by Sarah Webb
I stare at him, flabbergasted. “What are you talking about? You two were all over each other on Wednesday. You should have talked to her, not . . .” — I grasp for the words —“not . . . this. And not with Annabelle Hamilton! I think you’re a coward, Bailey Otis. You’re lucky to have a girlfriend like Mills. She’s the most loyal person I know. She’d never treat you like dirt or abandon you. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He winces as if he’s been hit, but he doesn’t say anything and something flickers across his face — anguish, fear, pain? Our eyes connect, and in them I see Mum at her lowest: after Dad had moved out and demanded a legal separation. I see someone who is crushed and alone, and it frightens me. He dips his head, his hair closing over his face like a dark curtain.
I put my hand on his and try one final time. “Bailey, talk to me. Is there something—”
“Would you look what the cat dragged in . . .” Annabelle says, appearing behind me. I turn around to see a nasty sneer on her face.
Bailey pulls his hand away from under my palm as if scalded.
“Admiring our box, Amy?” Annabelle goes on. “It’s far bigger than yours. My dad has, like, amazing connections.” (It’s exactly the same size as our box, but I can’t be bothered arguing with her.) She picks an imaginary piece of fluff off Bailey’s black T-shirt and then leaves her hand resting on his arm, like a territorial guard dog.
I look at Bailey, and he holds my gaze for a moment, then slides his eyes toward the stage, where a man is changing one of the guitars.
“Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen,” a voice rings out loudly over the sound system. “Please take your seats.”
“You heard the man, Amy,” Annabelle says, pointing at the door. “Back to your pigpen. Don’t stay where you’re not wanted.”
I try to get Bailey to look at me again, but he won’t meet my eyes. I leave to the sound of Annabelle’s tittering, feeling hurt, confused, and disappointed. What on earth has happened to Bailey? It’s baffling.
When I get back to our own box, Clover’s sitting there alone. “You all right?” she asks.
I nod. “But Bailey’s not. It’s all off with Mills, according to him, and it looks like he doesn’t even have the guts to tell her himself. Where is she, anyway — in the loo?”
“No, she’s about to show that Bailey creature what he’s missing. Remember Frizzy and Susie?”
“The girls from the Goss letter?”
“Yup. Frizzy e-mailed me to say thanks for the advice. We got chatting, and she mentioned that her so-called friends were going to a gig and hadn’t invited her. She said that was it as far as she was concerned: she wasn’t hanging out with them ever again. Guess what gig.”
I smile. I can see where this is going. “It wouldn’t happen to be the Golden Lions at the Olympia Theatre, would it?”
“Got it in one, Beanie. So I arranged something special for Frizzy and Susie with Brains — something to give those frenemies a taste of their own medicine. And Mills is going to join them!”
Suddenly the lights in the auditorium dim, the stage lights come up, and the Golden Lions run on, followed by two girls in matching Twilight T-shirts; one is small and blond, and the other is taller with a head of amazing red curly hair. It must be Frizzy! And right behind them is Mills. She looks a mixture of mortified and over the moon: her cheeks are pink, her eyes glistening.
“Mills!” I shriek down at her.
She waves up at us, and I blow her a kiss.
“What are they doing on the stage?” I ask Clover, bewildered.
She shakes her head. “So impatient, Grasshopper. All will be revealed.”
“On the tambourine for one song only,” Brains hollers. “We have our Lionettes, the coolest rock chicks ever — Mills, Susie, and Frizzy.”
The opening bars of “Forest Fire” ring out, and the three girls tap tambourines on their hips. The crowd cheers wildly.
I shriek again. “No way!”
Clover hoots with laughter. “I thought Mills might as well join in the fun.”
I peer across the auditorium at Bailey and Annabelle. Annabelle is frozen statue-still, her mouth a huge O while Bailey’s eyes are glued to Mills. That’ll show him — Mills is worth millions of any D4.
I clutch Clover’s arm in excitement. “I heart you so much for arranging this, Clover.”
“You’re so welcome, Beanie.” She grins. “No one messes with my girls, ever. Now, let’s cheer them all on.”
