Drop (6 page)

I chew the skin around my thumbnail, then stop. Nail-biters need not apply.

I need to keep my fingers busy, so I get out my sketchbook and flip it open.

I don’t know much about Georgia, except what I’ve seen and what I’ve learned from Lauren and Sienna. She likes vintage glamour, sometimes alternative, bold colours and patterns. She’s a risk-taker with clothes – confident, but graceful… I use a soft pencil to rough out the shape of a Cairns Birdwing butterfly: its vibrant colouration, vivid emeralds, shocking yellow and a splash of scarlet, all held in a lace of black. The Cairns Birdwing makes a statement, edgy but elegant in its flittering dance.

I use metallic pastels, blue, a little green, and a pearly white to capture the iridescence of its wings, smudging them with my fingertip.

Georgia arrives after about ten minutes. I instinctively wipe my pastel-covered fingers on my jeans and close the book.

“Hey,” she says, tossing her bag on the floor. She pulls out a chair and sits down.

“Hey,” I say.

Georgia’s wearing red tights, cut-off denim shorts and a NASA T-shirt. Her hair looks pretty wild and effortless, but now she’s up close I can see a million little grips pushing it this way and that.

There’s a faint whiff of hairspray, and oranges and vanilla.

I don’t have time to feel awkward: she launches right into it.

“So, thanks for doing this. I can’t draw for shit and I’ve totally hit a wall with it. I want the party to be this magic space with, like, different areas, for people to think they’re in another world, you know?” But she doesn’t stop for an answer. “Here are the room dimensions.” She hands me a photocopy of a building plan.

“It’s huge.”

“Yeah. Pretty big. So I know I want loads of fairy lights everywhere.”

“It’d cost a fortune to fill this place with lights.”

“I’m worth quite a lot. I guess you heard. Do you want paying or something –?”

“Course not. I just meant … this isn’t dressing up someone’s front room, this looks like a massive warehouse.”

“– because I can go right now if that’s what you’re interested in.” Georgia reaches for her bag.

“No, look, I don’t care about that. Sorry. I mean, it’s cool that you—”

“Jesus, Carla, I’m just messing,” she says, taking out a notepad and pen.

“Oh,” I say, but inside I’m wondering why someone with bucketloads of cash
doesn’t
just get an event planner. Georgia smiles, but I don’t risk a laugh after my epic fail in the common room earlier.

“But I hate talking about it. Like, my world changed overnight, whoop-di-doo. It’s cool but I was fine before… I’m the same person, but now people see me and think,
Look, the girl with the money.
”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”

“Doesn’t a massive party scream money?” Georgia sighs. “I didn’t actually
want
a big party, but it’s what people expect … and it’ll be fun. I want to give something back. I could have left this hole and gone to private school, but why leave and have to make friends all over again? That would be
horrible
. My friends are what’s important. And they, like, deserve a good time.”

I think about expectations: Georgia, throwing a party because it’s what she thinks people want from her; and me, changing my hair, such a little thing, just to be liked. I think about my assumptions about what makes us worth something – personality, hair, clothes, self-belief – things I wish were different about me, but who am I reinventing myself for? My head’s spinning. I just want to be
better
than I am.

I look at Georgia, surprised by her honesty. “What? Have I got something on my face? I knew this was a shade too far,” she says, rubbing at her lips.

“No, nothing like that. I guess, I just wasn’t expecting you to be so” –
nice? normal? unbitchy? –
“open about stuff.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just the way I am. I probably talk too much. Can’t help but let it all out.” And true to form, she moves from topic to topic: “Your hair’s different.”

“Yeah. Hairband snapped. Going freeform.”

“Oh,” she says.
Is that a good “oh” or a bad “oh”?
“So it’s not a warehouse but under the railway arches. There’s this huge space, usually used for performance art, installations or whatever.”

I nod along.

“We could have fairy lights along here.” Georgia runs a manicured finger down one edge of the building plan. “And the bar here.”

“Maybe a seating area in this bit outside,” I add.

“Yeah, a chill-out area.”

“What about laying down some fake grass and making it like a magical garden type thing.”

“I love that idea.”

