending my brain definite love signals. Is this what people meant by “love at first sight”? I’d never believed in that, but I’d also never met anyone like Gavin . . .

  Get a grip, I chastised myself. This isn’t love. I’m just attracted to him—a pure, physical, completely understandable attraction. Why wouldn’t I be? His eyes, his lips, his chest . . .

  I shook my head. What was going on with me? I never had thoughts like this. He had me completely transfixed.

  “Go on then,” he said, breaking me out of my reverie. He wasn’t going to leave until he was sure I was safely on my way.

  “Okay.” I smiled weakly, and started walking back the way I’d come.

  “Faster,” he commanded.

  Dutifully, I picked up the pace a bit. After a hundred feet, I looked back. He was still standing there, watching me go. I had always been uncomfortable when people were looking at me, especially boys. But for some reason, I felt wonderful knowing Gavin was watching me. It gave me a thrill and made me feel safe.

  As I turned away and headed toward my grandparents’ house, I prayed he wasn’t just a dream.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next afternoon, I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to figure out how not to eat the “chip butty” fries-and-butter sandwich my grandmother had made me for lunch. No one spoke. My grandparents read their books as they ate, while I mentally filled in the daily paper’s crossword puzzle. There was no point in getting a pen; it was too easy.

  A rap on the screen door broke the silence.

  “Oh, Maren dear, I forgot to tell you, you’re getting a visitor today,” my grandmother said.

  I barely had time to check my face for crumbs and stand up before Jo walked into the kitchen.

  “Hi!” she chirped. “We met at Tesco, remember? I’m Jo Dougall. I live down the road, and your grandmother thought I could help you get settled at Kingussie.” I stared at her blankly. “The high school . . .?”

  “Oh, hi,” I answered. I held out my hand, and she used it to pull me into a big hug. I was surprised when she kissed me on the cheek. British greetings were so . . . friendly.

  “You already met? I knew you’d make friends quickly, Maren,” my grandmother said, proving she didn’t know me at all. “Why don’t you take Jo upstairs and pick out an outfit for tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow? So Jo was right; my grandmother was going to send me back to school.

  “Of course, Mrs. Hamilton,” Jo said, still holding my arm.

  Jo talked nonstop from the kitchen all the way up to my room. And she talked fast—really fast.

  “I’m so excited you’ve come!” Jo said, flopping onto my bed. “We hardly ever get anyone new at Kingussie. And certainly no one as foreign as you!”

  “Um, thanks,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t take it the wrong way,” she gasped. “Foreign is amazing. Foreign is so not Scotland. Foreign is bigger, better, and far, far away!” She fell back against the pillows, as if she had exhausted herself.

  She didn’t stay down long, however, springing off the bed in an acrobatically unbelievable way. She was rather exhausting to watch, since, along with talking a mile a minute, she seemed in perpetual motion. She would be talking, and then, midsentence, fall away into a backbend, throw her legs over her head, and pop up again in front of you without missing a syllable. I wondered if her bones were elastic.

  “So what kind of classes do you take here?” I asked.

  “The usual,” she said. “Science, maths, modern languages . . .”

  “Modern?” I interrupted. “As opposed to ancient?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “I’m sure they won’t make you take Gaelic right away, but if you need help, I’m great at it.”

  “Gaelic? Seriously?” I asked. She nodded again. “What else?”

  “Um . . . Music, Writing, and Rural Skills. I think that’s it.”

  “Rural Skills?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s great fun. We put on our Wellies and raincoats and learn how to build stone walls and repair fences . . .”

  “Now you’re just making fun of me,” I said. “There is no way fence building is an actual school subject here.”

  “No, it is, I swear.” Jo peered at me with big eyes that said she wouldn’t dream of making fun of anyone, let alone me.

  “What are Wellies?” I asked.

  “Tall boots for walking in the rain. Wellington boots.”

  As if on cue, it started to pour outside.

  “Yeah, I can see needing those,” I said.

  Jo and I talked for two hours. Well, mostly she talked and I listened. We discovered we had more than a gravel street and the same grade in common: we were both missing parents.

  When she was seven, Jo’s dad ran off with her babysitter and left a tsunami of scandal behind. Her family was left with no money, so her older brothers went to work on the oil rigs in the North Sea, Jo got an afterschool position at Tesco as soon as she was old enough, and her mom took the only job she was qualified for: a cocktail waitress in a touristy restaurant. The locals saw the Highland maiden costume she had to wear as less than appropriate for a woman “her age.”

