Dancing Daze (9 page)

I click out of Facebook and stare at the computer screen. There’s no way I can focus on my homework now. But I still type “Greek gods” into Google and then click on
allaboutgreekgods.com
in case Mum comes in and catches me doing nothing and gives me an earful, making an already terrible day even worse.

“The Greeks did not believe in a single, all-powerful god,” the website reads. “They had many gods and goddesses who controlled both nature and fate. But the chief of all the gods was Zeus, god of thunder and lightning.”

Mum sticks her head around the door again and looks suspiciously at the screen.

Ha, foiled her!

“Fascinating stuff here about Zeus,” I say.

She smiles at me. “I’m really proud of you, Amy. Knuckling down to do your homework like that. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

I stare vacantly at the Greek gods website for a few more minutes, but the words start to swim in front of my eyes and then Mills’s face seems to materialize on the screen, like something out of
Doctor Who.
Why was I so stupid? I’ve lost the best friend ever, and I have only myself to blame.

“Hey, Beanie, good to see you. What’s up?” Clover looks up from her desk and swivels around in her black-leather chair. It’s Wednesday afternoon. I usually hang out with Mills on Wednesdays, but today I’m all alone, so I decided to visit Clover’s “office,” a customized shed at the back of Gramps’s garden.

“Nothing much.” I slump down on a small red sofa.

“Things with Mills any better?”

“No,” I say gloomily. “She’s still not talking to me. It’s been three days now, and it’s doing my head in. I feel so miserable, Clover. I’ve tried talking to Seth about it, but he says Mills will snap out of it eventually. Anyway, he has other worries. He’s concerned about Bailey. The other guys on the rugby team want him to chug this creatine stuff to bulk up ’cause he’s being pushed around on the pitch. It’s a kind of diet supplement. Is it safe, Clover? Do you know anything about it?”

“It’s funny you should say that, about creatine, I mean,” Clover says. “I have a letter here from a girl asking a very similar question. Her brother plays for Monkstown College, in fact.”

“Makes sense. There’s a big match coming up, Monkstown against Saint John’s. They’re both favorites for the Junior Cup.”

“Let me see if I can find it.” Clover rummages in the top tray of her tower of plastic boxes. “Bingo!” She hands me the printout of a letter and I read it.

I hand the letter back to Clover and give a whistle. “
Siúcra ducra,
that’s serious stuff.”

“No kidding, Beanie. And if guys in Monkstown and Saint John’s are both using this creatine, it’s bound to be widespread. I didn’t know much about it, so I did some digging. It seems legit enough stuff. Apparently it increases strength and builds lean muscle mass, and it occurs naturally in the body.” She puts on a science-bod voice: “According to our extensive research, no lab rats have died while using creatine. In fact, it seems to lengthen their life, if anything.” She goes back to her normal voice. “Used properly, that is, and in the right doses. Funny, isn’t it? Most girls want to lose weight, but dudes want to ‘get ripped.’ Sad, really. We’re never happy with what we’ve got. No, what concerns me is that this creatine might act as a gateway to stronger stuff, like the steroids Dominique mentioned. I’ve read about steroids and they do have side effects, serious ones. And they
can
damage the heart.”

“So, what do we tell Dominique? And Seth?”

“I don’t know, Beans. Any brain waves yourself, the elf?”

“Well,” I say, an idea burning. “Remember when we first went into the problem-solving business? You said we weren’t just going to sit back and answer letters from the comfort of your office, we were going to jump straight in feetfirst and get our hands dirty. ‘Up close and very, very personal,’ I think were your words.”

“Where are you going with this, Beanie?”

“Clover, I think I feel a plan coming on. We’re going to e-mail Dominique right now and ask for her brother’s training timetable. Maw-ha-ha-ha.” I give my best evil-genius Disney laugh.

“Oi, Beanie!” Clover bellows. “Over here!” It’s after school the next day. Clover’s stopped in the middle of the Saint John’s driveway and is hanging out of the window of her red Mini Cooper and waving like a lunatic. For a second, I almost don’t recognize her. Her hair is tied back in a high, swishy ponytail, and she’s wearing an emerald-green tracksuit top and huge dark-frame geek glasses.

“Ready to rock ’n’ roll?” I ask Seth, who’s standing beside me, staring at Clover’s eccentric getup.

“Are you sure you need me?” Seth asks, looking a little pale. “I know you’re just trying to help this Dominique girl and her brother, but I’m a brutal actor. What if we all get caught?”

“Seth, who’s in the Mini with Clover?”

Seth peers into the car. “A D4 in full war paint?”

“Really?” I follow his gaze and see Amber Horsefell sitting behind Clover in the backseat. Now, that’s a bit of a shocker. Clover was hoping to persuade one of the girls from the
Goss
to help her out today, but I guess they must have all been busy, so she roped Amber in instead. Amber is at Trinity College with Clover. They work on the college magazine,
Trinity Tatler,
together. Seth’s right. She’s a total D4.

