by Day, Susie
The rest of the Leftover Squad aren’t doing too badly, either. Fili, Simon, and Peroxide Eric in his big gray coat are dressed as usual, while Ludo’s in a tiny sparkly number that must be freezing, but Dai and Henry have stuck to the brief exactly and are wearing matching pajamas with arrows drawn all over them in marker pen. And each couple is wearing the required accessory: a big chunky pair of handcuffs, delivered by Agent Ryder as the central core of Project Pumpkin. I might not know who Girl B is, why Fili’s so sad, or whether Dai really believes Henry likes him, but I reckon a little enforced romance might just make everything a little happier. If I could be handcuffed to my Gingerbread Ed, I’d do it in a shot.
It seems to be working so far. Dai and Henry look completely delighted to be unable to escape each other. Ludo and Peroxide Eric have theirs around their ankles, meaning they keep falling into each other’s arms. Fili and Simon don’t technically seem to need the help, obviously, but I’m hoping it might help Fili to feel less alone.
“I’m guessing you had something to do with this?” whispers Mermaid Betsy in my ear as they awkwardly troop in, tumbling onto the Sofa of Sex and its circle of armchairs.
“We’re the Goldfinch Escape Committee,” yells Dai, giving Betsy a wave, and dragging Henry’s arm along for the ride.
“On the run,” adds Henry. “Don’t report us to the authorities. We’re never going back up that hill!”
“Not till tonight anyway,” says Ludo, peeking out from under Peroxide Eric’s sleeve. “You are coming, aren’t you, Heidi?”
I make my “huh?” face.
“Flick Henshall got released from the clinic,” says Henry. “Apparently someone thought the best way to welcome her back was to throw a party.”
“It’s going to be AMAZING? Like, all the Upper School are going to, like, CAMP at the lake? And have a bonfire? Eric’s going to spike the drinks and everything. It’s going to be, like, TOTALLY SPESH.”
“It’s a Halloween party really: The Flick thing is just so the Screws won’t close it down.” Dai looks at me. “Sorry, no offense to your dad.”
“None taken,” I say, glancing over at the Bloody Bakewells and wondering how many of them I’ll need to take home for bribery purposes.
“Please come? We can get ready together. I’ll do your makeup. We could dress up all over again! PLEASE?”
“Seriously, please?” says Peroxide Eric, thumping his free booted foot onto the table. “Or I’m going to be deaf in one ear for life.”
It’s a Finch party. Ludo’s going to paint my face like I’m her doll. I will witness at least three people throwing up. The Mothership will probably explode at the whole idea. But we’ll all be hanging out together. It’s the perfect continuation of Project Pumpkin.
“I suppose I could drop by,” I say, twirling the end of a braid. “But only if you all promise to keep the cuffs on?”
“She’s very kinky behind that hairdo, isn’t she?” says a smirking Dai.
“I’ve noticed that,” says Henry. “Good thing her boyfriend’s not here. Who knows what they might get up to?”
HELL.
YEAH.
Agent Ryder is definitely due a promotion: License to Be Awesome (and Watch Telly Whenever You Like). Girl B won’t get a look in. Dai and Henry are probably about to get married. Fili still looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here, but all this happiness has to be infectious, right?
Not to everyone, though. Betsy, for all her shiny green satin, is looking distinctly unfestive. She waits till everyone’s gone, and the Go Away sign has been flipped, to tell me what a really smart detective would’ve figured out ages ago.
“I’m sorry, honeypie, really I am,” she says, fiddling with her scaly tail. “Looks as if we’ve got the lease on this place till December, but after that, we’re gone. And even with the extra orders from your buddy Henry—which, sweetie, thank you so much for trying to help—well, a Saturday waitress is a luxury we can’t afford. We’ve got to save our pennies for the trip, so, well, I’m going to have to let you go.”
“I told her to fire me instead, but apparently there’s some kind of law against it,” says Teddy, tapping his stick-on bony fingers on the counter, looking so genuinely sad under his face paint it makes my stomach flip over.
