Destiny Date (11 page)

Sam’s blue-blue gaze is still aimed at me. But there’s hurt in it. I feel a flash of satisfaction. He won’t try love-ratting with me again. I glare at him till he looks away.
‘Cindy,’ I say sharply. I’ve had enough of being a Year Ten joke. ‘I’ve written an article and I’d like you to put it in this week’s webzine. I’ve
worked hard all year and I think I deserve to have something published under my own name.’

‘Of course.’ Cindy doesn’t blink. There’s not even an edge to her voice. I think she actually means it. ‘If
you
think it’s good enough then
I’ll put it in.’

‘Really?’ Year Tens are too unpredictable for me. I give up trying to understand them. ‘Thanks.’
I’m getting an article published.
Happiness sweeps through
me with such force that I suddenly don’t care about fashion photos and two-timing phonies. I’m turning somersaults inside my head and, when Will starts talking, I hardly hear him.
It’s only when he says
Jessica Jupiter
that I start listening.

‘Is she coming to the End of Year Assembly?’ Will asks.

‘Absolutely,’ Cindy assures him.

Absolutely?
The Ice Queen’s gone nuts. How can Jessica appear at an End of Year Assembly?

I lift my hand tentatively. ‘How . . . how . . . is she getting here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cindy answers carelessly. ‘She’ll probably drive.’

‘But . . .’ I start to object. What can I say? Apart from Cindy, I’m the only one here who knows Jessica’s not real.

My imagination propels me without warning into an alternate universe where Jessica’s real and I’m the only one who thinks she isn’t. I picture her lounging in an armchair in
the staffroom. Her long legs are stretched out on the coffee table. Her stilettos jab a pile of unmarked English books while the hem of her silk cocktail dress pools on the tea-stained carpet.
‘Fetch me a Martini, darling.’ She waves Mr Harris towards the drinks table with a languorous arm.

‘We’ve only got Nescafé.’ Mr Harris holds up the kettle apologetically.

‘What’s wrong with you people?’ Jessica despairs, clutching a beautifully manicured hand to her forehead. ‘You don’t know how to live.’

‘It’s not advisable to drink Martini before teaching Year Nine,’ Mr Harris explains.

‘Year Nine?’ Jessica peers through her fingers with sudden interest. ‘Isn’t that Gemma Stone’s year?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Harris sighs loudly.

Jessica frowns. ‘And you say she still doesn’t believe I exist?’

‘She’s convinced she invented you.’ Mr Harris shakes his head.

‘What’s wrong with the girl?’ Jessica exclaims. ‘What more can I do? I’ve found love for her best friends. I’ve saved her from the dullest boy in Green Park
and I’ve promised to address the entire school at the End of Year Assembly. How else can I prove I’m real?’

‘She says she doesn’t believe in Fairy Godmothers.’ Mr Harris flicks on the kettle.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What does the girl expect?’ Jessica rolls her eyes. ‘Does she think I can turn Sam from phony to prince and make him fall in love with her? Even
I’m
not that powerful!’

The fantasy disappears in a puff of imaginary smoke as Will stretches his legs beside me. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Miss Jupiter in the flesh.’

Me too.
I search Cindy’s gaze. What is she planning?

Will sniffs. ‘She
might
be quite interesting.’

I suddenly realize there’s no sneer in his voice. Did my trick with the book actually work? Has he finally joined the rest of the school in believing that Jessica Jupiter has a hotline to
the future?

I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. If he really is hooked on horoscopes, perhaps I should follow Treacle’s advice and steer him towards a girlfriend. Love helped add spice to
Barbara’s articles; it might take the stodge out of his. I start guiltily listing Year Tens in my head, wondering which unlucky girl I should dump him on.

‘Sam.’

My gaze jerks back to Cindy as she says the magic name.

‘There are rumours that the headmaster has booked a live band for the prom,’ she says. ‘Can you follow that up? See if you can find out if it’s true and who it might be.
It’d make a terrific scoop for the final edition.’

‘I’ll try,’ Sam mumbles unenthusiastically. I thought he’d
love
an assignment like this, but he sounds like she’s asked him to review yoghurt for his final
piece.

‘Thank you.’ Cindy leans to touch his knee.

