ELEANOR WOOD lives in Brighton, where she can mostly be found hanging around in cafes and record shops, running on the beach, pretending to be French and/or that it’s the ‘60s, and writing deep into the night. Her work has previously been published in magazines such as Time Out and The Face. Her erstwhile lo-fi fanzine, Shocking Blues and Mean Reds, won praise from the Independent, Lauren Laverne and Marmalade magazine, among others.

These days, you can read her personal and ill-thought-out ramblings on her blog, The Perfect Mixtape, or more succinctly on Twitter at @eleanor_wood.

Gemini Rising
Eleanor Wood

www.CarinaUK.com

Huge gratitude to my brilliant and lovely agent, Caroline Hardman – who, luckily for me, is as tenacious as she is clever.

Massive thanks to my wonderful editor at Harlequin, Anna Baggaley – for being as enthusiastic about Gemini Rising as I am.

Thank you to the people I love most in this world – Mum, Dad, Jimmy, Katy, Nan and Lilly – for always being awesome and supportive. I’m so lucky you’re all on my team. Special mention to Jimmy for actually choosing to live with a crazy Gemini – 143.

Thanks to Vinod, James and the staff of Bright News for keeping me fed and entertained throughout the writing of this book.

Thank you to Joyce Lambert for astrological guidance – purely personal rather than conceptual, thus all schoolgirl errors are my own (and, of course, deliberate).

An appreciative salute to the people who made my life technicolour when I was seventeen, and continue to do so – Tom Allnutt, Rachael Ayres, Ali Bastian, Louise Chadbone and Neil Symons.

So many brilliant friends and family have helped and inspired me in too many ways to mention here – I hope that you know who you are and that I am grateful.

For my family – you know who you are

Contents

Cover

Author Bio

Title Page

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright Page

Prologue

Have you ever met anyone who’s in technicolour? I mean, like really in glorious technicolour, so that they make the rest of the world look black and white, and you suddenly realise what you’ve been missing all your life?

It’s a bit like in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy gets to Oz and her shoes are all ruby red and sparkling, and she realises that Kansas was just shades of grey. OK, so even if you don’t think in these weird analogies and stupid old film images like I do, I bet you know what I mean.

Well, that’s what the twins were like. Full colour in a world of black and white. Times two. I’d been waiting so long just for something, anything, to happen, how was I to know that when it did, it would all go so wrong? I couldn’t possibly have known that maybe living in black and white is better than crashing into all the colours of the sun and getting burned.

But, back then, it was like I didn’t know anything. All I could see were the beautiful colours. I was blinded. It’s no excuse, I know, but it’s true.

It’s easy to forget that the twins ever existed, now all that’s left is the aftermath, the death and destruction they left behind. That’s not so easy to forget. At the time, it all seemed like so much fun, like something was finally happening – and that wasn’t so bad, was it?

Chapter One

‘Sorana! Come on! We’re late!’

I’m in my apocalyptically messy bedroom, my favourite band, Trouble Every Day, blasting on the stereo. I’m staring critically at myself in the mirror, peering within the nest of postcards and stickers that cover up the edges, wondering if the fact that my skirt is rolled over four times at the waist makes me look like an unfortunate teenage pregnancy victim, wishing I’d got up half an hour earlier to wash my stringy brown hair, and hoping my mum won’t notice the thick smearing of eyeliner hidden under my too-long fringe. If I keep my head down between now and school, I might just get away with it.

Seriously, I need something to make up for the fact that my life is spent in the purgatory of a burgundy school uniform. It’s the worst uniform I’ve ever seen; it actually involves a kilt and knee socks – no tights allowed. Let’s face it – at the age of nearly seventeen, it’s really pushing it to still be dressing us like some sort of deranged Lolita-themed strippers. Especially when they’re still locking us up in an all-girls’ school so that we allegedly won’t get ourselves into trouble – where’s the logic?

Yes, I did say nearly seventeen. I’m in the Lower Sixth – or Year Twelve as I believe they call it in some more modern institutions – not that you’d know it. After GCSEs, I begged my mum to let me go to the local community college instead – where I could do normal things like wear my own clothes and walk into town to go to Subway at lunchtime, not to mention actually learn how to talk to boys my own age – but she insisted that I stayed on for my school’s sixth form. She kept on so much about how proud of me she was for winning a scholarship and how she’d have killed to have had my advantages when she was my age – until eventually I decided it was best just to shut up and put up.

So, that’s why I’m nearly seventeen and still in school uniform, constantly getting in trouble about my voluminous eyeliner and scruffy hair, because the school dress code specifies neat ponytails and ‘natural make-up only’ for sixth formers.

‘Sorana Salem! Ready in ten seconds or we’re going without you!’

If only. Like my mum can talk – as I come down the stairs, she’s still hopping about in the hallway, frantically searching for a missing high heel. She’s worse than I am in the mornings, if that’s possible. She’s so scatty at home, you wouldn’t think that she has this big, important job as a headhunter – apparently not as gruesome as it sounds, but still pretty hardcore.

My little sister, Daisy, is watching the ubiquitous repeats of Friends on TV, the very picture of serenity, while she patiently waits for us to be ready. Daisy is three years younger than me, and we get on despite the fact that she often seems more mature than I am and makes me feel completely inept. She has a huge gang of friends who are considered the cool girls of her class; she makes it all look so effortless, as if she just magically knows how to look pretty all the time and make people like her.

‘Right! Let’s move it! Sorana, have you eaten anything?’

I shake my head, keeping my fringe over my eyes. The toaster pops and my mum shoves a chocolate Pop-Tart in my blazer pocket as we’re all hustling out the door. I love my mum; I know it’s not cool, but I really do.

One thing I don’t love, though, is that she insists upon driving me to school every morning bang on eight o’clock, just because she has to get to work early. I’d do anything not to have to be so early for school that I’m the first one there every single bloody morning. Still, I know that my mum already feels guilty enough about the amount of time she spends at work, so I don’t give her a hard time about it; like most things in my life, I keep quiet and hope that everyone’s happy.

‘Bye, darlings. Have a great day – don’t let the bastards grind you down.’ Mum roars off as soon as Daisy and I spill out of the car – well, I spill and Daisy elegantly skips.

‘See ya later, Daisy Chainsaw.’ I ruffle her perfect – thick, glossy – little cow – hair before she disappears in the direction of her Year Nine classroom, and I shuffle about and kill as much time as humanly possible before heading past the ‘old building’ and up the stairs to the Lower Sixth common room. Having been at St Therese’s for six long years, it is still not lost on me just how bloody weird a place it is. In a nutshell: small, strict, religious, weird. I’m counting the days until I can get out. All I can think is: at least it’s Friday, if nothing else.

The common room is deserted. The only concessions to it being nominally a ‘common room’ rather than boring old pre-GCSEs ‘classroom’ are subtle, to say the least. There’s a kettle so that we can make coffee, or more usually instant hot chocolate, at break times, and an ancient threadbare sofa in one corner to sit on while we drink it. Other than that, it’s a pretty standard classroom: a big, square space filled with rows of old-fashioned wooden desks, with one wall comprising an enormous window overlooking the road below and the forbidden freedom it represents.

I take advantage of the solitude to give the picture of Vincent August – lead singer and guitarist of Trouble Every Day – on my locker door a brief, ironic kiss, before grabbing my current recreational reading matter – William S. Burroughs, as you asked – and slouching down into my allocated plastic chair.

You may wonder why I wouldn’t sit on the sofa, as it’s there. The answer’s about to walk into the room, just as she does every morning – the next person after me to arrive each day.

Right on cue, Amie Bellairs strolls in. We nod ‘good morning’ at each other, but I don’t look up from my book. If I added up all of the cumulative time that the two of us have spent, just us, alone in a room together, it would probably be hundreds upon hundreds of hours. Yet we never, ever speak.

I don’t hate her, I don’t think she particularly hates me – but we have literally nothing to say to each other. Well, unless she’s whispering to her gaggle of cronies that I’m a freak with weird taste in music and clothes and, most crucially, skinny chicken legs and no tits.

She conducts her morning mini-routine just like I did, and I could tell you what she’s doing with my eyes closed: gummy pink lip-gloss applied, a final check of blonde hair in a mirror compact, crappy fashion magazine at the ready before curling up, cat-like, on the sofa. There’s easily room enough for both of us on there but that’s not the point. It’s not my territory, just like the back seat of the bus on school trips wasn’t when I was eleven.

Although none of it would ever exit my mouth, I still find myself trying to think of things I could say to fill the silence: ‘So, are you doing anything at the weekend?’; or, ‘Anything exciting there in Look magazine – pockets in or out this year?’ I already know the answers: ‘Going to The Crown with the girls, of course,’ as she and her friends do every weekend; and ‘Are you taking the piss?’

The irony is that some of the girls in my class think I’m spiky or even stuck up, just because I generally stay quiet and out of the way, keeping my nose in a book as often as I can. Do they seriously not understand that the book is a shield? It’s the only thing I’ve got.

I once heard there’s a saying in French that means ‘the wit of the staircase’, or, in other words, the perfect response you think of five minutes after a conversation has finished – well, that’s me. For someone who’s supposed to be quite clever, I seem to spend a lot of my time feeling incredibly stupid.

