The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones

by Susie Day

  I want to know her secret. What’s in our future that made her wish herself back here?

  Why doesn’t she want to go back?

  But if I stop to ask, she’ll know how much I still need her.

  I drop my first ever Diana film in to be developed, and two days later, it’s done. Time to launch Operation: Cover Up Fozzie’s Nasty Pink Walls.

  It’s like stepping into a temple to fifties teenage dreams. Fozzie’s bedroom is so her. The walls are icky pink, true, and the carpet too. But her duvet cover is a pattern of flamingoes on a sky-blue background, and her dressing table is stacked with rollers and pins, cherry clips and liquid liner. The shelves are crammed with DVDs and importantly thick books on films. Surveying it all is a single poster, black and white, of a guy in a white T-shirt and jeans, lounging against a classic car.

  “Say hi to my boyfriend Jimmy,” says Fozzie huskily, flinging herself on to the bed and blowing the poster a kiss. She’s wearing short jeans and a polka-dot shirt, hair scooped up in a red scarf and her smile a slash of cherry-red.

  “Wow,” I mumble, perching, feeling very young and too clean. “I thought that was a real picture – you know, like a real old one. . .”

  Fozzie crinkles her face as she lifts up her head. “Blue, that’s James Dean. James Dean? The most famous movie star of the 1950s? Or . . . ever?”

  “Um. He looks a bit familiar?”

  I shrink my shoulders, half-expecting her to send me home in disgust, but Fozzie gasps, thrilled.

  “Oh baby, have we got some stuff to watch.” She hops up and starts tugging DVDs off the shelf, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you’re going to get to see Rebel Without A Cause for the very first time. Jealous! And Giant. Hey, have you ever seen Streetcar? Oh my god: mini Liz Taylor festival, right here, right now. Love it!”

  She hesitates, eyes bright, balancing two DVDs in her hands like she’s weighing them.

  “Which first? What do you think?”

  I toe the floor with the rubbery edge of my flowery shoe.

  “Choose,” she urges, thrusting both at me. “I’ve seen them a billion times, I don’t care.”

  I shrug, worried suddenly that I’ll pick the wrong one – but that isn’t the right answer either.

  “Oh, right, you’re not fussed, is it?” She tosses the DVDs on the floor and climbs on to the window sill, tugging a half-smoked cigarette from a pocket. “Fine,” she says, hanging out of the window to light it, a sharp edge in her voice that says it isn’t at all. “I mean, I’m just trying to show you stuff I care about, but, whatever. It’s my thing, not your thing. I get it.”

  I blink down at my flowery shoes. They’re definitely not “her thing”. They’re not my thing either. They’re me not having a clue what “my thing” is.

  Fozzie’s the one who knows exactly who she is, smoking out of her bedroom window, surrounded by movie stars and pink flamingoes. All her stuff reflects her back so perfectly, and I gaze round, longing to be that complete, that put-together.

  It’s not seamless, though. She’s got a desk like mine, tucked under the window: pencil case, highlighter pens, neat pile of colour-coded holiday homework. There’s deodorant on the window sill (roll-on, extra-strength, 72-hour protection). Peeking from under her pillow are the grubby limbs of a teddy bear, hugged bald.

  “Sorry, Fozz. I’d love you to show me that stuff,” I tell her, and mean it. “But maybe we could do the photos first?”

  I pull the envelope from my bag.

  Fozzie pops her mouth open wide.

  “What am I like?” she says, chucking the end of her cigarette out of the window, all sharpness gone. “You didn’t even open them yet. Come on, let’s have a look. Open, open!”

  Part of me is desperate to peek outside and check that she hasn’t set fire to anything (because discarded cigarettes are the most common cause of accidental fires, and possibly me and Fozzie ought to have a serious talk about her smoking anyway) – but Fozzie hops down from the window sill, clapping her hands, and she’s so excited I don’t want to spoil it.

  It’s like my birthday all over again as I slide my finger under the plastic seam. The paper envelope of prints slides out into my hand, waiting to spill the last two weeks.

  Fozzie fans the prints out across the tumbling flamingoes of her duvet.

