by Sarah Webb
“Changed my mind.”
“But, Clover—”
“Just leave it, Beanie. Tell you what, while I get my ID card and collect my schedule, why don’t you have a look around. I’ll meet you over by that funny-looking brass thing in ten minutes, OK?” She points toward the far end of the square.
“Clover, that’s a very valuable Henry Moore sculpture! And it’s bronze, not brass.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “You’re such a culture vulture, Beanie. See you in a mo’.”
As she heads away, I walk back outside into the thick of the crowd, picking my way down the stands. Everyone seems to be shouting.
“Join the Sailing Club,” a cute blond boy yells in my ear, nearly deafening me.
“Free foot massage at the Yoga Club,” a girl in a fluffy bumblebee scarf bellows, making me jump.
I walk back, away from the stands to get a bit of space and so I can read the banners above the tables: Hockey. Chess. Yoga. Scuba Diving. Judo. Photography. Science Fiction. Comedy. An Cumann Gaelach. Juggling. Juggling?
The whole cobbled square is buzzing, and I’m so disappointed Clover isn’t in the mood to hang out. Then I spot what looks like the college magazine stand, complete with an old-fashioned black typewriter sitting proudly on one of its many tables. The stand is covered in pink flags, each one has Trinity Tatler printed on it in thick black cursive script. Some of the students manning it are wearing pink fitted polo shirts, also emblazoned with the words Trinity Tatler.
I’m half walking away — no point in talking to them without Clover — when a singsong Galway accent mocks, “Don’t join Trinity Tatler, then. See if I care.”
A gorgeous black guy with melty chocolate eyes and a sky-high quiff of hair is talking to me. He’s certainly not wearing anything resembling a pink polo shirt. He looks Odd McOdd in his checked shirt, baggy shorts, shiny blue high-tops, and geeky glasses, but très cute. He’s perched on the edge of a table, and from the length of his amazingly strong-looking legs, he must be at least six feet tall.
“That’s right,” he is saying. “Walk away. We don’t want any riffraff. And D4s are banned. Quite enough of them perching on the mag’s desks and filing their talons already.” He sweeps his eyes left and right at the girls behind the desk, and then looks directly at me. “You a D4, doll face? Nah, you don’t have that pinched I’m-on-a-permanent-diet expression. And you’re looking far too funky. This is your lucky day. I might just let you join our band of merry men.”
I grin at him. “Sorry, but I’m not a student here. I’m just passing through.”
He winks. “I get it: spying for a rival college mag. Clever. Well, you won’t get a peep from these babies.” He pinches his lips closed.
I laugh. “I’m only thirteen. I’m still in school.”
“I never like to judge, doll face.” He smiles such a cute smile that my knees nearly buckle under me. “I’m Patrick Akinjobi. Paddy to my friends. Assistant editor and general gofer. And what are you doing here today if you’re not spying?”
“I’m with my aunt. She’s registering today. First-year English.”
“Mature student?”
I smile. “Very immature.” Then something occurs to me. Paddy seems really cool — Clover would love him, and if she got involved with the magazine, maybe college wouldn’t seem so daunting.
“She’s only seventeen,” I tell him, “but she’s already a very experienced journalist. She’s been working for the Goss during her gap year.”
Paddy looks impressed. “The teen mag? It’s always winning print and media awards. I’ve read some of their articles online.”
“Clover’s their agony aunt, and she also writes features,” I say, encouraged by his interest. “She interviewed Matt Munroe last summer.”
“Hey, I think I read that piece. The Hollywood actor with Irish roots? Exclusive interview, wasn’t it?”
I nod proudly.
“This Clover sounds like my kind of gal. The mag could sure do with some experienced journos. The current crop of writers are muppets. When can I meet her?”
“Right now.” And I jab a quick text to Clover.
“So what’s your name?” Paddy asks.
I’m opening my mouth to tell him when a girl appears beside him. She’s another mink-haired D4 and is wearing the pink Trinity Tatler polo shirt with denim shorts. She has orange legs up to her armpits and a face thick with makeup. And for some reason she looks familiar.
