‘Top hat, definitely,’ I say, trudging after him up the slope.
‘That’s what I thought. I don’t have one, though. I might have to settle for a beanie.’
‘Too bad.’
‘If Summer doesn’t notice me in that tailcoat, she never will,’ he says. ‘I have a good feeling about this party, Skye. Things are going to change. I am going to prove Mrs Lee wrong – I don’t see why my love life should have to be complicated. I’m changing tack. There will be no more secret Christmas cards and mystery presents. It’s time to be upfront.’
‘Do we have to go right up the hill?’ I huff. ‘I am getting frostbite here, I’m not joking.’
‘You’re not listening,’ he frowns. ‘This party is my big chance, Skye. It’s Valentine’s Day. I can’t wait around forever for Summer to notice I exist. I have to show her that I am the perfect boy for her!’
‘Alfie, are you sure about this?’
‘Never surer.’
We finally reach the top of the hill and I flop down on the sledge to catch my breath.
‘I have been wondering,’ Alfie says. ‘Why is Summer called Summer when her birthday is in February? It doesn’t make sense!’
‘It does, kind of,’ I say. ‘Back when Mum and Dad were young and in love, and when Honey was just a tiny baby, they spent a long summer break on a Scottish island called Skye. And nine months later, we came along … they called us Summer and Skye.’
‘Cool,’ Alfie says. ‘I like that story. I’ve got another question too. What IS Summer’s perfect boy, exactly? What is she looking for in a boyfriend, do you think? What’s her type?’
I sigh. ‘Summer doesn’t want a relationship,’ I tell him. ‘She’s so hung up on ballet she doesn’t have time for anything else. It’s her dream, and trust me, it doesn’t leave room for romance.’
‘She looks awesome in a tutu,’ he grins. ‘I’ve got that picture from the Sunday paper’s magazine up on my bedroom wall.’
‘Too much information,’ I tell him. ‘Seriously, though, if you want to grab her attention you should probably enrol in dance classes and get yourself a pair of tights.’
‘Not happening,’ he says gruffly. ‘No, I have decided. I am going to stop mooning about and take the direct approach. I am going to ask her out.’
‘Alfie –’
‘I have to, Skye,’ he insists. ‘The way I figure it, she can either say yes or no. I have nothing to lose, right?’
‘I guess,’ I sigh. ‘Alfie, I think my toes have frostbite. I thought you promised me hot chocolate?’
‘Sledging first, hot chocolate second,’ he says. ‘Where is your sense of adventure? It hardly ever snows here. We can’t waste it!’
‘I haven’t wasted it,’ I tell him. ‘I have built a snowman and had a snowball fight, and walked down to meet you. But I am freezing, and it’s a long way down. I don’t think I have ever been sledging. I am going off snow, seriously. Why don’t we just leave it for … yeeow!’
Alfie shoves the sledge forward and jumps on behind me, and suddenly we are flying down the slope, skidding from side to side, at about a hundred miles an hour. I try to curl myself into a tiny ball, leaning back against Alfie whose legs are sticking out on either side.
‘Hold tight!’ he shouts into my ear.
I am screaming and Alfie is laughing and we’re at the bottom of the hill and still going strong, and when I yell out to ask where the brakes are he just pulls on the rope at the front and puts his feet down in the snow. We skid and swerve and jolt and the sledge flips over, and I land face down with my mouth full of snow.
Everything hurts, and I have never been so cold in my whole, entire life. My cloche hat has vanished under a snowdrift and my hair feels like it is full of icicles. There is snow on my eyelashes and up my nose, snow slithering down my neck and melting icily inside my socks and gloves. I would cry, but the tears would freeze before they had a chance to fall.
Alfie rolls me over, leaning over me with an anxious expression. ‘Skye?’ he whispers. ‘Skye? Speak to me!’
‘You are in SO much trouble,’ I mutter, spluttering snow everywhere.
Alfie grins. He hauls me up, and I stagger slightly, my teeth chattering. ‘I’m sorry, I’m REALLY sorry. It went a lot faster with two of us on board. But hey, no broken bones!’
‘There might be when I catch hold of you,’ I say through gritted teeth.
