by Polly Young
It’s the biggest storm I’ve ever known and it’s not stopping. Everyone crushes together squealing ‘cos there’s no shelter unless you’ve got seats or you’re on stage. They don’t let you bring umbrellas. Only Jenny Sargent and her geek friends brought Macs and they’re wet all the way through.
Cold hijacks my fingers and my scarf’s a good thing to wrap them in though it means my neck gets wet. Josh hugs me, which is damp but nice in the end, then Erin and Rach latch on so we’re a massive warm crab and it feels a bit better but I wish we could be dry.
Mr Morlis stomps over and gives us a thumbs-up, trousers all stuck. He seems excited and I think weather’s more his thing than words.
Then the rain starts to stop.
It’s stopping.
Stopped.
Bodies unfurl like ferns all around the yard.
I look up. The clouds are strange: I’ve never seen them like that before.
And somehow I’m still the audience. Maybe ‘cos Miss Mint, although she’s hoiked Courtney off the floor and hasn’t done her coat up properly so it flaps like wet, black, felt wings, is too. We’re both watching Cesario in Act III say to Olivia “I am not what I am,” and as the words hit my ears, Josh squeezes my waist and I look at Miss Mint at the exact same moment she looks at me and then my fingers feel cold and I look down and my scarf’s not there.
And also it just so happens I’m nowhere near Josh now. He’s ten metres away, with my friends.
Where I was.
Making sure it’s not like I fainted or anything, I take my pulse and then I do.
‘Cos I’m wearing Miss Mint’s bangles.
* * *
Chapter 7: Monday afternoon. Mammatus
Using Mr Morlis’ sodden thigh as a ladder, I struggle through pale faces and stand.
“Miss Mint, what’s wrong?” His voice is more urgent than normal and he’s looking straight at me, hands on my shoulders. I don’t know, do I? I don’t know but something is most seriously, definitely, wronger than wrong.
Courtney looks like a bundle of washing just out of the machine. Her nose drips as she clutches my arm.
“Miss, can I get you a cup of tea? Does it hurt?” She’s so proud she’s a First Aider.
What the hell do I say? My nails are amazing and I love the feel of my feet in Miss Mint’s boots but they’re Miss Mint’s boots and I’m seriously freaked out. Where’s Miss Mint? I mean, where’s ... me?
I’m over there.
Looking at me.
Lisi Reynolds or someone who looks like her stares at me and at last I know where I am: I’m in those eyes; in that expression. She looks like she’s going to be sick.
“No thanks, Courtney.”
My voice is exactly like Miss Mint’s.
Courtney looks pissed off.
The girl that looks like me is moving now; moving quite quickly through puddles. Mr Morlis has picked Miss Mint’s bag off the floor and hands it to me and for appearance’s sake I take it but I keep thinking I’ll wake up in a minute and Miss Mint will want it back so I don’t put it on properly, just hold it.
She’s standing in front of me now and her hair’s messy, mossy. Frightened eyes, brave mouth.
“Can we talk?”
Dad used to laugh when he’d play voicemails I’d left and I’d freak out ‘cos they didn’t sound anything like me. It’s like that, only worse.
“Yeah.” Only that’s not what Miss Mint would say, I realise. “Yes ... Lisi. Let’s talk.”
Leaving everyone’s hard, though. The play’s still going strong. Water plays chase down the drains and the sun’s come out and there’s the weirdest cloud shapes happening but although all I want to do is ring Mum and cry, part of me wants to watch the play. I mean everyone else is and I don’t know if I can cope with talking to myself and if I am going to I want to get my head in gear. Miss Mint’s head in gear. I need to think.
On stage, Olivia and Malvolio are talking.
“Some are born great ...”
“Ha!”
“Some achieve greatness ...”
“What sayest thou?”
“And some have greatness thrust upon them.”
It’s the bit of the play Dad got excited about when I told him we were doing Twelfth Night on the phone. I’ve no idea what it means but I’m utterly and completely scared. The coat I’m wearing is from Reiss and Miss Mint’s engagement ring is on my finger but to be honest, “greatness thrust upon me” is not what I want.
