Promtastic Page 6

  “Tea, love?” Her father’s kind face appeared around her mother’s bony shoulder.

  “She hasn’t got time for tea in bed!” her mother snapped. “Take it downstairs and she can drink it on her way out.”

  Her dad sighed, turned and headed back downstairs.

  Grace pulled her duvet over her head. “I’m not going.”

  Her mother ripped the duvet off her bed. “Oh yes you are. You are going because you are going to make the very best of yourself, my girl. You are going because you are not going to be just ‘good enough’ like some people I know. I want to be able to look our neighbours in the eye for once.”

  “Hey! Dad is not like that. He’s always looked after us really well. You’re just saying that because he didn’t get that one job that you wanted to boast about to your so-called friends. You made him go for it and you knew he would have hated it.”

  Her mother’s eyes flashed dangerously and Grace knew she’d gone too far. “We’ll never know, will we? But you – you will succeed; that is my one aim, my project.”

  “But don’t you get it, Mum? I don’t want to be your project, the thing you can boast to your friends about. I just want to be you …your …daughter.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous – of course you’re my daughter. Haven’t I done everything to make this prom perfect for you?”

  Grace’s phone pinged. She frowned. Who else was awake at this time? She flicked a glance at what was on the screen and sat straight up. “You’re right, Mum, you’re right. I’m getting up – I’m getting up right this minute.”

  She scrambled across her bedroom, into her running vest, shorts and tracksuit and out of the house in what felt like minutes, watched by her triumphant mother.

  Who thought she had won the argument.

  If she only knew.

  She texted Jason as soon as she was out of the house: “Meet me at the athletics track in an hour.”

  She had just finished a gruelling run when she looked up and saw him sitting on the spectator benches watching her. She jogged over.

  “So what’s the big deal?” he asked. “I was working till one o’clock this morning so it’d better be good to get me up this early on a Saturday.”

  She fished her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him.

  He stared at the picture on the screen. “I really am one handsome dude, aren’t I?” he grinned.

  “Shut up, Jason!” Grace snatched the phone away. “It’s not funny. There’s a text that goes with it…”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number. The message begins, ‘You lying cheat. I saw you. If you don’t do what I tell you, this picture goes round the whole school.’”

  “Nice. So what do they want you to do?”

  “Says they’ll text later today and let me know.”

  “So tell them to get stuffed. It’s a pic of you and me kissing. So what?” He reached out to hold her hand.

  She gasped, “‘So what?’ So Evan is totally humiliated just before prom? That’s too mean. And remember our fake relationship has helped us too. My mum would never have let me out so often if she hadn’t thought I was seeing Evan. We owe him. I promised him I’d give him longer. I can’t go back on my word.”

  Jason pulled his hand out of hers and held both his arms away from her, above his head, as though he was suddenly allergic to her. “You just have to please everyone, don’t you, Grace? Everyone except me.”

  “That’s not true, Jason. But you have never, ever understood what it’s like in my house, the pressure I’m under – the pressure that Evan is under, too. You just couldn’t understand.”

  “Do you understand how that makes ME feel? I feel like your shameful secret. Mustn’t let Grace’s parents know about Jason: seems to me it quite suits you Evan wanting to keep his secret, not having to tell your mother about me… I’m beginning to think it’s not just Evan that’s stopping you.”

  Grace flushed. “That’s not true!”

  “Really? Seems that way to me, Grace.”

  “You think it’s all so easy. Well, it is for you, with your parents who listen and trust you to make your own decisions in life – but it’s not like that for everyone, you know. And it’s not that easy to fight back.”

  “I don’t see why not. You could if you really wanted to,” he said darkly.

  A heavy silence fell, until Grace managed a weak protest: “You’ve never supported me in trying to protect Evan, trying to help him do the right thing in his own time and not before he’s ready…”

  Jason snorted, “Are you kidding? I’ve put up with being a ghost boyfriend for six months for Evan.” He jumped down from the bench he was standing on. “Do you know? Forget it. I’m done. Either you text back to the mystery blackmailer and say ‘Go ahead’, or it’s over between us.”