I see Betsy nervously twiddling her big plastic rings. Safak’s watching, too, in her crazy red wig. So I do a big fake sigh, smile and nod, and give Betsy a hug. She relaxes and smiles properly, for the first time all day.
“You’d better keep coming in here till we close up, you hear?”
“Course,” I say, managing to not let my voice go wobbly. “After all, I get to call him Rupert now, right? Customers’ privilege?”
“Oh, I think so,” grins Betsy, disappearing into the kitchen to wrap up some Two-Nosed Cindys for me.
“I didn’t know your name was Rupert!” says Safak, nudging Teddy.
“Damn, Heidi, and I was about to tell you how much I was going to miss you,” he moans.
I feel myself go a bit pink. I think I might actually start to cry in a minute, which isn’t at all the kind of thing Agent Ryder does.
“Hey, we’re just hanging out watching DVDs here tonight,” he adds. “I rented Tron; it looks like the most eighties movie of all time.”
“You did?” says Safak, wrinkling up her nose.
Teddy nods gleefully.
“Seriously, Heidi, I bet you’d love it. We have popcorn.”
“I think Heidi’s got a party to go to up on the hill, don’t you?” says Safak, a little too quickly.
“Um. Yeah, I suppose so.” I’d much rather watch dorky movies with Teddy than watch Jambo puking, but Wednesday Addams isn’t really supposed to sit on the sofa between Jack Skellington and The Lovely Sally. He’s only offering because he knows of my tragic state of blahness. And I do have a party to go to, where they’ll all be handcuffed to their beloveds, and I’ll be…the newly unemployed dork on her own in the corner.
“I’ll lend you the DVD?” offers Teddy, walking backward as Safak begins to drag him upstairs.
Betsy comes out with a ridiculously huge paper bag of leftover goodies, and I’m definitely going to cry then, so I give her another hug, shove a Miserable Ears into my mouth so I won’t have to say anything, and run.
I get all my sniffling out of the way on the ride home, and once I’ve had a hot bath and eaten some more Unhappy Faces, Agent Ryder is back in charge. I can always look for another job, after all. Teddy really ought to go to art school, with his amazing drawings, even if it does mean after Christmas I’ll have to live without a Betsy to talk to, and Teddy’s lazy smile, and his curly hair, and that little twinkle he gets in his eye when he knows Ludo is breathing a bit quicker just because he happens to be walking by, even though he never says. I can drink lots and lots of tea with them until then.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: You’re handling this very maturely, Miss Ryder.
HEIDI: I know! I’m great.
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: You’ll be weeping about it in the manner of a fragile girly sort later, however, correct?
HEIDI: Shush. I’m going to a party where all of my friends are being very friendly with each other, and I’m very, very happy, so ner.
I have to be a bit creative with the Mothership about quite how enormously close I am to Flick Henshall (“I’m not sure she’s the kind of girl I really want you to be all that friendly with, babes.”), but Dad Man unexpectedly comes to my rescue and offers to drive me up the hill when he goes to start his night shift. The Mothership gets torn between Strict Teacher and Disappointed by Antisocial Freakish Daughter modes and gives in once I’ve promised to call her for a lift home before 10:30.
“No sneaking off into the dorms with that boyfriend of yours,” she says, kissing me on the cheek as we’re leaving. “Your father’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
UM.
YEAH.
I picture my gingerbread boy waiting up there in my bedroom right under her nose, and by
the time we’re at the Finch I’m smiling again for real. OK, so I’m going to a party without him, but he’s real enough for parental angst. I should go into business: new Saturday job as a one-girl imaginary boyfriend production line.
Dad Man peels off into his little cubbyhole, and I head on through Manor and back out into the gardens. It’s a horrible night, windy and wet, and I skid down the muddy slope toward the lake. Thumpy bass line. Nasty smell from outdoor candles. Etienne Gracey and Scheherezade doing a vaguely slutty-looking dance around the world’s least alight bonfire. There’s no sign of Flick Henshall: just Timo Januscz, holding a handmade Welcome Back! banner, and one lonely yellow balloon.
