Hidden Read online

  Contents

  1 Ebony

  2 Jordan

  3 Ebony

  4 Jordan

  5 Ebony

  6 Jordan

  7 Ebony

  8 Jordan

  9 Ebony

  10 Jordan

  11 Ebony

  12 Jordan

  13 Ebony

  14 Jordan

  15 Jordan

  16 Ebony

  17 Jordan

  18 Ebony

  19 Ebony

  20 Jordan

  21 Ebony

  22 Ebony

  23 Jordan

  24 Ebony

  25 Jordan

  26 Ebony

  27 Jordan

  28 Ebony

  29 Jordan

  30 Ebony

  31 Ebony

  32 Jordan

  33 Jordan

  34 Ebony

  35 Jordan

  36 Ebony

  37 Ebony

  38 Jordan

  39 Jordan

  40 Ebony

  41 Jordan

  42 Ebony

  43 Jordan

  44 Ebony

  45 Jordan

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Marianne Curley

  To Zachary James and Josephine Anabelle: angels mine

  1

  Ebony

  Do you ever stare at your reflection and wonder who that person is looking back at you? For as long as I can remember I’ve felt different, at odds with myself.

  I live on a farm in Cedar Oakes West where Dad breeds horses for show. Until last year I used to be home-schooled, but now I go to Cedar Oakes High in town. My next-door neighbour is Amber Lang. We’re both sixteen and best friends.

  I’ve never had any major dramas in my life, so why do I feel this deep discontentment? It’s only when I’m out riding, sprinting across the plains beneath the cliffs of Mount Bungarra with the wind in my face, that I really feel like me.

  Even when I started high school, I still felt disconnected. I could run faster than boys who were older than me. I could hear whispered conversations from the other side of the playing field as if I stood there too. I soon learned this was not normal.

  I taught myself to conceal my differences, and so far I’ve avoided attention, but that’s only because, except for Amber and a few girls I sit with at lunch, I keep my head down.

  But there’s something that’s impossible to disguise – my violet eyes. They’re not as deep as purple, or as light as lavender. They’re precisely midway between blue and magenta on the colour wheel.

  Who has violet eyes?

  Amber says I should be proud of their uniqueness because they’re beautiful. How can something that makes me a freak be beautiful? It doesn’t make sense.

  But I tend to over-think every aspect of my life.

  It doesn’t help that Mum and I aren’t getting along that well at the moment. She says I’m acting strangely, but I think she is. Every time I want to know something about my relatives or our family’s history, which is admittedly becoming more often, she starts an argument – on purpose. She accuses me of being on a search to find myself – as if it’s a bad thing. I know she’s worried I’ll leave the valley some day. Almost everyone does eventually.

  My parents have always been overprotective. I’m not exactly housebound, but Mum doesn’t like travelling, and Dad doesn’t like to leave the horses.

  For the first few years of my life my skin reacted to ultraviolet light and I had to stay indoors or cover up in dark clothes. I remember the little girl next door wearing pretty yellow and pink outfits, while my clothes were mostly navy blue and black tops and pants, and always with long sleeves. But by the time I was five, my skin had developed the pigment it needed and my sensitivity to light disappeared. Today, Amber says I look tanned all year round.

  Anyway, that wasn’t the real reason Mum’s so over-protective.

  My parents had wanted a big family, but Mum miscarried twice, then lost her third pregnancy during the twenty-ninth week. It took years for them to want to try again after that. Finally she found out she was pregnant – this time with twins. But something went wrong again.

  Mum gave birth to a girl and a boy. The girl, of course, was me. My brother, Ben, died in his first hour of life.

  I think it made them terrified of losing me. And I’m sure it’s one of the reasons they wanted me to be home-schooled. Once I understood the origin of this fear I didn’t pressure them again until, well, recently.