“Hey, Paddy,” she says, completely ignoring me. “My laptop’s acting up again. Can you, like, fix it?” She thrusts a pearly pink laptop into his hands and then sits down on the desk with her back to me. How rude!
“Sorry,” he says to me, putting the laptop down on the table and scowling at it. “Our editor’s very impatient. All hail our leader.” He puts both his hands in the air and pretends to kowtow.
“Just get on with it, please, Wimpy Kid,” the D4 snaps. “And stop with the moaning. I bet you’ve done nothing except chat with people all morning. Have you even signed up any new meat? And, like, someone who can spell would be a bonus. Amber’s grammar isn’t great, and she types like a snail.”
“So do you,” he points out.
She gives a laugh. “I think you’ll find writing’s my thing, not typing. That’s why we have minions.”
Paddy turns to me again, an amused look on his face. “Feel like dropping out of school to become a copy slave? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Amy,” I say. “Amy Green.”
The D4 whips around and looks directly at me for the first time. My jaw drops. The hair’s utterly different, the goth makeup has been replaced with thick orange goo, and the accent has morphed into a mid-Atlantic drawl, but I’d recognize those piercing ice-blue eyes anywhere. Pógarooney! It’s Cliona Bang.
Cliona has only gone and reinvented herself as a D4. Horrifying! I have to warn Clover, but I’m rooted to the spot.
Cliona narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m with Clover,” I say, trying not to sound intimidated, even though I am. “You remember Clover, don’t you?”
Something flickers over Cliona’s face — worry, panic? It’s hard to tell. But within nanoseconds the frown is back. “So Clover’s finally decided to give college a try.” She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Wonder how long she’ll last.”
Paddy is looking at me with interest. “How do you know our esteemed leader, then, Amy?” he asks.
“Cliona used to be a friend of my aunt’s,” I explain. “When she was still a goth.”
Cliona squeals. “I was never a goth.”
I stare at her. “You refused to leave the house without black fingernails and lips.”
“That’s just not true.”
Paddy grins. “Reinventing your past, Cliona? I like it. You have far more depth than I’d given you credit for.”
“And you used to wear black lace gloves and thick white—” I continue.
“Amy!” Cliona says strongly. “Stop or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?” Clover appears behind me. She’s pale and her hands are shaking. I pray Cliona doesn’t notice.
There’s a loaded silence.
“So the college dropout is back,” Cliona says eventually.
Clover pulls herself up straighter. “I took a gap year, Cliona. It’s hardly unheard of.”
“She’s been writing for the Goss,” I say protectively.
Cliona’s face is a study in unimpressed. “The magazine for tweenies?”
Paddy coughs. “Cliona? Can I just say something? Obviously you two know each other from before, but we could use a decent writer on the mag, and it sounds like Clover’s got all the right credentials. How about forgetting the past and letting Clover join the team as our new features writer? I’m Paddy, by the way, assistant editor.” He gives Clover a lopsided grin.
“I’m afraid the features position has already been allocated, Paddy,�
�� Cliona says quickly, blinking a couple of times.
“Since when?” he asks.
“Since a few minutes ago,” she says. “I’ve just appointed Amber Horsefell.”
“But—” Paddy says.
Cliona puts her hand up to stop him. “I’ve made up my mind. Sorry, Paddy. She’s perfect for the job.”
Cliona turns to Clover. “I’m afraid all the slots on the mag are taken this year. And now I have to run. I’m meeting Kendall for lunch.” She gives Clover a smug smile, and for a split second I want to punch her.
Clover looks like she’s about to faint.
Don’t crumble, I plead under my breath. Stand your ground, Clover.
But instead of saying anything, Clover staggers sideways. I grab her arm and right her. I have to get her out of there, and quickly.
“Apologies, Cliona,” I say. “We’re in a rush too. We’re meeting Clover’s boyfriend, and we’re already late. He’s in a band. The Golden Lions. You’ve probably heard of them. They’re the next big thing.”
Cliona looks at Clover again. Her eyes are hard to read, but there is some sort of emotion flickering behind them. “Must dash,” is all she says. And then she tinkles her fingers at us and leaves in a waft of musky perfume and hairspray.
