Live and Fabulous! Read Free Page B

later,” says Jimi.
    Then the phone goes dead.
    I feel like someone’s just punched me in the stomach.
    â€œReady to rock?” asks Mum, jangling her keys.
    â€œMmm,” I sigh. “Can’t get in after eight. Phone networks were down and ...”
    And then I start crying again. Big proper tears.
    â€œAwwwww, love. I’ll sort it out,” says Mum. “Do you want me to go down and argue with Mr. McGraw?”
    No, I do not. I’d rather take all my clothes off and run around the school ground with my bottom blowing in the breeze. That would be less embarrassing.
    â€œNah ... I’ll just stay here.” I sniffle.
    Mum, Dad and I all stand in silence. There is nothing left to be said. I wish I’d never been born.
    â€œHey, Ronno, we’re ordering in tonight!” announces Dad, somehow imagining that crispy kung pao chicken changes anything.
    â€œAnd a DVD?” suggests Mum. “We can get a movie out too.”
    I know they’re just trying to be nice, but I wish they’d both shut up.
    â€œOh, Ronnie, don’t take it too badly. It’s just one night,” says Mum, beginning what seems like a long meaningful speech. “I mean, you’re only fifteen, and there’ll be stacks of other nights-out to come.”
    I stare at her crossly.
    â€œBelieve me, I had a lot of nights go bottoms up like this when I was a kid. And well, I look back now and giggle about it, ’cos, well, it’s all part of growing up and ... OH MY GOD, LOZ, loook!”
    Mum is pointing frantically at Seth, perched in his vibrating baby chair.
    â€œLoooooook, Loz! Look at Seth! Seth’s picking his nose!! He’s picking his nose! He’s never done that before, has he!?”
    â€œHa ha! Go on, my son!” shouts my absolutely elated dad. “Pick us a winner, Seth!”
    â€œRonnie, Seth’s picking his nose! How great is that?” laughs Mum.
    And at that point, I decided to spend the Friday night of Blackwell Summer Disco in my boudoir. Alone.

the party that never was postmortem
    â€œPggh, cheer up, Ronnie, it wasn’t that good anyway,” instructs Fleur Swan, perched on her bed in LBD Headquarters on Disraeli Road, dabbing menthol toothpaste on what is ripening into a juicy love bite beneath her left ear. “Now, did anybody notice if scarves were ‘In’ or ‘Out’ for summer?” she says. “Claudette, chuck me Glamour magazine.”
    That’ll teach Fleur to chop her blonde locks into a raunchy bob, I think with small satisfaction. She’s never going to hide that hickey.
    â€œScarves are totally last season,” I say crossly. “So’s looking like you’ve been attacked by a killer weasel.”
    â€œDeclan is a bit like a weasel, isn’t he?” groans Fleur. “But it all happened so fast! One minute I was dancing and the next minute ... well, we were properly snogging!”
    Fleur flaps herself with one carefully manicured hand.
    â€œOh, that was sooo hilarious!” hoots Claudette Cassiera, bouncing on Fleur’s futon, her ebony plaits jiggling gleefully. “Especially later on when that other lad Mikey asked you to dance, and you said ... er, ahem, cough ... splutter ...”
    Claude has noticed my dark countenance.
    â€œWell, actually it wasn’t that funny,” Claude corrects herself. “It was more ... er, boring.”
    I sigh deeply.
    Fleur called this emergency Saturday morning LBD meeting to cheer me up. It is not working.
    â€œExactly, Claudette, the whole night was très dull,” agrees Fleur, “thanks to that Jimi Steele. It felt dead weird without you there, Ronnie.”
    â€œToo right,” says Claude with a half smile. “We missed you, Ron.”
    â€œTa,” I say quietly.
    â€œSo anyway,” says Fleur, prancing across to her tangerine-colored iMac and flicking the mouse to online, with a whiz and a crash