Claire elbows her in the side. ‘Oh my Beyoncé, check out Zain and that girl again.’
The knot in Samira’s stomach constricts. She glances over at the pair locked in a passionate kiss, then looks away, tightening her arms around her middle.
‘They’re going for it,’ Anoush says, a little in awe.
Rashida whistles. ‘Now with added levels of sloppy.’
‘Can we forget about them?’ Samira asks, trying to stay upbeat. ‘Let’s do something fun. Just us girls.’
‘Love it,’ Anoush says. ‘Like what?’
‘Like that.’ Samira gestures to the inflatable slide where a guy is zigzagging down headfirst on his stomach. He collects a faceful of foamy bubbles before somersaulting into the ball pit.
Anoush’s eyes widen. ‘Maybe . . . not.’
Claire crinkles her nose. ‘It’s a no from me. I want to look good and I will not look good doing that.’
‘It’d ruin my hair,’ adds Rashida.
‘Sorry, Samira,’ Claire says with a flippant shrug that shows she’s not sorry at all.
Anoush throws Samira an apologetic look.
‘I really can’t bribe one of you to . . .’ Samira’s voice trails off when she feels someone’s gaze on her. She turns to see a boy with long lashes smiling at her. It suddenly feels like there’s something trapped in her throat. A choked ‘Hi’ escapes.
‘Hey,’ the guy says. There’s a small gap between his front teeth. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Samira’s palms are sweating so she links her fingers together. ‘Anything.’
‘I don’t want the whole room to hear.’
Samira moves towards him, feeling the girls watching her.
‘Can you ask your friend if she wants to kiss me?’ he whispers.
‘Of course,’ she says, leaning in before clicking to what he actually said. ‘Wait, what?’
‘All good, I’ll ask her myself,’ he says before turning to the others. ‘I clearly have no moves.’
Samira plasters on a toothy smile, half in shock she misinterpreted the situation, half-relieved the others can’t read her mind.
Rashida and Claire bat their eyelashes at him but he steps towards Anoush. ‘Would you wanna kiss me?’
‘Is this a dare?’ Anoush asks.
He looks over his shoulder to where a group of guys are egging him on. ‘Kinda. They thought I’d be too chicken to come over. But I do want to kiss you. If you want to.’
‘Well . . . alright!’ Anoush giggles.
They hold hands, fumbling for a second, then their lips touch briefly before Anoush steps back.
‘Hey,’ he says to her softly.
‘You taste like spearmint,’ she says, blushing as she leans in to kiss him again. This time, they don’t pull apart so quickly.
Samira looks away, clearing her throat to hide her embarrassment, while Rashida and Claire squeal with laughter.
A huge roar erupts from the growing crowd centred around the base of the inflatable slide. They’re shouting one word on repeat: ‘Zoë!’
A girl with cat-eye glasses — Zoë, Samira assumes — stands at the top of the slide, waving at the crowd. She claps in time with the chanting, then freezes. ‘I can’t, Prakash!’ she cries out to the guy behind her. ‘It’s too high!’
The crowd roars even louder, and Prakash scoops a handful of bubbles from the top of the slide and plops it on Zoë’s head. She squeals and bats him away — and her feet slip out from under her. She skids backwards down the inflatable slide, arms and legs flailing.
Prakash’s jaw drops. Then he jumps, clutching his knees to his chest, and careens down the slide to join her in the ball pit.
Cheering echoes around the marquee as the girls trade horrified looks.
‘Still want to go on that germ-infested slide, Samira?’ Rashida asks. ‘That could have been you tripping.’
Anoush giggles, her shoulders bumping against the mystery boy’s broad frame.
Samira shrugs as she looks over at the girl called Zoë. Her friends have surrounded her in the ball pit, laughing and dancing, and the grin on her face stretches from ear to ear.
‘Did you see her fall?’ Claire sniggers. ‘She looked so trashy.’
The others purse their lips in agreement and an ache in Samira’s chest deepens. ‘That’s such a nasty thing to say,’ she tells Claire, her voice quiet but strong. It’s the second time today she’s found the right words when she’s needed them, rather than days later when the moment is gone.
Anoush lowers her head a little.
‘Excuse me?’ replies Claire, hands on hips.
