Destiny Date

by Melody James

  Cindy prompts him. ‘Was there something you wanted to say, Mr Harris?’

  ‘News,’ he says distractedly.

  Will shakes his hair out of his eyes. ‘What news?’

  Mr Harris looks at him, puzzled for a moment, then his eyes brighten as his brain syncs. ‘I have news.’

  I sit up eagerly. ‘What?’

  Mr Harris beams. ‘You’ve all done a splendid job on the webzine,’ he tells us. ‘You’ve made it a huge success. So, to celebrate your hard work, I’m arranging an outing for you.’

  Outing?

  I shift to the edge of my seat.

  ‘Miss Davis, Mr Chapman and I are taking you all bowling. We haven’t decided on the date exactly. Mr Chapman wondered about next Thursday.’

  Barbara claps her hands together. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Mr Harris. Thank you.’

  Will grunts. ‘Is it compulsory?’

  Mr Harris shakes his head. ‘Of course not, but you want to celebrate with your colleagues, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Will,’ Barbara encourages. ‘You have to come. You’re one of the most important writers on the team.’

  Barbara is a genius.

  Will shifts his feet. ‘I guess I might as well tag along.’

  Cindy crosses her legs. ‘You should be good at bowling,’ she says. ‘Long arms like yours will be perfect. Your knuckles practically scrape the ground.’

  ‘At least I’ll be able to fit my fingers in the ball.’ Will looks pointedly at Cindy’s long pink nails.

  Sam nudges me. ‘Do you bowl?’

  ‘Who? Me?’ I’m surprised he’s not listening to Will and Cindy bicker.

  ‘Yes. You.’ Sam’s gazing at me with his blue-blue eyes.

  I feel a blush rise and glance at Cindy. ‘We take Ben sometimes. Ben’s a great bowler.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Sam’s still looking at me.

  ‘Not bad.’ My stomach is squirming. He should be asking Cindy this stuff, not me. She’s wearing his bracelet after all.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Mr Harris shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Miss Davis had the idea. She thought the students would enjoy it.’

  Will rubs his nose. ‘Enjoy what?’

  ‘We thought Jessica Jupiter could make a speech at the End of Year Assembly,’ Mr Harris tells us casually.

  My chair sways beneath me and I grab the seat to stop falling. How? My breath catches in my throat. There is no Jessica Jupiter.

  I try to catch Cindy’s eye, but Mr Harris is blocking my view. ‘Ms Jupiter’s been such a hit with the students, we thought she’d make a great special-guest speaker.’ He focuses on Cindy. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to persuade her to make an appearance?’

  When Cindy invented Jessica, she claimed that Jessica was a friend of her dad’s. Cindy’s father ran the local paper for years and it was quite believable he’d be friends with a haughty columnist happy to do him a favour by slumming it on his daughter’s school rag.

  Will sits up straight. ‘You want Jessica Jupiter to speak at the End of Year Assembly?’ He’s blazing. ‘That’s the part of the webzine you want to focus on?’

  Mr Harris turns, jingling the change in his pockets. ‘I’m not underestimating the serious issues the webzine has tackled this year.’

  ‘I uncovered a smuggling ring!’ Will objects. ‘It was scoop of the year. It made the local paper!’

  I send Will a death stare. I helped uncover Dave Wiggins’s stash of stolen goods. I was the first reporter to infiltrate his nightclub and it was me who called the police when Wiggins’s thugs took Will hostage. Did he mention my part in the article? No! Cindy let him sweep me under the carpet. Sam’s the only one who knew the part I played because he was there – his band Hardwired was gigging at the nightclub at the time.

  Will doesn’t even see the angry laser beams I’m shooting across the room. He’s too busy with his own outrage. ‘If anyone from the webzine should be giving a talk, it should be me!’

  ‘But it’s the end of term,’ Mr Harris points out. ‘Time for fun and celebrations. I thought Ms Jupiter would set the right tone for the occasion.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Harris.’ Cindy’s smile is angelic. ‘Jessica would be a fabulous guest speaker for the End of Year Assembly.’ She doesn’t look at Will, but I can tell she’s enjoying every one of the fourteen shades of rage his face is cycling through. This is her revenge for his jibe at her waxing article.