He rescues my hat and empties out the snow, jamming it back on my head and carefully tucking a stray curl of snow-caked hair behind my ear. His fingers are surprisingly soft and warm against my cheek, and his eyes catch on to mine and hold for a long moment.
Alfie Anderson has the most amazing chocolate-brown eyes. Who knew?
His lips part a little as if he wants to say something and then thinks better of it, and I can see a little crease of confusion between his eyebrows. My heart beats a little harder and I realize his fingers are still warm against my cheek, which feels very strange but not entirely unpleasant.
And then I think of Finch, a ghost boy who only exists in my dreams. Finch makes my heart beat faster than Alfie ever could. I step back and Alfie takes his hand away, uncertainly, brushing the snow from his jeans and jacket. The moment is lost.
I blink.
Falling for a girl who has an identical twin sister must be kind of strange. Complicated, as Mrs Lee would say.
I know something, though. My days of being second best are over, and I won’t settle for a second-best boy either. It might sound crazy, but a dream boy is better than the wrong boy …
30
I always thought that having a birthday on Valentine’s Day was pretty cool, but I guess I didn’t think it through. I did not predict the ways it could go wrong now Summer and I are teenagers, or that three cartoon Valentine’s cards addressed to my twin could actually hurt so much.
‘Three!’ she says, cheeks pink with pleasure. ‘Wow!’
‘Great,’ I say flatly. ‘Awesome.’
‘Oh, I think there’s one for you!’ she says. ‘Look!’
I open the pale blue envelope hopefully, but it’s just a birthday card from Mum’s cousin Lucy, who always sends us a card each even though most people send a shared one.
My heart sinks. Will it be like this every year from now on? Will I end up hating my own birthday?
We have never had Valentine’s cards before, unless you count the heart-shaped toast and jam Mum always makes or a very sticky Love Hearts sweet Alfie gave me in Year Three, and it said Crazy so I don’t. Besides, he gave Summer the rest of the packet, now that I think back.
Not getting a Valentine has never mattered before, but today, with Summer mooning over her cards, it does. I knew she’d have one from Alfie, of course, but three … that seems kind of hard to take. Three boys are crushing on my twin sister, and nobody at all fancies me. That’s harsh.
We look exactly alike, so what is it that makes her special? Boys fancy her, adults are entranced by her, friends flutter around her like moths drawn to a flame. I don’t even blame them. Summer was born to be in the spotlight. I seem destined for the shadows.
‘You can have one of my Valentines,’ Summer says brightly, and suddenly I have to blink back the tears, even though it’s only breakfast time and today is my birthday and there’s a big party to look forward to later on. I should be the happiest girl alive.
But I didn’t actually want a party, and I really, really do not want one of Summer’s cast-off Valentine’s cards. It feels like rubbing salt in the wound. I take a bite of heart-shaped toast and jam, but it tastes like sawdust. Summer pushes her plate away too, untouched.
‘Not hungry, you two?’ Mum asks. ‘Come on, birthday girls, I made that specially!’
‘Can’t,’ Summer says. ‘I’m too excited to eat!’
‘Me too,’ I say, but it’s not excitement, it’s dread.
I fix a smile on my face, a wide, bright smile that hides the sad, sour feeling inside. I don’t know what is
wrong with me. I should be happy for Summer, not envious. The only Valentine I really want would come from Finch, a boy with dark wavy hair and a smile that makes my heart do somersaults … and that’s impossible, of course.
We open our presents. There is a pinboard collage made from twelve little snapshots of Summer and me, each one taken on past birthdays, stretching from last year, when we turned twelve, right back to when we were tiny. Twelve pictures of Summer and me, laughing, holding hands, and a space for one more photo, a photo from today.
‘Gorgeous,’ Summer says, grinning. ‘How cute?’
But pictures of how happy we were back then just underlines the fact that things have changed.
In the photo from when we were ten, we are side by side, but Summer is facing into the sun and I am half in shadow. In the next year’s photo we seem to be holding hands, but when I look more closely I can see that Summer is actually gripping my arm, as if I might run away. The year after, we are barely touching at all.
Tears sting my eyes again and I brush them away quickly, before anyone can see.
