Torn (24 page)

The butterflies in my stomach turn into vampire bats as we pull up to the school. There’s a pink limousine hogging the space right in front of the main entrance. It’s not hard to guess whose rich-yet-strangely-lacking-in-taste father hired that for the evening. My suspicions are confirmed when Stephanie de Luca and her tacky friends spew out. Even the ghost that’s rumoured to haunt the second-floor music room can probably hear her braying voice complaining when her Jimmy Choos sink into the soggy gravel. It’s hard to believe I ever cared what she thought of me.

There are suited and booted Knox Academy boys milling around outside. Dad eyes them suspiciously before driving off. I don’t want to go in by myself so I pretend to check my phone for messages. My phone buzzes in my hand and I get such a fright I almost drop it. It’s a text:
You look sexy as hell
. A thrill rushes through me and I look up, scanning the crowd for Jack’s mop of hair. Then, from nowhere, a pair of hands slinks round my waist and I squeal – much to my embarrassment. I whirl round and there he is.

He kisses me and I kiss him back, and I know that people are staring but I don’t care. Jack’s wearing his version of smart – grey jeans, a black shirt and an undone purple bowtie. The other guys in the band are milling around behind him. Their clothes make no concessions to the occasion – in fact, I reckon Spike’s wearing the same T-shirt as the last time I saw him.

Jack grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards the door, but not before I see Cass standing a little way off, watching us. She shakes her head and turns away. Her dress is plain and fits badly.

Jack leads us to the desk at the entrance. Gemma and Sam are taking money and handing people wristbands in exchange. Jack’s already got one – I didn’t notice it among all his other wrist adornments. As we edge to the front of the queue I pull his wrist towards me to get a better look. The band is bright
pink and clearly modelled on those anti-cancer/anti-bullying/anti-insert-bad-thing-of-your-choice-here ones. It says: ‘Tara Chambers . . . . . always in our hearts’. The parents of whoever chose the wording should ask for their school fees back. Some people just don’t know where to stop when it comes to dots in an ellipsis.

Sam doesn’t even bother to hide the blatant upand-down look she gives me when Jack and I reach the desk. One perfectly plucked eyebrow arches in obvious disdain. She looks from me to Jack and back again and her eyes widen. Gemma is oblivious, as always. Jack takes a crumpled fiver from his pocket and hands it to Sam. Gemma hands him a bracelet and he gestures for me to hold out my wrist. He slips the bracelet over my hand, and it seems a strangely intimate thing to do among all these people. I can feel myself blushing for no good reason. I start to offer to pay, but Jack silences me with a fake stern look.

‘I can’t wait to see you play later, Jack,’ says Sam, her voice confident and purring.

Jack says a vague, ‘Thanks,’ and turns away. Sam’s sultry smile slips off her face and onto the floor.

‘OK, so I think you’d better brace yourself, Alice. It’s pretty full on in here. I’ve had a while to get used
to it – we got here early for the sound check. But when I first walked in …’

Shit. He’s not kidding. The hall has been transformed. The colour scheme is black and pink – the same shocking pink as the bracelets. I suppose the black is there to retain some sense of mourning. There’s really no excuse for the pink though. There are huge screens on either side of the stage. A picture of Tara flashes up on both screens simultaneously for a few seconds before fading into another picture. And another. And another. It’s hypnotic. Jack’s grip on my hand tightens and we stand in the doorway, transfixed.

No one else seems that bothered. They all head straight for the bar, where a couple of barmen are showing off to the crowd – chucking glasses over their shoulders and stuff like that. There’s no alcohol being served, of course – strictly mocktails only.

I’m finding it difficult to think or speak or do anything. The photos of Tara overwhelm me. She looks so beautiful up there. It doesn’t seem possible that she’s gone. Surely she’s going to skip onto the stage at any moment and take a bow to rapturous applause. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Sorry about the whole pretending-to-be-dead thing, but it was the only way I could think of to make you have a massive party all about ME!’ And then the adoring crowd will storm the stage and
hug her and congratulate her on her terribly cunning plan.

