All That Glitters (40 page)

My own, personal DJ.

Hovering over a table with huge earphones on, looking as cool as can be and ready to hit the music just as soon as the first people arrive. Because that’s the great thing about having so many friends: you can call in little favours.

Believe it or not, I haven’t had to pay for a single thing: it’s all been offered for free, out of the kindness of people’s hearts.

Which includes the perfect venue.

Precisely seven years, three hundred and three visits, seven orienteering holidays and a camping trip where I was chased by a very large cow across a field have finally come to full fruition. One quick phone call and the head of the Girl Guides Association was more than happy to lend me their local wooden hut for the evening.

“Harriet,” she said when I asked how much it would cost, “according to my memory, you got a hundred and two badges as a Brownie and Guide, not including whatever you achieved as a Rainbow.”

“Seven,” I said immediately. “I got my I’ve Had An Adventure Badge, my I’ve Been On A Sleepover Badge, my Aim High Badge, my Happiness Badge, my Loyalty Badge and—”

“Stop stop stop,” she laughed. “The hut is on us. I think you’ve earned it.”

And as the first sounds of footsteps and giggles can be heard in the dark outside, I turn round quickly and stick my thumbs nervously in the air.

“All set?” my DJ calls from the back of the room, finger poised over the GO button, or – you know. Whatever the trendy disc jockey equivalent of that is.

Timing is paramount, so I wait a few seconds until the voices are so close I can hear them whispering
“You
go first,” “No you,” “No
you
”.

Then I take my deepest breath and nod. “
Go!
”

With a flourish, Steve the caretaker hits a button.

As the air fills with the buoyant, triumphant perfection that is
The Planets
by Gustav Holst, I can feel my smile getting broader and broader until my whole face feels like it’s glowing from the inside out.

As if it has its very own source of solar energy.

And as the music swells and I swell with it, it’s all I can do not to lift into the air too.

That’s how brightly I’m burning.

“Hello,” I say at the first small and polite knock on the door, “and welcome to the stars.”

he first head round the door is Lydia’s.

“Oh
wow
,” she squeaks, jumping out with her bright orange hair flying and running into the middle of the room. “This is what I think
heaven
should look like. Because a) it’s awesome, b) there are stars everywhere and c) cake!” She spins round a few times and runs over to the table. “AND
MARS BARS
!” she shouts. “THERE ARE MINI MARS BARS!”

Then she opens two and crams them both into her mouth simultaneously.

Yup. She’s my spirit animal.

“
Lydia
,” Fee hisses, poking her blonde head round too. “You’re
so
embarrassing.
Try
and remember we left primary school four whole
months
ago.”

Two more familiar little heads appear. “We’re
so
sorry, Harriet Manners. Please don’t send us home again, Harriet Manners.”

I smile affectionately and beckon them in. They shuffle forward shyly, self-consciously tidying up little spangly skirts and straightening their T-shirts with sequins that say LOVE, PARIS and MEOW.

Lydia’s wearing a jumper with a sun on it and is now rocketing round the room with a mouth full of chocolate, prodding things at random.

“Oh, look! Balloons painted to look like planets! That’s so clever!” She spins the little brown one round. “Except planets aren’t stars, are they, Harriet? I thought they were celestial bodies in orbit? Did you cheat on the theme?”

I think I’ve just found the missing link between me and Tabitha. I may have to ask my parents if they’ve misplaced a child at any stage in the last decade.

“Planets are in between us and the stars,” I explain, resisting an urge to high-five her. “So they represent the journey we take to them.”

And also because let’s be honest: there aren’t that many snacks called
Fomalhaut
or
Kornephoros.
Mars Bars were much easier to source.

“
Ooooooooohhh
,” all four say, clasping their hands together and gazing at the ceiling with round eyes. “
Coooolioko
.”

Then they start skipping around the room, examining every detail – the tiny star candles, the big star cake, Tabby’s fluffy night-light – and waving at the DJ booth.

“Hey, Mr Barker,” they say cheerfully, stuffing sandwiches in their mouths. “You look
so
cool out of your overalls.”

“Darn right I do!” Steve grins, taking his orange trilby hat off and doing a little bow. “Now let’s party, shall we?” And he starts smashing his head to a particularly rambunctious cello solo.

In the meantime, I’m lurking anxiously by the entrance, staring at my watch.

The invitation said 8pm, and it is now 8:03pm.