We punch our fists in the air and chant, “Lionettes! Lionettes! Lionettes!”
“Do you notice anything different about me?” I ask Dad, flicking the front of my hair a little to give him a clue. It’s Saturday afternoon, and we’ve brought my baby sister Gracie to the Dublin Zoo. A father-daughter trip, Dad called it, but I think it was just a ruse to get away from Pauline, Shelly’s ultra-painful mum. If I had to pick the one person I’d least like to be stuck on a desert island with, Pauline would be right up there, along with Annabelle Hamilton and Dad’s annoying new wife, Shelly.
Pauline and Shelly are very similar: they are both whippet thin, with huge white teeth, china-blue baby-doll eyes, and an entire wardrobe of tacky white and gold clothes.
Dad tears his eyes away from the tigers to look me up and down. “New jeans?” he tries with a shrug.
“Dad! I got my hair cut this morning. I’ve got a fringe.” I do jazz hands on either side of my forehead. “Ta-da!”
He smiles. “So you do. Makes you look older.”
I grin back. “Correct answer, Pops. Mum thinks so too.” I’m still a bit unsure whether I’ll keep it, though — unless I straighten the fringe every morning, I suspect it’ll look a mess. And unlike the D4s, I’m not interested in daily primping just for school.
We leave the tiger enclosure, and Dad pushes Gracie’s top-of-the-range Bugaboo toward the monkey island. I walk along beside him.
“Want to push your little sis?” he asks.
“Later maybe.” I’m getting a kick out of watching Dad try to negotiate the crowds. In his camel-colored cashmere coat and pointy-toe Prada boots, he looks a little out of place, like a male model playing “dad” in a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. Most of the other dads are wearing practical rain jackets, zipped over their potbellies.
We watch the monkeys gibbering and swinging from the ropes for a few minutes, and then I notice that two spider monkeys are holding hands and spinning around. “They look like they’re dancing,” I say, pointing at them.
Dad smiles. “So they do. That reminds me, my bank’s sponsoring a ballet this Christmas featuring Mills’s sister. Cool, huh?”
I look at him in surprise. “In Budapest?”
Claire Starr moved to Budapest when she was fifteen to train in their state ballet school, and now she’s a full-blown ballerina. Mills doesn’t talk about her very often — Claire isn’t very good at keeping in touch with her family, and I think it’s a bit of a sore point. She hasn’t been home for two years.
“No, Dublin. They’re doing Romeo and Juliet in the Grand Canal Theatre, and Claire’s headlining. They’re calling her the Irish Ballerina. Great marketing ploy, eh? It was all a bit hush-hush until the sponsorship deal was finalized last week.”
It’s strange Mills hasn’t mentioned it yet, but maybe Claire wasn’t allowed to tell anyone until the funding was sorted. Ballets cost an absolute fortune to stage apparently, and without a big sponsor they just don’t happen.
“As part of the deal, all the traders are getting a bunch of free tickets for the opening night,” Dad goes on. “Ballet puts me to sleep, though. Want my seats?”
“Abso-doodle-lutely! Can I bring Mills and Clover?” Mills will probably go with her mum and dad, anyway, but I’m sure she’d be happy to watch it twice, and maybe she could get us backstage to see all the dancers. Clover says male ballet dancers are hot up close and personal (she had a brief dalliance with one before she met Brains), and I want to see if she’s right.
; “Sure. You can bring Sylvie along too.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Gracie wakes then and starts to make little mewing noises.
“Better get this little lady home,” Dad says. He checks his watch. “Hopefully Pauline will be at the gym by now. The sooner that woman flies back to Portugal on her broomstick the better. She’s doing my head in. She really stirred things up this morning over breakfast. Asked me why Shelly wasn’t invited to your mum’s bachelorette party! I don’t think it had even occurred to Shelly to be miffed — but she is now.”
“Is Pauline deranged? Shelly’s the last person Mum would want within a million miles of her party.”
“I know that and you know that. Anyway, don’t worry; I set Pauline straight. Told her it was just close friends and family. Shelly still had a puss on her, though, so I had to promise to take her shopping to make up for it.”