As you can probably gather, the reason that Amie Bellairs and I don’t speak in the mornings is not only because we have nothing in common, but because we exist in different universes. She is a part of what I privately refer to in my head as ‘the A Group’ – not that they have anything as lame as an official name or I would ever say this to their faces. They’re ‘A’ not only because they’re clearly at the top of the pile – pretty, reasonably clever but not unusually so, the ones who always seem to know whether it’s cooler to wear your school shirt tucked in or out – but because a bizarrely high proportion of them seem to have names that begin with the letter ‘A’. As well as Amie, there’s an Alice, Amanda and two Alexandras (Alex and Lexy). Other than the anomaly that is Katey Sewell – but she’s tiny and elfin and the most gorgeous thing you’ve seen in your life, so of course she’s in the A Group regardless of name.

It’s kind of a weird thing. I don’t really want to be like them, but I’m jealous of them anyway. I just wish I could fit in as easily as that, but I seem to be incapable of it. My mum says it’s because I’m a Gemini – I can never make up my mind about anything.

A couple of other girls come in before I bother to abandon my book, knowing it’s only going to be Sabrina Robinson, who’s too busy talking to her boyfriend on her mobile phone to notice that anyone else is even in the building, and then Alice Pincott, whose first initial says it all. These few minutes are the worst, every morning. With Sabrina otherwise engaged and oblivious, Amie and Alice huddle up together and begin a gossipy, whispered conversation. Every so often they will dramatically ‘shush’ each other and giggle, then glare in my direction as if to punish me for daring even to be in the same room as them. You’d think I was going to sell my story to the tabloids from the fuss that they make.

As usual, I could almost cry with joy by the time Nathalie bursts into the room, cheeks flushed and crazy curls flying, barely managing to hold a schoolbag and coordinate her limbs at once.

‘Hey.’ A few sheets of paper go flying out of her folder as she sits down next to me. ‘Did you do the French homework? I couldn’t even understand the first question.’

Poor Nathalie didn’t even want to stay on for A levels – her scary mum not only insisted, but made her take all the academic subjects that she’s crap at. Anyway, I feel her pain – I’m able to come to her rescue in French, but I know what it’s like to be completely clueless at a subject. I thought that starting the A level course would be brilliant because I could finally concentrate on the things I’m good at and enjoy – English, French, Spanish and AS Sociology – and if everything had gone according to plan, it would have been. Unfortunately, I’ve never had a brain for Maths – I just don’t get it. I didn’t even manage to scrape a pass at GCSE, and the school would only let me keep my scholarship and stay on for sixth form if I signed up to take a resit this summer. So, embarrassingly for someone who’s always been in the top stream for everything else, I am doing one-to-one remedial maths tuition this year.

While Nathalie is halfway through painstakingly copying my French verb conjugations – although she promised to add in a few mistakes so as to make our subterfuge less obvious – Shimmi dashes in at the last minute – again, as usual, but you’ve probably figured that out yourself.

‘What’s up, my bitches?’ She winks one minxy green eye as she chucks herself into her seat. Fortunately, there’s no time to reply – as the only obvious conclusion is that, yes, we are kind of her bitches – before Miss Webb marches through the door.

And we’re off to the start of another thrilling day of education and socialisation. Registration – to ensure that all sixteen of us, and yes that’s my whole year group, are fully present and correct – then filing down the stairs and back along the catwalk to chapel. Yes, that’s right again – I did say chapel. See, I told you this place was weird.

The morning’s in full boring swing and we are halfway through the essentially pointless General Studies, which we are all forced to take. In every other sixth form I’ve ever heard of, you get to have free periods, but here they fill them with things like General Studies or the even more nebulous ‘Study’, for which you have to sign into the school library or there’s hell to pay. They even do registration twice a day, to make double sure that we can’t escape.

So, you can imagine my delight – well hidden, of course – when the class is interrupted with a knock on the door. Miss Webb, our form teacher and deputy head, nods at the General Studies teacher, Mrs Winterton, as though they have pre-arranged this, as Mrs Winterton steps out of the way and sits down at a spare desk at the back of the room.

‘Girls, if I can have your attention for a few moments, please – and, yes, that also means you, Alice Pincott – then I’d just like to have a quick word with you all. Now, I know we’ve already started the summer term, so you probably weren’t expecting any new girls this year. Well, a bit of mid-term excitement for you, as we have two new girls starting in the Lower Sixth next week. In fact, they’re twins – Elyse and Melanie Johansson. Identical twins – so I’m sure you can have fun trying to tell them apart, and play all sorts of amusing tricks on us teachers. Elyse and Melanie will be coming in for the afternoon today for a visit, and then all being well will officially join the class next week. Any questions? Yes, Lexy?’

‘How come they’re starting in the middle of term, just like that?’

‘Well, there’s no great mystery but they left their last school unexpectedly, and we think they’ll fit in very well here, so we’ll all do our best to make them feel welcome and get straight into a normal routine with the minimum of fuss. This is important, girls – do you think you can do that? Make the twins feel welcome and really make an effort to be friendly and positive, as I know you all are?’

There is a general muttering of agreement but Shimmi, as she often does, says what we are all thinking.

‘Miss? How come you’re asking us this, like it’s a big deal? We’ve never had that with any other new girls.’

We all know she’s right. This has never happened before – not even when Jo Whitley started at the beginning of sixth form, and she clearly has an eating disorder and mental problems, or Helen Kennedy, who is lovely but so slow there’s no way she could have passed the entrance exam like a normal person.

In our school, there are basically three types. The ‘A’s, as I’ve already explained, who are pretty much medium-clever and whose parents are always just about rich enough to pay the school fees. The scholarship girls – like Shimmi and me, and Emily Waldron, who’s supernaturally good at music, and can play piano and violin practically at once.

Then there are the girls who are – and I’m not being a bitch here, it’s just the scientific truth – either a bit thick or weird, or would clearly get bullied in a bigger school, but whose parents are so rich they can give money to the school and make sure that they’re allowed in anyway. And now I am being a bitch, because I would never say it to her face – but Nathalie sort of falls into this last category.

That’s it. Those are the only categories, because it’s such a small school. My cousin Rachael says that at her school, which is much more normal and bigger than mine, even the freakiest people have friends because there are always other freaks. Not here – which is why Shimmi, Nathalie and I are kind of best friends and go around in a group even though we don’t have that much in common. We’re somewhere in the middle – which means nothing at all, except that we’re both bullied and bullies, if I’m honest. It’s a strict pecking order, eat or be eaten.

From the look on Miss Webb’s face, I can already guess that maybe the new twins are something else entirely.

‘It’s because they’re starting in the middle of the year. Nothing more exciting than that, I’m afraid. Thanks, girls. Remember what I said.’

Chapter Two

Obviously, I cannot wait to discuss this thrilling development with Shimmi and Nathalie. I hardly get the chance, as I have Spanish before lunch, which neither of them takes. As the bell rings, I stumble straight over to the dining hall, to catch up with Shimmi and grab something to eat before we go and meet Nathalie. It’s a precise regime, perfected over, well, every lunchtime in the history of forever.

‘Yo, bitch.’

‘What’s with this new “bitch” thing?’

‘Ooh, I do apologise – Ms Salem, queen of the world. Better?’

‘Whatever, bitch. So, what about these new girls, the twins that Miss Webb was talking about? That whole speech was pretty strange, don’t you think?’

‘Just this place getting weirder by the second. They’re obviously going to be total freaks. I wouldn’t go getting all enthused about it or anything.’

‘I wasn’t! I just mean… Oh, nothing.’

‘Macaroni cheese and chips, please.’ Shimmi shoots a sly look across at me as she places her order for double carbs.

‘What, you’re having hot lunch? But what about—? Oh, sorry, um, just a tuna fish sandwich, please.’

‘Yeah, I thought I’d eat here today, spice things up a bit, woo-hoo. Are you sticking around?’

‘No, I’d better…’ I gaze longingly at Shimmi’s chips as she drowns them in vinegar.

‘OK, see you later… Hey, Alex, Alice – wait for me!’

I shouldn’t be surprised that Shimmi’s just gone straight off like that. She’s ever so slightly higher up the social scale from Nathalie and me – only because all the cool girls think she’s funny – and so eating lunch isn’t such a minefield for her as it is for us.

Actually, I could probably sit and eat a hot lunch like a normal person if I wanted to as well, but it would be too mean to ditch Nathalie. So, I take my tuna sandwich and trudge across the damp hockey field, to the almost-hidden old cricket pavilion that sits on the outer edges of school property. Nathalie is already settled in, nibbling at the edges of a samosa.

‘Hey.’

As always, she looks slightly relieved that I’m there – as if, until she actually sees me, she still thinks I might not turn up. Like I said, we’re not quite at the bottom of the pile around here, so this part of the routine is not completely out of sad necessity. No, it’s because Nathalie has a phobia of people seeing her eating, always has ever since that time she puked up cannelloni all over Lexy White in Year Seven and never lived it down.

‘So, what about these new twins?’ are the first words out of Nathalie’s mouth, and I’m pleased it’s not just me who’s secretly excited. Shimmi probably is, too, really.

At least with Nathalie, you don’t have to pretend to be cooler than you are.

Having spent all of lunchtime gossiping about the hot topic of the new girls – and without Shimmi there to make us feel like complete psychos for being so interested – by the start of afternoon lessons, Nathalie and I cannot wait to lay eyes on these mysterious creatures. It helps that it’s Friday afternoon and – for me, anyway – that we have English to finish up the week.

However, my heart sinks when we enter the English room to find the desks pushed up against the walls and the chairs arranged in a semi-circle in the middle. Miss Webb is putting slips of paper, face down, on each seat. This can only mean one thing. The A level English course includes a module called ‘Explorations in Drama’ – we’ve been studying King Lear and Arcadia, and Miss Webb has long been threatening to do a practical session in which we do improvisation exercises to learn what makes a good dramatic scene. Frankly, I’m appalled that even my favourite subject can find a way to embarrass me in public.

