That’s so Millie. Only she could think this ridiculous camping talent show could be fun.
“Besides, it’ll be something to do,” Millie continues. “It’s not like we’ve got much else on, stuck here in the rain.”
“Maybe,” I say, dubiously.
“I’m not doing it,” Isabella says. “No way. Nuh-uh.”
“Okay, then,” Millie sighs. “Suzy, you’ll do something with me, won’t you? You mentioning The Drifting made me think about our old routines…”
She stares at me, all wide-eyed and hopeful, and my heart sinks into my shoes.
When we were really little (like, about nine, practically babies) we were obsessed with making up dance routines to songs. And when I say obsessed, I mean ob. Sessed. We’d dance every break and lunch, and spend hours after school making up new moves and practising over and over again. Millie was always loads better than I was, obviously, because I’ve got two left feet and fell over a lot. I used to do a lot of standing still while hip-wiggling and clapping as she did the complicated stuff around me.
But to do it all again, now? In public? We’re teenagers. This could be mortification to the max.
And that’s coming from me, no stranger to embarrasmentitis.
“It’s going to be so lame,” I protest, although I know there’s no point arguing with Millie once she’s got an idea into her head. If she wants us to do this, I know it’s going to happen.
“C’mon, it’s not like anyone knows us here,” Millie says. “Please? Pretty please?”
“Oh, okay,” I agree reluctantly. “But don’t make it too complicated.”
“I’ll be your choreographer,” Isabella says. “I’ve got loads of dance experience. I was the under-fifteens freestyle champion last year.”
Of course she was.
“Fantastic,” Millie squeals. “You’ll be able to make it really good.”
Brilliant, that’s all I need. Isabella bossing me around and telling me how rubbish I am at dancing.
Millie flings one arm around me and another around Isabella, pulling us closer for a group hug. I notice that Isabella seems to be going out of her way to avoid any contact with me.
It’s then that Murphy releases a deafening fart. In seconds the tent is filled with stinking, toxic gas that leaves us coughing and flapping our hands in front of our faces in disgust.
“Oh God, oh God, I’m going to die,” Isabella chokes, scrambling past me with one hand clamped over her nose, and the other wrestling with the tent zipper. “I need to get out, I need to get out…”
I follow and soon we’re all standing outside the tent, gasping in huge breaths of fresh air.
“That dog is disgusting,” Isabella says.
“He’s…” Millie begins to protest, but then starts giggling. “Yeah, who am I kidding? When he does things like that he is totally rank. Hey, it’s stopped raining out here. We could go and start practising.”
“Let’s do that,” Isabella says. She glances at me. “Something tells me we’re going to need all the time we can get.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I bet the boys would love to be a fly on the wall to see this,” I say to Millie as we look for somewhere to practise.
“I know, right?” says Millie. “They’d think it was hilarious.”
“Can you stop going on about your boyfriends all the time?” Isabella asks. “It’s getting kind of boring.”
All right, all right, just because you’re too much of a diva for a boyfriend, I think, meanly.
Millie just laughs, obviously thinking Isabella’s joking. “Where are we going to go? We need somewhere with enough space for us to dance in.”
“Um, the table tennis shed?” I ask. It’s the only place I can think of with a roof.
“No way,” Isabella says. “That place has an open wall, anyone could pass by. We want to surprise everyone; we don’t want them seeing you beforehand.”
I’m getting the impression that Isabella is more than a smidge competitive. Sure, she doesn’t care enough about the talent show to risk humiliating herself by entering it, but wants us to enter and win it for her. That way she gets all of the kudos with none of the shame. Not daft, is she?
We head down one of the tracks into the wood, dodging around the mud as we do so. Murphy, who’s with us, stops to take a long drink from a puddle.
“Look, there’s a clearing,” Millie says. In the woods there’s a circular grassy area, surrounded by tree stumps. It must be a teaching area or something of Devon’s.