  I stare at her. How does she think I’m going to pull this off? If I get up and speak to the school, everyone will know they’ve been taking advice from a Year Nine. There’ll be a riot.

  Mr Harris takes his hands out of his pockets. ‘Do you think she’ll agree to come to Green Park High?’

  Cindy’s smile widens. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be there.’

  ‘How can she be there?’ Treacle dumps her book bag on my bed and sits beside it. ‘Jessica Jupiter doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I slide off my blazer, hot from the walk home from the bus stop.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Treacle says. ‘You exist of course, but everyone’s expecting a fashion queen not a Year Nine.’

  ‘Cindy seems to have a plan.’ I slump into my beanbag.

  ‘She could hire an old actress to fake the part,’ Treacle suggests.

  ‘She’ll probably just say Jessica refused,’ I guess. ‘Cindy only agreed with Mr Harris’s suggestion to wind Will up.’ Which worked brilliantly. I could hear him grinding his teeth from the other side of the room. I lie back, the beanbag swishing beneath me. ‘She’ll let him suffer for a few days, then ask him to be Jessica’s stand-in.’

  Treacle groans. ‘I don’t need to listen to a speech from Will on the last day of term. He never lightens up.’

  ‘He is kind of serious.’

  ‘Can’t Jessica find him a girlfriend?’ Treacle asks hopefully. ‘It might cheer him up.’

  ‘I don’t think he wants to be cheered up,’ I mutter. ‘He likes being emo.’

  There are footsteps on the stairs and Savannah appears in my doorway. ‘You could have waited,’ she puffs, tossing down her bag.

  We passed Savannah at the bus stop saying goodbye to Marcus.

  ‘Your goodbyes take hours.’ Treacle stretches out on my bed and leans against my pillows. ‘I’m surprised Marcus has any lips left.’

  Savannah pouts. ‘It’s not my fault he’s a good kisser.’

  ‘Too much information!’ I grab Mr Woofit and fling it at her.

  She catches Mr Woofit and wanders over to my window, hugging the droopy old ted as she stares into the street. ‘Who likes being emo?’

  ‘Will.’ I fill her in.

  ‘Why are you talking about Will?’ She turns sharply, her eyes narrowed. I know what she’s thinking: is he date-worthy for me?

  ‘He was just being his usual annoying self at the webzine meeting,’ I tell her briskly. Who in their right mind would want to go out with Will?

  ‘He is a babe though.’ Savannah looks thoughtful. ‘I kind of like the whole dark, brooding vibe. It’s kind of vampiry.’

  ‘I guess,’ Treacle grunts. ‘If, by vampiry, you mean he sucks.’

  Savannah chucks Mr Woofit at Treacle. ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Let’s forget Will.’ I move the conversation on before Savannah and Treacle start wondering who else might be date-worthy for me. Since they hooked up with Jeff and Marcus, they’ve tried to get me to join the girlfriend club. They tried to set me up with Rupert before he found Barbara. It’s like they think I’m half a person because I’m not in a couple. ‘Cindy asked me to go to a fashion show on Thursday.’

  Savannah goggles at me. ‘Not the Teen Couture event in London?’

  ‘Probably,’ I tell her. ‘She wants me to take notes while she tries to interview the models and designers. There’s going to be a full-page spread in next week’s webzine.’

  ‘With photos?’ Savannah crouches beside me, eyes sparkling. />
  I shrug. ‘I guess Cindy will have her camera.’

  Savannah grabs my shoulders. ‘Why aren’t you more excited?’ she gasps. ‘This is the event of the season. And you’ll have a press pass. Access All Areas.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I mumble. I imagine I’ll be sitting somewhere in the back row taking notes while Cindy strains to see over the sea of heads.

  Savannah leans back, open-mouthed. ‘Oh. My. God. You’ve never been to a fashion show, have you?’

  Treacle leans forward. ‘We went to that charity one at school in Year Seven, remember?’

  ‘That was for kids and mums. Teen Couture is for real people.’ Savannah throws her a withering look then focuses on me. ‘I’m going to give you some tips.’ She stands up. ‘You don’t want to look like a complete fashion virgin.’

  ‘I’ll be watching the show, not running it,’ I point out. ‘It can’t be that complicated.’

