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thing now!). Maybe I can use Hawaii to draw a bit of a line through my life. Then and now. I mean, it’s not long till I’ll be in my final year of high school. And it’s really not long till I’ll be a big sister. Twice over. Like I said before, everything’s changing. But the thing is, at the same time, nothing’s changing. It’s weird. Some days I think I should feel all grown up. That I should know what I want to do when I leave school. That I should know, just by looking at them, that people like Ben, Ned and Justin aren’t really my friends. That I should know who to trust and what comes next. But I don’t. Most days I just feel like … well, like me. Plain old Nessa. The same as I felt last year. And the year before. Just a bit taller and older.
    Life. It’s confusing, isn’t it?
    Oh well. At least I got the bikini/one-piece situation sorted out. That’s something. At least the tog part of my life is semi under control.

‘An orange juice, Modom?’
    I look up from my (very comfortable, thank you) huge beige leather-clad recliner seat to the flight attendant who actually looks more like a butler. Hmmm. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone call me ‘Modom’ before. Not even ‘Modomoiselle’.
    â€˜Um, sure. Thanks,’ I say, and he reaches down to put a napkin on the little table in front of me and then the glass on top of that.
    â€˜Me too, but no ice,’ Nat pipes up loudly in the seat directly across from me. ‘Dad always says that ice is a gyp. That when they put ice in they’re just trying to use less juice. Same with that cheesy toast they give you at buffets.’
    â€˜Nat!’ Alexa nudges her arm, embarrassed. Poor Alexa hasalready spent most of this trip embarrassed and there’s only been about two hours of it so far – arriving at the apartment, making our way to the airport and getting on the pj, taking off and so on. Keeping Nat cooped up isn’t the best idea. She’s more a free-range kind of person and trying to confine her, belted into the one spot for hours on end, seems wrong. Cruel, even. She’s all energy – even her red, corkscrew curls can’t be contained – and all that belted in, simmering pressure has been popping out in the form of questions as we’ve travelled. Mainly directed at Holly.
    Across the aisle, however, Holly doesn’t seem to mind at all and simply laughs at Nat’s honesty. ‘I think you’re right, Nat. I hate it when you order a drink and it’s mostly ice. There’s plenty of juice to go around, though, ice or no ice. Don’t you worry about it.’
    â€˜Okay, Holly. I won’t,’ Nat promises.
    Alexa looks out the window and grinds her teeth. I think she’d like to drown Nat in sheep dip right about now. The pair of them are a pretty funny combination, actually. It’s just that Alexa’s so groomed and polished and careful about what she says and does and thinks. Everything with her is weighed and measured. Precise.With Nat? Hmmm. Not so much. Nat’s more of a ‘blurt it out and think twice about it later when everyone’s screaming their head off at you’ kind of gal. Come to think of it, I’m surprised Nat’s made it this far into her NYC trip alive. After yesterday’s fun and frolic where Nat crash-tackled a guy in a Gap store (she thought he was Brad Pitt) and then, only fifteen minutes later, and supposedly on her best behaviour, gave all the shoppers in the lingerie department in Macy’s a quick five-minute cross-culture lecture on the difference between thongs (New Zealand style – on your feet) and thongs (US style – on your butt), I was sure Alexa would have smothered her in her sleep. But, no. Or at least, not yet, anyway (there’s always tonight).
    Poor Alexa. I think Nat’s the troublesome little sister she never had. Hopefully things will