Where
is
everyone?

Maybe they’re not coming. Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe this is going to be like when I had a big order of books delivered and they said they would be there on Saturday afternoon and I waited all day on the sofa and they didn’t show up at all.

Except, you know: a billion times worse.

Because that wasn’t utterly humiliating or emotionally devastating or a waste of cupcakes and it’s not like I was actually intending to leave the house all day anyway.

I check my watch again as the first years start dragging Twister from the Games Corner and laying it out on the floor, then again as they begin giggling and shouting colours and directions at random.

Then again.

And again.

Brain-imaging studies have shown that our perception of time stretches backwards when our eyes shift from one point to the other, meaning that the second hand on a clock feels like it’s taking longer than a second to tick if we stare directly at it.

My second hand doesn’t seem to be moving at all.

Like: at all.

It’s apparently been 8:05pm for the last three hundred years.

Cheeks starting to flush, I sit on a little chair by the entrance and try to breathe as calmly as I can. The stomach of a hippopotamus is three metres long, and mine is now dropping so fast it feels like it may have stretched to similar proportions.

Then I hear it.

Another wave of noise outside the door: faint at first – a few giggles, a few faraway shouts – and then louder. Louder and louder and louder until the gravel in front of the Guide Hut starts crunching noisily.

I look up.

“Is that
them
?” the first years whisper with round eyes, frozen in terror with their feet and hands in the air. “Is that
the sixth formers
?”

Eyes widening too, I nod.

There are three tables in this room right now and for a brief second it takes all my willpower not to crawl under one of them.

Instead, I straighten my shoulders.

Be confident, Harriet. Be brave.

Harness your Inner Star.

And with a loud burst, my entire year comes pouring in.

ithin moments, my classmates have flooded the room and settled all over everything, like one of the plagues of Biblical Egypt.

Except instead of locusts or frogs or lice or flies, it’s sixteen-year-olds.

And instead of boils they’ve erupted into sequins.

Seriously, there is sparkle
everywhere.

Never mind embracing the theme: this lot have wrestled it to the floor and got it in an aggressive headlock.

Almost all of the girls are wearing dresses, and some of them are in full evening gowns, covered in beads and twinkle and glitz. There are a few big net skirts, a number of tiaras and huge earrings and quite a few wobbling knees thanks to enormous heels: the entire female population has grown five inches in the last four hours.

Most of the boys are in shirts and black trousers; a few are in ties, and a couple have donned black tuxedoes with little sequin bow ties like magicians.

Lips are red, enormous eyelashes are stuck on, hair is carefully curled or straightened, messed up or cleanly shaven. (Apart from two little cautious moustaches: Robert and Adam.)

My gang have really gone for it: India’s in a knee-length purple dress – like a very beautiful Barney the dinosaur – and Ananya and Liv are resplendent in floor-length satin red and pink gowns.

Honestly, I’ve never seen them all look so lovely.

So glamorous. So
glitzy
. It’s like they’ve come to a prom, or a ball, or maybe the party Cinderella threw after she became a princess.

And they’ve made all this effort for
me.

I mean, it’s a little more glam than I was expecting for the Guide Hut, but the support is seriously appreciated.

I can feel a lump starting in my throat as the year spreads through the now relatively tiny room as if by osmosis, staring at the decorations in astonishment. They’ve gone very, very quiet. They must be
so
impressed.

I have obviously blown their minds.

“This is …” “Wow.” “… Unexpected.” “
Retro.
”

“Crikey.” Raya picks up a little cup of jelly and blinks at it. “Is this
jelly
? Like actual jelly? With
glitter
?”

“Yes, but don’t worry,” I say quickly as her eyes widen. “It’s totally safe to eat. I checked.”

“Cu-ute,” she says slowly, putting it down again.

“So where are the drinks?” Chloe asks, rubbing her hands together. “We’re
parched.
”

“Over there.” I beam and wave my hands with a flourish at the table on the left. “We have everything you could possibly want. Lemonade, cola floats, ginger beer, fizzy orange and my very own personal invention, Milkywayshake.”

Then I snigger slightly.

“See?” I explain as she continues staring at me. “It’s a space-themed play on words. Milkshake? Milkywayshake?”

“Oh,” she says, not taking any of them. “Yeah.”

The rest of the group is still staring in silence around the room, amazed at how creative I’ve been. The music is getting louder, and a few people are cocking their heads to the side curiously.