The next present is matching mobile phones, a pink one for Summer, a blue one for me; then a cream lace minidress with a twenties vibe for Summer and a longer, more authentic version for me.
‘It was Summer’s idea. She picked it out,’ Mum says hopefully. ‘We all thought it had a really vintage look. Do you like it, Skye?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I say truthfully. ‘Thank you!’
But a part of me thinks that Summer has picked it out so that we can look more obviously like twins in our almost-matching dresses; so that I won’t wear one of Clara’s velvet frocks. I didn’t want a new dress, I didn’t want a party … but I have them anyway, and it seems ungrateful to complain.
Grandma Kate sends us another charm each for our bracelets, two silver heart shapes to signify that our birthday is on Valentine’s Day.
A photo collage, matching mobiles, matching charms, almost-matching dresses … I thought it was cute, once, to have the same presents as Summer. These days it just seems like another way for people to forget that we’re individuals, for me to fade a little next to Summer’s vivid charm.
‘One last thing,’ Paddy says, handing a small, ribbon-wrapped box to me and one to Summer. ‘I was doing some experiments and I came up with a couple of new truffle ideas specially for you two …’
My little box contains a cache of milk chocolate truffles, heart-shaped and iced with a spidery icing-sugar snowflake. I bite into one. The sweet, soft taste of marshmallow melts on to my tongue, all vanilla and sugar and molten stickiness. It takes my breath away. Suddenly the sad, heavy feeling doesn’t seem quite as bad as before.
‘Paddy, that is amazing,’ I say with feeling. ‘I mean, honestly, that is the best thing I have ever tasted. I love marshmallow, obviously, but that … that’s something else!’
‘It’s my own recipe,’ he says. ‘Marshmallows were originally made from marshmallow root sweetened with rose water and honey – it’s one of the oldest sweet treats we have, did you know that? I’ve been trying out old recipes, experimenting a bit. Using real marshmallow root and rose water makes such a difference …’
‘It makes one amazing truffle flavour!’ I grin.
‘I’ve called it Marshmallow Skye in your honour, and the other one is Summer’s Dream, which is strawberry themed because that’s Summer’s favourite, or so I’m told …’
‘Can I taste?’ I ask, and Summer offers me one of her chocolates, white and heart-shaped and drizzled with pink, the centre a dreamy confection of strawberries and cream. ‘Oh … that’s gorgeous too!’
‘Thanks, Paddy,’ Summer says. ‘I love this, but I’m saving mine until later! I’m so excited right now I couldn’t eat a thing!’
Later, Paddy drives us down to the village hall.
‘Everyone’s so excited about the party!’ Summer says. ‘People have been texting me all morning, I have no idea how I survived so long without a mobile!’
‘Great,’ I say listlessly.
I spend the afternoon with Paddy, Cherry and Summer, hanging home-made heart-shaped bunting and endless strings of fairy lights and handpainted birthday banners all around the hall. Summer glows with excitement while I struggle to keep a smile on my face. My whole body feels slow, heavy, unwilling.
Mum comes down with the food and we set out plates of my favourite marshmallow cupcakes and mountains of truffles dredged with snowy icing-sugar drifts. There are trays of heart-shaped mini pizzas and sausage rolls to be warmed up in the hall’s little kitchen, and bowls of crisps and dips and the most beautiful heart-shaped chocolate birthday cake. Paddy sets up the drinks and Shay arrives to test out the sound equipment and run through some of his playlist.
Even I have to smile as the hall comes to life, shimmering under the fairy lights as the daylight fades, the food piled up like a picture in a magazine, music curling around us as we make the finishing touches to our decorations.
‘Now will you believe it’s going to be cool?’ Summer says to me.
I almost think she’s right.
31
Summer is wearing her new dress, her hair pinned up and twisted into golden ringlets with a 1920s headband made from pink ribbon with Alfie’s flower attached. She looks amazing. Me, I am wearing the green velvet flapper dress layered over white petticoats. I am huddled into the emerald-green coat and still I cannot get warm.
‘Skye!’ my twin exclaims when she sees me. ‘I thought … I wanted us to look alike!’
‘We look alike no matter what we wear,’ I tell her reasonably. ‘I love the new dress, Summer, but this is what I planned to wear. I don’t want us to look like little kids in matching outfits, and besides, I’m freezing – I’ll shiver all night if I wear that. Another time, I promise.’