Will scrapes back his chair. ‘I’ve got some reading to catch up on.’ He stands. ‘I think we’re all clear on next week’s stories. I’ll email you mine,
Cindy.’ Without waiting for an answer, he lopes out of the room.

Cindy stares after him, surprised. ‘I suppose that’s it then.’ She glances round at the rest of us. ‘Phil, David? Are you all set for next week’s piece?’

‘Game review for the year,’ Phil tells her.

David adds info. ‘Top five best and worst. Highlights and future release dates.’

Cindy makes a note on her clipboard. ‘Sounds perfect.’

Sam gets to his feet. ‘I’ll check out that band rumour.’ He exits without making eye contact with anyone and I suddenly realize I’ve grown used to him flashing me a
goodbye smile.

Phil, David and Jeff crowd through the door after him. I reach for my backpack and stand up.

‘Wait a moment, Gem.’ Cindy’s sweet-talking. That’s never a good sign.

‘What?’ I look at her warily. Has she got another project that’ll end with me falling off a runway?

Cindy turns to Barbara. ‘Can you give us a minute, Barbie?’ she asks prettily. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask Gemma.’

Barbara takes the hint. She shuffles her papers together and shoves them into her bag. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

‘Thanks,’ Cindy purrs. ‘I won’t be long.’

As Barbara closes the door behind her, Cindy’s gaze toughens. ‘You know that article you want me to publish?’

‘My prom piece?’ Butterflies whirl in my stomach.

‘It’s about the prom? How sweet.’ Cindy sounds sly. I
knew
her yes was too good to be true. She shows me her teeth. It’s how a ninja might smile before
unleashing the nunchucks. ‘I’ll only publish it if you pretend to be Jessica Jupiter at the final assembly.’

Warm sunshine bathes the High Street. It’s Saturday and I’m shopping with Treacle. We’ve taken a snack-break on a bench by the fountain.

Treacle clutches a ninety-nine and, with the tip of her tongue, lifts the summit off her tiny mountain of ice cream. I lean next to her and hoover up crisps.

‘If you can be a supermodel, you can be Jessica Jupiter,’ Treacle says, dribbling ice cream. ‘Easily.’

I’m still stunned Cindy thinks I can pull it off. ‘But Jessica Jupiter is a hundred years old,’ I point out. ‘And everyone in school knows who I am.’

Treacle pulls out her flake. ‘You’re not
that
popular,’ she teases.

‘OK,’ I concede. ‘
Most
of Year Nine knows what I look like. And there are some Year Eights and Tens who could pick me out of a line-up—’ I halt as Treacle
sits bolt upright.

‘A veil!’ she exclaims.

‘A veil?’ I scan the shoppers for a runaway bride. ‘Where?’

Treacle explains. ‘Jessica Jupiter’s exactly the type of glamour addict who’d wear a veil. To, like, hide her
wrinkles
.’

We stop to shudder.

Treacle goes on. ‘If we get one thick enough, no one will be able to see you.’ Her eyes are bright.

‘I’d look like a freak,’ I point out.

Treacle gazes at me earnestly. ‘Not if it’s part of a hat. Old biddies always wear hats.’

I consider the plan. ‘It might work.’

‘Come on.’ Treacle dumps her cone in the bin beside her like she’s in a US cop show and grabs my hand. She hauls me off the bench and drags me across the pavement.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Coleman Brothers,’ she says, moving fast. ‘They have hats.’

She dodges through the crowd and I keep up. I shove my crisp packet in my pocket. I’m still shaking crumbs from my fingers as we push our way through the front doors of the crumbling
department store.

Treacle stops in front of a sign beside the lift. ‘Fourth floor.’ She points to
Hats, Womenswear and Haberdashery
and presses the Up button.

When the door opens, we hop in and the creaking elevator hauls us back to the twentieth century. We emerge onto a stuffy, windowless floor where rails of grannywear stretch as far as the eye can
see.

‘Over there.’ Treacle hares away and I give chase. Weaving through them, we reach a jungle of hat racks.

Treacle scoops up the first hat she reaches and plants it on her head. Three stalks poke from the top with plate-sized stars attached.

I swallow back a giggle. ‘I’m not going to a royal wedding.’

