Cathy Cassidy

Scarlett

'Hello?' I say.
  'Scarlett! Where are you?'
  'Hi, Mum,' I reply. 'Nice to speak to you too.'
  'Scarlett, don't get clever with me,' she snaps. 'Your dad's just been on the phone. What d'you think you're playing at?'
  I sit down on a tree stump, cradling the phone. 'I'm not playing, Mum,' I tell her. 'I'm coming home.'
  'Scarlett, that just isn't on,' Mum says. 'We agreed this was the best solution, and you won't even give it a fair trial!'
  We agreed?
  'I've sent you six text messages,' I tell her. 'And a picture, today. How come you only reply when Dad calls you?'
  'I had an important presentation yesterday, and then dinner with the clients,' Mum says icily. 'I'd have called tonight, obviously.'
  'Well, thanks,' I quip. 'It's great you can fit me into your busy schedule.'
  I can hear Mum fizzing with anger. 'Actually, Scarlett, I was in the middle of a meeting when your dad called. I could do without having to deal with this kind of stunt on your very first full day in Ireland. You can't just walk out of school!'
  'I did,' I point out. 'It'll save them the trouble of expelling me.'
  'You're going back,' Mum says.
  'I'm coming home,' I reply. 'Please, Mum. I hate it here. Nobody wants me. It's a dump. Don't make me stay.'
  'Scarlett, don't be ridiculous. Where are you exactly?' Mum asks. 'Are you still in Kilimoor? Chris is out of his mind with worry. Promise me you'll stay put. Just stay still, wait for Chris. He'll sort things out.'
  'Mum?' the word comes out kind of mangled. I close my eyes, press my fist against my mouth.
  'Scarlett?' she says shrilly. 'Are you still there? Listen to me. It's time you stopped acting like a kid with a tantrum and started to make the best of things. Just grow up and get on with it.'
  I snap the phone shut, run down to the water's edge and throw the mobile in one perfect, curving arc right out into the lough. It glints silver as it breaks the surface with a splash, then sinks without trace.
  I turn away, furious, marching along the shore, but within minutes I trip, scrambling over a knot of gnarled tree roots, falling heavily. I've torn one of the ribbon ties on my sandal, and a hot, burning pain shoots through my left ankle. My eyes prickle with tears of anger, but I won't cry. I never cry - not since Dad left, anyhow. It'd be like letting him see how much he hurt me. Crying is for kids. I scream instead, a bloodcurdling yell that startles the birds and shakes the treetops before tailing off to a whimper.
  I pull off my wedge heels and fling them away into the trees ahead of me, because they've ripped my feet to shreds and I don't care if I never see them again as long as I live.
  I hobble along the shoreline, my black tights all ripped and holed, but I can't put any weight on my twisted ankle and I have to give up. There's a tree up ahead, a little twisty tree with soft green leaves that sits at the head of the lough. A bubble of water trickles through its bony roots, and little flashes of red peep through the leaves as I approach. Scarves and rags are tied into its branches, like ribbons in a little girl's hair. Weird.
  I blink. Up in the foliage, one of my red and pink wedge sandals hangs, dangling from a tangled loop of ribbon. I sit down, leaning my back against the trunk, letting the icy water run over my toes, looking out across the lough.
  My ankle is hurting like crazy, and now I can see it's swollen too. Perfect. I close my eyes, wondering how I have managed to make such a mess of my life. If it's all about choices, I guess I just pick the wrong ones, time after time after time.
  The light is fading, streaking the sky with ice-cream colours - vanilla, strawberry, raspberry ripple. If I'm not careful, I'll be spending the night here, burrowing down into the dry leaves, resting my head on a fallen branch. It doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
  If this was a kid's fairy tale, birds and dormice would fetch me magical blankets woven from spider's web silk or velvet moss, because it's getting chilly now. I wouldn't be sitting alone by a deserted lough in the middle of nowhere, hacked off, clueless, hungry, cold. I'd have met wolves and woodcutters, witches and dwarves and handsome princes to make my dreams come true.
  Yeah, right. Even the birds and the dormice are staying out of my way.
  I wish I didn't feel so alone.
  Suddenly, on the edge of my vision where the shoreline curves round towards a distant rocky headland, something is moving. I can't see clearly at first, because of the fading light and the soft pink glow of the sunset, but then my eyes stretch wide with disbelief.
  The horse comes out of the sunset, galloping along the edge of the lough like something from a dream. I can hear the thud of its hooves on damp mud, see the water splash out around it. It's a stocky black horse with a flash of white at its forehead, hooves feathered with cream-coloured hair that's damp and crimped from the lough. It slows as it turns from the water's edge and comes towards me, shaking its head and blowing hot air through flaring nostrils.
  The rider looks down at me, his dark eyes shining, black hair flopping across his face. His T-shirt is faded and worn, his jeans are frayed and one brown hand is twisted into the horse's mane.
  'I've been looking for you,' he says.

Scarlett © Cathy Cassidy, 2006. Published by Puffin Books.