The Rapunzel Dilemma Page 6

  But no one had.

  Instead, she’d watched Charlotte cross the courtyard to the founder’s statue and heard Gemma call out to various students to join them. Soon there’d been a group of about twenty first-years sitting on the grass or perched on the stone plinth, laughing and talking together.

  For a moment Lily had considered joining them, but the thought of being rejected made her feel queasy so she’d taken her pride and her pizza to a shadowed corner of the quad instead.

  It was surprising how painful loneliness felt.

  Lily had never been lonely before. She’d always had friends: at school, at camp, at dance class, riding school and drama club – even at home. Especially at home. From the day Angel and her mother Simone had moved into the kitchen wing of the de Tourney’s New York townhouse, when Lily was five and Angel was six, she and Lily had been best friends.

  And now she’s my really, truly, older sister – only without the responsibility. The thought came unbidden to Lily’s mind and she shoved it away. Think about something else –

  ‘Are you coming?’ said a voice beside her.

  Lily jumped. Someone was actually speaking to her! Looking up, she saw it was the boy from assembly. She’d only seen his profile in the drama hall, but now, face-to-face, he looked decidedly familiar. She studied the high forehead and freckled nose beneath the enormous hazel eyes and felt sure she’d met him before – only she couldn’t think where.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  ‘C–coming?’ she asked, bewildered.

  ‘Yeah. Are you coming to the Depiction?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The end of the Dramaturge. Six students from Pendragon draw six Academy students.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lily. ‘Why?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Don’t know. They’ve always ended D-Day with the Depiction. It’s tradition. Plus, it’s a competition. The best picture gets hung in the entrance hall for all of first term.’

  ‘Wow.’

  He grinned, his eyes alight with mischief, and she was certain she knew him. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Lily,’ she said and braced herself for rejection.

  To her surprise, he nodded and said, ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’ she asked, startled.

  ‘I’m Max Holcroft,’ he replied, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Do I know you?’ asked Lily. ‘You seem really familiar.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied, glancing across the quad. ‘Look, they’re getting ready. Come on.’

  Thrilled that someone was willing to be seen with her, Lily followed Max towards the far end of the quad where a crowd was gathering in front of a large roped-off area. Six easels had been set up, each with a chair beside it. The chairs had their backs to the audience and the easels were turned so that only the artists would see their pictures as they drew.

  Max found a space opposite the middle easel and drew Lily beside him. ‘Watch,’ he said. ‘Esther Milton, as Dramaturge champion, will take the first seat and then Darcy Johnson – he’s the boys’ third-year rep and an incredible actor – will draw the other five names from the cup.’

  As if on cue, a tall boy with the kind of stunning blond-and-tan good looks Lily usually associated with surfers stepped out of the crowd and held up the silver cup Esther had won half an hour earlier. Lily could see it was stuffed with bits of paper. ‘If your name is called, come forward and take your seat,’ Darcy announced.

  ‘And make it snappy,’ cried a voice from the crowd. ‘Classes start in twenty minutes and we don’t want to be late!’

  ‘Yeah,’ called someone else. ‘’Cause we all know what happens to people who are late for the first class of the year, don’t we!’

  There was a chorus of laughter, although Lily noticed that none of the first years joined in. She could see some of them look nervously at each other and she felt a sudden tightening in her own stomach at the thought of her first real Academy class. She glanced at Max but he seemed to have eyes only for Darcy as the third year plunged his hand into the cup.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with it,’ said Darcy. Esther took her seat as he pulled out the first name. ‘Rashid Khan!’

  Everyone clapped as a stocky, handsome boy with dark skin and curly black hair ran forward and sat down.

  ‘Alastair Prewitt.’ A lanky boy with a clever, angular face shot out of the crowd and dropped into the chair beside Rashid.

  ‘Phoebe Winter.’

  Lily was startled to see her new roommate step forward and shyly take a seat.

  ‘Can first years put their name in the cup?’ she whispered Max.