‘But you’re wearing the green dress,’ she states. ‘And the coat, the things from my dream. My nightmare. You know how I feel about them, Skye.’
‘It’s not about you, Summer,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s my birthday. I can wear what I like, surely?’
Summer bites her lip, and if Mum and Paddy are hurt that I’m not wearing the birthday dress they don’t say. We pile into Paddy’s minivan.
‘It’s freezing,’ I whisper, as he drives carefully down the hill. ‘Is this a new Ice Age or something?’
‘It’s going to snow again,’ Coco grins. ‘It’s SO exciting!’
The hall is lit up in the darkness and I can hear the thump of music from inside as we pile out. One perfect snowflake drifts down on to my coat sleeve, and then another, and suddenly we are looking up at the ink-black sky and it looks like someone has shaken out a feather pillow, with tiny white flakes drifting softly down.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I gasp, and I wish I could stay out here in the darkness with the feathery snowflakes swirling all around me.
Paddy goes ahead of us into the hall, and suddenly the music cuts off and the lights die. Coco is laughing.
‘They’re doing it like a surprise party,’ she warns us. ‘As if you don’t know what’s going on!’
Summer goes in and Cherry and Coco steer me after her, as if I might run away without their hands guiding me. Inside, the hall is still and dark. My eyes decipher the shadow-shapes of people, my ears detect tiny whispers, shuffles and stifled giggles.
And then the sounds system erupts with ‘Happy Birthday’ and the lights blaze bright and everyone is singing and yelling and Summer and I are pulled into the middle of it all, party poppers exploding all around us, moving from hug to hug.
Shay has the perfect playlist, a mix of dance tunes and cheesy retro stuff that makes everyone laugh. The dance floor is full and everyone has made an effort with the Vintage Valentine theme, even if it’s just an old trilby hat for the boys or a shawl or flower in the hair for the girls.
Cherry is with her new high-school friends, Coco with her crazy mates, and Honey is turning heads in a blue satin slip-dress and the feathered headband from Clar
a’s trunk. She has a geeky, serious boy in tow, a boy who looks a little like the non-Superman version of Clark Kent but without the broad shoulders and manly jaw.
‘Honey’s new friend,’ Mum tells me, eyes wide. ‘Anthony. He’s helping her with her maths and science! Looks like she is starting to listen to us at last …’
Cherry says Anthony is a Year Ten boy from the high school who is super-smart and swotty and some kind of computer whizz.
‘He’s not her usual type,’ I say.
Cherry shrugs. ‘Maybe she’s changed,’
Or not. Maybe Honey has just dragged Anthony along so we’ll think that. Later on I see him talking to Mum about revision notes and study methods, while in the opposite corner Honey is holding court to a crowd of high-school boys and drinking cider straight from the bottle.
Millie, in her faux 1960s boho dress and glittery eyeshadow and spidery false lashes drags me up to dance to every song, wiggling her hips a lot, and fluttering her lashes at any boy who comes near. ‘This is amazing!’ she yells into my ear, above the beat of the music.
It’s kind of amazing, but my head is starting to hurt from the thumping bass and I’m hot and tired and achey from dancing. ‘I need a drink,’ I tell Millie, and slip away though the crowd of dancers.
Alfie grabs my elbow, bright-eyed and hopeful in his vintage tailcoat. He looks a million miles away from the annoying clown with the wind-tunnel hair of just a few months back. I think that if my sister really looked at him, she would see that he is actually quite cute, but I don’t think Alfie Anderson is on Summer’s radar at all.
She is in the middle of the dance floor, in the centre of a big knot of boys and girls, her blonde hair flying out around her as she moves to the music. She looks happier than I have ever seen her.
‘I’m getting a drink,’ I shout above the music, and Alfie grins and tows me through the crowd to the drinks table, collecting two paper cups of lemonade.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not feeling good … so hot … and thirsty.’
He steers me towards the door, and we escape from the crush and the racket into cool, perfect, white-out. The snow is falling steadily, muffling everything, covering up any remnants of grey slush and draping the parked cars in a thick cloak of white.
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