Toward a Secret Sky Read online

  There were less than three hundred fifty students in the whole school, so of course, everyone knew everyone. As I walked down the hall with Jo, I felt the stares as keenly as if I was an alien from another planet. Sure, I was new, but in my uniform, what made me stand out so much that people were looking me up and down and whispering?

  I didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  As Jo helped me open my locker, three girls walked up to us. The one in the middle grabbed my hand and held it in both of hers.

  “Jo,” she cooed. “Who is this lovely creature? Introduce us!”

  “This is Maren,” Jo answered. “Maren, this is Elsie.” I could tell by Jo’s flat tone that Elsie was not her favorite person. I’d have to remember to cheer her up later by letting her know “Elsie” was mainly a name for cows in America.

  “Lovely to meet you,” Elsie said, smiling entirely too widely.

  “Hi,” I replied, consciously trying to keep my answer as short as possible to hide my “foreign” accent.

  Elsie suddenly let go of my hand, which I wasn’t expecting, and my arm fell clumsily against my leg. It was the perfect gesture, though, to accompany Elsie’s line of sight, since she was now looking at my shoes.

  “Nice shoes. Good tights. Well done, Jo. You got her properly outfitted,” Elsie said. I was actually wearing Jo’s tights and an extra pair of her shoes, and mentally thanked her for saving me from a foot mocking.

  Elsie continued her inspection, opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. Instead, she reached for my neck with both of her hands. Instinctively, I jerked back, and bashed my head against the lockers.

  “Sorry to startle you, Dewdrop,” Elsie said. “I was only trying to fix your tie. While Jo might insist upon wearing hers like a nob, we want you to be posh.” As she talked, she undid the perfectly looped, thin, orange-and-black-striped tie around my neck and retied it with a big, sloppy, loose knot. I was glad my mother’s necklace was hidden under my blouse, tucked away from scrutiny. “There,” she sighed. “Much better.” Her own tie was fashioned the same way, so at least she wasn’t setting me up to be made fun of . . . at least I thought so. “So, what’s with your hair?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I replied, realizing I was twisting a lock of it in my fingers. Thankfully, I no longer chewed on my hair when I was nervous, like I did until junior high.

  “It’s pretty,” Elsie said. “But it’s just so . . . big. And so . . . styled. Why do you do it like that?”

  Styled? Who knew crazy and naturally curly was a style? I stepped away from the lockers, scanned the crowd, and realized all the girls had the same hairdo: straight, or wavy at best, mostly short, and cut very sensibly.

  “Um, my hair’s just always been like this,” I answered.

  “No way,” Elsie replied, still sounding nice despite her actual words. “No one has hair like that, except on the television. That’s it, isn’t it? All the magazines say you Americans get your hair cut like the celebs. Is it true?”

  “No. I mean, I guess I know people who get their hair cut like a celebrity they like. But I don’t.”

  “Oh, rubbish, you all do,” she continued. “You’ve got movie star hair! Nobody walks around with movie star hair for no reason.” She addressed her posse. “I’ve heard they splash out a fortune in the salons over there.”

  “They splash out on more than just their hair,” a male voice breathed into the back of my neck.

  “What are you getting on about, Anders?” Elsie said with not a small amount of jealousy.

  I swung around to find the infamous Anders, popular but mean according to Jo, standing far too close to me. He had light blue eyes, bleached-blond hair, and was apparently spoken for. Yet he kept speaking to me.

  “So, are they?” he asked. He smirked with the confidence of someone who knew he was handsome. I hated guys like that. Especially when it was true. Anders was pretty gorgeous.

  “Are they what?” I asked, wanting to take a step away from him, but standing my ground because everyone was watching.

  He either didn’t notice my discomfort or didn’t care, because he leaned in, his lips brushing against my cheek when he spoke. I had never been so near to a boy’s mouth, and I got goose bumps all over my body.

  “Real,” he exhaled. “Are they real?”