‘It’s … wow.’

‘Told you. I kind of like seeing her up there though. Tara would have loved it, don’t you think?’ Jack pulls his gaze away from his sister to look at me, but his eyes flicker back towards the screens every couple of seconds.

‘Probably.’ I see something out of the corner of my eye and drag Jack along to get a closer look.

It’s an easel displaying a big sheet of black cardboard. Someone has written ‘Rae Morgan R.I.P.’ at the top in silver pen. The letters get smaller towards the right-hand side, as if the writer misjudged the amount of space. There are three pictures, overlapping each other at inappropriately jaunty angles. The picture in the middle is a school photo of Rae, from last year by the look of it. The other two were obviously taken years ago. In one of them she has the kind of tragic bowl-cut you always dread when you go to the hairdressers. In the other, she’s perched on a shiny new mountain bike and sporting a neon-green baseball cap.

This is the best they could do?
Really?
It’s like someone’s done it on purpose – created the crappiest memorial they possibly could to make it clear that
this is all about Tara. Rae is an afterthought. A support act who must not be allowed to distract from the headliner. If Tara would have loved the big screens bearing her image, then there’s no question that Rae would have hated this. She wouldn’t want her pictures or her name anywhere near this morbid carnival.

Jack reads my mind. ‘Doesn’t seem right, does it? You’d think they’d have made more of an effort.’

All I can do is nod.

We spend the first hour or so hanging out with the band in a reasonably quiet corner. Spike’s hand brushes my bum a couple of times and I resist the urge to slap him. Maybe he just struggles with the concept of personal space.

A couple of Jack’s mates from school sidle over and Jack introduces me as his girlfriend, which is pretty much the best thing I’ve heard anyone say – ever. While we’re all chatting he keeps his hand on the small of my back. It keeps us connected, even when we’re talking to different people. I like it.

I try my best to forget about where we are and why we’re here. It’s not that easy when I can practically feel Cass’s glare on the back of my head. I
know
she’s
watching – I caught her when I nipped to the loo. She’s sitting on the edge of a group of girls I don’t know all that well.

Every time I turn around I see Polly chatting to someone else. A couple of times I notice her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Polly is almost unrecognizable as the girl who got on that bus to Scotland.

While the rest of us have become
less
, somehow she’s managed to become more. Has this version of Polly been biding her time all these years, watching, waiting? Like those cicadas that emerge from under the ground after seventeen years or something. I can’t help wondering where the old Polly is. Whether she’s gone for good. I hope not – this new version makes me uneasy.

The boys are caught up in some kind of drinking game, which strikes me as slightly pointless until I realize that Spike has smuggled in a bottle of vodka. There’s nothing ‘mock’ about what they’re knocking back. I hope Jack doesn’t get too drunk before their set. I almost say something, until I remember that I’m not his mother, so telling him not to drink would be decidedly not OK.

‘What a fucking circus.’ The voice is slightly slurred. I turn to see Danni practically collapse onto
the seat behind me. Her hair is a state and her makeup is smudgy. She smells like she’s been showering in alcohol. Clearly Jack’s mates aren’t the only ones who’ve smuggled in some booze to liven up the party.

‘How are you doing?’

She shakes her head and says nothing.

‘This must be hard for you.’

‘Nice of you to notice. No one else gives a flying fuck. Funny how I seem to have been relegated from the position of Tara’s best friend. How come Polly Sutcliffe is the centre of the universe all of a sudden? Tara would be laughing her arse off. Everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten that she DESPISED that girl. How can they have forgotten? How is that even possible?’

But I know all too well how quickly people forget. Social boundaries are fluid – not set in stone like people think they are. People can rise up the popularity scale faster than you would believe. No one knew that better than Tara. The irony does not escape me.