“Clover must have been really desperate to ask her for help,” I say. “But look again — who’s sitting
next to
Clover?”

Seth’s face lights up. “You didn’t tell me Brains was part of Clover’s crack crew.”

I do jazz hands. “Surprise!”

Seth grins from ear to ear, the tips of which are turning bright pink. He loves Brains’s band, the Golden Lions. Idolizes them, in fact.

“That’s brilliant!” Suddenly he stops smiling. “But what will I say to him? The Lions are huge now. Brains is a superstar.”

“He’s still Brains. You’ve met him loads of times.”

“I suppose,” he says, but he doesn’t sound all that convinced.

A blond woman with a long, pointy face like a greyhound’s has pulled up behind Clover’s Mini and is thumping her fist on the horn of her navy BMW. It’s Renate Hamilton, Annabelle’s mum, and the dark scowl on her face would suggest she’s in a hurry and isn’t happy that Clover’s blocking her way.

“Come on, lads, jump in,” Clover shouts over at us. “Someone’s got her granny knickers in a twist.”

Seth and I make a dash for the car as Clover starts singing,
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
Before I’ve even gotten the door shut, Clover’s roaring down the drive, leaving the still-glaring Mrs. Hamilton in the dust.

“So, team,” Clover says, “everyone know what to do? Amber, do you remember your instructions?”

Amber nods seriously. “It shouldn’t be a problem. I rang ahead to set up the interview, and I have lots of questions prepared on how to coach a winning Junior Cup team, thus delaying him for, like, at least ten minutes.” She opens the notebook she’s clutching on her lap. “He played for Ireland as a student, and he even wrote a sports column for
Trinity Tatler
when he studied at Trinity. We should find plenty to talk about.”

Clover whistles. “I’m impressed, Amber. You’ve done your homework.”

Amber smiles. “Thanks, Clover. I did my best.” For a D4, Amber seems pretty clued in.

Clover nudges Brains with her elbow. “Brains? You coola boola with your role?”

He gives her a confident grin. “Cool as peppermint, babes. Do I look the part?” he asks, pushing his geek glasses up the bridge of his nose. Unlike Clover’s, the glasses are actually his. On his head is a dark-green IRFU — Irish Rugby Football Union — cap that’s struggling to contain his wild afro, and he’s also wearing an emerald-green tracksuit, complete with identity tag around his neck. He studies the tag for a moment. “Nice piece of counterfeiting, if I do say so myself. All those years of churning out fake IDs has come in handy.”

“What does it say?” I ask him.

“‘Rambo Harrington. IRFU Drug Tester.’”

“Brains!” Clover squeals. “
Rambo?
What’s wrong with Matt or Simon or something? Did you have to pick such an over-the-top name?”

“I thought all rugby players had funny names,” he says. “Like Crusher and Doom.”

“I think you’ll find that’s
Gladiators,
mate,” Seth says. “Not rugby.”

“Ah, right,” Brains says.

Clover’s eyes narrow. “So, what’s the name on my tag, then? Break it to me gently.”

Brains coughs a little while telling her, so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying.

Clover takes a deep breath and clutches the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles go white. “Brains, tell me you did not just say what I think you just said. Because it’s not funny. This is a serious business. Happo’s heart is at stake, remember? And no one’s going to believe that Mystique Moore is a proper name.”

“Stop fretting,” Brains says, patting her hand. “They won’t even read the tags. They’re Crombies, not MI6 spies. Chill, Mystique. Or should I call you Misty?”

Clover sets her jaw. “Still not funny.”

But when Brains starts singing a weird song about misty moors and wuthering heights in a mad, high-pitched voice, we all fall around the place, laughing, even Clover. I think it’s partly nerves.

“Hand Amy and Seth their costumes, please, Amber,” Clover says when we’ve finally stopped laughing.

Seth and I are already wearing our navy school tracksuit bottoms, so we pull matching green hoodies, the same color as Brains’s and Clover’s, over our school shirts.

“Where did you get all this green sports gear?” I ask Clover.

She looks in the rearview mirror at me and pats her nose. “I
nose
people,” she says with a smile. “Get it? Knows?”

“That’s brutal, Clover.” I groan and shake my head.

Clover parks to the far right of the Monkstown College changing rooms. We’ve timed our arrival perfectly. Happo’s team has just finished its after-school training session and is walking off the field, followed by their coach — a surprisingly cute dark-haired man in his late twenties.

“Phew! Just in time,” Clover says. “You’re on, Amber. Break a leg, babes.”

“Thanks.” Amber springs into action. Climbing out of the car, she runs after the coach — which is pretty impressive considering her six-inch heels. They are part of her “cute reporter girl” outfit — red heels, white shirt with pussycat bow, and ultratight black pencil skirt, which makes her trot along like a show pony.

“Mr. Winters,” she calls after the coach. “Excuse me, Mr. Winters.” She catches up with him and puts her hand on his thick, muddy forearm.