  For most of my home-schooled years I dreamed of sitting in a classroom with children my own age. It wasn’t boredom. I craved companionship. When I turned twelve, my parents let me ride Shadow anywhere within the boundary of our property. With hundreds of hectares to roam, I had my first taste of freedom. I would disappear for hours, exploring the woodlands and creeks on our land. And on these expeditions I would imagine myself a princess living in a world where everyone rode horses, children played on cobbled streets, and the handsomest prince in the land courted me.

  Riding Shadow around the property was exhilarating at twelve and thirteen, but I’m sixteen now, and those daydreaming days are well behind me. I need to uncover the real Ebony Hawkins, the girl suffocating inside me. It’s become crucial lately, for reasons hard to explain, except that … I’m developing in ways I don’t understand and can’t find in any biology books. For a start, my light brown hair, weirdly, is turning a sort of dark reddish-brown colour with gold highlights. By itself.

  Anyway, back to the here and now. It’s Saturday morning and I’m in the kitchen arguing with Mum about going to a club in town with Amber tonight. Mum is bringing up every reason, absurd and otherwise, why I’m not allowed to go. Dad shot away to the stables at the first hint of raised voices.

  ‘You have to trust me, Mum.’ I’m standing at the breakfast bar with the sun warming my back through the French windows behind me. I pour a cup of home-made muesli into a bowl. ‘You taught me to look after myself, so why do you still worry?’ I reach into the cutlery drawer for a spoon before lifting my eyes to hers. ‘Unless there’s something you haven’t told me?’ I wait, gauging her reaction.

  She closes the fridge door with a jug of milk in her hand and, keeping her eyes down, walks slowly to the breakfast bar. She’s taking her time to formulate a reply, which freaks me out; my imagination leaps.

  ‘What’s wrong with me, Mum?’

  She looks up then, her hand freezing in mid-air. ‘Nothing is wrong with you, Ebony. Why would you think that?’

  I take the milk from her hand before it spills, kicking myself for asking that foolish question. There is something wrong with me. I feel it in my bones. It’s happening to my bones! But I’m not ready to tackle that particular detail with Mum yet – or with myself.

  ‘Ebony, are you all right? You’ve gone pale.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, I’m fine … Well, actually, no, I’m not.’ At her confused frown, I explain, ‘Sometimes you and Dad look at me as if I have three heads.’

  She forces a laugh. ‘What on earth are you talking about, darling?’

  ‘Forget it. Just let me go tonight, Mum, please. This dance means a lot to me. Amber’s going. Leah’s going. Ivy and Bec are going. And you never let me go to stuff like this.’

  ‘For good reasons, Ebony. The subject is now closed.’

  ‘Oh, this one too?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  ‘But, Mum, Mr Lang has already agreed to drive us both ways since we all know you wouldn’t let me go if one of my friends were to pick me up.’

  ‘Are you trying to provoke an argument, dear?’

  ‘Me?’ I shake my head at this. I take a deep breath and count to five in my head, in an effort to tone down any attitude in my voice. ‘Mum, I just want to go to a supe
rvised dance for under-eighteens. What’s wrong with that?’

  She cups the side of my face with her hand. ‘Something bad could happen when you’re away from home.’

  I step backwards. ‘Why do you say that all the time? What were all those self-defence lessons for?’

  She lifts her eyes to the ceiling and bites down on her lower lip.

  ‘Mum? What were those lessons for?’

  She sighs. ‘Self-protection, darling, that’s all.’

  There’s more in her eyes than she’s saying, so much more that goosebumps break out across the skin of my arms. Well, if she’s not prepared to tell me anything, I’ll just have to find out for myself.

  ‘I’m going tonight, Mum. It’s all arranged,’ I say.

  Her eyes turn hard and she inhales through tight lips. I know this look. I hate this look. ‘Young lady, you are not going anywhere tonight.’

  ‘I am going! You can’t stop me. I’m sixteen!’

  ‘I can, and I will, and sixteen is still a baby.’

  ‘Mum, really!’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Ebony, calm down. Take Shadow for a ride. Cool that fiery temper of yours.’