I’m about to say something vague and reassuring to Danni when a hush descends on the hall. The lights are dimmed and a spotlight flashes onto a lone microphone in the middle of the stage. Polly emerges from the darkness.

‘Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me,’ Danni says way too loudly. People turn and stare, before returning their attention to the stage.

Polly clears her throat and wipes a non-existent tear from her eye. ‘Thank you all for coming tonight. I know it would have meant a lot to Tara. And to Rae. I don’t think there’s a person in this room whose life has not been profoundly changed by these tragedies.’ She stops and looks around for a moment or two. I can hear sniffling coming from the direction of Stephanie de Luca’s table. Jack’s face is inscrutable. Danni’s face is murderous. ‘Let’s have a moment of silence to honour our lost friends.’

Polly bows her head and everyone else does the same. I go for a kind of halfway option, bowing my head a little bit so I can still see what’s going on. Some of the girls are holding hands. Some of the boys are fidgeting and looking awkward. Someone sneezes. The pictures of Tara are still flashing up on the screen. You’d think someone might have paused them or something.

Just as I’m beginning to think that this is the longest minute of my life, Danni jumps to her feet. She stumbles against the table so hard that a glass falls off and smashes on the floor. A vivid red stain creeps across the white tablecloth. Every single bowed head
snaps up and all eyes are on Danni. I can hardly bear to look.

‘You people …’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘This is a complete joke.’ She points at Polly and the look on her face is pure venom. ‘YOU are a complete joke.’ Polly’s expression is a careful blend of sadness and pity, but it looks like a mask that could crack any minute.

Daley rushes over and grabs Danni’s arm, gently but firmly manoeuvring her out of the room. Danni does nothing to resist.

The room is filled with whispers and awkward laughter. Everyone loves a bit of drama.

Jack’s hand is on my arm. ‘Do you think you should go and see if she’s OK?’ It shames me that he suggested it before it even crossed my mind. As I leave the hall I hear Polly start to sing some terrible ballad, unaccompanied. Good grief.

Danni was fine. Well, not fine exactly: drunk and emotional and sweary. But sort of OK. Daley was grateful to palm her off onto me while she went and called a taxi to take Danni home.

‘I probably shouldn’t have done that, should I?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone would blame you.’

She smiled weakly. ‘You’re OK, you know.’

‘Um. Thanks. I think.’

‘I don’t know why Tara hated you so much.’ She clapped both hands over her mouth and laughed. ‘Oops. I mean, that’s no secret, is it? You knew that already?’

I nodded.

‘Thanks for listening to me ramble on. I know I’m a teeny bit pissed, but I won’t forget this. You’re being more of a friend to me than my so-called
best
friends. Well, the ones I have left anyway.’

I walked her out to the taxi when it arrived. She hugged me and there was nothing for me to do but hug her back. ‘Nice one getting it on with Jack, by the way – he is FIT … but I’ll kill you if you tell anyone I said so.’

Daley cornered me on the way back in, enquiring about Danni’s mental state. I told her Danni would be fine. She didn’t look like she believed me. Probably worried that Danni would go home and slit her wrists. I left her looking fretful in the foyer.

Everyone seems to have forgotten about the disturbance by the time I get back to the table. Spike asks me about my ‘crazy friend’, comments on her ‘awesome rack’ and says he ‘SO would’. Jack rolls his eyes and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

I’m left alone when the band heads off to get ready for their set. It’s nice to be on my own for a while. I watch the images of Tara and work out there are thirty-one photos in all. My favourite is the one where she’s looking over her shoulder at the camera. Her hair is windswept and glossy. The picture looks completely spontaneous – like the photographer called her name and just snapped away. Knowing Tara, she probably planned it that way.

Every time a new photo comes up, I think
I’m sorry
. Over and over again. It turns into a weird sort
of game with myself, where I have to think the words at the exact moment when one photo fades into the next.