Remix (25 page)

Stu is currently timing how fast I can eat a hot dog. Lee walked with us to the arena, but left us to go and find the others. I’m quite glad, since having him shoot Stu evils every other second might have put me off my hot-dog-gobbling game. As it is, I am totally nailing this. It’s like a snake swallowing an egg. My cheeks are stuffed, so I punch Stu on the arm to indicate he needs to stop the clock, but he shakes his head.

“Oh no, you’ve got to swallow it.”

I almost choke on the last swallow before I come back with, “You would say that…”

And he gives me a wicked grin, his teeth flashing a touch, before he looks down at the clock on his phone. “Well done. Record time, Soho.”

I love it when he calls me that. My favourite of the Ruby song references.

“So what do I win?” I look up at him, meeting his eyes, trying not to smile too wide.

“Did I say there was a prize?” But he’s watching me for something. Something I want him to see. Stu edges closer, his lower lip tucked into his mouth thoughtfully, piercing bobbing as he plays with it. When he’s close enough, Stu slides his arms around me and presses his lips to mine and I let it happen. I have always resisted the idea of giving Stu what he wants, even when we were together. But I’m thinking that maybe it’s OK to give someone what they want, if that’s what you want too.

And it is what I want.
He
is what I want, flaws and all. When he gets it right, Stu makes me happy like no one else. Besides, he’s not the only one who’s flawed, is he?

When Stu pulls away, he is smiling with every fibre of his being and I feel like I am the only person in his world.

“Is that her?” Whoever says this is speaking so loud that I look up, wondering who she’s pointing at.

It’s me.

Her friends shake their heads, and try to turn her away, one of them smiling an apology as they pass. But I can hear the girl muttering, “I’m sure it’s her. Look at that tattoo on her arm.”

Stu and I glance down at my arm and I shrug. “Someone’s a fan of my fake tatt.”

Stu checks the time and asks me if I’d like to head down to the main stage. The next band coming on are a hardcore act that have had a few top 40 hits – the words “pit” and “epic” are thrown in, not that I need convincing. But as we walk down to the main stage, I start to feel paranoid. It really does seem like people are looking at me. Stu notices too, because when someone shouts “Get in!” he gives me a worried look and slides his hand into mine.

We crest the hill and start walking down towards the stage. I glance up at the Festblog screen when it starts flashing red.

The banner across the top of the screen says:

GOSSIP SO HOT WE’RE BURNING YOU TWICE!!!

Seriously. Who writes this crap?

And then:

Adam Wexler – or should that be SEXler?

Just the sight of his name is enough to close my throat so tight I can’t even draw breath.

But then there’s a picture of him. A fuzzy snap taken on a camera phone as he’s sitting at a table in the sunshine with a girl. Kissing.

My lungs tourniquet as I see myself on screen.

There’s an arrow pointing at on-screen me.

WHO’S THIS CUTIE?!

And then there’s a shot of Wexler walking with me towards the Gold’ntone bus…

There’s another helpful arrow.

Gold’ntone’S TOUR BUS…

Oh God.

This time there’s a shot of me, falling out of the bus, my clothes dishevelled, hair all over the place, my bra strap slipped halfway down the arm with the ink. Then some text flashes up.

SEXY WEXY KNOWN FOR HIS FAN-FANCYING SCORES A HOTTIE
.

BUT WHO IS SHE?

The tension that’s twisted my respiratory system into a halt snaps and suddenly I’m breathing fast and shallow.
Why are they doing this?

“Ruby – what…?” Stu reaches for me, but I push him out of the way so I can see the screen.

There I am. The stupid fucking photo that those girls took of me backstage.

“Is that
you
?” some boy near by asks.

“You. Fuck off.” Stu turns to point at whoever’s talking.

“All right, mate. Not my fault your bird’s screwing around—” Stu steps towards him, away from me, and that’s my chance.

I run. Again. Always fucking running.

I try ringing her. Again and again and again, but it rings out each time.

Then I ring Lee, who isn’t answering either, and I leave a slightly garbled message, the gist of which is, “Where is Ruby?”