“I’m so sorry,” Paddy says as soon as she’s gone. He looks genuinely upset. “I had no idea she’d given Amber that slot. It’s such a shame. The magazine needs a good shake-up. Cliona’s running it into the ground. She’s a good writer when she wants to be, but she always plays it safe. There’s nothing about music or design or cutting-edge street fashion. It’s all university balls and parties. And don’t get me started on the website! She just won’t listen to anyone else’s opinion. I really hope things get better soon. Here.” He hands Clover a smart gray and white business card, and she puts it in her pocket absently.
“Please stay in touch,” he says. “I’m sure Cliona will change her mind. The magazine needs someone like you.”
“She will,” I say, adding, “sorry, Clover hasn’t seen Cliona for a long time, I think she got a bit of a fright.”
“I understand,” he says kindly. “Sounds like Cliona’s changed a lot.”
“Every day,” Clover says softly on the DART home. “I’m going to have to face that witch every single day. And what about him? I thought I was over him, Beanie. I’m such a mess.”
“Forget about Cliona,” I say. “And Kendall. They’re not worth it.”
Poor Clover. She’s nervous enough about college without this horror hanging over her head.
She nods and then stares out of the window, her eyes glazed, her mind miles away. I could kill Cliona Bang. Clover’s college career is at stake. I wish there was something I could do. But what?
“Seth, are you all right? You’ve been very quiet all day.” I nudge him gently with my shoulder. It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and we’re walking toward the pitch — but mentally he’s miles away. Bailey is standing by the wall on the far side of the rugby fields with Annabelle and a gang of D4s and Crombies.
“It’s Bailey,” Seth says, nodding in his direction. “I tried talking to him about Mills earlier, but he just shut me down. Said he didn’t want to discuss it. They were all over each other in Dundrum. I can’t believe he did that to her on Friday night. And with Annabelle Hamilton. I thought he hated the D4s — but look at him now, fawning over them. I don’t get it. It’s all so weird.”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense.” I think back to how he was when I confronted him at the gig. I can still see his eyes now, days later: hurt, dark, afraid. I shake my head. “I just get the feeling there’s something going on with Bailey — something we don’t know about. Have you met his family?”
“No. But I’ve been to his house in Bray. It’s pretty nice, mega kitchen, loads of steel, and this really cool oven thing. He calls his old man “Mac.” He’s a chef. Bailey says the joke is he rarely cooks at home. Said they’d both starve if it wasn’t for the local takeout.”
“And his mum?”
“Didn’t mention her. She certainly wasn’t in the house.”
“Did you not ask him where she was?”
“We’re not all as nosy as you are, Amy. And we were more interested in playing Xbox than in talking about our female parentals.”
I shake my head. Boys really are clueless sometimes. How can you find out about people if you don’t ask questions?
“I don’t think he’s interested in being friends with me anymore,” Seth adds glumly. “And after what he did to Mills — But do you know something weird? Polly spotted him on Killiney Beach on Saturday afternoon. He was teaching a bunch of kids to surf.”
“Really? Kids? Are we talking about the same Bailey? And he’s never said anything about surfing.”
Seth shrugs. “I know. Strange, isn’t it? Polly was surprised to find him there, all right. She hung around for a while and watched them bodyboarding. Said Bailey looked really happy just messing about in the water with the kids. He saw her and waved. He’s been at our place a few times, and they got on pretty well.”
I smile. “Your mum’s easy to talk to. Did they talk? On the beach, I mean.”
“No. He stayed in the water.”
“It’s just so odd. Bailey’s—”
He cuts me off. “Let’s talk about something else, Amy, OK? I don’t really care about Bailey Otis.” But I can tell from the look in his eyes that he does care — a lot. Seth’s eyes don’t lie. I know he feels hurt and let down. Seth doesn’t make friends easily — he can be quiet and shy with people he doesn’t know. It’s all such a shame.