  Not hungry any more, I dump my muesli in the bin and head for the back door. But once there I stop and turn back. ‘That’s funny, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You say I have a temper, yet I don’t raise my voice or argue with anyone except you. Can you tell me why that is, Mum?’

  Her mouth opens and a pained look enters her eyes. She doesn’t say a word but her eyes gleam with unshed tears, and my head fills with more questions.

  2

  Jordan

  It’s Saturday night, the air is cold, and I’m standing outside the nightclub – Chill – in my black T-shirt, blue jeans and the brown suede jacket I picked up at the charity shop this morning. I shiver inside my jacket. I should have told Danny I’d meet him inside. My best friend, my one-and-only friend, is running late.

  Which means, while I stand here watching parents dropping off their kids, my brain has time to remind me how my father is in a prison cell with seven more years to serve, and my mum is long gone from a heroin overdose.

  People say it’s a wonderful world. Well, from where I stand it’s a load of bull. Man, this world is feral. It’s cruel and unpredictable.

  I’ve lived in more houses than I have fingers, including a six-month stint in juvenile detention for hitching a ride in a car I didn’t know my mate’s brother had stolen.

  I was pretty much living on a day-to-day basis at the time. Then a new caseworker named Lillian Fisher took an interest in my well-being and secured a decent place for me to live, giving me hope.

  Today, a few weeks after my sixteenth birthday, my life is still going well enough, though it’s anyone’s guess how long this run will last. Deep inside, I know I’m a hair’s breadth away from spinning out of control. When Mum died, I thought I would too. I wanted to. What does a nine-year-old do for the rest of his life without his mum? Call me morbid, a pessimist, whatever you want, but a sense of death still simmers beneath the surface, rising up on days like today.

  I glance at my tattoo. It’s on the inside of my left wrist – a big strong angel, his face in profile surrounded by masses of gold curls, with big white wings on broad shoulders, and in his hands a golden bow. My mother’s boyfriend, Jason, a tatooist by trade, penned it for me on the day she died. He wanted me to have something lasting to remember her by. It was my first experience of real pain.

  I don’t recall much from that day or the months that followed. One year blurred into another and soon I had hit eleven. Social services had just placed me with an older, childless couple. When I came to the house at No. 42 Warrigal Road, there were already two other boys there – brothers: Adam and Seth Skinner. Adam was in my year at school and we hit it off instantly. His mother was in hospital with a broken heart after his dad died from a brain tumour.

  Adam had an irritation in his life in the form of his little brother, Seth. I didn’t mind Seth tagging along half as much as Adam did. I used to pretend they were my real brothers. I think I knew this was the closest I would come to a family of my own. Adam never understood, back then, that having a brother made the difference between being a family and being alone.

  But the good times didn’t last.

  People say you can tell when tragedy is about to strike. You get a vibe, a sense of déjà vu, something like that. If that’s true, then I’m not one of those people. If my mother had been alive, she would have said the Angel of Death walked in our shadows that day, waiting for the right moment to collect. Maybe he was following us, and we were just too excited to notice.

  It was the last weekend before school started for the new year, and we were going to an abandoned mine to search for gold.

  Later, what happened earned the label ‘tragic accident’, but no amount of apologising could undo the damage. A split-second decision turned best friends into mortal enemies and changed my life and those of the people around me for ever.

  3

  Ebony

  The nightclub fronts one of the town’s busiest roads. Its black steel door sits back in a dark recessed porch, creating an air of mystery in direct contrast to the bright flashy lights of the twin cinemas across the road.

  The arriving crowd spills out on to the pavement as groups gather before going inside. Traffic is heavy in both directions. Mr Lang pulls up behind a white van and waits, engine idling, while six girls jump out of the van and start preening. The girls are Year Nines from my school, all dolled up and buzzing with excitement. Their outfits are mostly short skirts, black tights and crop tops, and they’re all wearing sparkly make-up.

  The girls look cute; their energy is catching.

  Mr Lang inches forward into the spot the white van just vacated and releases the door locks. ‘I’ll be back at eleven. Don’t dawdle, you two. It will be bedlam driving out of here tonight.’