‘She’s having fun.’ Samira gestures to Zoë, who’s climbed onto her friend Prakash’s shoulders so he can run with her around the pit. ‘We don’t even know her. Why do you care?’
‘Whatever,’ Claire sniffs. ‘I could say the same to you.’
‘I care because it’s mean—’
‘Well, I didn’t ask your opinion.’
‘Let’s all take a breath,’ pipes up Anoush.
‘Drama in aisle five,’ Rashida says. ‘I repeat: drama in aisle five.’
Just then, Zain and Mathieu rock up. Their arrival cuts through the tension and the girls leap up to greet them. Samira forces a fake smile and avoids eye contact with Zain.
‘Yo, we’re moving on to that all-hours club on the corner,’ Mathieu says, gulping down the last of his drink. ‘The one with the podiums and no windows. You girls in?’
‘The Capitol?’ Samira asks. ‘We’ve got a limo booked later in the week to take us there.’
‘But we can still check it out now,’ Mathieu says with a shrug. ‘It’s around the corner and this party blows.’
‘We’re in,’ Anoush says. The mystery boy is still super-glued to her side. ‘Everyone, this is Dan. Dan, this is everyone. His friends might come too.’
As the group saunters towards the exit, Anoush whispers to Samira, ‘Got what you need for the Capitol?’
‘I do,’ Samira says, her fingers finding the fake ID in her handbag.
‘Excellent.’ Anoush skips ahead to link arms with Dan and meet his friends.
Samira is stuck walking behind Rashida and Claire, who hasn’t said a word to her since their disagreement. By the time they join the queue at the Capitol, Anoush, Dan and the boys are already inside. The entrance is roped off and operated by a bouncer with tattoos on his knuckles. Yawning, Rashida scrolls through her phone, and Claire snaps pouting selfies to check her make-up.
Samira turns over the fake ID in her palm. ‘My cousin doesn’t even look like me,’ she whispers to Rashida. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’
‘You’re overthinking it,’ Rashida hisses. ‘Pull it together, Mary, before you get us all refused.’
‘Your IDs aren’t fake,’ whispers Samira. ‘What if he can tell?’
‘Play it sweet. We’ll see you inside.’
The girls reach the front of the line. Claire pushes out her chest and shows her ID. The bouncer doesn’t even notice, just lifts the rope for her.
Rashida hands over her ID, continuing to play with her phone as she’s let in.
‘Your ID, miss?’ the bouncer asks Samira.
She tries to convince herself this moment means nothing to him and she’s yet another faceless brunette in line. That he has no idea her real name is Samira not Mary, or that her mum and Teta will ground her for life if they discover she’s broken the law.
‘ID, miss?’ he repeats, this time a little louder.
‘Sure,’ Samira mumbles to disguise her shaking voice and passes him the card. ‘Here.’
She sees the Live your way, baby bangle hanging from her wrist and, before the bouncer can read the birthdate on the fake ID, she snatches it back.
‘Sorry, I’ve realised I . . . I’ve left my hair straightener on,’ she stammers. ‘I have to go.’
And she flees, her sandals smacking loudly against the concrete footpath.
Zoë
<
br /> Day 2: 4.03pm
Zoë sinks deep into the ball pit again and scoops through the foamy balls, flinging them in every direction as she searches for her phone. ‘It has to be here,’ she mutters, pushing back wet strands of hair.
Prakash wades towards her. ‘No luck in this direction. Violet’s triple-checking the portaloos outside.’
‘We’ve been looking forever,’ Zoë says, scouring the sea of rainbow balls. ‘Maybe it’s on our table and I missed it?’
‘It’s not!’ Luca calls out. ‘Checked there. Although I did see Darius making out with someone.’
Prakash grins. ‘I saw that too! The girl with the spiky green hair and big hoop earrings?’
‘No hoops and this girl had curls down to her bum.’
‘He’s doing the rounds then,’ Prakash says, before noticing Zoë glaring at him to focus. ‘Sorry, Zo, I’ll call your phone again.’
Zoë melts into a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, P.’
‘Move it, slowpoke,’ Luca tells Prakash. ‘There’s a drink at the bar calling my name.’