Mills is miserable too — which is understandable. First thing this morning, Annabelle told almost everyone about her “special” Golden Lions date with Bailey. So I made sure Nina Big-Mouth Pickering knew all about Mills’s starring stage role.
Nina was astounded. “Are we talking about the same Mills? Miss Goody Two-shoes? On stage at a Golden Lions gig? No way!”
I showed her the photos and video clip I’d taken on my iPhone as evidence.
“Unbelievable,” she said. “Annabelle didn’t mention anything about that! She claims Mills saw them smooching in their box and was devastated at being dumped. But Mills hardly looks heartbroken here . . . Wait till I tell everyone that Annabelle’s lying through her teeth. Mills so obviously dumped him.” (Nina and Annabelle have a well documented love-hate relationship.)
I smiled to myself as Nina ran off to deliver her breaking news. D4s are so easily duped.
After school a girl in my class called Lucinda Carvery comes up to me and asks, “You looking for Mills? She’s in the top loo. She seems pretty upset.”
“Thanks, Lucinda,” I say, dashing up the corridor.
I shoulder open the door of the loos and call, “Mills? Mills?”
Nothing.
One of the cubicles is locked, and I press my ear against the wood.
“Mills? It’s me, Amy.”
There’s a loud sniff from inside.
“Come on, Mills, open up. Don’t make me crawl under the door.”
There’s no answer, so I get down on my hands and knees and twist my head sideways. I can see Mills’s scuffed ballet flats and sensible navy socks. “Mills,” I say again. “Open up, please. I’m not a circus contortionist — my neck is killing me.” Straightening up, I hit my head on the bottom of the door. “Ow!” I rub the lump.
Mills clicks the latch, and the door swings back. I look at her. Her eyes are ringed with blotchy red circles, and her face is pale apart from a throbbing red nose. She’s rubbing at her eyes with a piece of balled-up toilet paper. She looks terrible.
Squeezing into the cubicle beside her, I put my arm around her shoulders. “He’s not worth it, Mills, honestly.”
“I feel so stupid,” she wails. “I don’t understand what I’ve done. It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t believe he’s hanging out with the D4s now. I’m so ashamed — being dumped for Annabelle! I bet everyone’
s laughing at me.” She gives a raggedy sob and dabs her nose with the toilet paper. “I thought he liked me, Amy. I thought he really liked me.”
“I know, hon, so did I. I’m so sorry. But you don’t need to worry about what people think. The story is that you broke up with him, right before your Golden Lions debut. OK? I have Nina convinced, and hopefully Bailey will keep his mouth shut. And no one believes a word Annabelle says about her love life anymore.” Luckily for Mills, Miss Hamilton is prone to exaggeration. There isn’t a movie star in the land Annabelle hasn’t “kissed” at a film premiere.
I brush her hair off her face and smile gently. “Really, Big-Mouth Nina is bound to tell the whole school, so you have nothing to worry about there.”
“Thanks, Amy,” she says, smiling through her tears. “But I miss him soooo much.”
I hold her as she sobs her little heart out. God, I could kill Bailey Otis.
“Do you have any idea how many calories are in a tub of this stuff?” Clover holds up the Ben & Jerry’s carton and starts scanning the side. She’s dropped by so we can go through a Goss letter together. The house is empty apart from us. I can’t remember the last time I walked into a quiet, empty house after school. It’s blissful. No Mum to quiz me about homework or poke in my bag to see if I’ve eaten my sandwich, and no rug rats pulling at my skirt or slapping sticky hands on my skin. Score! After the day I’ve had, with both Seth and Mills wiped out by the Bailey virus, I deserve it.
I put my hand over the list of ingredients. “I don’t want to know, Clover. Anyway, you’re always telling me that dieting is pointless.”
“You’re right.” And dipping her spoon in again, she starts shoveling ice cream down her throat like there’s no tomorrow. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Beanie,” she says between mouthfuls. “One minute I have no appetite at all, and the next I’m ravenous. My energy levels are all over the place.”
“I’m not surprised if you’re not eating properly. Did you have any lunch?”
She thinks for a second. “Actually, no.”
“Right, read me this letter while I make you a toasted sandwich.”