Olivia is laughing. “Why, this is midsummer madness.”
Yes, Olivia. Yes, it is.
* * *
Olly Goddard lumbers up, acne all wet like it’s spilling off his face and I can see my expression throws him.
“What’s up, Miss?”
“I ... Nothing. What can I do for you, Olly?” I’m looking around wildly and then I’m ... Lisi’s ... there.
“When d’weyaff to be at the coach?”
He’s chewing. Lisi, aka Miss Mint says, “spit it out,” and without moving his eyes, Olly flicks her a V-sign, thinking I can’t see.
“Shake-spearmint?” I ask mildly, in Miss Mint’s voice. I move my hands when I speak like I wouldn’t but she would.
It bloody works. He goes fuchsia and spits in his hand.
“Miss, I need to see you.” The girl who looks like me sounds stiff and she’s twisting her mouth like I always do. I nod and Mr Morlis is asking with his eyebrows if I’m ok and I give him a thumbs-up which makes him smile and I go with this girl who I will have to call my own name to the cloakroom.
“Leese, where ya going?” Ignoring the cackling from girls like I should be, like I want to be, I follow.
She won’t come in the disabled toilet which I know from experience is the best plan if you need to talk privately; in fact, she looks horrified and that look on my face makes me giggle so I can’t breathe. But we find a wide windowsill — wall sill, really — and sit.
“What’s happened?”
We say it at the same time but the eyes I’m used to seeing in the mirror shut me up. It’s pure fear.
Miss Mint, in my body, starts to tremble.
“Lisi, I have no idea. But this can’t be a dream: we’re both awake, in London, on Monday. And we have to get home.”
Her beautiful boots are all squidged under me but she doesn’t seem to notice. I stretch my legs out, to admire them; she’s looking beyond me now, at the class of idiots I go to school with.
“You’ll have to take us home,” Miss Mint says in my voice.
I know what she means: the coach and everything. We can talk after that: it’s no good now. We’re freezing and so is everyone else. Taking into consideration my drenched friends and at least three people throwing up whelks on the way back, sitting up front with Mr Morlis, who’s really good at taking your mind off things, doesn’t seem a horrible idea to me. Plus Miss Mint never goes anywhere without a cashmere rug. It’ll be on her seat: brilliant.
“No problem. Let’s get the show on the road.” I’m surprised to hear such authority from my mouth. Having good nails is wicked. “My ... your group’s all over the place.” I jab the clipboard she’s holding weakly in her lap. “You gather them up, I’ll get Rach ... el, Erin, Josh and Courtney to do theirs.”
And I do: they believe me ‘cos they all line up, group leaders in front, and I lead a load of wet, sugar-loaded school kids through the capital.
Journeying back, Mr Morlis pats the seat and I join him. I’ve given the blanket to Miss ... Lisi. Lisi. That’s what everyone’s calling her and it’s so weird but if they are then I must too.
I can feel her behind me, settling next to Josh, her brain buzzing along with his earphones.
“Lozenge?”
I take one, crunch it and Mr Morlis looks surprised. “Forceful, Miss Mint,” he says with a sparkle, and although it normally makes me want to be sick in my hand when teachers call each other teacher names, it does make me feel a little tiny bit sexy to be hon
est.
So I smile. Is he flirting? Do Phoebe and Mr Morlis fancy each other ? What about Taff? Wait. I’m literally winning prizes for weirdness of my life right now.
“What’d you think, then?” Mr Morlis just sounds like normal and even if my skin feels funny; drier than normal, I touch it and it is. ‘Cos I’m grown up, I s’pose.
“Orsino was hot.”
He chuckles. “Very deep.” Then he yawns and turns to look where I already know:
Joe’s tickling Erin
Erin’s mum’s trying not to notice
Jenny’s reading the programme for like the millionth time
Courtney’s uploading pictures to Facebook
Rach is stressing about calories in her head
Josh’s talking to the person next to him who isn’t me but should be
“Joe Brannigan, leave that girl alone,” he calls without standing and hysterics from the back seat stop.
“Bit long for me,” he grins and takes out his phone. “But that storm, my god ...” he starts to scroll.
