What I Saw

  What I Saw

  BECK NICHOLAS

  www.harlequinteen.com.au

  ALSO BY BECK NICHOLAS

  Fake

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Beck Nicholas always wanted to write. Since studying science at university, she’s worked as a lab assistant, a pizza delivery driver and a high school teacher, but she always pursued her first dream of creating stories. Now, she lives with her family near Adelaide, halfway between the city and the sea, and she’s lucky to spend her days (and nights) writing young adult fiction. Beck’s first book, Fake, was published in 2014 and earned a RITA nomination.

  When she’s not writing, Beck will most likely be found reading or watching sport (since participating is beyond her coordination levels). In the early morning, before the day of writing, kid wrangling and reading begins, she runs. When it’s just her and the road (and her protesting muscles) she lets the characters in her head share their problems and a story begins.

  Find Beck at www.becknicholas.com

  on Facebook at Beck Nicholas Author

  and Twitter @BeckNicholas

  To three of the best people in the world.

  A, J and CB

  Hold this and know that dreams can come true.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Beck Nicholas

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Callie

  Chapter 2: Rhett

  Chapter 3: Callie

  Chapter 4: Rhett

  Chapter 5: Callie

  Chapter 6: Rhett

  Chapter 7: Callie

  Chapter 8: Rhett

  Chapter 9: Callie

  Chapter 10: Rhett

  Chapter 11: Callie

  Chapter 12: Rhett

  Chapter 13: Callie

  Chapter 14: Rhett

  Chapter 15: Callie

  Chapter 16: Rhett

  Chapter 17: Callie

  Chapter 18: Rhett

  Chapter 19: Callie

  Chapter 20: Rhett

  Chapter 21: Callie

  Chapter 22: Rhett

  Chapter 23: Callie

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER

  1

  Callie

  I am having a good time.

  I am having a good time.

  I am having a good time.

  Maybe if I repeat it often enough I might begin to believe it. I’ve just arrived at one of the biggest dances of the school year without a date. My so-called boyfriend didn’t even text to say he’d be late. Thankfully no-one’s commented on Jonny’s absence yet, or me turning up as my best friend Bree’s third wheel. Maybe no-one is looking close enough to care.

  ‘Careful, the cracks are showing,’ Bree murmurs under cover of the music.

  Unsure if she’s referring to my sour expression or my thick make-up, I force a smile. The school captain must look the part.

  ‘Better,’ she says, linking her arm through mine and pulling me closer to the band.

  I take a sip of fruit punch. Orange and pineapple, and something else I can’t name, swirl on my tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. My head throbs in perfect rhythm with the drummer, who’s out of time with the others. The guitarist drops to his knees for some kind of solo and a sudden longing for the peace of my room combines with the smoke from the machine in the corner, stinging my eyes. I should have stayed home, but if I leave now I’ll just draw attention to my single status.

  When the music breaks at last, I exhale, relaxing the tight muscles across my neck and shoulders. I reckon two hours of this torture and I can make a dignified exit.

  Whispers rustle across the gym, but before I can turn, Bree snickers. ‘I can’t believe she came.’ Her nose wrinkles in that just-stepped-in-something way that tells me the she being referred to is Scarlett Barker. ‘Why bother coming when she doesn’t even have a date?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You really know how to make a girl feel better about herself. I might as well have “Loser” tattooed across my forehead.’

  She looks at me and realises what she’s said. ‘Not you. I mean, Jonny’s coming. He’s caught in traffic. Everyone knows the commute is a nightmare on a Friday night.’

  I’m glad she’s so sure. At least one of us is. ‘Maybe she’s meeting someone here.’

  ‘I doubt it. Look what she’s wearing.’

  I turn. The white lace dress is unlike anything else here. It’s obviously handmade or op-shop. I mentally wince on Scarlett’s behalf. ‘It’s unusual.’

  ‘Unusually bad.’ Bree drains her plastic cup and scans the room, her interest in Scarlett Barker fading.