At least I have The Coat. It might not be standard partywear, but my Wednesday getup had jam on it. I’ve decided if anyone asks, it’s a costume, and I’ve come as the world’s greatest time-traveling gentleman detective who just happens to have autumn-friendly dress sense.
I head for the pavilion, where I can see a little huddle of people and the red glow of cigarette ends. Peroxide Eric and Ludo (both smoking: that’s new) and Dai and Henry are all squashed together on one bench. Both pairs of them are still cuffed together, too, which makes me grin.
“HEIDI!”
They all try to squeeze up, and I wedge my bum in between Ludo and Henry. Need to cut back on the blue poppyseed cake if I’m going to be doing this again. See? More reasons why being newly unemployed is actually great. Really, really great.
“Warm you up?” says Peroxide Eric, blowing smoke and waving a bottle of Something under my nose.
Ludo’s teeth are actually chattering around her cigarette. Henry looks an unusual shade of blue. I think my toes may have fallen off.
I take a swig. It warms me up.
I get cold again.
I’m in one of those shows where across the bottom of the screen it says San Diego, CA, but you know they actually film it in Canada. Bikini scenes with tight cold smiles. Except no one’s going to yell “cut” and bring Scheherezade a goose-down anorak between lines.
“No Fili and Simon?” I say, squinting across the lake.
“Nope,” says Ludo. “Haven’t seen them since we got back.”
“Lucky you,” says Dai. “Looked like there was trouble in Goth paradise, know what I mean?”
“Really?” I say, at the exact same time as Peroxide Eric does. He probably doesn’t mean it in quite the same detect-y way as me, though. He chuckles, though, and we’re so squashed together we all have to join in, like some freaky five-headed bench beast.
“Definitely some kind of argument,” says Henry. “They were very nearly audible.”
I wonder if I should go and investigate. My other cases are all neatly chained to one another, after all. Fili might be lonely.
Fili might still not want me around.
Then Flick Henshall comes sprinting down the muddy hill in nothing but her bra and pants, hotly pursued by Dad Man.
A cheer goes up from the other side of the lake.
“Oops,” squeaks Ludo, as the chase comes to an abrupt end.
“Oh,” says Dai. “That’s…unfortunate.”
“Lucky it’s so muddy; you can’t see anything,” adds Henry. “Though she’s probably not all that bothered, come to think of it.”
Dad Man frog-marches her across the slippery grass, trying to cover her up a bit without actually touching her. As they walk, the rain begins to wash away the mud, revealing streaks of white skin. The laughing and clapping that rippled across the water from the watching crowd fade away: All you can hear now is the wet crackle of candle wicks spitting and Dad Man’s faint mumbling reassurances.
And a clinky, metallic noise, as a chain snaps, and the broken links tinkle on concrete.
The wedged feeling on the bench suddenly disappears, and Peroxide Eric is skidding across the grass in the flickery light, his big gray coat flapping behind him. Then he slips it off his shoulders and wraps it around Flick.
There’s a roar of disapproval from the crowd as the streaks of white flesh disappear under the blanket of his coat. I can hear Dad Man thanking Eric as they head up the slope back to Manor, out of sight. Flick Henshall’s crying now. The crowd gets bored and goes back to trying to keep the pathetic fire going.
“We would’ve done that,” says Dai, watching them go.
“If we’d had the appropriate clothing,” says Henry.
“My hero,” sighs Ludo.
I look at the broken chain on the cuff around her leg, and think that there’s probably a reason Ludo’s not in the top set for English, with a socking great metaphor like that going unnoticed.
Could Flick Henshall be Girl B?
No. She’s been in that clinic since the McCartney Party: Eric probably doesn’t even know who she is.
Agent Ryder could take the opportunity for a little quiet snooping, though. It’s not like the party is all that gripping: People are drifting away in twos and threes, back to the houses, back to where it’s warm and dry. Timo Januscz lets go of his balloon, which, not being the helium kind, just trundles along the ground until it lands on the lake. I should probably find Dad Man and see if he wants some extra coffee anyway. I really should go and check Fili’s OK.