“And theme-wise, I don’t know what you think of this, but – I mean, not, like, in a five-year-old-princess kind of way, but sort of neons and more stylized shapes, even just taking the pattern as a starting point – maybe it could work,” I venture, and open my sketchbook to the bright Cairns Birdwing.

“Yes! Butterflies. You’re a genius! Loads of shimmering fabrics draped around, and dancing butterflies projected on the walls. Like this one, really strong colours. Nothing pink. I hate pink.”

I’m flooded, overflowing, with good feelings.

“Noted. No pink. What about an acrobatic show? You know, like, circus performers on hoops and ribbons, dancing, flying? Made up to look like butterflies? Cool, macho, non-pink butterflies.”

Georgia moves her chair closer, nodding.

“Yes, yes, yes. This is all good stuff. Get drawing.”

I sketch out some costumes, stylized butterfly shapes and patterns. We mark where the DJ might go, and then it hits me.

“What if the DJ was in a cage, a birdcage, like this, suspended above the dance floor? Can you do that?”

“I don’t know but I’ll find out!”

The ideas come fast and furious; before long I’ve filled several pages with notes and sketches.

“Can you copy this stuff so I can give it to the planner? He’s got no clue what he’s doing.” She widens her eyes. “This will
really
help.”

So, there
is
a planner. I’m just the ideas monkey. I check the time on my phone. Almost four. I don’t want to keep Lauren and Sienna waiting much longer… “Yeah, of course. But—”

“Want a lift home? Mum’s got the Merc outside,” Georgia asks.

“Er, may—”

The door swings open.

Sienna walks in. “Hey. You ready? I’ve done the evil Paluk assignment, and for that, I deserve a bag of chips from the market before they close up. Maybe some fudge, too.”

“Yeah,” I say.

Georgia shrugs. She replaces her notepad in her bag. “’Bye. Thanks for the help.”

“I’ll give you the copies tomorrow,” I say to her back as she exits the room.

Lauren’s waiting in the corridor, bags over her shoulder, a sympathetic look on her face.

“What’s up?” I ask. She eyes Georgia making her way down the corridor and out the door.

“Nothing. It’s just … I probably shouldn’t say this – I mean, we only just met – but … you seem like a nice girl and … those guys sort of live in a dream world, their own little untouchable bubble… They’re in trouble sometimes… Do you really want to get involved?”

Whoa. That’s a lot of information. Does she think I won’t fit in with that crowd? Besides, Georgia was friendly.

“It was only a few sketches. She didn’t invite me car-jacking or anything. She was nice.”

“I guess Georgia is OK … but…” Lauren shrugs.

But what?
Sienna rolls her eyes. “They’re just a bit full of it. Come on, I’m literally concave with hunger so let’s amscray.”

I can’t work out whether Lauren is jealous or if she’s really trying to warn me. I want to give Georgia, Violet and all that lot the benefit of the doubt. If they talk to me, why not talk back? I want to find out myself what they’re really like.

The market is held on a pretty side street off the high street, lined with what my dad would call “chocolate-box” houses. Garden walls are caressed by climbing plants dotted with dusky pink flowers.

Chalkboards and handwritten labels shout:

D
ELICIOUS
H
ANDMADE
S
OMERSET
F
UDGE

S
PICED
C
RAB-APPLE
J
ELLY

L
EMON
, P
OLENTA AND
A
LMOND
C
AKE

BBQ P
ULLED
P
ORK
R
OLLS

Stalls sell all kinds of crafts, books, antiques and clothing, some of it pure junk, but there are a few gems to be found.

The stalls follow the gentle incline of the road, so we can see them all rising ahead of us. Lots of people are milling about; the yummy mummies are out in force, with buggies and babies in slings. A bearded guy hands out leaflets for yoga classes. I notice some brave haircuts.

The sweet scent of the flower barrow permeates everything.

Sienna makes a beeline for the food stalls, choosing thrice-cooked polenta chips with spiced pimento dip.
Fancy
. I don’t even know what pimento is. Sounds like a car model to me.
The Fiat Pimento
.

I carry on up the hill with Lauren. Sienna trails behind, eating her chips. We pass a record stall and one with loads of clocks and watches, some ticking out of sync, others stopped altogether.