  ‘No one puts their name in the cup,’ he whispered back. ‘If you’re enrolled at the Academy, you’re in – it’s automatic.’

  ‘Oh,’ whispered Lily and her heart beat a little faster. She looked over her shoulder for an escape route. She knew she wouldn’t be chosen but it might be better to leave now, just in case. During lunch she’d decided that, for her first term at the Academy, she’d do well to keep a low profile.

  ‘Annabel Freame,’ called Darcy.

  Several people cheered as a soulful-looking girl with long brown hair made her way to the second-last chair.

  Lily tried edging backwards but the crowd was pressing forwards; the only quick way out was to cross the open space between the easels and there was no way she was going there.

  She sent up a silent prayer as Darcy pushed his hand deep into the cup and pulled out the last name. She saw him read it and frown, and in that moment Lily knew exactly what was coming.

  ‘Lily de Tourney.’

  There was a sudden buzz like angry bees and Lily could see people looking around for her.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Give her a hand, will you, Max?’ called Darcy, smiling at Lily’s new friend.

  ‘Go on,’ whispered Max. ‘You’ll be fine, it’s all over in fifteen minutes.’ He pressed his hand into the small of Lily’s back and thrust her forward.

  She felt rather than saw the crowd turn as one to watch her as she slowly made her way towards the last chair. Her cheeks were burning and she felt sick. She forced herself to look straight ahead, fixing her eyes on the large centre arch leading into the cloisters.

  As she sat on the last chair everyone clapped and for a moment Lily thought perhaps being chosen meant approval – and then she saw that the applause was for the Dragons.

  There were six of them, each masked and cloaked, striding from the cloisters like a band of outlaws. They came to a halt beside Darcy.

  ‘You have your numbers?’ he asked.

  Silently, the Dragons each held out a card with a number from one to six on it.

  ‘Victims – I mean, sitters, prepare to be drawn,’ commanded Darcy.

  Trying not to look worried, Lily settled into her chair.

  ‘Dragons, take your places,’ Darcy’s voice boomed across the quad.

  Lily watched nervously as the six masked figures each stepped up to a numbered easel. Her artist did not even look at her and she wondered if he knew who she was and was disappointed at having to draw the infamous Lily de Tourney.

  ‘Dragons, draw your swords.’

  Lily held her breath as her Dragon reached beneath his cloak and drew out . . . a pencil!

  ‘Dragons, prepare.’ Darcy held up a stopwatch and each of the Pendragon students put a hand to his or her mask and threw it aside.

  Lily’s jaw dropped.

  There were two girls and four boys, but Lily had eyes only for her artist. He was the mysterious green-eyed biker boy.

  He stared at her for one long, appraising moment, then reached out, put two fingers on her chin and pushed it to the left.

  ‘You –’ began Lily.

  ‘Don’t talk, don’t move and don’t frown,’ he instructed. ‘All you have to do is smile.’

  And before Lily could utter a word of protest, Darcy roared, ‘Go!’

  The next sixty seconds were tortur
e. Lily wasn’t allowed to move her head and each time she tried to ask his name, the boy shushed her. After the third attempt she gave up and tried to see his drawing instead.

  Frustratingly, his body was between her and the easel, so all she could see was his back. After a minute Lily decided she didn’t mind. She was dreading seeing her portrait and it was surprisingly entertaining watching him work.

  He moved with that same cat-like grace she’d noticed in the laneway three days earlier, and there was something mesmerising about the way his long black hair danced across his broad, muscular shoulders as he drew. He had a surprisingly muscular back, too, and Lily couldn’t help admiring the way his lats tapered down to his waist and his well-shaped butt.

  He wasn’t hard to watch.

  She was so busy looking that it was several seconds before she realised he’d stopped drawing and was watching her.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.

  Lily felt herself blushing at having been caught staring at his butt. She shrugged. ‘Not really,’ she replied, waiting for him to shush her.