Phew! Mum’s bachelorette party is already getting far too complicated for my liking. Dave has invited his prissy sister, Prue, along, and her idea of outlandish is wearing a red velvet hairband instead of her usual navy blue one.
Gracie cries all the way to the exit, where Dad makes a big deal out of maneuvering her buggy out the gate. Honestly, you’d swear he was driving a bus. As we walk toward the car, Gracie finally goes quiet again, and I peer in at her. She’s snoozing peacefully, her nose wriggling like a rabbit’s, her mouth making little sucking motions, like she’s pulling on an imaginary bottle.
“How are the party plans coming along, anyway?” Dad asks. “Is there a theme?”
I worry my lip. I’m a little concerned about Clover’s ideas, to be honest. Mum said simple — but some of it is looking Brains-worthy eccentric.
“The theme is Sex and the City, Irish style,” I tell him. “Manhattan meets Dublin.”
Dad laughs. “Sounds brilliant. I’m sure Sylvie will love it.”
I hope he’s right.
“I do love teacher-training days,” I say to Clover on Monday morning. We’re marching across the rugby field at Trinity College, and I’m swinging my arms like a soldier on parade.
“I feel bad about dragging you out of bed so early on a day off, Beanie,” Clover says. She then gives a jaw-cracking yawn. Clover isn’t a morning person. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes!” I say, stepping over a divot. “But everyone else is walking on the path. Are we allowed to walk on the grass?”
And as though in answer to my question, a short man in dark blue overalls waves a rake at us and shouts, “Oy, off the grass!”
“Apparently not.” Clover grabs my arm, and we run toward the path, laughing.
We join the stream of students flowing toward Front Square. It’s day one of Freshers’ Week, and from the excited chatter of a bunch of D4s in flicky mini-kilts and brand-spanking new Uggs in front of us, I’d say it’s a REALLY BIG DEAL!
“What societies are you joining, Amber?” one of them asks a tall girl with long, perfectly straightened mink-colored hair. (The D4s have all gone mink this season — it’s the latest thing, apparently. Smacks of beige to me.)
“Field Hockey Club, obviously — they, like, so need me,” Amber answers, her haughty voice dripping with confidence. “I have been capped for Ireland after all.” It’s clear from the way the others have stopped chattering and are listening to her intently that she’s Queen Bee. “Also Drama Society. And the college magazine. My second cousin’s the editor. We’re, like, Siamese-twins close. Practically best friends.”
“Which cousin’s that?” a dark-haired girl asks. “Tiffany?”
“No, Tiffany’s taking a cooking course in Ballymaloe, remember? Where they send all the Leaving Cert rejects. It’s costing Uncle Seb a fortune. He says if she can whack out a decent steak, she might just bag herself a rich husband. It’s the only hope for her. No, I’m talking about Cliona. She’s the editor, you dim sim.”
I give a tiny gasp. “She’s not talking about your Cliona, is she?” I whisper to Clover.
“You eavesdropping too, Beanie?” Clover nudges me before shaking her head. “It can’t be, though. Cliona might be a wagon of the highest order, but she’s a goth, and a goth being besties with a D4 is a step too far.”
“Cliona’s an inspiration,” Amber is saying. “It’s the first time a second year’s been made editor.” She lifts her hair off her neck, letting it fall back across her shoulders in a wave, and even several feet away, I get a whiff of expensive shampoo.
The D4 pack has reached some concrete steps to the right of a large modern building, and Amber suddenly stops dead. She lifts her hand like a traffic warden and swings round to face her tribe. (She’s much prettier than I’d imagined, with a heart-shaped face and wide-set hazel eyes, like a cat’s.) “Halt!” she says. “Makeup check.”
At her command, all the girls whip out cosmetic bags and hand mirrors and begin topping up their gloop.
Clover stops too and pretends to study her mobile phone. I linger beside her, watching the D4s from the corner of my eye.
“Remember, first impressions are, like, crucial,” Amber says, snapping her compact closed and slipping it back into her leather satchel. “Today is the most important day in your college career. Hit the stands with pride. We are Mounties, girls. We belong here. Heads up, shoulders back, boobs out. Let’s show them what we’re made of.”