Amie Bellairs and a few of the other ‘A’s stroll in, with Shimmi straggling behind them. Then, in the space of a second, all of the chatting, whispering and giggling that fills the air suddenly disappears. Something happens to the room, as if the temperature has plummeted or all of the oxygen has been sucked out with a straw. Not so much something as someone. Two of them, in fact, if we’re being picky.

I’ve never met identical twins before, and it probably sounds stupid to say it, but I hadn’t realised they would be so completely, well, identical. This fascinating observation is quickly overshadowed by the fact that they are absolutely drop-dead beautiful. Kill yourself beautiful. They have light-blonde hair, pale skin, and wide, blank blue eyes. This simply doesn’t get across the enormity of how pretty these two girls are, so just visualise around it, the most perfect faces and figures you can imagine. Then double that. Then you’ve probably got it.

They are in their own clothes, making our burgundy kilts and polyester jumpers look even lamer than ever before, which is quite some feat. They are both dressed in black and festooned in jewellery, which I’m surprised they’ve been allowed to wear to school. Miss Webb, however, is the only one who appears unsurprised by their appearance in the drama room.

‘I’m Elyse,’ says the first sister, who close up is the prettiest and the most vividly drawn if that makes sense. ‘This is Melanie. We’re supposed to join in, or something.’

She’s smirking and coming across as totally unruffled; however, I note that she looks a tiny bit nervous as well, and that she briefly squeezes her sister’s hand before Miss Webb ushers them into the last two spare seats, a few spaces apart from each other.

‘So, welcome, Elyse and Melanie. First of all – sorry, girls, this must drive you mad – how do I tell you apart?’ Miss Webb asks, when her back has been turned for a moment and the twins have taken their seats.

‘I’m Elyse, and you can tell Melanie from her scar.’

When Melanie turns slightly and tucks her blonde hair behind one ear, we can all see what Elyse means, and how easy it will be to tell them apart from now on – Melanie has a livid scar, thin as a blade but red and angry, running the whole length of the left-hand side of her face. If anything, it makes her even more beautiful. The juxtaposition against her perfect doll face is stunning.

‘OK, ladies.’ Miss Webb claps her hands, in a clear attempt to stop us staring and restore some normality to the class. ‘A bit of fun for a Friday afternoon. As you’ve probably gathered, as part of our English studies, we’re going to be doing a practical drama exercise today. Here’s how it’s going to work: you each have a slip of paper on your seat, with your “stimulus” written on it. This means some background information about the character or situation you will be portraying in your improvised scene. Don’t tell anyone else what your paper says, so that when I call you up to the front, in pairs, the other person won’t know what you’re doing. The audience has to shout out what they think is going on in your scene.’

Predictably, the two biggest show-offs, Shimmi and Sabrina, are called up first. When it comes to audience participation, Miss Webb always does this, to try to get the rest of us to chill out enough not to mind making fools of ourselves in front of the class. It never really works.

The two of them, after a bit of giggling and shuffling, enact a scenario where they’re on a bus and Shimmi is a foreign tourist, complete with comedy French accent, and Sabrina has run away from her own wedding, which she somehow sees fit to demonstrate by singing songs from Mamma Mia! at the top of her voice. Although hilarity ensues with the suggestions from the floor – such as that Shimmi is supposed to be mentally disabled and Sabrina is a Britain’s Got Talent reject – we guess the stimuli within about three minutes, leaving Shimmi and Sabrina disappointed that their moment in the spotlight has been all too fleeting, and most of the rest of us dreading our turns.

Not that any of them is particularly exciting – Amie and Alice manage to make just the precisely minimal amount of effort to preserve their dignity while not annoying Miss Webb; Nathalie and Emily Waldron stand there like a couple of sad pandas, and I shout out the phrase ‘has a broken leg’, which I read off Nathalie’s paper when she wasn’t looking, just to put her out of her misery. She stands there and blinks, surprised, like she’s a better actress than she realised if I could guess it so quickly. Miss Webb glares at me.

‘All right, then,’ Miss Webb says, ‘Sorana and…Melanie, you two have a go next.’

Having previously dreaded my turn, I’m suddenly nervous/excited to get to perform a scene with Melanie. This means that I will effectively be the first person to talk to her and maybe we can become friends as a result of it. I shoot her what I hope is a reassuring look as I shuffle awkwardly to the front of the class. That’s when I see that Melanie is still in her seat, motionless and with her head turned downwards so that nobody can see her face.

‘Melanie?’ Miss Webb presses.

There is a long silence and I don’t know if Melanie has even heard her. It’s impossible to tell whether this is a deliberate ploy to get out of drama or if there’s something the matter with her.

‘Excuse me, Miss? Can I have a word, please?’ Elyse has risen to her feet.

‘Yes, of course, Elyse.’ Miss Webb unquestioningly follows her out of the room, looking back at the rest of us with a quick, tight smile. ‘Just one second, OK, girls.’

For the few moments that Elyse and Miss Webb are outside the room, nobody says a word. Melanie is still slumped down in her chair, but it seems less urgent somehow; I can’t tell if she’s really distressed or if she just can’t be bothered.

When they return, Miss Webb briskly calls the next pair of names. Whatever Elyse said, it seems that Melanie and I do not have to perform after all. Just like that, it’s forgotten. I am in awe. Clearly, so is everyone else because this goes unremarked upon by the entire class – I could never get away with this; it’s a revelation.

Finally, after several more substandard drama skits, Miss Webb calls on Elyse and Lexy.

It’s like we are all holding our breath, after what happened when it was Melanie’s turn, but Elyse just grins and strides out onto the makeshift stage. She screws up her piece of paper, shoves it into her pocket and puts her hands on her hips. Ready for combat. Then she says nothing so that Lexy is awkwardly forced into action.

‘Um, hi. I wondered if you might like to buy—’

‘Saleswoman!’ Alex shouts out.

The word disappears into the ether.

‘You killed it! Was it you? Did you kill it? I know you did! I will never forgive you, you evil bitch,’ Elyse shrieks hysterically.

Then she bursts into tears and, in slow motion, slides down the wall behind her, moaning softly and clutching her head. The room is silent and Lexy doesn’t know what to do with herself, looking over to her friends for help. Elyse carries on, lying crumpled on the floor, wailing and writhing. She’s literally hyperventilating. She doesn’t stop until Miss Webb claps her hands, like a hypnotist breaking the spell.

‘Lexy, sit down, please. Elyse, are you all right?’

But she’s too late.

‘Fine, thank you.’ Elyse smiles politely, already sitting up. ‘Sorry – I thought we were still acting out the scene. Nobody guessed it, so I carried on: my piece of paper said my cat just died.’

Before Miss Webb can say anything in reply, the bell rings. As I put on my blazer and pack up my schoolbag, I can see Amie and Alice corner Elyse before she leaves. Until now, I wasn’t sure which way this would go; I have already decided that the twins are immensely cool, but I had no idea whether the ‘in’ crowd of girls in my class would agree with me. However, it soon becomes obvious that the new girls have already got the seal of approval that I haven’t had the slightest sniff of in all the years I have been at this school. I realise then I’ve already missed my window and the lines have been set.

Still, as I watch them take out their phones and swap numbers with Amie and Alice, I decide that I’m glad they’re going to be around to make things a bit more interesting from now on.

Chapter Three

‘Oh my eff gee! So, do you think they were taking the piss in Drama this afternoon or do you think they’re just total freaks?’

‘I thought you didn’t care, Shimmi?’ I raise an eyebrow at her and receive an elevated middle finger in return.

‘I don’t know,’ Nathalie says, biting her lip. ‘I couldn’t figure it out at all. It was like, just whenever I’d think they were being genuine, they’d look at each other like it was a game or something. I think they’re trouble.’

‘Ha! Chance’d be a fine thing at St Tedious’s.’ Shimmi looks delighted at the thought.

‘I don’t think that’s fair.’ I decide to speak up for once. ‘I liked them. They don’t know how it works in a school like ours. So they were just being themselves. They didn’t bother hiding their feelings like we all do – I thought it was pretty cool, actually.’

‘Yeah, well, you would. Hippie!’

Shimmi chucks a cushion at me that smacks me round my left ear. We’re at Nathalie’s house which, to be accurate, is more like a mansion, on account of her parents being mega-rich and her uncle owning Harrods or something. No joke. It’s behind massive electric gates and down a long driveway that has its own roundabout with a fountain, and inside it’s all gold and marble and Persian rugs and priceless vases – it has more in common with the British Museum than it does with my house.

Nathalie’s mum, who can be a bit scary but we all actually really like, invariably goes out on weekend nights, and her dad’s always away for work; so we’re left with the housekeeper, who spends most of her time Skyping with her boyfriend in Switzerland and couldn’t care less what we do. That’s why Shimmi and I come over here on a Friday night pretty regularly. Sometimes there’s a party on or we go to a gig, or into town to try to get into a pub that isn’t the hallowed A-Group territory of The Crown, but we’re not exactly party monsters.

MTV is blaring – Shimmi is so obsessed with Beyoncé, and wanting to be exactly like her, that Nathalie and I couldn’t get a look in even if we wanted to watch something else. Luckily, we don’t. I might prefer guitar bands and girls with keyboards and synths, but I’m not exactly immune to the lure of wanting to look like Alexa Chung or Natasha Khan.