  I thought I was a loner, and kind of a loser living with my grandparents, but Jo was apparently an actual outcast.

  “After my dad ditched, my friends weren’t allowed to come to my house anymore. I guess their parents figured we were a bad influence or something. It’s rubbish, is what it is, but I don’t really care. The girls I used to hang out with are all jerks now, anyway.” She beamed as if she’d just told me she was named prom queen.

  “Don’t take offense,” I said, “but why are you so happy?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just wired this way, I guess.”

  I wished I was wired that way, for happiness. Instead, I seemed to have been born cursed. No parents, no friends, and no sleep. And since I’d found my mom’s letter to me, no peace. I jumped at every little thing: every branch that scraped the roof, every creak in the steps. I was waiting for someone or something to attack me for having the journal, but I didn’t know who, what, where, or why. I didn’t even know if the warning was serious or some kind of sick joke. My mom didn’t have that kind of humor, and she definitely didn’t joke about death—probably because of my dad—but none of it made sense. No one was ever after her or us. Why would they be?

  “So, do you have a boyfriend?” Jo interrupted my thoughts.

  “Nope. Are there any cute guys at Kingussie?” I asked, hoping she might say something about Gavin. My heartbeat quickened as I realized seeing him every day would be more than enough reason to go back to school.

  “Cute to me, or to everyone else?” She smiled.

  “Both,” I answered.

  “Well, there’s Stuart . . .” A slight blush spread across her cheeks.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  She sighed. “I wish. We’ve been friends since third grade, but that’s it.”

  “What’s he like?” I pressed.

  “He’s really tall, not too skinny, he has dark red hair, and I don’t know . . . he’s just . . . he’s just great.” She fiddled with a small ring on her hand. “He’s not really popular, but since he’s so tall, the other guys leave him alone. I guess you can’t really bully a guy who’s so much taller than you, right?”

  “Who would bully him?” I asked, praying she didn’t suddenly mention Gavin.

  “Anders and his crew. They pretty much rule the place.”

  “What about Gavin?” I asked, unable to keep it in one more second. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d been trying to figure out how to find him again, and the best I’d come up with was camping out in the woods and hoping not to get shot by him.

  “You mean the First Year in the wheelchair?”

  “A First Year, like a freshman?” I asked. “I don’t think he’s that young
. And he wasn’t in a wheelchair when I met him.” The details of my forest encounter came spilling out.

  “There’s only one Gavin at Kingussie,” she said wistfully, “and he’s certainly not the guy you met.”

  “Maybe he already graduated,” I offered.

  “Could be,” she said. “Gavin’s a pretty common name here, and Kingussie’s the only high school for eight towns. I’m sure I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

  Jo continued to tell me about the other things I wouldn’t find at Kingussie: no big football games (unless you counted the soccer matches they called “football” in Britain, which I didn’t), no cheerleading, no Homecoming, or Prom. They did have a year-end “KAY-lee” (spelled cèiligh for some insane reason) that she described as a “cool square dance” where everyone wore their kilts, but how a square dance could possibly be cool was beyond me. And I learned that even though Kingussie High was a public school, everyone had to wear a uniform.

  I hated the idea at first, until I realized it would probably be a lot easier to blend in if I wasn’t immediately judged for my Midwest fashions.

  It turned out the wrong clothes were the least of my problems at school. I apparently had the wrong everything else.

  CHAPTER 6

  I stopped outside my new high school and studied it for a minute, even though Jo was pulling my arm and practically dancing to get inside.

  “Come on!” she said. “We’ll be late!”

  “I know, I know,” I answered. “I just want a good look at it before I go in to the slaughter.”

  I am not exaggerating at all when I say Kingussie could have been a prison. Or an old, abandoned factory. If it weren’t for the “Kingussie High School” wooden sign mounted outside in a weird little wishing well, you could never tell the difference. Unlike American high schools, there was no welcoming front entrance—no covered walkway or grassy area or steps or anything—just two dull, crimson metal doors on the front of the flat, gray-brick building.

  As we passed through the doors, I noticed plastic flowerpots hanging from a hook on either side of the door, but instead of bringing cheer or comfort, they only served to scare me more. The plants inside were prickly and dead, and as they swung in the wind, the chains creaked as if saying, “Run away. Run away.”