  But I can’t look away.

  Scarlett looks up. I meet her gaze and see a flash of uncertainty in her dark eyes. Or maybe it’s disappointment. I drag my gaze from hers. I’m probably imagining it.

  I refocus on my friend and my empty cup. ‘What’s in the punch?’ I have to shout because the band’s started up again. They don’t sound half as bad as they did before.

  Bree shrugs and hands me another drink courtesy of her blonde gorilla boyfriend. She watches him head back to his mates, a glow of adoration flushing her cheeks. ‘I don’t know, but it tastes good.’ And then, when I hesitate, ‘Do you have to analyse everything? There are no exams on this, you know.’

  Ouch. She’s right though. Tonight’s supposed to be a celebration. Instead of answering, I raise my cup. We clink cups and drink some more.

  Bree frowns. ‘You’re fuzzy.’

  Her serious tone makes me want to giggle. I grab the next drink she presses into my hand and sip it while checking my phone. Still nothing from Jonny. I told him he didn’t have to come tonight, but he assured me he’d drive back, given that it’s his mum’s birthday tomorrow anyway. He promised.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ Judging by the thin set of Bree’s precisely lined lips, I don’t think it’s the first time she’s asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I blurt, shaking my head at the same time.

  Bree laughs. ‘Which is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I grab her hand and tug her towards the dance floor. Right to the middle, in fact, and we move in sync with the throng around us.

  Bree dances easily, as always. Her ballet background means she has an immaculate sense of timing, at least on the dance floor. Together with her perfect, shining dark hair, big eyes and curves that I can only dream about, it’s a lethal combination.

  My best friend since I was seven sways close enough to shout in my ear, ‘This isn’t like you.’

  ‘It is tonight.’ I execute a dramatic twirl to prove my point and grab her arm to keep myself from falling.

  We celebrate my staying upright by draining our cups of punch.

  This must be what Mum meant when she promised I’d have a good time without Jonny. At first when he didn’t show she was the model of sympathy, helping me repair my make-up, and brushing out my hair like she used to when I was a kid. Then came the tacked-on reminder. ‘Don’t forget that the scholarship committee monitors school community participation.’

  I’m participating now.

  Time blurs. Bree twirls in front of me, her short, layered dress swirling around her thighs. I try to copy her, but when I stop turning the lights and crowd distort together and keep going. My stomach twists, contracts, somersaults in response. Oh no.

  ‘Back in a sec,’ I shout.

  I think she nods but I don’t wait to see if she wants to come.

  Sweat beads on my skin. I walk with exaggerated care, each step heavy and slow. It wouldn’t do to stumble and land flat on my face in front of a teacher. Not when the scholarship that will let me move to the city for uni isn’t official yet.

  Right on cue, an image of my mother’s disapproving glare appears in my brain. My little brother is here
somewhere. I don’t need him telling on me.

  What must I look like? Ms Everything-Under-Control or Ms About-To-Vomit?

  My hand grips the wall for support as I round the corner and slam to a stop. The line for the bathroom is out the door. A dozen overgrown party dolls waiting to use the facilities. I cover my mouth. I will not vomit in this hallway. I force my legs to move faster. There’s a fire exit back here somewhere. It shouldn’t be open tonight, but the punch shouldn’t be spiked either.

  ‘Callie?’ A girl calls my name. ‘Are you okay?’

  I don’t stop. I can’t. At last, I reach the door, propped open with an old sneaker. I push at it. The rush of cold air dries the sweat from my skin, but the view brings it back tenfold. Vertigo. The balcony … Why didn’t I remember the balcony was out here? I cradle my cramping belly. Seventeen concrete steps are all that stand between maintaining my last shred of dignity or vomiting on my shoes.

  Move, Callie.

  But my new black strappy sandals don’t budge.

  ‘The school captain feeling a bit seedy?’ The boy’s deep voice is cooler than the rail gripped in my hand. And it sounds amused.

