‘They reckon they have special powers,’ Sam continues.
‘Who?’
‘Middle children.’
‘No. Who reckons they have special powers?’
‘I read an article about it online, from Psychology Today.’
‘Oh.’
There’s a pause.
‘What kind of powers?’ I can’t resist asking.
‘Lots of things. They tend to be really independent, creative, good negotiators, justice seekers, flexible thinkers …’
I switch off. It’s just stupid psychobabble. Everyone knows all that stuff is crap. What matters is achievement you can measure – medals and exam results and mentions in the newspaper.
I look back out the window. The little kid is still crying, pointing up at the sky at the balloon, now a tiny speck. I can feel water building up behind my eyelids, threatening to spill. What is wrong with me?
‘You OK, Mia?’ Sam asks.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, keeping my head where it is so he can’t see.
‘Want to put some music on? I’ve got loads of stuff on my phone.’
‘I might just sleep actually.’
‘Aw, not you too,’ he says. ‘I was hoping you’d entertain me.’
‘What ever gave you that idea?’ I ask, balling my hoodie into a pillow.
I’m know I’m being rude, but after the brief excitement of Audrey winning all those medals, my mood has swung in the opposite direction and the last thing I want to do is chat.
‘Night,’ I say.
Before Sam can respond, I turn my head away from him and squeeze my eyes shut, worried that if I keep them open I won’t be able to stop the tears from falling.
16
Over the next two weeks, the teachers are on our backs more than ever, banging on like broken records about the importance of us using our summers ‘wisely’. At home, Mum and Dad are busier than ever. Mum has taken on some extra cake orders, so anytime she’s not at the pool with Audrey she’s in the kitchen, elbow deep in icing sugar. Meanwhile, the dining room is so full of stuff for the baby it’s starting to resemble a branch of Mothercare, Grace squeaking with delight over every single new delivery.
I’m in a rubbish mood pretty much the entire time. At first I think it’s PMT, but then my period comes and goes and I still feel crap. Not that anyone at home notices, apart from maybe Audrey who asks if I’m OK a couple of times. Everyone else is too busy obsessing about the wedding and the baby. It almost makes me miss the constant lectures I had to sit through following my New Year’s Eve trip to A&E. At least then I felt like Mum and Dad were vaguely aware of my existence.
‘What you looking at?’ Stella asks.
It’s Friday lunch time and the four of us are lying on the bank outside the art block, perving at the bloke mowing the grass at the bottom. He’s taken off his shirt and tied it to the belt loop of his cargo trousers. His face isn’t much to look at (‘like a bulldog chewing a wasp’ according to Stella) but his body is lush.
I hesitate before passing her the phone.
On it, there’s a photo of Hattie with Jordan’s mum on Instagram. They’re standing in Jordan’s kitchen with their arms round each other’s shoulders. The caption says ‘My Favourite Ladies’.
‘Barf,’ Stella says. ‘Why are you even following him still?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t realize I was until this popped up.’
As porkers go, it’s only a bite-sized one.
‘Do you think her hair’s real?’ I can’t resist adding.
‘Hattie’s?’
‘No, Jordan’s,’ I say, tutting. ‘Of course Hattie’s.’
Stella peers at the screen. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘If they’re extensions though, they’re really good ones.’
It’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.
‘Let me see,’ Mikey says.
Stella passes him the phone.
‘Jesus, she looks like a friggin’ Disney princess,’ he says.
‘Mikey!’ Kimmie gasps. ‘You can’t say that!’
‘Why?’
‘Because. It’s disloyal to Mia.’
‘Whatever,’ I say with a wave of my hand. ‘Like I care. Jordan Latimer is dead to me.’