  To her surprise, he didn’t. Instead he asked, ‘Do you ever relax?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Every time I see you, you’re either stressed, frightened or frustrated.’

  ‘I am not!’ said Lily.

  ‘You were stressed when we met in the lane, frightened when I rescued you this morning –’

  ‘That was you?’ interrupted Lily. Then she realised what he’d said. ‘I wasn’t frightened!’ she added indignantly. ‘Just startled.‘

  ‘Startled, frightened, same difference,’ he said, his arm moving rapidly as he began drawing again. ‘And, right now, you’re frustrated.’

  ‘Well, if I am, it’s your fault!’ declared Lily.

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me your name and you lied to me last Friday.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You pretended to be some no-good, bad boy, gangland type – a drug dealer or – or worse. You made out like you didn’t belong here, but you do. You’re a student at Pendragon.’ She glared at him. ‘You’re not a criminal, you’re just an artist.’

  ‘Just an artist? Is that what you think?’ He stared back at her, his pencil poised.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I know you’re probably great at painting or you wouldn’t be at Pendragon. And I like paintings,’ added Lily kindly. ‘But there’s nothing scary or dangerous about art, is there?’

  ‘You think?’ he said, and Lily saw his eyes gleam gold. He drew in silence for a moment, then said suddenly, ‘It’s not a painting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not a painting.’ He waggled his pencil at her.

  ‘Drawing then,’ said Lily.

  ‘It’s not that either.’

  Before she could ask what it was, he said, ‘I need you to smile – with teeth.’

  Lily grimaced.

  ‘I said smile.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Lily pulled her mouth into a sort-of grin. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Don’t speak, or I’ll stuff up your mouth.’

  Lily gave up. She couldn’t see his picture so she swivelled her eyes to see what the other artists were doing. She could see only two.

  To her left, a short, plump girl with glasses was drawing Rashid, her arm flashing across the paper with only occasional glances at her sitter. It was several seconds before the girl moved enough to enable Lily to see the picture and when she did her stomach flipped.

  The Depiction wasn’t a portrait competition – it was a caricature competition! Lily gazed in horror at the sketch of Rashid, his eyebrows like two enormous hairy caterpillars, his eyes tiny and gleaming, his broad nose made huge by the artist, while his generous mouth was now a grinning cavern filled with huge white teeth like blocks of concrete.

  It was clever and funny and – heart-stopping!

  Lily dreaded to think what her guy – not her guy – what biker guy would do with her face.

  But maybe they wouldn’t all be like the picture of Rashid. Lily strained her eyes to see what the next artist had made of Annabel.

  His picture came into focus and Lily’s heart plummeted.

  It was exactly like Annabel – only an exaggerated, comical version of Annabel that made Lily’s mouth go dry. Annabel’s artist had drawn her as a hippie with a flowered headband tied round an enormous, high forehead with huge drooping eyes above a tiny nose and mouth. Her chin had been extended and enlarged and her ears exaggerated until they looked like something that would’ve made Dumbo proud. It was perceptive and funny, and it filled Lily with dread.

  What will my picture look like? she wondered in despair. It was bad enough being resented by the entire school; the last thing she needed was for everyone to laugh at her as well.

  ‘One minute left,’ shouted Darcy, holding up the stopwatch.

  Around him people began urging on their favourites. There was a lot of laughter and catcalling as the six artists worked frantically to finish their drawings before Darcy called time.

  ‘Go Shaun,’ called several voices.

  ‘Halle rules!’ shouted a group to Lily’s left.

  ‘Caspar, Caspar, Caspar,’ chanted a group to her right.

  ‘Hurry, Marta,’ shouted someone behind Lily. She almost turned to look, but her guy barked, ‘Don’t move!’

  ‘Ten seconds,’ boomed Darcy, and everyone began counting down.

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Two!’

  ‘One!’

  ‘Time!’ cried Darcy.