“This is perfect,” Isabella says, leading us over. Millie ties Murphy to an alarmingly flimsy tree.
“We haven’t got any music, have we?” I ask.
“I brought this,” Isabella says, waving her phone around. “What do you want to dance to?”
“Definitely something by The Drifting,” Millie says, and I nod in agreement. We love, love, love The Drifting. My friends all went to see them in concert earlier this year, without me. Long story. I’m still a teeny bit bitter about it, although hopefully they’ll be touring again soon and we can figure out a way to go and see them again.
“I don’t know why you guys like them so much,” Isabella says, as she scrolls through her phone. “They’re so mainstream.”
“Oi, don’t be rude about The Drifting,” Millie says. “We won’t hear a bad word said against them, will we, Suze?”
“Nuh-uh,” I say, shaking my head fiercely.
“Whatever,” Isabella says. “Right, I’ve only got a couple of their songs. Of course if we were anywhere near civilisation I could download whatever you wanted, but as we’re stuck in the butt end of nowhere there’s not a lot I can do, sorry. I’ve got ‘Break Up, Make Up’ or ‘One Special Love’.”
“One Special Love!” Millie and I chorus. It’s The Drifting’s newest and it’s so good. We’ve played it over and over and over again. We had it on repeat one day after school so many times Clare threatened to throw Millie’s docking station out of the window.
“Okay, so what do you remember from your last routine?” Isabella asks, folding her arms authoritatively.
“Um, there was a kind of shimmy,” Millie says, wiggling around with her hands in the air.
“And some heel kicks,” I say, demonstrating.
“And a twirl, then a kind of leapy thing,” Millie says, grabbing me. “Followed by a little hand action…”
We clap hands together enthusiastically.
“Oooh, and then there was that sort of squat jump we did at the end…” I squat down to the ground, wincing at the stretch in my thigh muscles. I was a lot more limber when I was nine. Then I wobble, and have to put my hands out to stop myself toppling over backwards.
Gross. Now I’m all dirty.
Millie and I are giggling like crazy, remembering the hours we spent dancing around the playground. We used to have a lot of fun, doing this. I catch Isabella looking at us weirdly, and for a moment I wonder if see a flash of jealousy cross her face.
I’m probably imagining things. What does she need to be jealous of?
“Do you remember when we put on the show?” Millie says.
“Yeah, for our families? And we made tickets, and charged them to come in? Wow, we were lame.”
“Hey,” Millie protests. “We were cool.”
“Terrible dancers, though,” I say.
“I’m not going to argue with you there,” Isabella says. “Well, you’re not too bad, Millie.”
Oof. Isabella’s snarky comments are getting harder and harder to ignore. I’ve tried and tried with this girl, but I’m just getting nowhere. How is Millie not seeing what she’s really like?
“Those moves might have been okay when you were younger, but they aren’t going to work now,” Isabella says. “Especially if we want to win this thing. You’re going to need some serious training.”
“We’ve only got a few days,” I say.
“I want those prizes,” Isabella says. “And let’s face i
t, it’s something to do.”
“You probably have to participate to get the prizes,” I say grumpily.
“I am participating,” Isabella says. “I’m choreographer. Now, can either of you do back flips?”
Millie and I stare at her.
“Cartwheels?”
“I used to be able to…” Millie says.
“I stopped after I cartwheeled into a canal,” I mutter. “Gymnastics is not my strong point.”
“Then this is going to be tougher than I thought it would be. Okay, give me a moment.”
“I brought my pompoms along, if they’re any use,” Millie offers.
Isabella shakes her head. “Let me hear the song again.”
Isabella walks around as The Drifting plays out of her phone, scrutinising us, before she stops and says, “Right, I’ve got it. I’m going to adapt one of my routines for you both. I danced with a boy, so we’ll have to change it around, but it should be fine. Suzy, you’ll obviously be the boy, and—”
“Hang on,” I interrupt. “What do you mean, obviously I’ll be the boy?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just, you know, Millie’s a bit more… girly.”