Nathalie’s mum left us out a couple of Bacardi Breezers each – bless her and her retro ways – and we’ve commandeered everything that looked most exciting from the fridge. We’ll probably order a pizza later anyway, even though I’m already nearly stuffed.

‘So, Sorana,’ Shimmi says, slyly changing the subject, ‘isn’t Josh coming over to your house tomorrow night?’

‘Oh yeah, it’s a totally hot date. Me and Josh and both of our families… Anyway, he might not even come – his mum said he might have some rugby party or something.’

‘Whatever. I would do literally anything to get Josh Green in my house on a Saturday night. And I mean anything.’

‘Urgh, Shim! Stop doing your sexy face about Josh!’

‘Besides,’ Nathalie speaks up, giving Shimmi a sideways look, ‘it’s not like any of us stands a chance, is it? Not unless we suddenly turn into leggy blondes and become friends with Amie Bellairs.’

As this sad-but-true fact has always existed, Nathalie sounds surprisingly vexed about it. So, I might as well take a deep breath and drop a bombshell.

‘Yeah, when I saw him at Easter, he told me he’d got drunk and kissed Lexy White at some house party…’

The gasps that follow this revelation are hardly unexpected, and I cover my face with a pillow as I prepare for the onslaught.

‘Lexy White? That skanky bleached-blonde halfwit?’ Shimmi is indignant. ‘How could he?’

Nathalie just sounds bruised: ‘But Easter was weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell us, Sorana?’

I weigh it up and decide that I might as well be honest. ‘I didn’t tell anyone because, at the time, I was so upset about it. You know, that was when I was completely crushed-out on Josh, and it was like he was rubbing my nose in it – I just didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Urgh, I don’t blame you,’ Nathalie mutters.

‘Anyway, I’m totally over it now so I don’t care.’ And I really am over Josh. I’m sure I was only ever in love with him in the first place because he’s practically the only boy I know in my age bracket.

‘Yeah, but still…’ Shimmi won’t let it lie ‘I can’t believe that bitch Lexy White. Her and her friends think they’re so great. One day, those girls are totally going to get what’s coming to them…’

It’s never going to happen, but it makes us feel better. So, after talking about boys, bands, and – let’s face it: mostly – bitching about our much cooler classmates, we settle down to the serious business of the evening. Ever since we stayed up late to watch Psycho and The Birds with my mum’s boyfriend Pete at my house a couple of months ago, we’ve been obsessed with really old, creepy horror films.

We drag our sleeping bags down to the sitting room, switch off the lights and crack open the Häagen-Dazs, and watch at least two, sometimes three, scary movies. We all scream out loud at regular intervals, make a big show of clutching each other dramatically, but then refuse to admit it when none of us wants to go up to the bathroom on our own afterwards.

Sometimes I think I wouldn’t actually want to go to The Crown on a Friday night, like the A Group do every week without fail, even if I didn’t look like a skinny twelve year old and probably won’t be allowed in until I am actually eighteen. What, and miss all this?

‘Hey,’ Shimmi says, her eyes gleaming in the dark, ‘maybe the Johansson twins are like those freaky girls in The Shining!’

‘Nah,’ I interrupt. ‘Definitely Village of the Damned!’

‘“Come and play with us, for ever and ever and ever and ever and…”‘ Shimmi intones in a spooky voice, until Nathalie actually looks like she’s going to wee herself with fear.

Then we all burst into hysterical laughter, and we can’t stop.

Even though it’s totally worth it, waking up at Nathalie’s is always rubbish – it’s freezing in her enormo-house first thing in the morning. Nathalie and Shimmi are both still fast asleep. I switch off the TV, which has been on silent all night, and pad quietly into the kitchen to ring my mum. Unlike Shimmi, who’d move into Nathalie’s house and be adopted by her parents if she was allowed, I like staying over at Nathalie’s, but then I like to go home and be in my own house.

Usually someone in my household is up and about, and prepared to give me a lift on a Saturday morning. Unfortunately, I am still a way off driving, and even further off a shiny car of my own like a large proportion of my classmates are automatically given on their seventeenth birthdays. Daisy answers the phone; of course my mum’s there but still asleep, so Daisy and Pete will come and get me. The two of them are already up and watching cartoons, apparently.

Almost no sooner than I’ve changed into day clothes and packed my little overnight bag – actually an ancient old-lady vanity case that I found in Oxfam last year – I hear Pete’s crazy sports car growling up the driveway and I slip out through the ludicrously grand electric gates. Nathalie and Shimmi are used to this disappearing act, so I don’t have to wake them up.

‘Morning, Sorana, you dirty stop-out.’

Pete always says this and thinks it’s funny. He’s sweet, and tries really, really hard to get on with Daisy and me, so I don’t hold it against him.

There are only two seats in Pete’s car, so Daisy squashes up on my lap – she loves going fast, so wouldn’t have missed this early morning ride for all the chocolate in the world.

‘Don’t tell your mum,’ Pete says automatically.

Mum hates Pete’s car, and especially hates Daisy and me going in it when Pete breaks the speed limit, which we encourage him to do as much as possible. We take a slight detour to stop at Krispy Kreme on the way home; Pete gives Daisy the money to run in and get a mixed dozen to share for breakfast. Yep, Saturdays at my house are all right.

By the time we get home my mum is up, still wearing her dressing gown and singing along with Radio Two in the kitchen. Basically, it’s no wonder Pete’s so desperate for the seal of approval from Daisy and me, because my mum is stupidly pretty and really quite cool for a mum. She looks like me, but somehow really beautiful in a way that I’m most definitely not. This would give me hopes of improving with time, if not for the fact that I’ve seen photos of my mum when she was my age – sadly, she was already a full-blown hottie.

I make myself the world’s weakest coffee and pretend to enjoy it in between scarfing down bites of chocolate-cream doughnut. Mum’s already demolished an apple-cinnamon when she sits down and reaches across me for a second one.

‘How was Nathalie’s?’

‘You know, palatial. The usual. How was your evening?’

‘You know, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. The usual.’

‘Ha ha, very funny. The sad thing is your night probably was more rock ‘n’ roll than mine!’

‘Well, we did have a kitchen dance party to Santigold – so let’s call it a draw. Now, what are you doing today?’

‘Um, dunno?’

My mum rolls her eyes, grins and fake-throttles me out of what she calls my ‘clichéd teenage ennui’.

‘Well, I’m taking Daisy into town for summer school sandals, if you want to come with us? I got paid yesterday; make the most of it. If you find something you like, we’ll call it an early birthday present. Not long to go now.’

I’d better jump at this chance while I can. Despite my protestations to the contrary round at Nathalie’s house last night, I’m keeping all of my fingers and toes crossed that Josh will blow off his rugby party and turn up at my house later.

My heart leaps a tiny bit as I watch the Greens’ massive Range Rover pull up outside our house, from the safety of my bedroom with the overhead light switched off. If they came in ‘the beast’ rather than Tina’s little yellow Mini, this must mean the whole family is in attendance…

There’s Tina – my mum’s best friend – and her husband Greg, followed by Tristan, Josh’s little brother, leaping out of the back ninja-style. And that’s it. The car does that annoying double-beep and locking sound behind them, just to rub it in.

I’m not so much heartbroken as a bit blah. Especially when I add up all those hours of wasted time – washing, blow-drying and straightening my hair; painstakingly applying liquid eyeliner; painting my nails and toenails a new shade of navy blue that I bought in town today; trying on three different outfits before settling on leggings, flat sandals and a short shift dress in sixties fabric that I bought on Etsy. Not to mention wasting some of the last precious drops of my Marc Jacobs perfume that I’m trying to eke out until my birthday, when I might get enough cash to buy some more.

‘Sorana!’ my mum’s voice inevitably drifts up the stairs.

‘Oh my God!’ I hear when I am only halfway down into the hall. ‘Sorana, you look more like your mother every time I see you. Only much younger and taller and thinner, obviously – damn you. Lucy, your daughter is getting far too beautiful.’

I’d be flattered if Tina didn’t say this sort of thing to everyone. She’s my mum’s best friend – they used to work together. She’s about ten years older than my mum but she’s immensely cool, with a loud voice and hair that changes colour every week. It’s currently pillar-box red, with a quiff at the front. Josh finds her mortifying and I don’t blame him, but she takes it with the sort of good humour that annoys him even more – Tina’s awesome, but I’m quite glad she’s not my mother.

‘Josh is following in his own car,’ she adds. ‘I hope you don’t mind him having such bad manners – he’s just going to pop in for some food and then he’s got a party to whizz off to later. You know what these teenagers are like.’

‘Only too well.’ Mum shoots me a smile as she says it. ‘Now, what are you drinking?’

Daisy and Tristan – who are roughly the same age, just as Josh and I are – have already disappeared to play on the Wii. I pour myself a glass of wine, and then I have to try not to react when I hear the doorbell ring. Instead, I choke on my drink and do a weird half-cough/half-hiccup type thing and fiddle with the buckle on my shoe like the meaning of life is stuck in it somewhere.

‘Sorana!’ Pete shouts, wearing oven gloves and poking his head out from the kitchen. ‘Can you get the door, please?’

‘Yeah, all right, calm down.’ I immediately feel bad for snapping at Pete, who is never anything but totally easy-going. ‘I mean, yeah, OK, just a minute…’

Deep breath. Gather.

‘Oh, hey, Josh – how are you doing?’

‘Not bad, not bad. How are we?’