  Lily’s artist threw down his pencil, pulled his picture from the easel and, before she’d had a chance to look at it, rolled it up. ‘So, what are you now? Frightened, stressed or frustrated?’ he asked provocatively.

  ‘None of the above,’ she snapped.

  ‘Excellent. This is meant to be fun, remember? So keep smiling.’

  ‘How can I when the entire school already hates me and you’re about to give them the perfect opportunity to spend the rest of term laughing at me?’

  ‘The whole school hates you?’ He raised one slanted eyebrow. ‘Already? You’ve only been here a week.’

  ‘A day. I’ve been here a day, and I didn’t do anything.’

  His other eyebrow lifted and she could see the disbelief in his face.

  ‘I’m Lily d–’ Lily stopped. For some reason she didn’t want to tell him she was a de Tourney. ‘I’m Lily and everyone thinks my dad bought me my place at the Academy.’

  ‘Mob boss, is he?’ asked the boy seriously. ‘It’s mostly the mafia in the States, isn’t it?’

  ‘He’s not in the mafia!’ retorted Lily crossly. ‘He’s not a gangster and I earned my place here like everybody else.’ She shook back her hair. ‘It’s just a stupid rumour that everybody’s choosing to believe and now you’re about to make everything worse.’ She pointed at the rolled-up picture. ‘I don’t even know how you’ve drawn me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lily D,’ he replied, his eyes glinting. ‘You’re gonna love it, I promise!’

  ‘Show me!’ demanded Lily, holding out her hand.

  ‘No time,’ he replied and glanced across to where Darcy was busy organising the artists into a line.

  ‘Over here, Carver,’ instructed Darcy. ‘You’re number six.’

  Lily frowned. ‘Carver? Is that your name?’ she demanded, grabbing his arm.

  He looked down at her hand, as if surprised to see it there. There was a long pause and then, without a word, he put his hand over hers and gently prised her fingers from his arm. She could feel his calluses against her knuckles and the soft pads of his fingertips. He slowly curled her hand into a fist until it lay trapped and tight inside his own.

  She stared up at him, suddenly unsure of his intention.

  He stared back, his green eyes serious
, the pressure of his hand around hers like a weight on her mind.

  ‘Ronan,’ he murmured. ‘My name is Ronan Carver.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Before she could say a word, Ronan let her go and spun lightly away, heading for Darcy and the other artists.

  Lily watched the crowd part to make way for him. She could see people’s eyes following the tall figure in the black cloak, yet he barely seemed to notice them. A line from a long-forgotten bedtime story popped into Lily’s head: ‘walking by his wild lone,’ she whispered and smiled at the sight of Gemma on her tiptoes, trying to get a better look at Ronan over the heads of the crowd.

  He wasn’t arrogant, decided Lily. Annoying and provocative – but not arrogant. He was just that rare kind of person who seemed utterly self-possessed.

  For a moment she thought of following him, but the last thing she needed was to attract any further attention by running after Ronan Carver like some kind of groupie. Better to leave that to the likes of Gemma.

  Lily turned away. She needed to leave before he made her a laughing stock. Okay, so she hadn’t seen his caricature, but she’d bet a month’s allowance it wasn’t flattering.

  She pushed through the crowd and had almost reached the cloisters when Max blocked her path. She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You can’t leave,’ he said.

  ‘I have to. Thanks for caring, but I don’t think you understand.’

  ‘That you’re being shut out, talked about, picked over, resented?’ said Max, his freckled nose wrinkling. ‘No, I get that.’

  ‘Do you?’ Lily looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t think you know –’

  ‘Who you are?’ Max cocked his head. ‘I said I did, didn’t I? You’re Lily de Tourney, daughter of Philip de Tourney, the billionaire who recently pulled off a huge deal with Amazandao, the Brazilian pharmaceutical company. You’re also the granddaughter of Elena Anastasia, the Comtesse de Tourney, the famous French socialite, fashion icon and occasional diplomat. Although . . .’ Max winked, ‘that last fact is much less well-known.’