The others seem happy enough on the bench, watching the balloon floating slowly across the water as if it’s an artsy new commercial, so I leave them with a little wave and make my skiddy way up the slope.
Dad Man’s not in his cubby, though: Peroxide Eric neither. Probably off finding someone to deal with Flick Henshall: maybe finding her some clothes.
I squelch my way down the tiled corridor and pull one of the huge heavy front doors open. It’s really raining now, hard enough that the drops are bouncing in through the doorway and splashing my feet. I wipe my face, and my hand comes away smeared with black from my not-waterproof-after-all mascara.
Jori Song stands around in dramatic torrential rainstorms all the time, and that never happens to her. Real life: just rubbish compared to the telly.
Fili’s just upstairs, probably. I could call the Mothership for a lift and just pop up to see how she is while I’m waiting. If she tells me to go away, at least I’ll have tried.
I fumble in my pocket for my mobile, glancing up at STUART A. McCARTNEY 1979, carved in gold on the Student of the Year board just inside the doors. His party goes down in Finch history. I suspect that future Finches will not be holding Henshall Parties to commemorate that time it rained a lot and everyone went home early.
My eyes wander across the board as I wipe more black junk off (or more likely around) my face.
And then I think my heart stops.
Actually stops.
Like a dead person.
Which is what I am.
There it is, on the Student of the Year board, carved in the wood and painted gold. There he is.
E. D. HARTLEY.
I pull my soaked coat halfway off and read the little name tag in the collar. Hartley.
Hartley, who I named Ed because it seemed to fit, somehow. Ed Hartley, my boyfriend. Ed Hartley, whose name is up on the wall of Manor, for anyone to see at any moment.
OHM.
EYE.
GOD.
One car ride down the hill (complete with Mothership lecture on the correct application of makeup) later, and I’m back in my attic, with Gingerbread Ed.
He doesn’t look like a lovestruck angsty troubadour who tinkers with his motorbike, writes poetry, and misses me like a shooting star over the roof of Stables. He looks like gingerbread. Old, stale, needs-to-be-thrown-away gingerbread.
I have to get rid of him, now, right now.
I’ll delete his ULife. Erase his imaginary existence. And eventually he’ll be forgotten about, like that boy from my last school who stopped coming for a few months, until one day in assembly they told us he was dead from leukemia, and I realized I’d known him exactly as long as my one and only best friend in that place, but I couldn’t really remember what he looked like.
Bryan Coleman—that was his name. I haven’t forgotten about him after all. Crap.
And anyway, I need Ed. He’s my sidekick. He’s other people’s sidekick, too: Ludo, and Dai, and especially Fili. Ed wouldn’t just abandon them: dash off a quick “you’re dumped” blog to his Heidi and never reply to any of his messages again. My Ed would never be that insensitive.
My Ed.
Me, Ed.
I can’t keep him. The profile, the messaging, they aren’t the kind of thing you can just explain away as Dorky Heidi messing about. It’s gone too far now to be a joke. All it takes is for someone to see E. D. H. up there in the Manor, put two and two together, and Operation: Simply Belonging will be over for good. I won’t be wanted in the Leftover Squad. I won’t even be Frog Girl. I’ll be looking back on the Frog Girl days with fond nostalgia, wishing people still remembered those happy times, before I became That Psycho Who Made Up a Boyfriend and Prentended to Be Him.
But I can’t just get rid of him, either. There’ll be more questions asked if he vanishes. Fili will be all on her own. I’ll be all on my own.
I start up the Dread Pirate, still trying to decide. And I discover I’m already too late.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
Dearest Heidi,
I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time but never quite mustered the courage. I wasn’t sure my attentions would be welcome. I like you, you see. I might more-thanlike you. I thought perchance you might like to know that. And of course, online is your preferred method of communication, I believe?
love & affection,
E
WOE.
AH.
If I was feeling shaky before, I’m a jellyfish now. My fingers are all skiddy on the keyboard as I type.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
E,