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.”
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.