  I held my breath. “Wh-what?” I managed to stutter.

  “Your diddies,” he whispered.

  “My what?”

  Suddenly, Anders was shoved from the side, away from me.

  “Leave her alone, you nugget!” A tall, thin guy was now standing between us. Stuart.

  Anders made as innocent a face as he could muster. “I was only askin’,” he said. “It’s a perfectly natural question. I mean, look at them, they’re huge!”

  I realized that Anders had been talking about—well, talking to—my breasts, and my entire face got so hot, I worried it might catch fire.

  “You’re so rude,” Stuart continued. Stuart was a good seven inches taller than Anders, and Anders took a step back. “Don’t you know how to talk to a lady? I thought you were a baron or something.”

  “Lord,” Anders spat out. “I’m a lord. And I would definitely know how to talk to a lady . . . if I saw one. But all I see here are girls. Wee girls, although some of ’em are a bit bigger than—”

  Stuart gave Anders another shove, causing him to swallow the end of his sentence. Anders stumbled, recovered, and then started down the hall. After a couple of steps, he stopped, turned around completely composed, smiled, and said, “Come now,” and held out his arm. To my amazement, Elsie grabbed it. She and the other girls left with him.

  “You’re mental!” Jo slapped playfully at Stuart. She turned to me. “‘Mental’ means ‘tough,’ by the way.”

  Good to know, I thought. Although the American meaning would work just as well for these Scottish boys.

  “If he’s such a jerk, why do girls like him?” I asked.

  “Because he’s rich,” Stuart answered. “Most girls would love to be his girlfriend, because they know if he married them someday, they’d pretty much be royalty.”

  “Who cares about being rich?” I asked. “I mean, I wish I had tons of money, but I would never marry a creep for his.”

  “You have no idea how rich Anders Campbell is,” Jo said. “He’s not sports-car-and-mansion rich, he’s castle-and-landed-title rich. Not that I’m into that, either,” she added, shooting a worried look at Stuart. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “What does that mean, ‘landed-title rich’?” I asked.

  “His family is one of the most powerful in the Highlands,” Stuart explained. “Up until just a few years ago, we all paid taxes to them.”

  “Lies!” I said.

  “No, it’s the truth,” Jo answered.

  Jo and Stuart walked me to the office so I could officially check in. The hallway incident had delayed us, so they had to leave me if they were going to make it to their homeroom before the first bell rang.

  I got my schedule, but no map. “So I start in Room 312?” I asked the woman behind the desk. She wiggled her chins, then turned away to answer the phone.

  I left the office, but as soon as I was out of sight of the doorway, I sagged against the wall. I didn’t want to be the new kid, didn’t want to be the foreign orphan everyone stared at all day. I fought a violent urge to run away.

  “Are you lost?” A guy I hadn’t seen before was striding confidently toward me. He was slender, had reddish-brown hair, and was attractive, but almost in a feminine way. There was something very familiar about him. He reminded me of the British movie stars who are always getting the girl on film, but probably didn’t in real life.

  “Aye,” I answered, mimicking the Scottish affirmation I’d been hearing since I arrived, and immediately regretting it because of how lame it sounded coming from my mouth. “I mean, yes. I’m lost. Sort of hopelessly.”

  “You’re Maren Hamilton,
aren’t you?” he asked.

  “The one and only,” I mumbled.

  He smiled. “Well, I’m Graham Campbell, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Campbell?” Without meaning to, I spit the word out as if it were poison. “Like Anders Campbell?”

  Graham smiled even wider. “I take it that you’ve already met my cousin. And if history serves, you are probably owed an apology for whatever he said to you. Please accept mine.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. Graham was like the gentlemen in Jane Austen novels: sweet and chivalrous. He didn’t look like he could throw a punch, or survive one for that matter, but he oozed charm without even trying. I bet mothers loved him.

  “Is it true what they say about your family?” I asked, unable to resist questioning someone with royal blood. As a little girl who grew up playing princess, I had to admit, I was kind of fascinated by the whole thing. “Are you really all powerful and stuff, and had people pay taxes to you?”