‘Hey, don’t rush me, I can’t get it out of my pants,’ Prakash says, his palm stuck in his jeans pocket, before realising how that sounded.
The trio collapse into laughter and grab at each other to stop slipping over.
‘Help me!’ Zoë sinks backwards into the balls, wheezing between bursts of giggles.
Luca’s and Prakash’s hands find hers and they pull her to standing position.
‘You’re a liability,’ Luca says.
They turn to see Darius and Violet snapping a photo of themselves kissing. She’s on her tippy-toes with her arms laced around his body.
Luca rolls his eyes. ‘Doesn’t Violet realise he’s hooked up with half the foam party?’
Prakash holds up his phone. ‘It’s going straight to voicemail, Zo. I’ve called your number seven times.’
As they dig through the pit again, shouting erupts behind them. They turn to see Darius waving a phone high above the crowd. Violet stands beside him, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Missing something?’ Darius shouts.
Zoë jumps in the air. ‘Yes!’ she says, turning back to Luca and Prakash, who scoop her into a group hug. They lose their grip and all crash backwards into the ball pit. This time, Zoë doesn’t care. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’
Darius appears above them, his head blocking out the strobe lights painting streaks through the air. ‘It’s for you,’ he says, holding out the phone. ‘Your dad.’
Zoë’s hands race to her mouth in shock. ‘What?’
‘Uncle Gian called?’ Luca looks at Zoë’s phone like it might detonate and blow up the marquee. ‘Leave me out of it, Zo! I accept no responsibility for driving you here.’
‘The phone was over there,’ Darius says, gesturing to the opposite side of the pit. ‘Buzzing right under some random chick’s feet! We answered it and the guy said he was looking for Zoë. Case closed.’ He holds the phone out for Zoë again. ‘Seems like a good guy, your dad.’
‘He’s my uncle, Violet’s uncle too,’ Luca says with a smirk. ‘Meeting the family already, huh?’
‘This is bad,’ Zoë mutters, taking the phone. Her hand shakes as she imagines what her dad might rant down the line: Chickpea, you’re not leaving the house until you’re fifty! You won’t study medicine, you’re banned from seeing the cousins and you’ll live in our spare room forever!
She fantasises about throwing her phone back in the ball pit, changing her name and never returning home to avoid the conflict with her family. But then she imagines her father waiting on the other end of the phone line, most likely sick with worry, and she decides it’s time to face the inevitable outrage.
‘Dad?’ she begins.
Behind her, people roar as giant beach balls rain down on them. She’s deafened by the crowd surging in the ball pit and thumping on the dance floor.
She can’t hear a word he’s saying. Then again, louder. ‘Dad?’
It cuts out.
Zoë swears at her phone.
Luca’s shout pierces through the chaos and she looks up. He’s pointing to the corner of the ball pit. ‘Gross! A guy’s peeing! A guy is peeing.’
Everyone squeals and clambers over each other to escape the area.
‘I should call Dad back,’ Zoë shouts in Prakash’s direction as she kicks foamy balls out of her way and veers towards the exit.
‘I’m coming with you!’ Luca calls, lunging for Zoë’s arm. ‘Don’t leave me with these animals!’
Outside the marquee, they find a quiet spot away from the crowd.
‘Calling Uncle Gian is a terrible idea,’ Luca says. ‘I vote you pass me the phone, get a drink and pretend everything is fine.’
Zoë laughs. ‹I have to deal with this. The guilt is getting to me! May as well be now.’
‘How about never? Never sounds good to me.’ He sighs. ‘Well, it’s been nice being your cousin, Zo.’
‘You too, sometimes,’ she teases. ‘By the way, you’re in charge of organising my funeral.’
Her throat feels dry as she makes the call.
‘Zoë!’ It’s Greta’s voice that answers. ‘Are you there? What’s happening?’
Zoë freezes. She was expecting a fiery conversation with their dad, not a sparkling welcome from her older sister.
‘I . . . Yeah, I’m here. Where’s Dad?’ Zoë’s heart races as she hears the rise and fall of her parents arguing in the background.
‘He’s with Mum in the kitchen. They’re talking things out.’
‘Sounds like more than talking.’
‘Mum’s pretty fired up. We’d finally calmed her down, then that random guy answering your phone set her off again.’
