“Why do you think Toby likes me, though?”
Jo had wanted to ask Holly this for a long time. She couldn’t say it in front of Pascale, but Pascale did German instead of Sociology and she’d already finished her exams. Jo had to take advantage of this rare opportunity to talk to Holly alone.
“Why shouldn’t he like you?” replied Holly.
This was a typical Holly tactic. Answer a question you don’t want to answer with another question.
“I mean, what do you think he likes about me?” said Jo.
“How should I know? He’s a bloke. Who knows what blokes like?”
Holly had done it again. Jo persevered. “I think you know what blokes like, Hol.”
Holly removed her padlock and left the locker door open. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Sixth Form lockers next year! It’s going to be so cool being in Sixth Form! Pick up that chocolate wrapper immediately! Where’s your tie? God, I’m going to love it.”
That was the other thing Holly did. When she didn’t know what to say, she changed the subject, often so successfully that Jo never got back to what she’d asked. But today Jo was determined. “But Toby’s so good-looking and I’m so ordinary.”
“Why is he so good-looking?” asked Holly, interested. “I mean, what is it about his face that – ”
“Stop asking me questions!” Jo’s exasperation spilled out. “Can’t you just listen?”
Holly’s prettiness disappeared for a moment under the face she made when she was offended. It involved a wrinkling of the nose and a crumpling of the forehead, and a hooking downwards of the mouth. If Holly ever saw it in a mirror, thought Jo, she’d never do it again. “I am listening,” she said testily. “I always listen. But what do you want me to say? That you’re not ordinary, you’re lovely? Well, I’ve already said that. Or do you want me to tell you that good-looking boys always go for girls who aren’t as pretty as them? Why would you want me to do that, Jo?”
Some volcanic source of interior heat suddenly erupted inside Jo. Her ears buzzed. “Holly, you’re still asking me questions!”
“Are you OK?” asked Holly, her eyes roving over Jo’s face. “You’ve gone all red. Have you got heatstroke?”
When Jo didn’t say anything, Holly shrugged. “Whatever.”
Of all the people whose disapproval Jo couldn’t bear, it was Holly’s. But Holly had joined the ranks of the pain-makers without a second thought. How could Holly, her oldest, closest friend, with whom she shared so many memories, and whose inner workings she knew so well, turn on her?
Jo’s breath shortened. Her temples pounded. The brain-numbing light began to invade the edge of her vision. Why did this keep happening? The plaster on her arm was itching, like it always did the moment she thought about it. She longed to pull it off and ambush the gouged-out flesh underneath it, but she had no fresh plasters with her at school.
“Holly, please,” she blurted.
A light, almost-invisible film of impatience came over Holly’s face, and there was impatience in her voice, too. “Please what?”
“Please don’t be horrible to me,” begged Jo. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Oh, Jo…” Holly gave a small sigh, and looked out of the window for a moment, as if she needed time to work out how to explain something very simple to an imbecile. “I’m not being horrible to you,” she said calmly when she turned back to face Jo. “I’m just trying to get you to see how it is.”
“How what is?” asked Jo in genuine bewilderment. What had they been talking about, when Holly had become so hostile? “What do you mean?”
Holly sighed again, more exaggeratedly. “I mean Toby!”
“Oh.” Jo looked at the floor. It was grimy at the edges where the cleaner’s mop never reached, she noticed. She felt relieved. At least she could see the edges of the floor; the headache-inducing light had diminished. “Oh. Toby.”
She leaned against the lockers and tried to meet Holly’s eyes, but Holly wouldn’t look at her. So Jo persevered anyway. “Look, Hol,” she began, “Me and Toby, we’re fine. I like him, and he likes me. I shouldn’t have asked you why you think he likes me, it was a stupid question.”
I’m not going to apologize, though, she told herself. All Jo had done was express her perfectly reasonable exasperation. It was Holly who had completely unreasonably put her claws out.
“All right,” said Holly. The look she gave Jo was full of doubt. “All right. Let’s just leave it.” She paused, then she said, “So you’ll be going out somewhere with him tonight, will you?”
“I don’t know,” said Jo truthfully. “I kind of never know what we’re doing until the last minute. He’s not even on Facebook.”