And like a plague of rich, privileged locusts, they swarm up the steps, past a bronze globe sculpture, and into the college building.
Clover stares after them. “I can’t spend four years surrounded by Mount Rackville monsters, Beanie. Girls from that school think they’re so superior, and I hate the way they call themselves Mounties. I think I’ll just register, grab my student ID card, and then head in to the Goss office and get some work done.”
I look at Clover, but her eyes quickly dart away from mine. She seems nervous, agitated.
“Can we just have a quick look at some of the society stands?” I say. “There’s free pizza at the Students’ Union, and the engineers have a bungee run. Pretty please?”
We flicked through the Freshers’ Week program on the DART on the way in, and some of the societies sound fantastic. I know if I can just get her to look around, she’ll be excited again. I won’t let her be put off by a bunch of D4s!
She sighs and rolls her eyes at me. “OK, fine. But first I have to register in the exam hall and pick up my student card. You need an ID card before you can join any of the societies, anyway. Which way, bloodhound?”
“Follow the crowd, I guess.” I point at a group of Crombies (the male equivalents of D4s). They are all in matching jeans and Abercrombie & Fitch Ts and are jostling one another with their broad rugby player shoulders.
“It’s a sad day when I have to trail Crombies — but I guess you’re right, Beanie.”
We tail them but keep our distance. After walking through a narrow opening, we find ourselves in a huge cobbled square that is thronging with noisy students. It’s also heaving with stands — some are tented, some are decorated with colored banners, and all are manned by students in hoodies or tops printed with their society’s name.
We sniggle our way through the bodies. The air is thick with sweat, beer fumes, and aftershave so strong you can taste it. (The Crombies have obviously been dousing themselves as usual.) There’s a queue snaking outside one of the Georgian buildings to the left, so we weave our way in and out of the crush toward it. The sign on the wall says “NEW STUDENT REGISTRATION.” Bingo!
Luckily the queue is moving quickly, and within minutes we find ourselves inside, where we join another busy queue to the right, marked “ARTS.” The building is ancient, with huge wooden doors like a church and a soaring ceiling covered in fancy plasterwork. It smells of old wood and is pretty intimidating.
I look at Clover, all ready to give a low, impressed whistle, but her eyes are fixed ahead, to where Mountie Amber is posing for her ID photo. “One second, please,” she is telling the photographer. She s
hakes back her hair and smacks her lips together to redistribute her gloss. “Right, you can proceed . . .”
After the picture’s been taken, she holds out her hand. “Obviously I’ll need to approve it.”
The photographer is so stunned, she passes it over without a word. Amber takes a look. “That will be fine,” she says, handing it back and moving toward the registration desk, where a man looks up at her through half-moon glasses. “Name, please,” he says, sounding tired and bored.
“Amber Horsefell.”
“Subjects?”
“English and history of art.”
He ticks her off the list. “You can collect your student ID from the desk at the back wall in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Amber says primly with another flick of her hair.
“Did you hear that?” Clover hisses at me. “English and history of art. There’s a Mountie in both my subjects. Help, Amy!” She clutches my arm.
At the sound of Clover’s voice, Amber spins round. “I heard that.” She looks Clover up and down. “Newtown High? No, not scruffy enough. Weston Park. Nah, too quirky.” She narrows her eyes and then smiles. “I’ve got it: Saint John’s. I can spot a Saint John’s girl anywhere. You think you’re so hip and original, but you have such burning Mountie envy, it eats you up inside, like a parasitic worm.”
I wait for Clover to fight back — give Amber a good tongue lashing — but she’s gone mute. I’ll have to say something instead.
“Mountie envy?” I snort. “You have got to be—”
“How darling,” Amber says to Clover, cutting me off. “You brought along a Mini-Me to keep you company. No friends your own age. Saddo.” And with a toss of her mane, she sashays away while Clover stares down at the floor.
“You OK?” I ask her.
She nods but she’s biting her lip, and I can tell she’s not herself.
“Once I’ve registered, I have to grab some paperwork from the English department and then I’m outta here,” she says quietly.
“But I thought we were going to stick around, check out a few of the stands.”