Treacle takes off the hat. ‘But you need something to draw attention away from your face.’

‘You could set off the fire alarm,’ I suggest.

‘I’d be expelled.’

I grasp her arm dramatically. ‘Do it for
me
,’ I beg. ‘You’re my best friend and I’ll die up there onstage, I know I will.’ I’m only joking, but
deep down I secretly wish I wasn’t.

She shakes me off. ‘If you really don’t want to do it, tell Cindy.’

‘But she won’t publish my article,’ I remind her.

‘You can get published next term,’ Treacle argues.

‘If I don’t do this, Cindy will never publish anything I write. She’ll have me writing horoscopes till I’m in the sixth form.’

‘Pretend to be Jessica then.’ Treacle makes it sound simple.

I take a deep breath and pick a hat from the display. It’s green and has an explosion of feathers at the back. Grey netting hangs down the front.

As I put it on, I spot a sales assistant striding towards us. She’s middle-aged and stiff with hairspray and make-up.

‘Can I help you?’ She acts polite, but I know from experience she’s hoping to herd us away from her patch. It’s obvious these hats are for grannies and every middle-aged
woman in the world is convinced that teens are a buzzkill for the wrinkled.

Treacle isn’t intimidated. ‘We’re looking for something with a veil.’

‘For a wedding?’ the woman asks.

‘It’s more of a funeral,’ Treacle qualifies.

The sales assistant stiffens. ‘It’s either a funeral or it isn’t,’ she says pertly.

I step in. ‘It’s definitely a funeral.’

‘But we don’t want black,’ Treacle announces.

I look at Treacle. ‘We
don’t
?’

‘Aunty Jessica would want it to be a celebration of her life.’ Treacle meets the assistant’s eye. ‘Have you anything in pink?’

‘Pink.’ The sales assistant glances over her shoulder as though looking for backup. ‘For a
funeral
?’

‘Perhaps more like plum,’ I offer. ‘
Dark
plum.’

Huffing, the assistant weaves through the hatstands and plucks a purple hat from a hook. ‘What about this?’

It’s elegant. No feathers or stalks. Just a neat brim. But no veil.

Treacle shakes her head. ‘Mother will be disappointed if we don’t get just the right hat.’

The assistant narrows her eyes. ‘Perhaps
Mother
should have come with you,’ she says pointedly.

The comment sails past Treacle. Her head has swivelled.

‘What are you staring at?’ I follow her gaze.

‘I’ve just had an idea.’ Treacle zigzags through the hatstands to a display on the wall. She stops beside a black riding hat – a top hat, Olympic dressage style, with a
dark veil scooped over the front brim. Treacle lifts it from its hook. ‘You could do the whole horsey look!’ she exclaims. ‘Jodhpurs, riding jacket, crop and hat. No one would
ever recognize you!’

I point at my thick hair. ‘What about this?’

‘We can hide that under a wig.’

I take the hat thoughtfully and try it on. The net is fine enough to see through but tightly woven. It totally blurs my face, even close up. I start to visualize the full effect. It might just
work.

Treacle’s grinning. ‘There’s a costume shop on Marsh Lane. We can get the rest of the stuff there.’

I check the price of the hat and swoon. ‘I can’t afford this,’ I hiss as the assistant catches us up.

‘Mum gave me her credit card to buy shoes for the prom,’ Treacle whispers. ‘But I
have
shoes. We can use the card for this then return the hat afterwards.’

My chest tightens. This feels like burglary.

‘It’s going to launch your career,’ Treacle hisses. ‘And you’re only wearing the stuff for ten minutes. We’ll return it in perfect condition, labels and
everything, I promise.’

‘OK,’ I agree reluctantly.

Treacle sweeps the hat from my head and hands it to the assistant. ‘We’ll take this one, please.’

The costume shop looks tiny on the outside, but inside it’s like an Aladdin’s cave. Racks of clothes stream away into the distance. Shelves line the walls,
overbrimming with hats and boxes and feathers and furs. Dresses and suits hang in bunches from the ceiling.

We squeeze between two rails bulging with sleeves and rustling skirts.

‘What about this?’ Treacle grabs a Marie Antoinette dress and holds it against her. The skirts stick out from the waist like two embroidered bedside tables.