“Ah,” said Holly, nodding. “In that case, shall Cal and I just make plans without you?”
Jo heard something edgy in Holly’s voice, but she was weary of this wrestling-match. She wanted to go home and lie in the garden with Blod on her feet. “Of course,” she agreed pleasantly. “Have a good time.”
“You too.” Swinging her hair a bit, Holly put her bag on her shoulder and started down the corridor. “Come on, it’s lunchtime. Pascale’ll be at Burgerblitz with Ed. You coming?”
“Um…” Jo picked up her own bag. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made. Friends were friends, after all. “OK,” she said. “Lead on, boss.”
Chapter Seven
The dress was the most expensive thing Jo had ever owned, except for her computer. It was so beautiful that ever since Trevor had bought it she’d left it hanging on the outside of the wardrobe so that she could lie in bed and feel the tingle of ownership whenever she wanted.
It was a purplish colour, with a low neck, a low back, and a silk underskirt showing through the gauzy overskirt. It hung there in one classy line from the shoulders to the hem, waiting for its moment. Tess, not to be outdone by Trevor’s generosity, had paid for a pair of high-heeled open-toe shoes, so well-made and comfortable that Jo thought that if only circumstances allowed, she would happily wear them for the rest of her life.
When Jo put on the dress its beauty glowed as if it were alive. It skimmed her body, millimeters away but streamlining and sculpting all the bits of her she didn’t like, and showing off the bits she did. She had searched many, many shops for a dress with long enough, close-fitting enough sleeves. But when she’d seen it, she’d known it was the one. “Lovely,” the assistant had beamed when she’d come out of the changing room. “A sort of medieval look, very flattering.”
Pascale had helped her make the satin sash that said ‘Miss Universe’. Jo slipped it over her shoulder, piled up her hair and sprayed it so that it wouldn’t immediately fall down again, and secured in it the diamanté tiara from when she’d been a fairy in a Christmas play at primary school. Then she got out the expensive necklace and earrings that she’d had for her sixteenth birthday. She stood in front of the mirror, unable to stop herself trembling. She looked as good as a beauty queen, definitely.
Jo’s escort was to be Stuart Holt. Pascale’s first choice, David Mathison, wasn’t going to the ball, as he and his parents had gone to South Africa for the summer. “I should have remembered,” Pascale had told her apologetically. “His mum’s South African. She once gave me a stick of dried zebra or something, when I went to his house. I didn’t eat it, though. I just gave it back to her.”
Jo was sure it couldn’t have been zebra, but didn’t argue. And Stuart, a friendly boy with curly hair and neat ears, was a pretty good substitute. He had been in Jo’s primary school class. She remembered him coming to her seventh birthday party and refusing to eat anything but peanut butter and lemon curd sandwiches. Pascale had insisted that Jo mustn’t let him in on the secret of her costume, but get him to wear a tuxedo. His uncle had produced one that fitted him, and his mum had bought him a dress shirt and a bow tie. “I’ll have to wear my school shoes,” he’d confessed to Jo. “They’re the only ones I’ve got that aren’t trainers.”
�
�That’s all right,” Jo had assured him. She knew that no one would be looking at his shoes. “They’ll be fine as long as you polish them.”
It was a pity Toby couldn’t come, but also in a way it wasn’t. He was the same age as the Upper Sixth boys, but would have been out of place among them. Every time Jo imagined him with them, a vague embarrassment came over her, and she tidied the thought away.
“Are you ready, darling?” Tess’s voice floated up the stairs. “I’ve got the camera.”
She and Trevor were in the hall, waiting to film Jo’s departure for the ball. What was life like before video cameras? She supposed you just had to remember whether you felt nervous, or excited, or neither. Now, it was there on your face for everyone to look at, whenever they felt like it. And short of burning the house down, what could you do to stop them?
When Trevor spoke, Jo could tell by the thickening of his Welsh accent that he was feeling emotional. “Jo-girl, you look a-mair-zing. Dudn’t she look fab-uh-lous, Tess?”
“Of course she does!” Tess’s eyes were very bright. “Walk down, darling, and I’ll film you.”