Ouch.
“I don’t mind playing the boy’s part,” Millie interjects.
“The boy’s part is easier,” Isabella says.
“Oh,” Millie says. “In that case…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, defeated.
Isabella starts demonstrating what she wants us to do. And she’s seriously, seriously impressive.
“Are you sure you don’t want to enter the competition?” Millie asks, in awe. “You’re amazing.”
“I’m not going from performing to a crowd of thousands at professional competitions to a crowd of ten in a marquee in a field. It’s humiliating,” she says.
I guess it would indeed be one hell of a come-down.
“Okay, let’s get going,” Isabella says. “What I want you to do is walk forward for four, swinging your arm like this, then…”
And after that I’m totally lost. She’s reeled off a ton of instructions that sound like she’s speaking Dutch. I’ve no idea what she wants me to do past the arm swinging.
“Got that?” Isabella says.
“Think so,” Millie says.
“Suzy?”
“Yep,” I lie, not wanting to admit I don’t have a clue. Isabella will only think I’m even more stupid.
“Try it and see how you get on,” Isabella says. “I’m turning on the music in three, two, one.”
As the opening bars of The Drifting tinnily spill out of the phone, I rack my brains, trying to remember what we had to do first. Marching in a line with arm swinging. I scamper after Millie, who’s already several steps ahead.
“Stop!” Isabella calls, pausing the music. “Suzy, you should be starting on the beat.”
“I know,” I say.
Millie smiles at me sympathetically, and while her back’s turned away from Isabella, she rolls her eyes, which makes me laugh.
“Let’s try again!” Isabella calls.
But I just can’t get it.
I’m late on the beat. I’m not ‘sashaying’ enough. I’m not swinging my arms the right way.
According to Isabella, I’m wrong, wrong, wrong.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Isabella complains.
“I am,” I say. “Well, no, maybe I’m not. But how serious do I have to be?”
“Do you want to do it one more time?” Isabella asks.
“Not really,” I say.
“We need to have a think about costumes, too,” Isabella says. “You do realise that on the night you’re going to have to do this in heels, don’t you?”
“What?” I say, horrified. I can hardly dance in flats, never mind heels. “I, um, didn’t bring any with me,” I say.
“Well, you’re going to have to find some. You have to do this kind of dancing in heels. And you need matching outfits.”
“Come on,” I say. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”
“Look, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it to win, okay?” Isabella says.
“We don’t exactly have much that matches,” I say.
“Hmm,” says Isabella, scrutinising us. “Yes… I can believe that. You’ve got very different styles. Millie, you’re so individual and eclectic, and Suzy, you’re more, um, high street.”
Hmph. She may as well have called me boring.
I’m about to protest, but Isabella’s not paying any attention.
“Look at that,” she says, a slow smile crossing her face as she points towards the campsite. It’s easy to see what she’s spotted. Across the field, a minibus has just pulled to a stop. And emerging from it, behind a younger boy about Harry’s age, are five older lads.
Oh my sweet Lord.
With the exception of one, who’s a bit scrawny, the others are seriously buff, and seriously sexy.
Millie grabs onto my arm and squeezes. “Oh, wow.”
“Suddenly things have got a lot more interesting,” Isabella says. “I think it’s time we got to have some fun. Come on, Millie, let’s take some plates over to the sinks so we can pretend to do the washing-up and get a better look.”
“Okay!” Millie says.
Although I’m pretty sure Millie wouldn’t do anything, especially after she saw what happened with the whole me, Danny and Zach disaster, there’s something about the way she’s staring at the boys and giggling with Isabella that’s making me nervous.
“Um, I think I’m going to go and ring Danny,” I say.
“Say hi from me,” Millie says distractedly.
“Do you want to come and speak to Jamie?” I ask.