Josh casually kisses me on the cheek before walking straight past me and heading into the kitchen, where he falls into instant conversation with Pete and Greg. Assessing him objectively from afar, I do kind of wonder what I ever saw in Josh. It’s not as if we have anything in common, except for our families and age. I mean, he’s wearing a rugby shirt, board shorts and flip-flops even though it’s raining outside.

‘And what the hell did you do to your hair, kid?’ Pete asks out loud. ‘Didn’t have you down as the punk-rocker type, Joshua.’

‘Don’t even ask,’ Josh groans, gesturing to his hair – which is usually a sort of dark biscuityginger – and trying to hide the fact that he’s obviously rather pleased with himself. ‘We were on this school trip to Vienna, and of course I fell asleep on the back seat of the coach, and some of the guys attacked me with this girl’s Sun-In or something. At least I kept my eyebrows, I suppose.’

Josh goes to a school that is way posher than mine, but somehow much more normal. It’s a boys’ school but they let girls in for sixth form – and imagine how lucky those girls are. It’s in the countryside, only about an hour away, but Josh boards during the week because he actually likes it.

Despite this, he somehow manages to know absolutely everyone our age in this town, and is kind of universally beloved. When they’re not hanging out at The Crown – where Josh sometimes goes on a Friday night, too – Amie Bellairs and co sometimes deign to go to house parties held by boys from Josh’s school. Somehow he manages to be the guy who all the parents love, while always having a stash of weed on him and being the drunkest at parties.

‘I swear, this boy’ll be the death of me,’ faux-laments Greg, ruffling Josh’s hair affectionately and handing him a beer.

‘Come on! Sit down, let’s eat!’

The cries begin reverberating around the house as the younger kids thunder down the stairs, more drinks are poured and we all pile in around the kitchen table – kitchen rather than dining room because it’s just the Greens and we’ve been having these kind of chaotic, casual family dinners since the days when Josh and I used to smear food on our faces and then get thrown in the bath together. OK, great – that’s just put a weird picture in my mind that I can’t get rid of as I slide into my seat…

‘So, Sorana,’ Tina asks, as soon as we’ve all got loaded plates of lasagne in front of us, and the salad bowl and garlic bread are doing the rounds, ‘it’s your birthday coming up soon, isn’t it? The big one-seven. What are you up to? Are you going to be out partying?’

‘Um, Trouble Every Day are playing at the Arts Centre. I’m going with my friend Shimmi.’

An all-ages local gig at the Arts Centre may not sound like the most amazing thing to be doing to celebrate my seventeenth birthday – but it’s my favourite band of all time, playing a small venue about ten minutes’ walk from my house and, even though it’s still a few weeks away, I could not be more excited.

‘Oh, that chubby girl Shimmi Miah?’ Josh says through a mouthful of food. ‘The one whose parents own the curry house? Sam O’Shaughnessy told me that she… Actually, never mind – I’ll tell you later.’

That’s another funny thing about Josh – he’s kind of a gossip. I know he probably won’t tell me later; because it gets him in his parents’ good books, he always makes out that we’re much closer than we really are.

‘Much too salacious for us elderly folk.’ Pete grins. ‘So, what’s this party you’re running off to tonight, Josh?’

‘Just this girl Alice Pincott, who’s going out with my mate Dan.’ Josh shrugs. ‘Her parents are away and she’s having this big house party. She’s got a pool; it should be quite good.’

‘Alice Pincott,’ my mum echoes. ‘Isn’t she in your class at school, Sorana?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, are you going?’

‘No.’

‘Why don’t you go along with Josh?’ Tina suggests. ‘It sounds like you’ll probably know some of the girls there.’

‘Um, I’m not sure…’

‘Sorana’s way too cool for my rugby mates and their dollybird girlfriends – aren’t you, Sorana?’ Josh cuts in, giving me a nudge and a grin. ‘There’s no way she’d want to go. She’ll be too busy reading Sylvia Plaque or something.’

‘Sylvia Plath,’ I correct half-heartedly.

‘Yeah, whatever. Actually, on that note,’ Josh goes on, wolfing his lasagne in record time, ‘I’d better go. It’s nearly nine, and I said I’d give Sam and Gilly a lift. Thanks for the food, Lucy and Pete. See you, Sorana. Mum and Dad – don’t wait up. Be good, kids.’

It’s only after the door has slammed behind him and I’ve heard Josh’s car pull away that it occurs to me. I thought he was being so nice by saving me back there and not making me look like a total reject. But, actually, it would have been nice if he’d asked me if I wanted to go with him. I’d have said no but, just for once, I’d really like to be asked.

Chapter Four

I swear it’s nothing to do with Josh’s all-too-fleeting appearance and swift exit, but I feel out of sorts for the rest of the weekend. Although the rest of the evening was fine, I felt a bit deflated from the second he left. Sunday’s always a nice, chilled-out ‘family day’ in my house, but there’s something about Sunday nights that makes me want to kill myself. That’s not just me, is it – everyone gets that?

So, when Monday morning rolls around, of course I’m tired and grumpy as usual from having stayed up as late as humanly possible in order to prolong the weekend, reading Daisy’s Heat magazine while listening to Trouble Every Day on my headphones.

Which means that the morning is a blur until I find myself plonked down at my desk with a copy of On The Road hiding my face. I’d actually forgotten that anything might be different today. No sooner has Amie arrived, checked her pink BlackBerry — spoiled, much? — and flipped open the ubiquitous fashion mag, than the common room door swings open again and the twins walk in like they have been here forever, already more comfortable than I am after all this time. They somehow manage to look just as cool in their school uniforms as they did in their own clothes – seriously, how is that even possible?

As soon as Amie sees Elyse walk in, the ice is instantly broken. Melanie is not far behind, looking nonchalant despite the fact that she’s clearly not as confident as her sister. Their coats and bags are thrown onto the nearest desk, room is made on the sofa, and the conversation is immediately intense. Though, breaking the unwritten rules, when they pass my desk, both of the glamorous new girls smile and say ‘hi’ to me.

Even though I look as though I’m engrossed in my Kerouac, I am ear-wigging furiously and spend the next ten minutes reading the same sentence repeatedly. It’s Elyse and Amie doing pretty much all the talking, while Melanie is largely silent. Abruptly, Melanie looks up and catches me staring; rather than looking startled, as I might have expected, she gives me a friendly smile. I smile back but am so embarrassed that I quickly look away.

‘Obviously you’ll want to come to The Crown with me and the rest of the girls on Friday night – it’s where all the cool people go…’

As she says this, Amie shoots a targeted, bitchy look in my direction, just to make sure that Elyse and Melanie are clear on exactly who is and isn’t included in this invitation. Simply going out on a Friday night isn’t nearly as much fun for these girls as feeling superior to the rest of the population is. I comfort myself with the knowledge that, to Amie, ‘cool’ seems to mean wearing a minuscule outfit and getting groped while puking up WKD in the street.

‘…and this Wednesday night we’re staying over at my house – my parents are away for the week, so it’s just me and my older brother. They go away a lot, so it’s become kind of a tradition – break up the week and have a bit of a party. You two’ll come, right? You can stay over at mine.’

‘Yeah, OK. Cool.’

I suppose I should resign myself to the fact that The Amazing Twins and I are never going to be friends. As the room starts to fill up, their words start to be drowned out, made less distinct with every girl that comes into the room and starts faffing and chatting. Nathalie spills into the room complaining about being behind in Sociology, closely followed by Shimmi and her incessant crowing about some allegedly gorgeous boy who did not stop staring at her all evening when she was waitressing at her dad’s restaurant on Saturday night.

‘Hey, how was sexy Josh?’ Shimmi hisses while registration’s starting.

‘Don’t even ask,’ is all I have time to mutter back before being evilled by Miss Webb.

Just like that, the day is back to a normal start again. And there’s no doubt in my mind that it will come to an equally normal finish, just like all of the days before it and presumably after it as well.

By Tuesday, I’ve been depressingly right so far. As well as all the usual hump day clichés, I hate Tuesdays because that’s my day for Remedial Maths. I’m not supposed to call it that – it’s written in my timetable as a ‘catch-up workshop’ or something – but I find that it actually makes me feel like less of a dunce just to tell it how it is.

I’m the only one in the whole sixth form doing Maths retakes, which makes it all the more galling. Even Helen Kennedy managed to scrape a ‘C’ because it was so obvious to her rich parents that she was struggling, they hired an intensive tutor to coach her throughout Year Eleven. On the other hand, my problem was that I covered it up too well – I was too embarrassed to let on that I didn’t understand a word, so I just stayed quiet in class and copied Shimmi’s homework. I’d hoped I might get lucky in the exam. My Maths teacher, Mrs Ravenscroft, was shocked when I failed. As were my mum and Pete.

I schlep to the Maths room with the scowl that Mrs Ravenscroft must think is my permanent expression – she’s perfectly nice, but my ineptitude for numbers means that she is forced to treat me like a genuine imbecile, which gets annoying pretty quickly for both of us. She isn’t there, so I settle in to the classroom by myself while I wait. I’m just getting out my books when the door opens.

‘Hi, is this Maths for dummies?’

I can’t help but grin as I see Elyse standing in the doorway making a ridiculous face. ‘Yeah, welcome to the remedial class…’

‘I’m so glad it’s not just me, to be honest.’ Elyse chucks her bag onto the floor and pulls her desk up closer to mine. ‘I’m dyslexic, and at my last school I had all these hideous one-to-one tuition classes. Now there’s two of us, we can make it fun.’

‘When you say “fun”, you do realise where we are…?’ I ask her, laughing.