The filming took so long, with Tess arranging Jo’s skirt and taking the sash off and putting it on again, that it was ten past seven when they left, twenty-five past when they picked up Stuart, and a quarter to eight when Trevor dropped them at school and drove off happily, tooting the horn.
“This is a big night for my parents,” Jo told Stuart by way of apology. “They’ve never seen their little girl all dressed up like this.”
“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” asked Stuart. He put his hand self-consciously on her naked back and guided her towards the entrance. “I’ve got two older sisters. And,” he added, looking sheepish, “a tuxedo can’t compete with a ball gown anyway.”
“Of course it can!” Jo didn’t have to lie. Stuart’s uncle’s suit had transformed a boy of undeniable ordinariness into such an elegant figure that Jo wondered if he’d grown since she last saw him, or been hitting the gym or something. “I think you look really good.”
“Thanks.” Stuart went a bit pink, but controlled his features. “So do you.”
Captain Holly and her soldiers, willing and unwilling, had been busy spending the PTA’s entertainment budget. Every cranny of the school hall had been disguised with silver streamers and crêpe paper. The windows were festooned with paper planets, stars, moons, spaceships and signs of the zodiac. From the centre of the ceiling hung an enormous model of the earth, lit from the inside and spinning, a great deal faster than the real earth spins, but pretty impressively.
Jo and Stuart, like everyone else who came in with them, stared at the decorations for a few seconds before their gaze came back to ground level. And when it did, there were shrieks and gasps. Around the dance floor clustered paper-draped tables, each with a miniature version of the earth light in its centre. And there were garlands of silver stars across the front of the stage, where a professional band played arrival-of-the-guests music.
“My God,” murmured Stuart. “We’d better give up on getting any new gym equipment.”
“Who needs parallel bars when they can have a parallel universe?” quipped Jo. She knew she sounded over-excited, but, dammit, she was over-excited. “Hiya, Pascale!”
They rushed towards each other, leaving Ed and Stuart to approach more slowly, and, in Ed’s case, with more embarrassment. Pascale’s silver dress, the spray-on glitter on her skin and the painted zig-zag across her face did more for her femininity than Ed’s costume did for his masculinity. Not even the famously cool Ed Samuels could look anything but weirdly androgynous in silver boots, greasepaint and spiked, silvered hair. Jo wondered if a guitar might have improved it. Didn’t Ziggy Stardust play guitar?
“You look incredible!” exclaimed Pascale, air-kissing Jo. “Love the long sleeves – very sophis!”
“You look incredible too,” said Jo. “That’s definitely the word. Incredible. Where’s Holly?”
“Telling someone what to do, I expect.” Pascale’s eyes, looking unreal behind the lightning bolt drawn on her face, roamed the room. “I saw her a minute ago. Do you like Ed’s costume? His sister did our make up. Clever, isn’t she?”
Without waiting for an answer she drew Ed to her side. “We’ve got to stay together, Ed,” she told him bossily, “or the costumes don’t make sense. Keep hold of my hand.”
The plains and hollows of Ed’s normally sculpted face had been obliterated by the make-up. He looked like someone impersonating him, but missing, as lookalikes do, the essential charm of the real thing. His eyes, which usually held a serious, watchful expression, looked glassy. “Next year I’m wearing a tux,” he said moodily to Pascale. “No arguments. I mean, Stuart looks way better than me.”
Pascale nestled nearer to him. “So you’re thinking we’ll still be going out together next year, then? I wish you’d tell me these things!”
Stuart and Jo laughed obediently. Then Ed said, “You look really good, Jo.” Although Pascale had tight hold of one of his hands, he extended the other one and touched Jo’s forearm lightly. “You could be Miss Universe any day, that’s all I can say.”
And that’s all you’re going to be allowed to say, thought Jo. “Thanks, Ed!” she said airily. “The costume was Pascale’s idea.”
“Clever me!” Pascale tugged at Ed’s hand. “Come on, the dancing’s starting.”
Before she dragged him out of earshot Ed addressed Stuart over his shoulder. “You can’t dance with Jo all night, can you, mate? Let me in there, will you?”