  “Yes, it’s true,” he answered. “Why?”

  “It’s just crazy, that’s all.” I shrugged. “We don’t have that kind of thing in America. It’s like something out of the Middle Ages. Do you have serfs too?” The rude comment slipped out before I could stop it.

  Thankfully, Graham didn’t show the slightest sign of annoyance. “Not so much anymore.” He grinned. “You have to remember, yours is basically an infant country,” he said, somehow without making it sound like an insult. It must be the accent, I decided. Makes everything sound so much more civilized. “America has been around for, what, three hundred years? Britain has been populated for over three thousand. Change comes really slowly here. But change is good, right? I can tell you’re going to mix things up. You’ve got a fire in your belly.” He cocked his head toward me.

  For the second time that morning, a warm flush fell over my body. I drew my notebooks tighter against my stomach, recalling my first nightmare in Scotland, when kissing a hot guy with red hair made my guts spill with blood.

  If only you knew.

  CHAPTER 7

  A few days later, Jo and I were hanging out in downtown Aviemore, if it could even be called that. The main drag was only six blocks long and ended at the Tesco. There wasn’t even a stoplight.

  My grandparents had insisted I stop moping around the house, and to be honest, it was nice to do something besides sit and worry, imagining a million different insane scenarios about my mother’s death and the cursed journal she sent me.

  It was an unusually warm day for Scotland—a whopping 70 degrees—and we were celebrating the sun with ice cream. As much as I wanted a hard scoop of caramel mocha fudge, the only choice in town was vanilla soft serve. The clerk stuck a long piece of waxy, crumbly chocolate in it before she handed me the cone. Jo said that made it “a 99” but couldn’t explain why, since it cost more than 99 pence and it was definitely more than 99 calories.

  “Your grandparents don’t have a dog, do they?” she asked, swirling her chocolate bar through her ice cream.

  “No. Why?”

  “I heard there’s something weird going around. People’s dogs are dying. Like, a lot of them. Stuart’s did just last night.”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s terrible,” I answered. “Is it like a disease?”

  “Sort of. I guess the dogs are going crazy and freaking out and strangling themselves on their collars and stuff.”

  “Is it rabies?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. I just heard that if you have a dog, you’re supposed to keep it inside.”

  “Scary.”

  “I know,” she agreed.

  We sat on a splintered wooden bench and broke off tiny pieces of cone for the round, gray birds at our feet. We watched the small cars whiz by—the three-wheeled ones genuinely freaked me out. And we took turns embracing and then pretending to lick the giant plastic ice cream cone outside the sweet shop. I was taking Jo’s picture with my phone when I saw him.

  Gavin.

  Even though he was wearing a white oxford shirt with jeans and not a kilt, he still somehow looked like he was from another time. There was something otherworldly about him.

  “Jo, look! It’s him!” I whispered, cocking my head across the street. “Gavin. The guy I met in the woods.”

  “He is hot!” she murmured appreciatively.

  “Don’t look!” I scolded.

  “You just told me to!”

  “Well, stop now,” I said. He disappeared into the small, bright blue post office. “So, did you recognize him?” I asked. “Did he go to Kingussie?”

  “Nope,” she said. “I know everyone, and I certainly wouldn’t forget a face like his.”

  “What do you think he’s doing here?” I asked.

  “Visiting? Enjoying the scenery? Tons of tourists pass through here, especially when the weather gets warmer. We even have a seasonal bum, Bertie. Crazy-looking bald guy with a big beard, but totally harmless. Comes up for the summer every year. Sleeps in the woods.”

  “Creepy!” I said, wondering if that was the danger in the forest Gavin had warned me about. “But Gavin said he lived nearby.”

  “Maybe he just moved here.” She shrugged. “It’s rare, but people do that, you know.” She raised her eyebrows to mean me.