  “What! No, Jason, please!”

  “Fine, then. I’m going. Enjoy your precious prom tonight. At least you’ll never have to worry about your mother finding out about me. That’ll be a massive relief for you.”

  She shouted after him as he walked away, “At least I care about my friends.”

  “Great!” she heard him yell. “Because that’s all you’re ever going have unless you learn to stand up to your mum.”

  She felt the tears coming as she looked back at her phone. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be at all. Who could hate her enough to send that text? What did they want her to do?

  She had a sudden urge to run after Jason. She stood up, looking wilding around her, trying to see which way he had gone.

  “Grace! Grace! What are you doing?” Her mother’s voice cut through the summer morning air as she stood waving at the track entrance. “I’ve got your maths tutor to come early so you have more time to get ready for violin practice. We need to go now!”

  Grace sighed, pushing her phone into her pocket, and headed down towards the track.

  “Who was that boy I saw walking away from you?” her mother asked. “I do hope he wasn’t bothering you. I didn’t like the look of him at all.”

  Charlotte

  9.00 a.m.

  Charlotte had woken up in a foul mood.

  She counted out the reasons on the kitten’s paws.

  Her best friend couldn’t give her even a few minutes of her precious time on the phone; Leigh was too busy with stupid prom to pay any attention to Charlotte and her dreams. Leigh knew how important songwriting was to Charlotte, yet she had been so busy Charlotte hadn’t even had a chance to tell her she’d entered a songwriting competition. Not that she’d got anywhere with it, Charlotte thought morosely, looking at her empty email inbox.

  And on top of that there wasn’t a single boy in the school she fancied and she didn’t see how she was ever going to meet anyone anywhere else. Ever. And she was fed up with pretending she was too cool to care.

  And tonight it was the blasted prom. Which she actually was too cool to care about.

  As far as she could see, prom brought out the worst in everyone. She thought about the conversation she had overheard on the bus between Lexie and Lindsay.

  Really the very worst.

  But it was none of her business and she was sticking to her resolution to have nothing to do with it. Let them do whatever they wanted. It wasn’t her problem.

  Prom was nothing to do with her.

  She heard her mum getting up and wondered if her mum wasn’t a tiny bit glad Charlotte wasn’t going tonight. They really didn’t have masses of money for dresses and shoes and stuff.

  Lucky Charlotte preferred vintage, anyway. She never stressed about what she was going to throw on in the morning; she just did it and somehow it came out right.

  After a shower, she pulled on black skinny jeans, her black suede slouchy boots and a red top with a tiny white stars all over it; over the top she put on her short vintage denim jacket, then pulled her beret over her shiny bob. Some red lipstick, an expert flick of liner and mascara, and s
he was good to go.

  Her mum smiled as she bumped into her coming out of her room. “Very Greenwich Village.”

  Charlotte grinned at her. “One day, Mum, one day.”

  When she was little they had lived in the Village, a boho part of Manhattan full of musicians and artists. She could only just remember its red-brick houses in tree-lined streets, with their tall steps up to the front doors and black fire escapes with pots of flowers on the edges. Her mum’s eyes always grew softer when she talked about it. It was a place that reminded her of happy times with Charlotte’s dad.

  When she arrived at Vinyl Village, Charlotte waved to Cathy, the owner. Charlotte was grateful that Cathy had stopped asking her about the competition. Nothing had come in the post or her email this morning, either. She was going to have to forget it and deal with the disappointment. Cathy seemed to know Charlotte needed to be busy and asked her if she’d mind putting some new CDs in the racks. She started to put them in alphabetical order. It was a good way of checking out anything new in the shop, and for a while the rest of the world disappeared.

  She swore she sensed the boy before she saw him.

  She was standing by the racks, reading a CD cover, when the hairs on the back of her neck stirred as if someone had breathed very gently on it. She instinctively turned her face and found it half an inch away from a chest, a chest covered in a navy T-shirt with a silver eagle on it; it smelled newly washed and of … what? Boy?