“I love thunder,” I say on automatic.
He studies me. “Strange, I thought you hated it.” He shrugs. “Thunder’s cool but those clouds ... wow. Once in a lifetime.”
It’s good then, ‘cos we lapse into silence. The Houses of Parliament and other important stuff goes past but it’s dark now and I can’t really see, just lights. We jerk down Embankment, him on his phone, me on my guard. Shit. Of course: Miss Mint’s told people stuff I’ve no idea about. Miss Mint has history. Miss Mint has a life . Now it’s mine.
This is harsh but thinking about it carries me all the way to Guildford and then Mr Morlis says fucking hell under his breath and I snap out of it ‘cos I’ve never heard a teacher drop an F-bomb, ever.
“What’s up?”
“Look at this.”
On the screen’s a purpley, bobbly thingy. The wiki text says something to do with breasts. Breasts? Oh my god. Mr Morlis.
Mammatus clouds , the description reads , are most often associated with severe thunderstorms.
Oh.
Then he starts going on using words like ‘stratosphere’ and ‘adiabatic’ and ‘sheared’ which make me think of sheep in hospital having their hair done but which I think he’s actually using to explain something. So I try to listen. Because, when it comes down to it, the important bits of what he’s saying are to do with magic and chemistry and what Miss Mint and I just did.
“The mammatus phenomenon’s a very peculiar thing,” he says. “There’s never been proof but, scientifically, it should be possible for a form to dissolve and solidify, sometimes even in different places; different forms even, with these clouds,” he’s saying excitedly but it’s a bit fast for me and I’m trying to take it all in. Only the clouds bit’s sticking; I’m still thinking about breasts.
“What?” I sound dozy.
“I know this sounds odd but there have been stories about people being affected by mammatus clouds so that they’re sort of morphed into something — and sometimes someone. I read back in college about two people it happened to. Of course, it’s only been reported in America, so it’s almost certainly not true,” he rolls his eyes.
“But — and you know I’m straight, Pheebs, so don’t get me wrong - if there’s one thing guaranteed to drive me wild it’s the thought of two men in control of each others’ bodies.”
“Yes, Mr Morlis,” I say ‘cos it’s the first thing that comes out. “Or women.” It sounds all sarcastic and the women bit sounds weird, but that seems ok by him. He holds my wrist gently. “He’s a very tactile man, Mr Morlis,” I remember Mum saying to me once after parent’s evening. Some stupid bint in year 9 tried to claim abuse once but she was mental.
Anyway, he holds my wrist with its lovely bangles and my eyes with his. “Science. It’s a wonderful thing.”
“English is too,” I find myself saying, a bit teasing.
“Let’s compromise on science with a bit of drama thrown in,” he says and he’s just joking now, definitely not flirting, he just likes her/me like I like Josh I think and I’m relieved and pissed off all at once but he’s let go of my hand so I look in my/Miss Mint’s bag for something to do.
And I reach in ‘cos there’s not much in there, only a posh looking compact and a phone and keys and a pen and a neat-but-packed diary and no mess. But then there’s also a crumpled bit of paper with something on too; numbers. Which I open in the safety of the shady leather cave and then I’m shocked again, ‘cos I’ve seen this before yet I can’t believe it’s hers.
* * *
“Nearly home,” Mr Morlis says, as we cruise off the slip road.
Kids start gathering bags from overhead lockers and waking up from a kip, even though it’s only seven o’clock. Honestly, you’d think someone had made them run round London for, like, six hours, not just do a spot of light window shopping and watch a play.
Then again some of us have had the added stress of body swaps.
Miss Mint — Lisi — looks knackered. And then I remember: Josh’s staying over. As we clamber off the coach, I grab his arm, forgetting I’m not supposed to, but luckily no one sees. Kids, I mean.
The school car park’s crowded; steamy windows, little siblings slipping through traffic.
“Miss?”
“Are you staying at Lisi’s?”
Josh looks round like he’s lost her, but she’s just behind, standing coolly, which is something I never would.
“Think so. Lise?”