  They’re getting out of order.

  Her fingers are on the print surface, leaving smudgy marks.

  Red doesn’t even need to be here for me to hear her voice: lighten up, Blue, who cares about a few fingerprints?

  But I forget all that anyway once I see the pictures.

  “Whoa,” breathes Fozzie, as if we’ve discovered a new colour.

  Mulvey Island beach: spray and sparkle off the water as Fozzie leaps, arms up like wings. Mags, squinting at the camera, sitting on a pair of sand-buried legs. Tiger, pale like a marble statue as she gazes adoringly at Catrin, just out of frame. Merlin, sulking on a London bus. Joanie and the Whales, underlit and hazy, before a pulsing crowd. Mum holding one drumstick to point at her Peanut-belly, like an arrow. Dad’s bum.

  Me, in silhouette, a black shadow perfectly framed by the bright white light of the sun.

  It’s the picture Merlin took on the island. Low angle so my legs are a mile long, crisp edges on the tufty grass, a blurry halo round the shape of my body, a corona round the top hat on my head, focus melting under the contrast. The chance composition is textbook. I could wait my whole life to take a picture that good.

  “That one, wow, you look amazing,” says Fozzie, staring at the print.

  I do. It’s the first time I really start to believe it. This odd Blue skin of mine will shape itself into my bright Red future: will contain all of her.

  But all I can think when I look at the photo is that in my silhouetted pocket is a phone that will ring, and across the water Mum is already in hospital.

  I turn away, hugging my ankles, chin on one knee.

  “What’s up? Blue – are you OK?” Fozzie settles on her knees next to me, then her hand goes to her mouth. “Is it your mum? Was it worse than they thought?”

  I shake my head. “She’s fine. I’m fine, it’s . . . it’s no big deal. I’ve just got some stuff going on.”

  Fozzie wrinkles her forehead. “I could help, maybe? If you told me about it?”

  I look at her, neatly folded on the floor, all concern.

  I want to. I want to tell her everything, right now. The whole lot.

  “I’ve got this friend,” I start. My mouth feels dry, my neck damp and sweaty, and I wonder for a second if there’s another one of those vomit-inducing wish rules, like the no-touching one, about keeping Red a secret. “And, well, this person is taking up a lot of space in my brain. It’s all I can think about at the moment.”

  “Anyone I know?” says Fozzie, a fraction too casually, as if she knows what I’m going to say.

  “No,” I say firmly. “You definitely, absolutely have not met this person.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Fozzie. A knowing smile spreads across her face.

  Could she know? Has she seen Red all along? Is that why she didn’t mind about the sick on her shoes? Should I really, really tell her, right now?

  “This friend of mine, she’s kind of doing my head in.”

  “Oh,” says Fozzie, sitting back in surprise. “You said she?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fozzie giggles. “Sorry. I thought you were talking about Merlin.”

  “Merlin? Why would I be talking about Merlin?” I like Merlin. Merlin doesn’t try to mess with my head and steal my mum. Well, he tries to mess with my head a little bit, but only when he’s doing a card trick.

  “No reason,” says Fozzie, blinking a lot. “So, this friend, who I don’t know?”

  “I really like her, don’t get me wrong. She’s quite, uh,
similar to me. A more advanced version of me. What I might be like if I was, say, for example, a year older. Right?”

  “Right,” says Fozzie, frowning.

  “And most of the time, that’s all great – and she helps me out – and I’m totally grateful because she is kind of amazing and of course I want to be more like her—”

  “M-hmm,” says Fozzie, still frowning.

  “But I found out she lied to me. About something big.”

  “I never!” squeaks Fozzie.

  I blink at her, confused.

  “Oh,” she breathes, rocking back on her heels. “You don’t mean me. It’s that girl who phones you up, isn’t it? Your invisible friend, Dan calls her. Only joking. God, check out my big head. Sorry.”

  She looks mortified.

  “I wish it was you I was talking about,” I say into my knees. “You make a lot more sense.”

  “Bloody hell, she must be trouble. So what did she lie about?”