‘Oh shit,’ Zoë says.
‘Listen, Dad got your messages and he’s been thinking about it and talking about it with me. And, well . . . he’s starting to think you’re right.’
There’s a long pause, then Zoë says, ‘This must be a bad connection. I swore you said he thinks I’m right.’
Luca pinches her arm. ‘What’s happening?’ he mouths. ‘What’s Uncle Gian saying? Has he hired a hitman?’
Zoë mouths back, ‘It’s Greta! I think Dad’s high!’ She mimes smoking a joint.
‘What?’ Luca tries to press his ear close to the phone to listen, but Zoë shoos him away. He gestures that he’s going back to the party for another drink and stomps off.
‘Zoë?’ Greta’s voice cuts through. ‘You still with me?’
‘Just taking it all in.’ She swallows. ‘Can you put Dad on? I . . . I need to talk to him.’
‘Sure. Give me a second.’
There’s rustling and hushed whispers before her father’s deep voice says, ‘Chickpea.’ He sounds so warm that it instantly throws her.
‘Dad, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Are you safe?’
‘I am. And I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Those hours before you texted back were the worst moments of my life.’
‘Dad.’
‘And if it were up to your mother, you’d be grounded forever.’
‘Or dead,’ she mutters.
He chuckles. ‘Oh, Zoë. You should never have run away. But your mother and I have spoken, endlessly so, and I don’t think we played fair either. We never should have changed the plan so abruptly.’ His voice cracks. ‘Sometimes I think we forget that you’re not our little girl any more.’
‘I am though.’
‘In some ways. But you’re moving on, Chickpea. You’re going to be a doctor, for God’s sake!’
‘Maybe, Dad. I’m still waiting to find out.’
‘If freedom is what you want,’ he says, ‘then it’s yours.’
‘Dad, I never wanted freedom. Just a break.’
‘Well, you’ve got it either way — and everything else that comes with growing up. Responsibility, liability, accountability. It’s all yours.’
‘Is this a trap?’ Zoë asks.
‘No, not at all. We’ll see you in less than a week.’
‘And Mum’s on board?’
‘She’ll get there. Greta’s helping her prepare dinner now.’
‘Of course she is,’ Zoë says, stomach churning at the thought of her mother and Greta in the kitchen talking about her.
‘Now, now. You’re in debt to your big sister — she’s come to the rescue this week, more than you could ever imagine. Really helped me to see how short-sighted we’d been.’
Zoë’s mouth feels dry. ‘I’m going to make you proud one day too, like Greta does. I promise.’
There’s a pause before her father says, ‘You already do, Chickpea, all while giving us a heart attack. Now, look after each other at the coast. Your mother can’t handle any more surprises.’
When Zoë hangs up the phone, she opens the message from Greta. Guilt panging in her chest, she fires off a short reply.
Thanks x
Samira
Day 2: 4.46pm
Samira weaves through side streets, heart pounding, before eventually stopping on a corner to catch her breath. She looks around. Everyone is in pairs and groups. She’s the only one alone.
She messages Anoush but there’s no reply. Fifteen minutes pass, but it feels like fifteen hours. She calls her and it immediately clicks over to voicemail.
‘Hey, it’s Anoush. I’m busy doing something awesome. I only check this thing about twice a year so Mum, if that’s you, text me instead! Okay, byeeeeeeeeeee.’
Samira stares at her phone, willing it to ring or vibrate, anything to prove her friends are missing her or worried about where she’s gone.
Her phone buzzes, but it’s a message from her mum.
Hope you have the best time tonight! Have lots of adventures (but not TOO many). Keep enjoying your special week xx
Another buzz.
PS: Call me in the next day or two! I miss your voice
Samira’s fingers trace over the phone’s buttons as she tries to drown out the cacophony of sounds on Saldana Strip. She wants to call her mum and tell her everything. But she doesn’t dare admit the truth: this week’s perfect plan has already fizzled into a mess. She thought she’d felt alone before, but there on the Strip, surrounded by hundreds of happy people, Samira has never felt lonelier. In that moment, she wants nothing more than to curl up in bed as her mum gently strokes her cheek to help her fall asleep like when she was a little girl.
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 7