I take the phone back and look at the picture again. Hattie’s hair is ridiculous. It’s almost down to her bum and looks like it’s been spun from real gold by a load of singing woodland animals. That isn’t what’s bothering me though, not really. What’s bothering me is the expression on Jordan’s mum’s face. It’s like she’s posing for a picture with her favourite celebrity or something. She never liked me very much. She never used to offer me a drink or a biscuit or anything when I came round and used to tut at practically every word that came out of my mouth. Jordan always tried to make me feel better by saying she was ‘like that with everyone’. She clearly isn’t, though. I have the photographic proof right in front of me.
‘I don’t know why they’re bothering,’ Mikey says as we walk home from school later that day.
It’s just the three of us. Kimmie has some family party to go to tonight and was picked up straight from school by her parents. Mikey is still managing to hog our communal bag of Haribo though, nicking all the fried eggs while he moans on about being roped in to babysit The Accident tonight while his parents go out for an anniversary dinner.
‘They’ll only end up arguing like they always do,’ he continues. ‘Anniversary or no anniversary.’
Stella and I make sympathetic noises, but both of us turn down Mikey’s invitation to keep him company for the evening.
‘Want to stay at mine?’ Stella asks, once we’ve said goodbye to him.
‘Why don’t we go out instead?’ I suggest.
‘Out?’ Stella says. ‘As in out-out?’
‘Yeah. It’s been ages since we’ve gone out properly.’
‘What about the Cuckoo Club?’ Stella points out. ‘That was only a few weeks ago.’
‘Exactly. It’s been ages. C’mon, let’s get dressed up and have a dance.’
‘What about Mikey and Kimmie? They’ll be gutted if we go out without them.’
‘Oh, don’t be lame. They’ll get over it.’
‘I don’t know, Mia, I was kind of in the mood for putting my jimjams on and slobbing out.’
I link arms with her, resting my head on her shoulder. Now the idea’s landed in my head, I’m determined to see it through.
‘Oh, come on, Stells, we can do that anytime. It’s been for ever since we went out just the two of us, the originals.’
The Originals. We used to call ourselves that all the time because Stella and I went through the whole of primary school together, only making friends with Kimmie and Mikey when we started at Queen Mary’s. We haven’t used it in ages though, mainly because Mikey gets all pissy about it when we do.
‘We’ll have some vodka Red Bulls,’ I add. ‘That always perks you up, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ she admits.
‘Is that a yes?’
She grins. ‘Go on, then.’
I kiss her on the cheek. ‘We are going to have the best night ever, Stells, I can feel it in my bones.’
A night out will fix everything, I just know it. It’ll be like a reset; a few drinks and a bit of flirting and I’ll be back to normal again, I’m certain. I just can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.
Stella’s mum is in Dubai so we turn up her iPod speakers as loud as they’ll go and mix stupidly strong vodka Red Bulls to drink while we get ready. We sing along as we do our makeup side by side, our elbows touching. Stu bangs on the door and bellows at us to shut up, but we ignore him and sing even louder, giggling hysterically as he gets more and more annoyed.
We turn down the music for a few minutes so I can ring Mum and tell her I’m sleeping over at Stella’s.
‘We’re just going to watch Netflix, eat some pizza and chill out,’ I say, when she asks what we have planned.
My words are already a bit slurred, but luckily she’s too distracted by the massive wedding cake she says she’s in the middle of stacking to notice.
I borrow a dress and shoes from Stella. The shoes are black with silver spikes on the heel and make me feel like I could rule the world in them. The dress is short, silver and skintight over my curves.
‘Seriously, Mia,’ Stella says once I’m dressed, ‘your arse looks so hot right now I want to take a bite out of one of your bum cheeks.’
There’s a pause before we both crack up laughing. Stella kind of has a point, though. My bum looks all kinds of amazing.
By the time we’re ready to leave we’re both a bit drunk. Stu shakes his head as we do shots in the kitchen. He’s rolling a spliff at the table, hunched over his tin of Rizlas and weed.
‘You two are a liability,’ he says, his lank hair dangling over his forehead.
‘Whatevs,’ Stella replies, counting to three.