  Savannah starts clearing a runway through my room. She picks up clothes and flings them onto the bed beside Treacle, then sweeps books and folders aside until there’s a clear strip of carpet running from my door to my window.

  Savannah bites her lip and looks along it. ‘We need music.’ She waves Treacle towards my iPod dock. ‘Something fierce.’

  While Treacle’s scrolling through my playlist, Savannah starts lecturing. ‘You have to know the etiquette.’

  ‘It’s a fashion show,’ I remind her. ‘Not tea with the queen.’

  Savannah lifts her eyebrows. ‘Tea with the queen would be easier. You have to know where to stand, how to find a seat, what to wear.’ She starts counting off the points on her fingers. ‘First: you can never go wrong looking like a gazillion dollars. You must wear your best outfit.’ Her gaze flicks towards my wardrobe. ‘Actually, borrow one of mine.’

  ‘I’ll be wearing school uniform,’ I remind her.

  Savannah looks appalled. ‘But you’re going to change when you get there, right?’

  ‘Without the uniform, we don’t get the press passes,’ I explain. ‘We’re representing the school webzine.’

  ‘You have to attend a London fashion show in school uniform.’ Savannah opens her mouth dumbly.

  ‘At least I won’t be noticed.’ I’m actually relieved I don’t have to dress up. How could Topshop and River Island compete with designer collections?

  Savannah looks at me sternly. ‘When are you going to stop wishing you were invisible?’

  ‘I don’t wish I was invisible,’ I argue. ‘I just don’t like standing out.’

  Savannah looks me up and down. ‘Then why do you want to be a prize-winning journo?’

  ‘That’s different,’ I tell her. ‘I can change how I write. I can get better at it. I can’t get better looking.’

  Treacle looks up from my iPod. ‘Why would you want to? You’re gorgeous.’

  Then why did Sam give Cindy a bracelet and not me?

  Savannah ditches the uniform discussion and goes back to counting points on her fingers. ‘Number two: flat shoes. There’s going to be a lot of standing and waiting. There’s no way you’ll get seats. They’ll be for the A-listers. But some won’t show up, so if you spot a spare seat when the lights dim, grab it. There’s no harm looking like an A-lister. Especially if it’s front row – that’s where the fashion gods sit. Third—’ Savannah’s not pausing for breath. ‘Do NOT be late. They won’t let you in. Fourth: no talking. If you have a comment, make it with your eyes not your mouth. Nodding is fine, head-shaking’s OK, but do not chatter. You can text though. Actually, you must text. Designers love to think the audience is sharing their genius with the outside world, so be sure to snap photos and text them straight to me.’

  ‘I may not have time,’ I warn Savannah. ‘I’m there to take notes for the webzine, remember?’

  Savannah pauses to acknowledge her grief then moves on. ‘I understand. But I want first peek at your notes and do try and take a few snaps with your phone to show me after.’

  ‘I promise,’ I tell her solemnly.

  Music suddenly explodes from my music dock and Treacle leaps back like a surprised burglar. ‘Sorry!’ she shouts above the thumping and reaches for the controls.

  ‘No, no! It’s perfect!’ Savannah yells over the noise. She leans down and scoops my dressing gown off the floor. ‘Model this for us!’ She flings it at Treacle, waving at the runway she’s swept through my floor clutter.

  Obediently, Treacle flaps my dressing gown over her shoulder and starts stomping along the carpet catwalk like a footballer heading onto the pitch. She twirls at the end and wobbles. With a squawk, she topples into the beanbag.

  Savannah rolls her eyes. ‘You’re not exactly Kate Moss.’

  Treacle’s already on her feet. ‘Kate Moss couldn’t tackle a midfielder.’

  But Savannah isn’t interested in Treacle’s football talent. ‘We’re getting Gemma ready for her first fashion show,’ she says sternly. ‘Not Wembley.’ She turns Treacle to face the carpet catwalk once more. ‘Wait.’

  Reaching for my wardrobe, she flicks open the door and slides a pair of heels from the bottom. They’re black, ultra-strappy and high and I’ve never had the nerve to wear them. They seemed a good idea in the shop, but when faced with the reality of running for the bus, I always go for my old, flat ballet shoes.

  ‘Put these on.’ Savannah drops them into Treacle’s hands.