  ‘Sure, Dad. Thanks for the lift,’ Amber says on her way out.

  Meanwhile, I shuffle over, trying to keep my skirt from riding up my legs.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, Mr Lang.’ I have one high-heel-clad foot almost to the ground when he calls my name and I answer, ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Young people,’ he says in a philosophical tone, ‘need balance in their lives. It’s not all about schoolwork and chores.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s not. Thank you for taking time out to drive us tonight.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Ebony. I don’t mind. That’s not the problem.’ His fingers strum a rhythm on the steering wheel. ‘If you ever find you have to climb out of your bedroom window again, promise me you’ll be more careful. Your mother’s rose trellis might not hold up next time.’

  ‘Ohhh.’ So he saw me! ‘You’re not going to make me go home, are you, Mr Lang?’

  Looking straight ahead he says, ‘I’ve brought you here now, so, no, I won’t take you back, or tell your mother I saw you.’

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  He tries not to grin. ‘This one time only, you understand,’ he warns.

  ‘Yes, of course, and thank you again, Mr Lang.’ If only Mum shared Mr Lang’s philosophy!

  ‘Did you leave a note, Ebony?’

  ‘In my room. But if Mum doesn’t find it, I’m sure it won’t take much to figure out where I am.’

  ‘No doubt. Well, you should get out before I change my mind,’ he says.

  I climb out of the vehicle in a hurry to find Amber before she walks into the club. But when both my feet are on the pavement, I swing around and collide with someone standing still.

  It’s a boy, and I hit him so hard I send him flying across the pavement, into the brick wall, where he slides to the floor with the wind knocked out of his lungs.

  Oh, no!

  I’m at his side before he opens his eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ He lifts his head at the sound of my voice and his eyes flutter open. I take his hand to help him back on to his f
eet. Not my wisest idea. My pull is more like a yank. He springs up in one go and slams into my chest. I hear something crack.

  Oh no, no, no! Was that his rib?

  Silently he looks at me, eyes wide open now – deep, dark blue and full of amazement at my strength.

  Terrified he’s going to fall, I keep my arm around his waist and a firm grip of his hand, forgetting how strong my grip can be until he yanks his fingers out and shakes them with a confused expression furrowing his brow.

  Embarrassed, I offer my stammered apologies. ‘I’m so, so sorry, really, truly, so sorry. Is anything broken? Can you stand if I let you go?’

  Finally he says, ‘I think I can manage.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Good. For a minute there …’ I stop mid-sentence when I realise he’s staring again, his eyes wide and focused directly on mine.

  ‘Are your eyes really … purple?’ he says.

  ‘They’re violet, actually.’

  ‘Does anybody have violet eyes?’

  ‘Apparently I do.’

  I hastily make to move back but find his hand is now clasping mine. Maybe he’s not feeling entirely stable yet. ‘Did I hurt you much? I’m stronger than most … you know … weak … people.’

  Oh no! Did I just call him ‘weak’?

  ‘Listen, I didn’t mean to say you’re a weak person. I’m just … I’m, well, er … worried about you. Should I call … ?’ I pause and inhale a quick deep breath. ‘OK, I’m going to stop talking now.’

  He stares at me as if I’ve gone nuts. I can’t say I blame him. ‘Ummm,’ he murmurs, pointing down to our feet. ‘Is that your heel sticking into the space between my toes?’

  I gasp, but it comes out more like a screech. ‘That is my heel! Oh no! It’s shot right through your shoe! I’m so, so, so sorry! Is your toe broken? Is that what I heard?’

  Still gawking at me with his mouth hanging open, he finally says, ‘You heard something?’

  I plaster a fake smile quickly to my face. ‘Maybe you should test your toes?’

  He moves them quite well, considering my stiletto heel has nailed his shoe to the ground!

  Annoyed with myself, and horribly embarrassed, my face undoubtedly redder than beetroot juice, I wrench my foot up to extract my shoe’s ten-centimetre heel.