  She’d been physically close to boys hundreds of times, passing them in the corridors, sitting next to them at school. She’d never wanted to breathe one in before.

  She sprang back, embarrassed by her closeness. “Sorry!”

  “Hey, don’t be. My fault. I just couldn’t help noticing you were looking at the Human Animals CD.”

  She raised her eyes above the T-shirt, trying to regain some control, and found herself staring straight into a pair of light green eyes, proper smiling eyes, lined with thick dark lashes, eyes that creased as if they had been in the sun all their life. A straight nose, and a full mouth with even white teeth. His sun-streaked blond hair was pulled back into a topknot.

  “I thought they weren’t too well known over here.”

  “You’re … American,” she managed to say. Brilliant, she thought to herself. Well done, Charlotte. Just brilliant.

  “Yeah, from California. Love that beret – I mean, I hope you don’t mind me saying.” He blushed.

  Was he looking as if he’d been caught off-guard too? Charlotte thought she must be imagining it. She gathered herself. “I’ve just started listening to them – I think they’re great. But this is the first time I’ve seen the CD. Great cover. Love the apes-looking-at-humans-behind-bars image.”

  “Do you?” He smiled that smile that lit up the room again and reached out. “May I?” His fingers touched hers as she gave him the CD and as his tanned arm brushed against hers she noticed the hairs on his forearms were bleached blond by the sun.

  I mustn’t be an idiot, she thought. “What other bands do you listen to?” she asked in a rush, filling the silence.

  He smiled at her and she forgot to be nervous. Somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to be chatting to an American boy about music. She felt relief to be with someone who really understood what she was talking about, as if she had known him for years. And yet at the same time she was also experiencing a strange new sensation of adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream. She had never felt that before. No wonder Sleeping Beauty was woken with a kiss. Aaargh! What was she thinking? Keep cool, Charlotte. Just keep cool.

  “Hey! Jackson, we’ve got to go. Now! Our ride’s here!” A loud American voice cut through their conversation just as a large black van outside hooted its horn.

  A smaller, dark-haired boy grabbed the blond boy’s arm and pulled his friend towards the street, smiling apologetically at Charlotte. “Sorry to break up the party, but we’re gonna be late and that will NOT be cool.”

  Jackson turned round as he headed for the door. “I don’t even know your name, Beret Girl, but I’m going to be at the Triangle tonight. Can you meet me there at 7.30? Please?”

  She stood there, speechless.

  He shook off his friend at the door and turned to look straight at her. “Please?”

  She nodded and managed to say, “OK. Tonight. 7.30.”

  His face broke into a relieved smile. “Great. See you later, Beret Girl.”

  Her heart flipped over.

  Forget prom.

  She had something so, so much more exciting to look forward to.

  She hugged her secret to herself and hummed the first bars of “Would You Know Me?”

  Alex

  10.00 a.m.

  “Honestly, Alex, it’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? It’s a disaster! Look at it.” Alex tugged at her hair with both hands. The towel draped over her head fell on to the kitchen floor, exposing long, snake-like, greasy locks.

  “Mmm … it is pretty bad, actually.”

  “Shut UP, Harry!”

  Her mum picked up the towel and handed it back to her. “Alex, there’s no need to worry, because you’re going to the hairdresser’s today and they will wash it out. It will be as if it never happened.”

  “How much olive oil did they tell you to put on?” Harry asked. “I may be out on a limb here, but I’m guessing you might have put a tiny bit more on than the magazine said…”

  She glared at him, then answered tightly, “Perhaps a little.”

  “A little like a bucketful. You could fry enough chips for the school in that oil slick.”

  Her mum looked at her and Alex could see she was trying not to laugh. “Well, Alex, no one will be able to say that your hair isn’t well nourished.”

  “I’m glad I’m providing so much amusement for you all. Very kind of you. Very kind indeed. And I’m worried the oil got on my face in the night and I’m going to get spots.”