‘You’re Sorana, right? We don’t know each other very well yet, but don’t worry – I can make trouble happen anywhere!’

I have the strangest feeling that from now on I might actually look forward to Tuesdays and to Remedial Maths. As Mrs Ravenscroft walks into the room, we can’t suppress our giggles.

Chapter Five

Over the next few weeks, we all start to get used to Elyse and Melanie being around. As well as having some friendly company in Remedial Maths, having the twins here in the sixth form has shifted the dynamic a bit. Elyse and Melanie seem firmly entrenched in Amie’s gang, but they’re still friendly to everyone else. Elyse may be a bit fierce but she’s inclusive; Melanie is much quieter, but seems shy and sweet. Of course, this means that the resident mean girls can’t be as openly catty without looking like heinous bitches. It begins to feel almost cheerful around the sixth-form common room.

The A Group seem subtly different these days. Amie, in particular, has started to look more like the twins – a bit more eyeliner, artfully messy hair. And where Amie goes, the rest of the group follow. Frankly, I’m worried that they might start looking like my idea of cool, which would be somehow just wrong. One morning before class, I even see Amie reading a book on star signs that Elyse lent her – not only would she have dismissed this as tree-hugging hippy crap before, but it’s the first time I’ve ever actually seen her reading a book of her own accord. God, she’ll be asking to borrow my Jean Genet at this rate.

You would have thought that the twins’ dramatic entrance to the class would have put Amie and her group right off, for fear of looking like ‘freaks’ which, to those girls, is the ultimate insult. The twins don’t really fit in at all – yet somehow they have managed to integrate themselves effortlessly into a clique that is all about fitting in. Not only that, but to have some sort of weird effect on the whole group.

One Tuesday before Remedial Maths, I notice that Elyse and Melanie have both come to school with bulkier-than-usual baggage, which looks suspiciously like overnight gear – probably for one of Amie’s free-house parties. This isn’t particularly noteworthy in itself – it’s back at school on Wednesday morning that things really start to get interesting.

It’s not like I’m keeping track but, after one of her big midweek shindigs, I would not expect to see Amie at the usual bright and early hour. Instead, she would be likely to stagger in with all her cronies at the last possible moment, giggling madly, all trying their best to look jaded and saying things like ‘um, it’s a private joke – like, you kind of had to be there?’ if anyone dared to ask what was so funny.

This morning, however, Amie rocks up early, by herself. She tries to make herself look busy and refuses to meet my eye or even look in my direction. She looks, frankly, terrible. As she’s usually so perfectly groomed, to see her looking really, genuinely rough is pretty startling. Normally, I’ll admit, I’d be pathetic enough for this to make me feel better about myself. Confronted with it in the flesh, though, it’s just unsettling.

‘Amie?’ I venture, awkwardly. ‘Are you, um, OK?’

‘Just…’ she closes her eyes for a second, as though she can’t bear even to speak to me ‘…leave it, all right?’

We lapse back into a silence that is even more painful than usual. I kick myself for even trying – of course I was going to get shot down. The rest of the A gang drift in one by one, showing no semblance of having all been round at Amie’s house together the previous night. Without exception, they are purse-lipped and quiet, although none of them looks quite as obviously bad as Amie does – a detail that would usually have pissed her off no end.

Last of all, the twins come rolling in. All that is different about them is the fact that they don’t automatically go and sit with Amie. Elyse and Melanie sit down alone together at the back, and quietly start reading their books. I keep my head down and do the same, but I am intrigued.

I know I spend an inordinate amount of time bitching about the futility of my existence, but really nothing – nothing – is as bad as I feel about Games. Even though we’re in sixth form, apparently it’s still essential that we get outdoors and do some wholesome physical exercise. ‘Healthy body, healthy mind’ is one of the phrases that gets thrown around a lot, along with, ‘You’ll thank us for this when you’re older.’ Yeah, right.

Despite the sunshine, it’s not that warm today, and I swear my calves are blue when we all trail out onto the playing field. I shan’t even horrify you with tawdry tales of the changing room – just consider yourself lucky and imagine how fantastic it makes the rest of us feel when all the hotties of the class stand about chatting, nonchalant and half naked, and Alice Pincott leaps about the changing rooms in a bright-pink mesh 32D bra.

Mrs Kingsley, who is quite nice but of course really hearty and overenthusiastic, starts us off with these stupid stretches before we do anything else. This might not be quite as bad as actually playing sports, but it’s equally embarrassing when she starts on all those comedy lunges and pelvic thrusts.

‘Sorana Salem! Come on, do something, don’t just stand there looking like a wet weekend!’

This is something of a recurring theme.

‘Yeah, come on, Sorana!’ Lexy White chimes in, right on cue. ‘You’re not feeling faint, are you? You look like you haven’t eaten in about a week.’

I thought we’d all grown up a bit and got over this sort of thing of late – clearly that’s over. In fact, the A Group seem to be going depressingly back to normal. Lexy and all of the other girls in that little gang are basically perfect size-tens, and woe betide anyone who isn’t – if they’re not snidely accusing me of being anorexic even though I eat more than most of them put together, then they’re making snorting noises whenever Helen Kennedy so much as cracks open an oatcake.

The irony is that, while I’d literally move into Nando’s and sleep on the floor if they’d let me, Jo Whitley really is anorexic. She’s not that much skinnier than me, to be fair, but it’s in a really wrong way – like she’s clearly not meant to be that size, and so she’s all angular and out of proportion. Even in summer she wears about four jumpers and says she feels cold. Somehow she’s got away with wearing long black tracksuit bottoms for Games without getting in trouble, and, although she practically needs help walking as she’s so frail, she gets mostly left alone. There’s a strange sort of power in being that close to the edge; it takes a lot of dedication to starve yourself slowly to death.

‘Right, girls – hockey today!’

My heart sinks – hockey’s got to be the absolute worst. Mrs Kingsley blows her whistle and the match starts, with all the usual players baying for blood and the rest hanging back hopelessly. As I shiver and dread the ball coming anywhere near me, I am pleased to notice that Melanie seems just as apathetic as I am about physical activity.

I hang back and drift off into my own world – a happy place of books, red velvet cake and Trouble Every Day – until Mrs Kingsley starts puffing away manically on her whistle and yelling her head off.

‘That’s a penalty! Shimmi Miah, it is not funny to pretend to be playing tennis with a hockey stick – someone could get hurt. Elyse, why don’t you take this one for the reds?’

Elyse saunters up to the white line and looks as if she couldn’t give a flying anything about this stupid game of hockey – she practically sneers at the ball. Then she squares her shoulders and lines up her stick and stares a flinty look into the distance, before slamming the ball with all of her might.

Mrs Kingsley starts shouting something about above-the-waist punts being illegal, but it’s way too late. The ball is sailing through the air and we’re all gazing at it, as if hypnotised, including Amie Bellairs, which must be why it smashes her full in the face quite as badly as it does.

There’s a collective intake of breath, as I’m sure I actually hear a smashing noise. The ball hits Amie so hard that it knocks her over onto the wet grass. Everyone starts rushing towards Amie and, as they’re all so busy doing that, I wonder if I’m the only one who notices the cool-blue look that passes between Elyse and Melanie.

Alice Pincott is sent off to get the school nurse, while Amie struggles to her feet from within a protective cocoon of people. When she stands up and lowers her cupped hands slightly from her face, it takes me a second to register why it looks so wrong. Then I realise that I can’t differentiate between her nose and her mouth, because it’s all a mass of blood. It’s the most dumbfounded I have ever seen my class. Although some of the more squeamish girls look as though they might be sick, everyone wants to know what’s going on.

‘Oh my eff gee!’ Shimmi stage-whispers to me. ‘Did you see the look on her face when that ball hit Amie in the gob?’

‘Yeah, it was spooky…’ I mutter.

‘Spooky? Classic, more like. Just gawping into the sky like the rest of us and then a bloody rock-hard hockey ball hits her bang in the face?’

Shimmi is going a little overboard with her glee. OK, so Amie’s kind of a bitch and we call her ‘Amie Bellend’ behind her back, but nobody deserves that.

The school nurse has waddled out onto the pitch in her high heels, and Amie is being led away, along with her best friend Alice. Alice is crying, just like half of the girls on the pitch are. Even Mrs Kingsley looks shocked.

It would kind of go down in school history, that afternoon, especially as everyone was so dazed they couldn’t remember exactly how it happened, so all of the exaggerations may have been true. It’s probably safe to say that even girls in Daisy’s class would be claiming to find random teeth on the hockey pitch for years after that.

‘It was an accident, wasn’t it, Elyse?’ Mrs Kingsley is asking. ‘It was just an accident.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Elyse agrees.

Chapter Six

The rest of the week at school is pretty weird, after what happened to Amie, but I keep my head down and will it to go quickly. I’ve been waiting for this weekend for so long, I just keep my face buried in a book and my eyes on the prize.

On Saturday night, I rock up at the Arts Centre bang on time, in shiny new American Apparel leggings and my old Trouble Every Day T-shirt. And, of course, I’m the only one here. Typical. It’s my birthday, and I’m the one hanging around waiting. Still, I’m not going to get stressed about it because I have hit the birthday jackpot this year – not only is my birthday on a Saturday, but this weekend heralds the start of half term. Then there’s the added stroke of rare luck that has meant Trouble Every Day are playing here on my actual birthday. Best present imaginable, frankly.