I call my mum by accident and hang up and hope she won’t notice the missed call.

I call Owen, who does answer, and I have to shout at him because of the noise in the background, until I give up and text him. My hands are shaking too much and Lauren takes the phone off me:
Meet at the spot on the hill. Check Festblog – explains the emergency
.

Ruby will be hating this, people knowing her business…

Why didn’t she tell
me
her business?
But a nasty little voice that sounds a lot like Stuart Garside pipes up,
Where were you last night when she needed you?

My breaths don’t seem to be coming in properly and I need a second to calm down, asking Lauren to call Stu. I can’t believe that I’m actually hoping she’s with him.

“Stu? It’s Lauren on Kaz’s—” Lauren frowns. “Where is she now?”

I’m about to be sick as I catapult into the toilets. The nice ones down by the front of the stage that are a bit Porta-kabin-y. Only they’re not so nice after a day and a half’s use. The cubicle I cannoned into is coated in diarrhoea and I back out quickly. Not there.

“Yeah. You know there’s a queue, yeah?”

I hadn’t even registered the fact there was a queue.

“Sorry,” I say quietly. “Thought I was going to be sick.”

The feeling has gone – presumably put off by the sight of what I was planning on being sick into.

“Yeah, sorry. But if you’re not, yeah, there’s still a queue.”

I nod meekly and join the back of the four-person line. We shuffle forwards until I’m level with the sinks, where I study my arm in the mirrors. The girl who’s washing her hands tells me my tattoo looks pretty. I think about the picture on the screens, how prominent my arm is in every single one of the shots with Wexler.

I’ve got to get it off.

Once we’ve all gathered together – Stu too – I take charge, sending Lee up to the Festblog tent to see if we can stop them posting it again – she’s
sixteen
, this can’t be legal. Owen is going back to our camp in case Ruby’s hiding there, and Anna and Dongle say they’ll check the stalls. I ask Lauren and Parvati to check the two different girls’ loos at the top of the hill. I’ll go for the ones by the main stage.

When I turn to face Stu, I feel like crying. If I hadn’t been so intent on blaming this on him, maybe Ruby would have had a chance to tell me the truth. Two days ago I wouldn’t have believed it possible that Ruby Kalinski would not ring me
immediately
if she so much as spoke to Adam Wexler, let alone
slept
with him. How did we get like this?

“Why are you crying?” Stu looks at me fiercely. “Don’t fucking fall apart now. This isn’t about you or Lauren or Lee or me. It’s about Ruby.”

“I thought it was you – I’m sorry,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“Yeah, well, you made a mistake.” And he turns up the hill to check the line of tents up there.

I suppose we all make mistakes – it’s how we deal with them that matters.

Maybe my biggest mistake was that I never let Stu deal with his in the first place.

The toilets have become less crowded as I stand, raking the flesh on my left arm, scrubbing and sobbing as the stains on my skin remain. My skin’s red from the effort and my hand’s numb from the cold, cold water.

“Come on.” My voice is feeble, falling out of my mouth between dry sobs. “Just … come … off…”

I give up for a second, folding my arms across the sink and resting my head on them to let myself not-quite cry into the scummy water.

There’s a clump of feet on the steps to the cabin and I look up, hoping someone has come to rescue me.

But it’s a stranger – one, two, three of them – and I lay my head back down across my wrists, wondering whether I have the energy to wash any more when it’s all so pointless. The girls go into the cubicles behind me and I tune into their conversation as it bounces across the doors.

“Fucking hell. Can’t believe that, can you?”

“We could totally have got backstage if that bouncer hadn’t been gay. Flash of the tits, cheeky kiss.”

“I did my best!”

“How do you think she got back there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she had a pass?”

There’s a flush behind me and one of the girls emerges to wash her hands in the sink next to mine. I feel like telling her that going backstage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but it would be a little weird to crash their conversation.

I stand up and brace my arms on the sink, breathing in and looking at my face in the mirror.