  “You mean, more than you’ve got already?”

  “Harry, you’re a moron. I’ve got none, thank you very much, but I can feel one threatening on my chin. I’ve been on an anti-spot regime for months getting ready for this prom – you could operate off my face it’s so clean.”

  “Unlike your pillowcase, I’ll bet,” said her mum. “Go and put it in the wash.”

  While Alex was upstairs the doorbell rang.

  “The boy next door,” her mum said as Alex came back down into the hall – to find Tom standing there. Tom caught her eye, and Alex grinned and rolled her eyes. Her mum said it without fail every time he came round. Which was often, as he was one of her best friends.

  “What’s with the Medusa look?” Tom grinned as he sat down at the kitchen table. Harry beamed at him. Tom, tall, athletic and on the swim team, was his hero.

  “Et tu, Brute?” She sighed.

  “She was trying to make a salad in her hair,” Harry offered, “because she’s had a promposal from some poor deluded boy. Who has a lettuce fetish.”

  “A promposal? That’s news. Who from?” Tom asked, gratefully taking the cup of tea her mum handed to him.

  “Some mystery admirer, but don’t panic – the men in white coats are sure to pick him up soon. He won’t be a danger to society for long.”

  Tom laughed.

  “Harry! Come on, it’s time for your football practice.” Mum was standing at the door holding a sports bag. “If you want a lift you’ve got sixty seconds or the offer is off the table. Dad’s at the allotment and wants picking up.”

  Harry leapt up and they were gone.

  Alex found herself blushing as she said, “It’s going to look OK, you know – the hair, tonight.”

  Tom nodded. “That’s good. I mean, not that it looks that terrible – I mean, your hair usually looks … er, fine.”

  “‘Fine’! Is that the best you can do? Seriously, Tom, I have to look my best tonight. It’s important because actually I do know who the promposal was from.” />
  Tom leaned forward. “Do you? Who? I thought from what Harry said you didn’t know.”

  “Ah, but I do.” She wrapped the towel back round her head. “It’s Chris.”

  “Chris!” Tom sounded genuinely surprised.

  She turned on him, her cheeks flushed. “Yes, Chris – why sound so shocked? You think he wouldn’t ask me? That I’m not good enough for him?”

  Tom nearly choked on his tea. “No! No! It’s just that I hadn’t noticed him taking that much interest…”

  Alex blushed an even deeper red. “Why would you? Boys don’t notice stuff like that. Why would you notice who’s looking at me? But he did – and do you know why?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “In art yesterday I said that red roses were my favourite flower.”

  “And?”

  “And Chris heard me. He commented on it. Anyway, last night I came home and – TA-DAH! Roses saying ‘PROM?’ on the front lawn. What do you think of that, Sherlock?”

  “I think that Chris is not usually known for his thoughtful and romantic gestures, that’s what I think.”

  “Well, you never actually talk to him, do you – so what do you know? And I’m sure it’s him. Who else could it be? He thought of this amazing way of asking me and now I’m feeling sick with terror because I know he’s out of my league…”

  Tom tipped his chair back. “Shut up! Out of your league – that has to be the biggest load of…”

  “Come on, loads of girls like him. He’s chosen me for now – but after tonight, when I actually get to go on another date with him, what about when he sees the real me? Not prom-dress, hair-done, glamorized Alex, but everyday…” she threw up her hands in horror and clutched Tom’s arm. “Oh my god! What if he saw me like this?”

  Tom grinned, showing his even, white smile. “You mean sitting-in-your-Paddington-onesie-with-hair-dripping-oil-down-your-face Alex.”

  She gave his arm a playful thwack. “Yes. That’s what I mean. That’s not the kind of girl he’s going to like, is it? He must never, ever see me as I really am.”

  “What? You’re a nutjob, Alex.”

  “I’m serious, Tom. You know all the girls he’s been out with … they’ve all been a lot more…” She frowned and pulled the towel down over her face.