I’ve already had a pretty good day – my mum let me sleep in undisturbed until a relatively civilised hour; we had pancakes for breakfast, and pizza and birthday cake for lunch; and, as well as the new leggings and other bits from my mum, Pete bought me the Alfred Hitchcock DVD boxed set – enough to keep me going for months – and Daisy gave me a really cool headband from Topshop.

Now, outside the Arts Centre, I hang about until finally Shimmi appears. She couldn’t look any more out of place if she tried. She’s done up as serious jailbait in her knee-high boots and tiny dress; her parents are usually so strict that, whenever she gets out of the house, she goes crazy and rebels in every possible way she can. As she picks her way over to me, Shimmi doesn’t even appear to have noticed that she’s drowning in a sea of ripped plaid and dirty denim on all sides. My own Converse might be the same as everyone else’s in the vicinity, but there’s a reason for that – my friend is not going to be much good in the mosh pit.

‘Some of the guys here would be quite hot if they had a wash!’ she exclaims loudly, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, babe.’

The only thing that sucks about the otherwise perfect timing of my birthday is that it means Nathalie isn’t here. She’s been shipped off to Dubai with her mum for half term – no arguments. Excited as I am, it’s a shame Nathalie isn’t here tonight.

Anyway, more to the point: Trouble Every Day. They’re my favourite band in the world and, better yet, they’re sort of local. They’ve had a couple of singles played on 6 Music and have had a few write-ups in the NME, so people all over the place have heard of them, but they’re only a few years older than us and from a couple of towns away. Their song Everything and Nothing is my favourite song of all time, and I am officially In Love with their singer, Vincent August. He is, basically, the ideal man, in my humble, and admittedly limited, opinion. He writes all of the band’s lyrics, so is clearly amazingly sensitive and intelligent, is brilliant on vocals and guitar, and has the most beautiful face in the known galaxy.

Everyone at school knows exactly how much I love Trouble Every Day and, more specifically, Vincent August. So much so that I’m not even pretending to be cool tonight. I am so excited my stomach’s fizzing like I’ve ingested a whole tube of Berocca.

‘Oh my God, I can’t believe we haven’t seen them live since last year. Do you even realise, they hadn’t released Promises Written on Water then? It was brand new on their website last month. So, if they play it tonight, it’ll be the first time we’ve heard it live!’

‘Big wow. Hysterical much?’ Shimmi mutters.

We’ve had our hands stamped and are about to go into the venue when Shimmi stops statue-still. ‘OK, don’t look now – but right behind us, five o’clock…’

Of course, I automatically swivel around to look, but Shimmi grabs me. ‘I said don’t look, you moron! Look at me, read my lips: right behind us, weirdo twins, hockey massacre alert!’

‘No way!’Sure enough, the twins are sitting on a bench across from us, peering intently into the depths of Elyse’s bag.

‘Dare me to go and talk to them?’

‘Shimmi, come on, we’ll miss the —’ There’s little to no point in me finishing my sentence.

‘Hey,’ Shimmi greets them. ‘Mucho impressed by your moves on the hockey pitch this week – serve that snotty cow Amie Bellend right.’

‘Didn’t you hear, it was an “accident”,’ Elyse drawls. ‘She is a snotty cow, though.’

‘She’s the worst of the lot. Good thing you’re not friends with her any more…’

‘Yeah, it turned out we didn’t really have a whole lot in common. You’re Shimmi, right?’ Elyse grins. ‘Hey, Sorana – nice T-shirt.’

‘Um, thanks?’

I can’t work out if Elyse is making fun of me or not – probably because my gut instinct is that everybody is, all of the time – until she opens up her old army jacket to display the fact that she’s wearing the exact same one.

And that’s it. We’re off – all about how Elyse loves Trouble Every Day as much as I do, and so does Melanie. As we babble excitedly, it feels for a second like someone gets it. Then Shimmi starts to join in and I nearly burst out laughing, because I have never heard her so jazzed about Trouble Every Day in my whole life. I mean, Shimmi listens to Mariah’s greatest hits.

‘Oh, yeah, me too. Totally, deffo. My favourite one’s… What’s it called, again, Sorana? Something about “dead leaves in the winter” or some shit like that.’

‘Dead Flowers in the Fireplace!’ Elyse and I chant in chorus.

Then we all do burst out laughing. On the door, Shimmi and I show our hand stamps while the twins hand over their tickets, but instead of going straight ahead into the venue, Elyse immediately veers left and up the stairs.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask Elyse. ‘The gig’s downstairs.’

‘Yeah, I know – but the bar’s upstairs. Trouble Every Day won’t be on until nine, nine-thirty at the earliest. I’m not really up for seeing some crappy local support band called…’ she consults her ticket ‘…Mission to Mars, thanks very much.’

Tonight’s gig is an all-ages night, but the Arts Centre hosts all sorts of different events and the bar is still over-eighteens only – I know, from having come here to see a Polly Stenham play with my mum last year, that the upstairs bar is a candle-lit cavern with a small balcony overlooking the stage. When we walk in now, it’s a different proposition altogether. It’s still dark, lit only by candles and fairy lights – but it’s noisy and full of cool people, mostly a bit older than us as all the younger kids are downstairs.

This is where, left to my own devices, I would hover in the doorway for a moment before turning back down the stairs, defeated. Elyse pushes her way through the crowd and straight up to the bar. I follow her without question.

‘A bottle of house red and four glasses, please.’

‘Thanks,’ I say as she hands me a brimming glass – as much for saving me from having to order, as for the drink itself.

‘Cheers,’ Elyse replies, holding up her glass in a toast and grinning around the group.

‘Cheers,’ we all echo.

‘And happy birthday, Sorana!’ Shimmi adds.

As soon as Shimmi says this, Elyse appears to be suspended, mid-motion, in mid-air. Then, gradually, her face comes back to life and she looks over to Melanie, then at me. Once her eyes have locked on me, they don’t move away again. It’s like being trapped in oncoming headlights on the motorway.

‘It’s your birthday? Today?’

I nod.

‘And you’re seventeen?’

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering if I’m missing the point somewhere along the line here.

‘So you’re a Gemini?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Elyse suddenly begins cackling with manic laughter and envelops me in a huge hug. ‘Trouble Every Day are playing tonight and it’s your birthday and we all bumped into each other – it really is a sign! Here’s to your birthday, Sorana! Here’s to you!’

Just as Elyse predicted, we can hear from here that Mission to Mars are pretty dire. We chat and drink our wine and don’t pay too much attention. But as soon as the support set has finished, I’m starting to get antsy. I finish my drink and watch helplessly as other gangs of girls stake out their places at the front, sitting down cross-legged on the floor to bag the space.

‘Elyse…’

Elyse smiles into my eyes and holds up a hand to stop Shimmi halfway through an anecdote about the time her brother grew marijuana plants in their dad’s greenhouse without him noticing.

‘Come on. It’s time for Trouble Every Day!’

We’re spinning and jumping and whirling and dancing and screaming along with every word. I can feel the bass going all the way through me, from the soles of my feet, and it’s the best feeling because it’s all my favourite songs; it’s the music I love and it’s my birthday and I’m unexpectedly surrounded by friends. Vincent August is hotter than a thousand suns and the band seem to be playing harder than I have ever seen before.

I’m dancing with Elyse, both of us singing along and utterly unself-conscious, when I feel eyes on me, the distinct sensation out of nowhere that I am being watched. I look up, and see a boy staring at me. I come to a total standstill for a moment as the music fades away and rings like silence in my ears.

It takes me a moment to register that he’s the most beautiful boy I have ever seen – like a Kurt Cobain or a Robert Pattinson – you have to look through a thin layer of grunge before you notice the perfect bones underneath. The sort of heartbreaking face you could hang on a charm bracelet or keep in your box of special things under your bed. He’s leaning against the wall, standing apart from the crowd. His hair is flopping in his eyes and he is looking through it and right at me.

‘Earth to Sorana!’ Elyse yells in the direction of my ear and seizes my arm. ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah…’

My heart sinks – I am standing next to the most beautiful blonde the Arts Centre, if not the world, has ever seen. I couldn’t help but feel like we had a moment back there, but he was probably looking at Elyse. When I look back, he is gone.

I try to forget it, and just keep dancing. Way too soon, before I know it, it’s all over.

‘Listen,’ Elyse says to Shimmi and me as soon as the music stops, she and Mel hugging both of us. ‘We’ve got to run and get our lift. See you soon, yeah?’

Now that the lights have come up and the crowd is rapidly dispersing, the room looks a bit sad. Suddenly, it’s just Shimmi and me, alone again and a bit tired and sweaty. Shimmi’s make-up is all over the place; I can feel that my face is shiny and my hair lanker than ever, without even having to look in a mirror. The spell is definitely broken.

As we trail outside to wait for Pete, it’s just in time for me to see Elyse and Melanie across the road, climbing into the back of a car. That’s when I realise it’s him – the beautiful boy from earlier, with the floppy hair and the face made of unattainable dreams – sitting in the front passenger seat. Elyse didn’t speak to him all night or give any indication that she knew him; now she is getting into a car with him – and, cringingly I realise, I had been stupid enough to think that he might be looking at me.

Shimmi is oblivious as I watch another unknown, shadowy boy climb into the driver’s seat, before they speed away. Fortunately, then Pete pulls up in my mum’s Volvo and beeps jauntily.

‘How was your night, ladies?’

For a minute I had almost forgotten, but the magic still hasn’t worn off yet and suddenly it all comes flooding back. Shimmi and I grin at each other in the rear-view mirror.

‘It was brilliant,’ we say in perfect unison.