The girl next to me is looking at my reflection and I catch her eye and give her a smile, but she just frowns and glances over her shoulder at her friend who’s come out of the far stall. I close my eyes and breathe some more, trying to imagine that the air I’m taking in is making me stronger, that after thirty breaths I will be able to leave the toilet and go find Kaz or Lee or Stu.

I sense someone standing closer than necessary and open my eyes to give whichever girl it is a friendly smile.

She does not smile back. Her mouth and eyes are like three tight little lines slashed in the flesh of her face as she stares at me.

At my arm.

Only then do I realize her friend’s on the other side of me, frowning at my reflection.

“Are you the girl who shagged Adam Wexler?”

“Oh my God, is that her?” shouts the third friend, still sorting herself out in the middle cubicle.

“Yes. It’s her,” I call out with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. The girls out here resist the lift and just stare at me some more. I turn away from the sink and edge further down the cabin, where there’s a towel. The two girls follow my progress, eyes moving like creepy haunted-house paintings.

I decide to ignore them. As soon as their friend comes out, they will leave – and then so will I. All of a sudden I don’t feel that being on my own in the toilets is as safe as being out in the crowd.

There’s a flush and the friend emerges. She’s taller than the other two – pretty in a conventional, healthy, would-be-a-cheerleader-but-only-plays-netball kind of way. Judging by the cut of her vest and the arch of her back, she’s the one who tried her best with the allegedly gay bouncer. Like her friends, she shows no shame in staring at me as I carefully dry my hands on the soggy towel looped from the dispenser. It’s like being at school.

“What was he like?”

I glance nervously at Did My Best. “Umm … I don’t know.”

“Wasted, were you?” The first girl. Her eyes are wider now, but her mouth is still an angry little line that she barely opens to talk.

“No.” I don’t know how to handle this. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So it was shit?”

One of the others cuts in. “I don’t believe you. There’s no way Adam Wexler would be shit in bed.”

“I didn’t—”

“So
you
were shit?”

“No, I—” Actually, what do I care? It’s not like I’m trying to sell my sex services to them.

“Did he have a big one?”

“Ha, did you suck it?”

This is making me uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, can I just…?” I do a little duck and point, the way Kaz does when she tries to get past someone.

This move doesn’t work, so I try and push past the three of them, but they close up and push me back towards the sink, my spine bumping uncomfortably against the edge.

“… can’t believe it…”

“… bet he was thinking of someone else…”

“… not even that pretty…”

“… how did you manage it…?”

“… don’t deserve…”

And I snap. I don’t break like a twig under too much weight – I explode like a bomb.

“Get the fuck away from me!” I lash out at the nearest one, trying to scare her off, but she dodges and the one next to her squeals at me to watch what I’m doing and palms me right in the chest, so that I’m squashed back between two sinks, my hips knocking painfully on the porcelain. I shove back. “Get away,
get away
!”

But this girl is the perfect picture of health and I am the smallest, the weakest, the least I have ever been and she easily manhandles me away from hurting her, yanking me round, her fingers curled painfully all the way around my arm.

My foot slips on the floor and I fall fast and awkwardly, cracking my head on the rim of the sink. There’s an explosion of colours in my eyes and pain rips across my forehead.

“Shit!” I don’t know which one it is, because I’m lying on the floor, filthy water soaking into my lovely whimsical unicorn. Through half-closed eyes I see their feet as they hurry out of the door and I think they’re going to get help until I hear one of them say, “… not get caught. Shut the door. Everyone’ll think it’s out of order.”

And the door slams shut, leaving me in the dark.

The toilets here are relatively deserted – possibly because half the cabins have
OUT OF ORDER
notices hanging off the doors. I look in all the open ones, ducking to check under the doors in case she’s on the floor. Then I ask the attendant who watches people coming and going if she’s seen my friend, but the woman just shrugs.

What exactly is the point of having an attendant?

I don’t know what to do, so I get my phone out and check for the millionth time whether Ruby’s called.

She hasn’t.

I decide to call her. I count the rings, willing her to pick up, concentrating so hard that I almost miss the sound of an annoyingly familiar song…

Phone’s ringing.