  I peer into the dark shadows below. One eye works okay but the other struggles to focus. Great, I’ve lost one of my contact lenses. ‘Who’s there?’

  He ignores my question. ‘I recommend the garden. For spewing.’

  The greenery and the voice taunt me from a billion miles away. ‘That’s the plan,’ I mutter.

  Knowing I have an audience helps push the fear to the back of my brain. It’s only a few steps. I conquer one at a time, refusing to dwell on what could happen if my wobbly knees give way.

  ‘Only a few steps to go now.’ That voice again. And is that a hint of sympathy?

  So much for hiding how hard this is. Three more steps. My heel catches, but my death grip on the rail saves me from adding ‘falling face-first’ to my list of indignities.

  When I reach flat ground the nausea rears up like a cobra, scorching the back of my throat. Stumbling forward, I double over. Then I let go.

  It comes in waves of something like punch-flavoured relief. Again and again, until I think I’ve been vomiting my whole life and might never stop.

  I heave until I’m empty. Then once more. Gulping air, I wipe my hand across my mouth and rock back on my heels.

  ‘Feel better?’

  Sweet crapola. I’d forgotten I had an audience.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ My prim tone is so at odds with what he just saw me do that I giggle. A stupid, airy noise I’ve never heard coming from my mouth. I sound like Bree. The thought has me giggling even harder.

  ‘You’re insane.’ He steps slowly out of the shadows. Dirty khaki sneakers, faded black jeans and a battered dark leather jacket are lit up by the buzzing fluoro light above the fire exit. He’s not here for the dance. At least, not in the way the dressed-up boys inside are. He hesitates and I stand on rubbery knees, curious to see who it is.

  But I guess his name in the instant before he makes the last step. Rhett Barker. Scarlett’s twin brother.

  The stubbled jaw and dark eyes confirm my guess. The hair on his head is shaved almost to skin. Bree once suggested he wears it so short to keep the lice at bay, but seeing him here in the shadows, I can’t imagine a bug brave enough to mess with him.

  His gaze meets mine and a tingle of excitement sizzles across my flesh. Of course I’ve seen him in class, but never this close. And never alone in the school grounds at night. He’s dark and dangerous. Everyone knows he’s just like his dad—one argument away from jail.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’ His jaw tightens. ‘I’m just a nobody who witnessed the Valley Beach school captain emptying her guts in the school’s prized rose garden. What a tale to tell.’

  Another surge of nausea climbs up the back of my throat. I swallow it down and try to think. My brain is mush. ‘No-one will believe you.’

  He stares me down. ‘Really? You sure?’

  He rolls out the question in a way that has my hands curling into frustrated fists. He’s not exactly Mr Reliable, but I don’t know how many people saw me stumble from the gym. My eyes close. Something like this could mess up my scholarship. The one I’ve all but won. It’s not official until Monday. Mum’s reminder echoes in my mind.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The answer comes to me in the form of my phone, buzzing in my clutch purse. A text from Jonny, I bet. If he hadn’t stood me up, none of this would have happened. The excuse fades before I can catch it. I have only myself to blame. Which makes everything worse.

  I’m determined not to cry, but tears threaten again. Everything is riding on that scholarship. A good university, with all the pre-med requirements, brilliant grades and then studying medicine. It’s all mapped out before me.

  And this boy could ruin everything.

  I press my fingers to my temple and manage somehow to keep the tears at bay. ‘What do you want?’ The question scrapes my raw throat. ‘Money? Something else?’ My skin goes cold. I’m all alone out here. I swallow hard. ‘No-one will believe you anyway. What proof do you have? Your word over mine is nothing in this school. Probably in this town.’

  My fighting words peter out and I know—I know—he’s heard the wobble in my voice.

  There’s a long moment where he says nothing. Only the throb of the band from inside breaks the silence. Then, ‘You think I want to blackmail you?’

  ‘What else could you want?’ I can’t keep the sob from my voice and I press my fingers into my eyes to stop the moisture escaping.