  She stares at them as they dangle. ‘These aren’t shoes,’ Treacle splutters. ‘They’re instruments of torture.’ She peers at the tangle of suede straps. ‘Where am I supposed to put my feet?’

  Savannah’s got her head in my wardrobe. ‘You can lace up football boots,’ she calls. ‘A few straps shouldn’t confuse you.’

  Treacle flops into the beanbag with a resigned sigh and shakes off her trainers. I crouch beside her and help her guide her toes between the straps.

  By the time we’ve got her lashed safely in, Savannah emerges from my wardrobe. ‘There’s not much haute couture in there,’ she comments. ‘But let’s see what we can do with these.’

  I stare in horror. She’s found the experimental corner of my wardrobe, where I hide my impulse buys. There’s a blue sequined top I was convinced made my eyes sparkle until I got it home and realized it made me look like a Christmas bauble, and a long clingy skirt in faux PVC that I bought for Halloween. I sprayed my hair green, aiming for zombie-freak, but the damp autumn air frizzed it till I looked more like a palm tree.

  Savannah flings them both at Treacle. ‘Put these on.’

  ‘Why do I have to be the model?’ Treacle complains.

  ‘Because Gemma has to practise being the audience,’ Savannah tells her briskly. ‘Hurry up.’

  Grumbling, Treacle shimmies into the blue sequins and slinky skirt. She looks surprisingly glamorous, teetering in her heels.

  The music’s still thumping.

  ‘Start walking.’ Savannah waves Treacle on with flapping hands.

  Gingerly, Treacle heads along the carpet catwalk. She holds out her arms to balance herself.

  ‘You’re a supermodel not a tightrope walker. Hold your head up! And swing your arms!’

  Treacle lifts her chin and strides boldly forward.

  Savannah claps elegantly. ‘Divine!’ she calls. ‘Magnificent.’ She leans and whispers in my ear. ‘Watch the front-row seats. If the people there are nodding, follow their cue and applaud. If they’re shaking their heads, look disappointed.’

  ‘But what if I think the dresses are gorgeous and they don’t?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think,’ Savannah tells me. ‘The critics decide what’s hot and what’s not. You just have to wear it.’

  Treacle’s lurching from side to side, the heels wobbling beneath her. As she reaches the door, it flies open. She staggers back with a shriek and thumps, bum first, into my laundry basket, which concertinas under her weight.

  Ben is standing in the doorway, his hands over his ears. ‘Are you having a
disco?’ he yells.

  I leap from the catwalk and switch off the screaming music. ‘We’re having a fashion show.’

  Ben stares at Treacle. ‘Why’s Treacle wearing fancy dress? And why’s she sitting in your knicker basket?’

  ‘We’re practising a fashion show!’ Treacle glares at him. She’s wedged in the laundry bin, her arms and legs flailing helplessly. ‘Help me out!’

  Ben grabs her hands. He heaves enthusiastically and Treacle tumbles out, her feet flapping dangerously. I reach for Ben and drag him clear of the sharp heels as Treacle untangles herself ungracefully.

  Savannah’s watching with a despairing look on her face. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother,’ she sighs. ‘It’s like being friends with the Chuckle Brothers.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’ Treacle hauls herself to her feet, flicking her hair back indignantly. ‘Ben startled me.’

  Savannah waves her aside. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’ She nods at Ben. ‘Music, please.’

  Treacle hops off the catwalk and stands beside me as Ben pushes the Play switch and the room starts vibrating.

  Savannah pushes back her shoulders, lifts her chin and sashays along the carpet-catwalk as though she’s been modelling since she was born.

  ‘You need a checklist in your head,’ she shouts to me. ‘First, check the hairdos. There’s bound to be a theme to the show. Straight and smooth, sculpted and wild. It’ll give you a clue about what the designer’s trying to achieve with his look.’

  Savannah spins and struts back towards us.

  Ben leaps onto the catwalk behind her and starts following, mimicking her walk and wiggling his hips until he looks like a cartoon copy. Beside me, Treacle swallows back a snort of laughter. Ben puts a hand on his hip and pulls a face. I press my lips together, trying not to giggle.

  Savannah carries on giving me instructions, oblivious to Ben’s comedy routine behind her. ‘Next, check the outfit.’