We go to clink our shot glasses together but miss and end up getting more vodka down ourselves than in our mouths. Stella almost falls over laughing as I attempt to lick alcohol from my cleavage.
Stu just sighs and shakes his head again. ‘Like I said,’ he says, heading off to smoke his spliff out on the patio. ‘Total liabilities.’
‘So where first?’ Stella asks as we settle into our seats on the upper deck of the bus. ‘If we want to get into the Cuckoo Club for free, we should make sure we’re definitely in the queue by ten thirty at the latest.’
‘We always go to the Cuckoo Club,’ I say. ‘How about we go somewhere different tonight?’
‘Like where? The Union?’
‘Ew, The Union is proper scuzzy.’
‘Blue Bar, then?’
‘Can’t. The woman on the door hates me, remember?’
‘Only because you gave her attitude when she wouldn’t let us in that time.’
‘She gave me attitude first!’
Stella sighs. ‘Then where? It’s not like Rushton has a billion options. Cuckoo Club is the best of a bad bunch.’
But I don’t want to go to the Cuckoo Club. I don’t want to have the same old dodgy blokes asking me where I’m from and trying to touch my hair and offering to buy me the same old boring drinks, all to the same old boring soundtrack. I want to go somewhere new, somewhere exciting.
‘How about Flux?’ I suggest.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ Stella says.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘It’s miles away. We’d blow all our money just getting there.’
Flux is a club in a massive converted factory way out of town, unreachable by public transport. It’s supposed to be insane, floor after floor of the best DJs playing the coolest music.
‘We’ll get people to buy us drinks,’ I say.
‘If we even get in in the first place.’
‘Why would we not?’
‘Oh, c’mon, Mia, I know we can pass for eighteen at the Cuckoo Club, but Flux? No way.’
I won’t be deterred, though.
‘Please, Stella,’ I say, taking her hands in mine and squeezing hard.
‘I don’t know, I think I’d rather just keep it local.’
‘Oh, come on, where’s your fighting spirit? Your sense of adventure?’
‘At home. Watching Netflix in my PJs,’ she replies.
‘But just think about how jealous everyone at school will be if we actually get into Flux. We’ll be heroes.’
Her face twitches. She’s tempted, I can tell.
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ I continue. ‘We get turned away and go back to yours. Life’s bloody short, Stella, we should at least try.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s do it.’
I squeal and chuck my arms around her. ‘You won’t regret this, Stells, I promise!’
17
We chug our usual jug of happy hour Blue Lagoon cocktail at Top Dogs then head straight for the taxi rank. On our way we pass the Cuckoo Club, the usual crowd queuing up outside. Amongst them are some girls from our year – April, Tamsin and Kat. They wave us over.
‘Want to sneak in?’ April asks, stepping aside to make room for us in the queue.
‘No thanks,’ I say, happily noting their disappointment. ‘We’re off to Flux.’
The three of them raise their eyebrows.
‘You think you’ll get in?’ Kat asks.
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘You know they’re really strict with ID, don’t you?’ Tamsin chimes in. ‘Passport or driving licence, that’s it.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’m not worried.’
They exchange impressed glances.
‘We should get going actually,’ I say. ‘Beat the queue.’
‘Well, good luck,’ April says.
‘If you don’t get in you can always come back here,’ Kat adds, looking hopeful.
‘Yeah, I suppose we could,’ I say. ‘I have a good feeling, though.’
We say our goodbyes and keep walking.
‘Why did you tell them about Flux?’ Stella asks as soon as we’ve turned the corner. ‘Now when we don’t get in, they’ll think we’re really lame.’
‘We can worry about that if it happens,’ I reply. ‘If.’