  His sneakers scrape the concrete as he approaches. He stops in front of me. I should be wary, but the alcohol is dulling my senses. Everything is heavy.

  Move.

  The part of my brain screaming at me to escape might as well be floating with the stars. I don’t move, nor do I open my eyes. My head is bowed. Every nerve ending is poised for flight, but still I don’t move.

  The shadows behind my eyelids darken as he leans closer, blocking out the light. I swear the warmth from his body wraps around me. His touch on my cheek, when it comes, is so gentle my throat closes. A callused fingertip brushes my skin and is gone a heartbeat later.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ The words are rough but with an edge of sincerity that’s so unexpected it scrambles my thoughts. Or maybe that’s the lingering effects of the spiked punch.

  I look up into the dark intensity of his eyes. Are they black? They look it in the darkness. He sounded almost … sorry.

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  His brows arch. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’m not.’ But the sniff at the end betrays me, and I sway a little with the realisation I’ve messed up big time.

  His hand comes out and grips my shoulder. Electricity skitters across my skin from the contact. ‘You need help. Where’s your dick of a boyfriend?’

  He knows I have a boyfriend? For a second I imagine him aware of me. Those dark eyes staring at me across the yard without me realising. Then I remember that in a town the size of Valley Beach, he’d know without trying.

  ‘Jonny’s not here.’

  He huffs out an impatient breath. ‘I can see that. He’s inside?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Confusion wrinkles Rhett’s forehead and I put him out of his misery. ‘He didn’t show.’

  ‘So you decided to drown your sorrows?’

  I jerk away from his touch. ‘I didn’t know the drink was spiked.’ Not the first one, anyway. And then the next two went down so easy …

  He doesn’t have to put his derision into words. It’s there in the tilt of his head and the wrinkle of distaste on his lips.

  ‘I didn’t ask for your help,’ I remind him. I straighten my shoulders and try for a superior expression, but it’s hard when I’m aware of the stink of vomit on the chilly breeze. I attempt to stride past him but collide with his body, bouncing off and nearly lan
ding flat on my backside.

  He catches me by the wrist, only holding on long enough to make sure I’m upright before letting go.

  I rub at the spot where he caught me.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asks. There’s that concern again.

  It would be easier to maintain my anger if he didn’t keep seeming to give a damn. ‘I’m fine.’ I might sound confident but I’m pretty sure there weren’t two exit lights above the door when I came out. I’m half blind without that contact lens, and I left my glasses at home.

  ‘Sit.’ It’s a command, but there’s something gentle about the way he ushers me to the bottom step.

  The concrete is cold beneath my butt and I let my head fall between my knees, breathing in the fresh, clean air. No smell of sick here, just a hint of showered male.

  He settles by my side. Close enough to touch, but careful to keep clear air between us at every point. I’m not sure how it could have crossed my mind earlier that he wanted to take advantage of me. If I didn’t feel so ill I might even be offended. Except that Rhett has never been someone I wanted to impress.

  The silence between us isn’t awkward, but there’s a zing to it, an edge. He runs a hand over the bristles on his head. I’m curious, is it harsh and spiky, or soft? I drag my gaze away. Why am I thinking about it?

  ‘You promise you won’t tell anyone?’ I nod towards the scene of my crime.

  ‘You said it yourself … Who’d believe me?’

  ‘Promise?’

  When he doesn’t answer, I glance his way. We’re in the shadow of the building, but somehow I know he’s looking at me. Really looking. I turn away, look down at my clasped hands that slip and slide over each other. A nervous tic I had to quell before the scholarship interview. I deliberately still them now.

  He exhales. ‘I won’t tell.’

  I smile, not trying to hide my relief. And I don’t know if I’m imagining it in the dark, but I’d swear the hard line of his shoulders relaxes a fraction, too.

  ‘You promised …’ A girl’s voice drifts across to where we’re sitting. It’s coming from the back of the art centre, about thirty metres away, where the huge metal recycle bins are stacked against the red brick wall.