  I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re worse than Merlin!” she smirks. “OK, so what are you going to do? She a friend worth keeping hold of?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, knotting my hands. “Don’t know if I even know her all that well.”

  “Does she have a good reason for doing what she did, for lying to you? I mean, from her point of view?”

  “That’s not the point. Her point of view doesn’t matter.”

  “Does to her,” Fozzie says, looking at me sideways. “Not being funny, but if you think that, doesn’t sound like you’re very good mates in the first place.”

  I can hear what she’s not saying. I’m not a very good mate.

  I wish I could explain why I’m not being a horrible person; not when Red is the lucky one, perfect and seamless and already ready to speed off into my future.

  “Invite her round here,” Fozzie suggests. “Go on! I’ll get Dan to bring doughnuts. They fix everything. Or are you ashamed of us?”

  She leans in and elbows me jokily, stale smoke on her breath, a forced edge to her argh argh laugh.

  “Thanks. I might. I’ll see. Forget I said anything, yeah? Come on, let’s cover up some of this pink.”

  Fozzie looks at me sideways a few times, suspicious, maybe disappointed – but once we start piecing the prints together, she’s all smiles again.

  Mags taps on the door, and coos when she sees the prints.

  “You’re an amazing photographer,” she tells me, shyly picking up a shot of her on the beach, on Dan’s shoulders. The colours pop: blues and greenish-yellows, brighter than life.

  “It’s all down to the camera, really,” I mumble, but I glow all the same.

  Mags joins in. We decide to frame James Dean, matching colours or clashing them, filling up gaps and spaces with overlaps before starting to tack them to the wall.

  “I can’t take all of these,” Fozzie says, sliding me some of the Mulvey Island beach shots. “You have to keep that one for yourself,” she adds, passing me the top-hat silhouette.

  “And I don’t know what that was meant to be, but you can have that one too,” Mags giggles, tossing me a bland-looking sea view.

  It’s Penkerry Point, on a murky day. Nothing special, grass and grey sea and some cloud.

  Something special: the first photo, the one I tried to take of Red, the morning after my birthday. Red was right. It’s as if she was never there.

  I pick up the top-hat silhouette shot and hold them side by side. Red, invisible. Me, a black shape against the sun, empty space.

  Two photographs of me, and I’m not in either of them.

  It’s like the photograph of Mum, drumstick to her belly: a picture of Peanut, though there is no Peanut yet. Part of the family. My family. Not there, and always there.

  I hate Peanut.

  I’ve never admitted that before. I don’t think I even realized it till I thought it out loud in my head.

  I hate Peanut for coming along and changing everything.

  I love it, too, love it madly. But there’s a corner of my heart – an alveolus; maybe two – that hates.

  I hate Red too, just a little.

  It aches, knowing I’ll never be good enough by myself.

  My brain ticks backwards. I look at Fozzie’s purple boots, askew in a corner; stare at the top-hat photo and wonder if I’d ever have got on that boat to Mulvey Island without Red’s help. Something tugs at the back of my mind; as if I’m looking directly at something, and it’s so obvious I can’t see it.

  I remember what Red said outside the hospital, about watching the same movie over and over, knowing all the words. That’s what this summer is for her. Action replay. No surprises.

  No wonder she’s lonely. I’m the only friend she’s got in the world right now, and I’ve shut her out.

  I bite my lip, and listen to the seagulls wheeling outside, argh-argh-argh.

  I watch Giant on Fozzie’s mum’s sofa without seeing it, and text Red on the way home.

  Sorry.

  She texts back: Me too.

  I reply: No me.

  She texts back: No you, and then, a minute later, Yes, I am wasting 10p from the future. Suck it up.

  That night, I pin the top-hat silhouette and the empty patch of grass to the ceiling above my bunk bed. My secret selves, watching over me while I sleep. When we go home, I’m going to rearrange my room. Paint, maybe, a few posters, to reflect my Redness back at me.

  I sneak into Mum’s handbag and pin up the fuzzed black-and-white printout of Peanut’s scan too, to say sorry for that unkind corner of my heart.

  In my dream, Peanut has a mobile phone, and texts me daily.