“Don’t you dare,” Isabella threatens. “You have to come with me. It’ll look too obvious if I’m by myself.”
As Isabella drags Millie away, my mate doesn’t even look back.
I’m almost at the shop when I see Clare walking ahead. I haven’t managed to catch her up by the time she enters and makes her way over to the payphone. Oh yeah, that’s right, she told Millie she was going to call Martin today.
I’m about to say something, to let her know I’m here, but as her hand reaches out for the phone, she pauses for a moment and then it drops back down to her side. She stands in front of the booth, leaning her forehead against the wall for the longest time and then turns and walks back out.
I duck down behind a shelf, and she doesn’t spot me.
Something tells me she wouldn’t have wanted to be seen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Later that night, we’ve finished our dinner – Dad finally got his fire-charred burgers and sausages tonight, after using the Devon-approved wood in his fire pit – and are all sitting around the campfire. Mainly because it’s the only place that’s warm, although it’s actually stopped raining, which is some kind of miracle. Millie and Isabella have been on full alert for the boys, who’ve all pitched their tents around a fire pit not too far away. Right now their camp is empty. They left a while ago, carrying maps and wearing hiking boots.
“Hey, Mum, did you speak to Dad?” Millie asks.
“Um, yep,” Clare says. “He sends his love.”
Huh? That’s weird. She didn’t ring him. Unless she went back later, after I’d seen her. I guess that’s what must’ve happened.
“A sing-song, anyone?” Clare asks. “It’s traditional to sing around a campfire. What do people want to sing?”
Singing? Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. We’re not that sort of family. Not for the first time, I wish I was at home, hanging out in the dry, cosy Bojangles with Danny.
“How about ‘Kill Me Now’?” Isabella suggests.
“I don’t think I know that one,” Clare replies, completely missing Isabella’s sarcasm. “What about ‘Kookaburra’?”
There’s a deafening silence as only Millie and Amber look even half-interested. Isabella shakes her head and returns to fiddling with her phone. I think she’s
playing some kind of game.
Dad clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, I don’t think my voice is up to singing. Throat’s a bit sore. But it’s nearly seven. Do you lot want to see tonight’s entertainment?”
Isabella shoots a look at Millie. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking those boys might turn up there.
“That sounds like a great idea,” Isabella says sincerely, smiling winningly at Dad.
“Good,” Dad says.
“I need to put some make-up on…” Isabella says. “Won’t be a tick. Millie, will you give me a hand?”
As they dart off into their tent, giggling together, I’m suddenly feeling really left out. Why didn’t she ask me to go, too? I head into the awning to fix my own make-up and try to sort out my hair. Ten minutes later I give up in despair, change into a nicer pair of jeans plus a snuggly sweatshirt (I’m freezing), then grab the book I’m reading and return to my wobbly log seat by the fire. I bury my head in my book, trying to ignore the shrieks and laughter coming through the canvas.
Half an hour later, Dad’s starting to lose patience.
“Look, we’ll go over and meet you there,” he says in exasperation, pacing around the fire pit.
“Almost ready,” Millie calls from the tent.
“I don’t understand how you women always take so long,” he says, just as Isabella and Millie emerge from their tent.
Dad’s eyes almost pop out of his head.
Millie’s wearing pretty standard Millie attire – a turquoise T-shirt that matches the front of her hair with a silver heart on the front, purple skinnies and red pumps. She’s wearing more make-up than usual, and her eyes are all dark and smoky. But it’s not Millie that’s getting Dad stressed. It’s Isabella. She’s wearing a very short red miniskirt, strappy black and white top and possibly the entire contents of her make-up bag. Her hair’s been swept back on one side, but the rest of it tumbles around her shoulders. She looks about eighteen.
I’m so envious I could pop. And I’m feeling seriously underdressed. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and trainers, for goodness sake. I dressed for warmth and comfort. I can’t go looking like this if they’re looking like that.
Suzy P and the Trouble with Three Page 11