  “But why was he hunting with a bow and arrow? Don’t you think that’s weird?” I persisted. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Gavin for more than five minutes since we’d met, and it was driving me crazy. I caught myself actually fantasizing about him, about what it would be like to hold his hand, what it would be like to kiss him . . . ridiculous thoughts only ridiculous girls had. I’d never been that girl. How could this guy I just met have such an effect on me?

  “Not really,” she replied in between licks. “A lot of people hunt that way in the Highlands. It’s sort of old school, I guess. Man, you’re obsessed with this guy.”

  “I am not!” I protested.

  “Really? Prove it. Go buy me a stamp.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re really not into him, then go into the post office and buy a stamp. What’s the problem?” She grinned mischievously.

  “There is no problem,” I answered. “I just don’t need a stamp.”

  “Sure you do,” she said. “Everyone needs stamps.” She gave me a tiny push toward the street. It was all I needed, since I was dying for an excuse to go in and see him. Just once. To prove to myself he wasn’t really that handsome or worth dreaming about. I handed my cone to Jo, and crossed the street armed only with my stamp excuse.

  Inside, the post office was dark. I was temporarily blinded, having gone so quickly from the sunshine to the cool interior. My vision cleared a second too late, and I ran straight into Gavin.

  “I’m sorry,” I gushed.

  “It’s okay,” he mumbled. His face was blank, like he didn’t recognize me, but he was still hyperventilatingly gorgeous.

  Why did I feel such a connection to him? Maybe it was because we were both outsiders; were both new to a town where everyone had a shared history that dated back to their birth.

  “Hi, it’s me . . . Maren,” I stuttered. “We met the other day?”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said coolly. He looked at me, waiting. I couldn’t read anything in his sapphire-colored eyes, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to melt into them.

  “So, I got home safely,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I perked up. “How?” Had he followed me home, secretly watching me?

  “You’re standing in front of me,” he said, slowly, as if I might not understand at normal speed. “Blocking the door,” he added.

  “Oh, sorry.” I slid out of the way. He nodded, and started to walk past me. I couldn’t let him leave so soon. “I’ll see you around?” I called after him.

  “Hopefully not,” he muttered.

  The words hit me like tiny daggers. “What?”

  He stopped, realizing I’d heard him. His shoulders sagged, then he took a
deep breath and spun around. “It’s nothing personal,” he said roughly. “You just need to stay away from me.”

  “I’m not a stalker,” I found myself spitting back. “I can stay away from you just fine.”

  “Good,” he answered. “Then do it.” Even when he was angry, his face was almost too lovely to look at. It radiated with an intensity and energy that took my breath away.

  I was heartbroken our conversation was going so horribly wrong. In my fantasies, he was always wonderful to me. What an idiot I was, thinking a guy like Gavin would like me for even a second. I had to let him know I didn’t like him either.

  “Done. I’m not into the whole bad boy thing anyway,” I lied.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m a ‘bad boy’?” The idea seemed to amuse him.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged, not wanting to inflate his ego any more. “You’re certainly not very nice.”

  He leaned toward me, and his expression was softer. “I’m sorry you think that,” he said quietly. “I’m a good guy, I really am. I just have a bad . . . job. Well, it’s not bad. It’s more . . . dangerous. And the danger sort of rules out the ability to have a girlfriend.” He looked at me as if he might actually consider me girlfriend material. I got a little light-headed.

  “Who said anything about a girlfriend?” I whispered.

  He moved in so close, I thought for a thrilling moment he was going to kiss me. “Please,” he whispered back. “Forget you ever met me.”

  I blinked and he was gone, the door slamming behind him. I peered out the hazy, rectangular windows and spotted Jo. She made a face and shrugged.

  Forget I ever met him. Short of getting a lobotomy, I had exactly zero chance of succeeding at that.

  CHAPTER 8

  The old man had a sweet face, like Santa Claus, with his red cheeks and bushy white beard. His clothes were ragged, though, and dirty. So was his face.