Jo could hear Pascale protesting that no one dances with anyone, and can’t you just keep your hands to yourself, and Jo’s got a boyfriend, you know. Jo didn’t care. She couldn’t calm herself. Her heart was actually thudding.
“Wow! Who’s this hot chick?” Said a voice from the crowd.
Holly was making her determined towards them. The skirt of her dress, which was made of stiff, glittering material, reached Jo before its wearer did. Behind Holly, struggling with a bunch of balloons, came Tom Clarke. Holly’s face, as Pascale had predicted and Jo had hoped, registered middle-scale shock and top-scale awe.
“Hello, you two.” Jo returned Holly’s hug. “Stuart, do you know Tom?” The boys nodded to each other.
Holly, being Holly, had wiped her initial reaction to the sight of Jo off her face, and replaced it with her usual Golden Girl of the West shimmer. Eyes, lips, blusher-enhanced cheeks and freckle-strewn nose were all back on duty and working hard. “What a great idea!” she exclaimed. “Miss Universe! And Stuart, you look gorgeous!” She twirled. “What about me? You like?”
Jo noticed that the material of Holly’s dress wasn’t glittery after all. The blue taffeta had been painstakingly appliquéd with tiny sequined stars. “It’s fabulous,” she told Holly, meaning it. “Did you do it yourself?”
“As if! No, my mum did it. And Tom’s suit, too. Show them, Tom.”
Tom held the balloons away from his body to display a black tuxedo like Stuart’s, but with the lapels and a blue cummerbund covered with the same twinkly stars. Jo couldn’t help laughing with pleasure at the sight. If she’d been a few years younger, she thought, she’d have clapped her hands. Not only did the costume look great, but the fact that Holly’s hardworking mum had produced it, Tom had been persuaded to wear it, and was now showing it off with such obvious contentment, made her feel indescribably happy. “Oh, Holly, you’re amazing!”
“No I’m not,” said Holly, though Jo could tell she thought she was. Then, unexpectedly, Holly got self-conscious. She surprised Tom by taking the balloon strings from his hand. “These are supposed to be tied in each corner of the room,” she told him briskly. “We’d better get on with it before more people arrive.”
“Why?” asked Tom. “The room’s already decorated.”
A perplexed crease appeared between Holly’s eyebrows. “But people spent so long blowing all these up, I can’t let them down – the people I mean, no
t the balloons.” She began to follow her skirt away, then turned back with an anxious look at Jo and Stuart. “Have you found our table yet? Don’t let anyone else sit in your places, will you?”
“We’ll go and find it now,” Jo reassured her. “See you later.”
It started out just a pretty good party. There was some desultory dancing and a lot of screaming with laughter and ‘going out for some air’ onto the school field. But at some indefinable moment, when the air was getting dusky and the fairy lights in the trees had been switched on, the ice broke. People forgot who they didn’t look as nice as, or whose table they wished they were on. They just got on with having a great party.
Holly’s position on the committee had ensured that her friends had a well-placed table, near the stage and in view of the other diners. By the time supper was over Jo felt as if she’d never done anything in her life except sit at this grease-stained paper tablecloth, with Stuart’s black sleeve on one side of her long purple sleeves, and Ed’s silver one on the other. Once, a long time ago, she took some exams, though she couldn’t remember doing it. And at some time in the future, something else was going to happen, but she couldn’t remember what that was either.
After the meal the band disappeared and a DJ took the stage. “Don’t worry,” said Holly, “the PTA didn’t book him. He’s Grant Cox’s brother, and he’s really good. Tom’s been to another event where he’s played, haven’t you, Tom?”
“Yep,” said Tom, nodding wisely. “Trust me, he’s really good.”
He was. Within seconds the floor was filling. “Come on, Ed,” said Pascale, dragging his arm. “Here’s our chance to show off.”
The prospect of this didn’t seem to impress Ed much. But the dance floor was too crowded for anyone to show off anyway. If Pascale was disappointed, she didn’t show it. She tossed her hair and writhed about, reminding Jo of a champagne-sodden Tess on Trevor’s fortieth birthday. Ed did his usual half dancing, half standing still. Jo hoped that no one would notice her watching him.
Moderate Violence Page 9