I jump in. “Because ... your mother called, Lisi.” I see a flicker of understanding. “She left a message.” And I press a piece of paper, swiped from her diary, with a scrawl which just says my address and how to get home and where Josh sleeps on the other, into those nail-bitten fingers.
She says thanks and I read mixed up panic and relief but then Josh’s nabbed her, jabbed her, is moving her on and she’s gone; swallowed up by the boy and the girls and the slick, dark wetness and the homing calls of parents.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. Mr Morlis, hands deep in his parka, asking me for a drink.
“... but I don’t want to keep you from Taff.”
Oh, Jesus. I don’t know what to do.
The logical thing would be go with him to the sweaty pub down the road from school. Teachers go there; ‘course they never mention it, say ‘library’ instead, as in, “Miss Anderson, we meeting in the library later?” when they pop their heads round doors, all tired looking on, say, a Thursday.
But what about Taff?
I remember the keys. My speed thoughts are immense: I’m a legend. I say:
“My car’s broken down, actually. So could I possibly beg a lift?”
He looks happy in a Mr Morlis way and we trudge over to his knackered old Ford. In the summer, Mr Morlis cycles — clips and everything — and I think he only drives if it’s really horrible so I’m lucky really he did today.
We don’t talk much in the car, ‘cos my tummy’s concrete at the thought of seeing Taff. But Mr Morlis hums and it’s nice. He hums like Dad used to on car journeys and me and Emily and I would stick our fingers in our ears and whinge about Radio 1.
When he gave in and stopped, I was always slightly sad.
“Taff cooking tonight?”
“God knows,” I say ‘cos I don’t. I think of the phone in the bag — should I use it? Haven’t even looked at it to be honest, and how cool’s the thought of having Miss Mint’s phone normally? But I get it out and there’s two missed calls and a text which means voicemail but I don’t know the number so I’ll have to leave it.
“Where do you live again?”
My throat goes dry but then I remember it’s Josh’s street, so I can even work out the number and I do.
We say goodbye and it’s like Dad’s left again and then I really want to cry.
What’s Miss Mint doing with Mum?
What’s she saying to Josh?
What’s Taff like?
Who
am I?
Chapter 8: First night
This is nice though. The house, I mean.
45, Clementine Road is a medium-sized, semi-detached, fully-desirable posh-ish place, with a blue door though you can’t tell what blue in this light, more gold-ey blue, and sparkly clean white gravel in the drive. It doesn’t fit that well with the street, not like the Meadows’, which is average, safe. Mainly that’s ‘cos of the sports car in the drive whereas all the others are family tractors but that makes it cooler: the swirly writing on the back of Taff’s Lamborghini makes me think of Heat and celebs.
When Mr Morlis is gone it’s totally quiet. There’s a light on in the front and I know I should use keys but it’s not my house, so I knock.
Three thuds and he’s there. The blazer’s off but the jeans are on and the posh shoes are in a rack by the door, neatly.
“Hu-llow.”
He says it like Big Ben. I can’t speak. Just take my coat off and stand there, looking.
The house is silky, golden. It’s mostly golden at the end, in the kitchen, but there’s bright art all over the walls too so it’s like being in an Easter egg. There’s music playing. Not the stuff I like or say I like but dreamy, trippy notes that circle round my head and suck me into the hall.
He’s golden too. A bit olden golden. It’s warm and Taff hugs me.
“Missed you, Pheebles.” And then he holds me back, and we press foreheads.
Urgh. Pheebles?
“Hi.”
Then he kisses me. And at first, it’s just quick.
Then it’s not.
OK, and so here’s the thing I might as well say. I’ve never really kissed anyone before.
I mean I have, like on stage in a play when I had to, and when I went out with Mark Black in year 8 and then dumped him the next day ‘cos he didn’t text me, and I’ve kissed a bit in year 9 at parties and stuff but I was too drunk to remember it. So I’ve never kissed anyone before properly. Sober, with tongues. Not like this.
The music’s going and now he’s pushing my body and pulling too and exploring my mouth and my eyes are shut, then open a bit but then shut again, ‘cos I like this, though it’s red hot, raw danger.