The taxi journey to Flux takes just under half an hour, our eyes on the meter the entire time. The club truly is in the middle of nowhere, a vast brick building with virtually no signage and nothing else in sight other than a lone burger van. Even though it’s still relatively early, there’s already a queue snaking round the building, everyone in it utterly immaculate and noticeably older than us. Stella throws me a nervous look, which I pretend to ignore. The best thing we can do right now is to act as relaxed as possible; door people at places like this can sniff out underage nerves at one hundred paces. As we join the back of the queue, the group in front – a sextet of girls with long glossy hair in a variety of shades – give us the once over.
‘I didn’t know it was underage night,’ one of them says.
The others titter.
‘Excuse me?’ I say, anger swirling in my belly.
The girl who spoke turns to look at me. Her face is so expertly contoured I wouldn’t be surprised if she could peel it off, like a villain in Scooby-Doo.
‘I said I didn’t know it was underage night,’ she repeats.
‘What makes you so sure we’re underage?’ I ask. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Would you like a list?’ she asks.
Cue more titters from her friends.
‘Just leave it, Mia,’ Stella whispers, tugging on my arm.
I’m not scared of them though, with their fake hair and fake nails and fake tans.
‘Look, even if they do believe you’re over eighteen,’ one of the other girls says, ‘you won’t get in unless you’re on the guest list.’
‘Says who?’ I ask.
‘That’s just how it works at Flux,’ she says, with a flick of her hair. ‘Everyone knows that.’
She and her friends give us one final withering look before turning their backs on us to face the front of the queue.
I rise up onto my tiptoes. I can just about make out the two people manning the door – a woman with a severe ponytail, holding a clipboard, who appears to be in charge, and a muscly bloke in black, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Do you think it’s true?’ Stella whispers. ‘About having to be on the guest list? On top of them being really hot on checking IDs?’
‘Nah,’ I whisper back. ‘They’re just saying that to be bitches, to psych us out.’
I sound more confident than I feel, though. The fact is, I have no idea if the guest list thing is true or not. All I know is that now we’re so close, the throb of the music just metres away, the idea of not getting into Flux tonight physically hurts.
Ten minutes later, we’re almost at the entrance, just the girls in front separating us from the door people. I hate
to admit it, but they seem to be right about the guest list thing. Having witnessed four separate groups get turned away, I’m feeling increasingly pessimistic about mine and Stella’s chances.
‘We should be on the VIP list,’ the girl with the weird mask face is saying to the doorwoman.
‘Sorry, I can’t see your name,’ she replies.
‘Are you sure? Let me see?’ one of the other girls says, reaching for the clipboard.
The doorman grabs her arm to stop her, his beefy hand easily encircling her skinny wrist.
‘Get off me!’ she shrieks.
They all start yelling at once, stabbing angrily at the clipboard with their index fingers while the doorwoman attempts to shout over them. The doorman turns away and starts murmuring into a walkie-talkie.
That’s when I see our chance.
‘Run!’ I whisper.
‘What?’ Stella says, her eyes widening.
‘Run!’ I repeat, grabbing her hand and dragging her past the commotion and through the main entrance.
We keep running, only stopping to have the Flux logo stamped on the back of our hands by a girl who looks like a supermodel.
‘Have a good night, ladies,’ she drawls.
‘Oh, we will,’ I say, grinning at Stella.
We wait until we’re safely through the next set of double doors before daring to pause to scream in each other’s faces.
‘We did it!’ I shriek. ‘We actually did it!’
We join hands and practically skip down the corridor towards the thump of the music, the logo on our hands glowing triumphantly in the dark, before spilling out into a vast main room at least five times bigger than the Cuckoo Club. It’s cool and industrial, with exposed piping and bare brick walls. All the bar staff are glossy and beautiful without exception. They wear tight black T-shirts, and toss glasses and cocktail shakers in the air and behind their backs with bored expressions on their faces, like they could do it in their sleep if they had to. It makes the Cuckoo Club, with its plastic red banquettes and cheesy light-up dance floor and drinks served in plastic cups, look like a kiddies disco in comparison.