  Grew 6 millimetres today.

  Body now covered in fur, like a monkey.

  Tell Mum not to have curry again, it makes me uncomfy.

  I text back questions: What’s it like in there? Are you warm enough? Is it dark?

  Peanut’s ringtone is one of those long loud ones, and it makes Mum wriggle, though only we know why.

  9. The Cave

  “So what do I wear?”

  It’s a Wednesday afternoon, Dad’s on nursing duty, and tonight I’ve been invited to something called “The Cave”.

  “How should I know? What do you want to wear?” Red’s lying on my bunk bed, gazing up at my pictures.

  “At least tell me if it’s going to rain or not?”

  She rolls over and peers out of the narrow window. “Looks a bit cloudy,” she says.

  I give her a stare.

  “What am I, a weathergirl? I don’t know. A summer’s a long time to keep track of. I don’t remember eating four Weetabix for breakfast this morning either,” she says, with a meaningful nod at my overfull tummy.

  “I had a light lunch,” I snap back, sucking in anyway.

  And I’m going to be you next year, I think: you, with your boobs and your waist, so I can eat what I like.

  I pull out two different tops and hold them up for comparison, like they do on TV makeover shows. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for. Mainly I’m just checking for tomato ketchup blobs. “Look, if you won’t tell me the weather at least help me out with the fashion. Which one looks older?”

  She gives me a hard stare. “Which one do you like, Blue?”

  I glare back. Opinions are fine for hipster people: the ones who fell in a vat and developed an acute case of Topshop. Me, I’m fashion-blind.

  “I wished you here to help with exactly this kind of thing,” I growl.

  “Yeah. Your wish came true and time-travel was invented so I could help you pick an outfit.”

  I glare at her, decide on the spotty one at random, and turn my back, self-consciously pulling up my top to change.

  “You’re ridiculous, but no, I’m not looking,” sighs
Red as I peek over my shoulder, her eyes locked on the ceiling. “This photo’s amazing, by the way. Who is it in the picture? The sunshine silhouette?”

  “It’s me, you idiot,” I mumble, wrestling spotty cotton and armholes.

  “That’s you? Wearing Merlin’s hat?”

  Finally I get my head through the right hole, and tug it all straight.

  Red’s still got her eyes fixed to the ceiling.

  “Yeah.” I frown. “But you already know—”

  There’s a clack from the front door behind me, and with a swish of the curtain Tiger’s home, grabbing me from behind in a hug. She doesn’t have much choice, since the room’s so narrow, but she lingers, squeezing tight, head on my shoulder, getting her perfume up my nose.

  “Hello, gorgeous, talking to yourself again?”

  “Um. Yes. I’m funny that way,” I murmur, glaring meaningfully at Red.

  Tiger spins me round on the spot so she can look at me properly, hands on my shoulders.

  “That’s OK,” she says, breathing in deeply, her cheeks very pink. “We like funny people. We love funny people.”

  She opens her blue-egg eyes wide, and giggles.

  “Is she all right?” asks Red.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “I’m better than all right,” sighs Tiger, squeezing my shoulders. “I’m lovely. I’m lovable. I’m beloved.”

  “Ohhhh,” says Red. “Catrin.”

  “Catrin?” I say.

  Tiger’s smile bursts out wide.

  “I said I love you,” she whispers, “and she said she loved me back.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s, um. Nice?”

  It is. I am happy. Of course, she said I love you to Sasha the Cow, and Juliet, and a beardy bloke called Elliott during her trying-out-boys phase, and they probably said it back too, and every time not long later there was a lot of sobbing and having to have her hair stroked by Mum on the sofa all weekend – but it would be unkind to mention it.

  “I know I’ve said it before, but it’s different this time,” says Tiger, slipping an arm round my shoulder and sitting us down on the lower bunk, squashed forward over our knees. “Everything’s different. Catrin’s exactly like me, you know? Only she’s herself too. And she lets me be myself. It’s like there was a Catrin-shaped hole in me, like a jigsaw puzzle, and it ached and ached with emptiness and now I’ve found her I’m complete. She’s put me back together again.”