I pick up a pocket watch, golden with a white face. The tiny hands are still, the intricate movement quiet.

I come over all philosophical. Something about Lauren puts me at ease, like you could talk to her about any problem and she would try her best to solve it for you.

“Do you ever feel like life’s going on around you, but you’re not part of it?” I ask.

Lauren turns to face me. “How do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” I put down the watch.

“It’s obviously
not
nothing.”

I sigh. “It’s just, like, you go through the motions, day after day, but it’s not real? Like you’re sleep-walking, waiting for this grand change to happen where you come alive, into your own.”

“I think I know what you mean. That there’s more out there than this. But I don’t reckon it gets handed to you. I think people work hard to get it.”

“Yeah, maybe. Do you think, though, I mean, sometimes do you think that there’s this ideal life out there, tantalizing you, but however hard you try, you can never quite grasp it? You’re stuck where you are. On the edge. Trundling along, parallel to that awesome life that you can’t have.”

Lauren weighs her answer.

“Not really,” she says. “I think life is kind of what you make it. It’s good to have dreams, of course it is, but actually, I think the ideal life is just a myth. Say you get all the stuff you want, at that point you’ll just make a new list of wants. It’s never-ending. You just have to choose to be happy and get on with things.”

Lauren talks a lot of sense, but … the thing is, I’m
not
happy. That’s the problem. I’m not
at all
happy, and I’m not even sure why. But one thing I do know: I can’t sit around waiting to feel happy, for my ideal life to appear before me on a silver platter. Lauren’s right: you have to work for things. Waiting is not an option.

Sienna comes up behind us.

“Why can’t they just do good old potato ones?” she asks, shoving a polenta chip in her mouth.

“I guess they’re trying to show off,” Lauren says, taking a steaming chip.

“Get your own!” Sienna bats Lauren away.

“Maybe they’re just trying something different,” I say.

“Don’t mess with the classics. That’s what I say.”

We continue up the street, dipping in and out of the stalls, picking things up, putting them down. Gasping at prices.

I rifle through some racks of old clothing and find a pair of cut-off, barely there, bum-revealing mini shorts. I put them back.
Not ready for those. But maybe with tights…

I sift through another rack, find a vest and pair it with the shorts.

“That looks like something Violet would wear,” Lauren says, and I don’t say it out loud, but I think to myself,
Is that such a bad thing?

I put the shorts and top back. Pick up a flower-print dress.

“I don’t know, it’s kind of granny-ish,” says Sienna.

“I think it’s sort of retro-cool,” I say.

Lauren takes the dress and holds it up to me. She pushes a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I think it’d look good on you.”

“Thanks.” I smile. I really like the dress, but approval from Lauren cements it for me. The stall owner bags it up and I fish a twenty from my wallet.

“What about these?” I turn around to see Sienna sporting an old-man flat cap and a pair of gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles, her bright red fringe covering her eyes. She’s clutching an orange bandeau top and some shiny purple leggings. Lauren and Sienna break into laughter, and I go along with it, but I’m thinking,
OK, not the cap or glasses, but maybe the top or leggings …
as part of another outfit… They could be cool.

Next day I’m in school early to copy the sketches for Georgia. Part of me wanted to hang back, to catch Finn by the doctors’ surgery again, but I stuck to my new social rule about minimizing the mentalist stalking.

I can’t see Georgia in the common room, and it’s almost time for the bell. So I shove the photocopies in my bag and, instead of searching for her, decide to check how my new vintage dress from the market looks, and maybe rearrange my hair before class starts.

In the toilets, I sigh. Yes, I look better, but I’m not used to the reflection staring back at me. I run a comb through my hair, then abandon the sleek look. Tipping my head upside down, I mess it up, make it big, put a few clips in it. I circle my lips with a new red lipstick. It certainly pings, makes a statement.

Out-of-bed look complete.

The door opens and a vision enters. Violet Brody.

I feel like a child caught playing with Mummy’s make-up. Trying on too-big heels and tottering about before falling flat on her face. She makes me nervous.

But waltzing in behind her is Georgia, who smiles warmly.