When Elyse rings me on Sunday night – less than twenty-four hours after the gig – I am beyond thrilled, but apprehensive.

‘Hey, I was thinking – do you want to come over to ours tomorrow?’ she asks.

‘Um. I’d love to – but I can’t, really. I’m supposed to have an exciting half-term schedule of revising and keeping an eye on my little sister while my mum’s at work…’

‘So, you and your sister are home alone? Cool. We’ll come over to you. Text me your address.’

The phone goes dead before I can say another word. I don’t have time to argue, even if I want to – luckily I don’t. Elyse has just decided that this is happening and there is no room for discussion. I’m too thrilled to worry much about the logistics.

I’m not entirely sure how I am going to clear it with my mum but, for once, I know I’m prepared to fight for this one if I have to. I corner her on her own in the bathroom before she goes to bed.

‘Mum, I was wondering… Tomorrow, is it OK if my friends Elyse and Melanie come over for a bit?’

‘The new girls you met up with at the concert? I don’t see why not. How about Shimmi and Nathalie?’ she says through a mouthful of toothpaste.

‘Nathalie’s gone away for half term, but I’ll see if Shim’s around. Thanks, Mum.’

I’d been working myself up so much about it, I kind of can’t believe it’s this easy.

‘Hey, I trust you not to burn the joint down, and I really do appreciate you keeping an eye on Daisy during the day this week.’

‘It’s cool; I don’t mind.’ I shrug. ‘If I can have friends over in the day, it’ll be really great.’

‘No problem. I’m just glad you seem a bit perkier since you had such a good birthday and met these girls.’

‘Yeah. They’re really cool.’

There is a pause as my mum looks at me intently.

‘We’ve been a bit worried about you, to be honest. You haven’t seemed very happy recently, so I’m pleased things are looking up.’

‘Yeah. I think they are. Don’t worry, Mum.’

Chapter Seven

Daisy and I are only lazing about the house, watching TV and eating snacks, but on Monday morning – despite the immense relief of not being at school – I find myself feeling a bit nervous. I’m wearing eyeliner, just in case, and checking my phone approximately every three seconds.

See, this is what a normal school holiday day is like round at my house – just me and Daisy, bickering over the computer, maybe walking into town later, maybe Shimmi or one of Daisy’s friends coming over. Try as I might, I simply cannot imagine how Elyse and Melanie will slot in.

At the gig, with a bottle of wine, it was different. Here, surely they’ll be bored out of their minds or else they’ll want to raid my mum’s drinks cabinet, invite boys over and smoke fags in the sitting room, while I quietly panic and my mum kills me. They might not even turn up. I texted my address to Elyse last night and haven’t heard from her since.

Then the doorbell rings and the book I was reading clatters to the floor.

‘God, what is wrong with you?’ Daisy mutters as she goes to answer it. ‘It’s only Shimmi.’

‘Yo, ladies,’ she announces herself, strolling in with a box of Krispy Kreme and a stack of DVDs.

‘You two are weird,’ says Daisy, grabbing a doughnut and disappearing upstairs.

It’s the first time Shimmi and I have seen each other since the gig, and we haven’t really had the chance to talk yet. We look at each other in excitement, about to explode with girly gossip and hysteria, but before we can open our mouths the doorbell rings again and they are here.

Elyse, Melanie and Shimmi come over every day for half term. We watch loads of films, listen to Trouble Every Day on repeat, eat junk food, walk into town to try on clothes and go to Nandos, read magazines, and chat about anything and everything. Even these ordinary activities have been elevated by having a cool gang around who, for the first time in my life, actually seem to ‘get’ me.

We have loads of stuff in common, especially Elyse and me. As well as Trouble Every Day, we basically like all the same music. Brand-new stuff that no one else I know has heard of, like Tied To The Mast, Terminal Gods and Jack Lucan; but we’re even into all the same weird old bands, from Sonic Youth to The Velvet Underground to Mudhoney and Bikini Kill. I don’t know anyone else my age in this town who has ever heard of a single one of these.

They don’t completely share my love of Nabokov and Murakami, but they are a million miles from most of the semi-literate girls in my class who only read Heat. Mel’s been looking through all of Pete’s art books, and Elyse found an old book I had on star signs and got really excited – she said she’s really into reading about astrology and all sorts of ‘alternative’ stuff that I’m pretty interested in, but would be laughed at for admitting at school. We’ve been poring through our horoscopes in all of Shimmi’s magazines and it’s been great.

This is pretty revelatory – I was starting to think I could go my whole life without meeting any real soulmate-type friends, people with whom I had anything in common other than proximity.

Elyse and I have been talking non-stop, looking up band websites together and swapping clothes, in a way that I’ve never done with anyone else before. Melanie’s much quieter than Elyse, but so sweet and nice to have around. Even Shimmi is different with the twins here – retaining all of the cool and funny elements that make her Shimmi, but a bit less silly and eager to impress than she is around some of the other girls at school.

It’s just a shame that Nathalie’s not here. I feel a bit bad that she has had to be left out of all this – I know I would be absolutely gutted if the situation were reversed. Although I feel bad she’s missing out, I can’t wait for her to come back so I can tell her the good news – like, ‘Hey, guess what? While you were away, we suddenly became cool!’

However, it’s amazing how quickly it starts to feel normal. In fact, there’s only one incident all week that doesn’t feel normal.

We all trek into town one afternoon, and, while the others are messing about at the Boots make-up counters, Elyse suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me away.

‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you,’ she says, breaking off from the others and propelling me down the street at a jog before any of them have even noticed what’s happening.

We come to a stop outside the window of a small hippy shop that I’ve never been in before. It’s full of crystals, dream-catchers and silver jewellery. I’d never have thought to set foot in a place like this before, but it’s really beautiful. I look over at Elyse and she is mesmerised. She eventually tears her eyes away and leads the way inside.

We are greeted by the shivering jingle of wind chimes as we open the door. The atmosphere in the shop is studiedly serene, with soft music playing and lights flickering; the woman behind the counter smiles at us benignly. Elyse seems to know where she is going, as she immediately gravitates towards a small table strewn with jewellery displays – a little bowl full of silver rings, chains and crystals hanging from spray-painted twigs in a vase.

‘Look at that,’ she whispers, pointing to a gorgeous bracelet. ‘I come in here to look at it all the time.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I whisper back.

It’s a delicate silver chain hung with moons and crystals, but it has an edgier, darker look to it than most of the other stuff in here – just Elyse’s style. It also has a price tag on it for over fifty quid – not so much our style.

‘Do me a favour,’ she mutters conversationally, ‘just put it in your pocket while I distract her – she doesn’t know you.’

I respond with a face of utter panic but she has already turned away. I cast worried glances at her back and will her to turn around so that I can shake my head, mouth at her that I’m not doing it.

‘Hi,’ she says loudly to the lady behind the counter. ‘Do you have any books on astrology, anything on star signs – particularly Gemini?’

‘Well, let’s have a look. They’re all over here. You’re a Gemini?’

‘Actually I’m not – it’s a present for my sister.’

As they continue chatting on the other side of the shop, I am frozen with my eyes fixed on the bracelet. My head is spinning and I feel on the verge of running out of there, running away and never turning back.

I feel like I’m watching somebody else as I see my own shaky hand pick up the bracelet and tuck it into the edge of my sleeve. I curl my fingers up around it so that it doesn’t fall out and, on watery legs, walk out of the shop.

I hear Elyse’s voice fade out behind me, as I quicken my pace the second I step out through the door. As soon as I’m past the window and out of sight, I make a mad dash down the road until I’m a safe distance away, all the time braced for an accusatory hand clamping down on my shoulder.

‘Thanks very much, but I think I’ve already got all of these,’ Elyse is saying behind me as she pauses in the shop doorway. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of the ocean. ‘I might come back. Bye.’

When I’m far enough from the shop to feel that I’ve finally got away with it, I stop and lean against a wall for a moment while I wait for Elyse. My legs feel so weak they won’t hold me up any more.

Elyse saunters out after me and catches up at a casual stroll. Then she leans up close and grins at me like I’m the best person in the entire world, like I passed the test. I don’t know whether I feel angry, brave or as if I’m going to burst into tears. It’s a weird combination of all of the above.

‘Oh my God, Elyse!’ is all I can say.

‘I know,’ she replies, prying the bracelet out of my fist and holding my hand for a minute as she does so. ‘I knew I could count on you. Thank you, Sorana!’

I realise I’m still shaking, as what I have done is starting to catch up with me.

‘Seriously, Elyse – what we just did… I would never… I mean, I can’t believe…’ I can’t get the words out and it’s only when I hear my own voice that I register I’m reacting with anger as much as anything else. ‘I can’t believe you made me do that. I have never done anything like this before in my life! I don’t even know why I went along with it. This is really not cool, Elyse.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll never ask you to do anything like that again; it’s not something I’d usually do either – honestly. It just felt important for some reason, you know? I don’t know why. Let’s keep it between us and forget it, OK? Anyway…look.’

She reaches into her pocket and shows me a bracelet the same as the one I took. She fastens it around my wrist to match hers. I am literally speechless, my arm falling away limply as she lets it go, so she carries on talking.

‘Like I said, I would never usually do anything like this, but something about it felt right. I know it’s crazy, but I really feel like you get it, don’t you? Let’s never tell the others, OK?’

I realise I was being totally irrational for trying to blame this all on Elyse in my head. It might have been her idea, but it was me who did it. I’ve never stolen anything before in my life and I still feel bad about it, but now I feel weirdly euphoric. I could just laugh out loud with the relief of not being caught.

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