Preloved by Shirley Marr Page A

Labyrinth hundreds of times growing up.”
    The door creaked open and I flicked the light on inside. I didn’t know why they called this the media room, when it was more like “media cupboard”. Or why they bothered to lock it when it was filled with old, outdated technology. The school would actually benefit if a robber stole it all. It would save them a trip to the dump.
    “Are you sure it’s your mum that lived through the Eighties and not you?” asked Logan, following me in.
    “I’m certain,” I replied. I shook my head. Imagine someone looking in right now. They’d think they were going crazy, watching me talking to no one and grabbing for a box floating in midair.
    I plonked the slides down on the desk and picked up the instructions. When I unfolded the yellowed thing, it sort of disintegrated in my hands and a section dropped off onto the floor.
    I looked around at all the black and beige bits and pieces, trying to figure out what was what. I found a VCR, an old DVD player and the battered ghetto-blaster that was last seen playing at a breakdancing contest. So this was where Michael had borrowed it from.
    “Drats. How am I supposed to set up the slide show when I don’t even know what a slide projector looks like?”
    “I’m so stoked,” said Logan. “I can’t believe I’m going to show you something you don’t know.”
    There was a rustle to my right and I turned in time to see the projection screen whizzing down the wall by itself. Then something that looked like a grey spaceship banged down on the table. The lid of the box flew off by itself. Logan sauntered over to the desk and started inserting the slides one by one.
    “This is the carousel that rotates all the slides to the projector lens here; these buttons are how you go back and forth – and this is the ‘On’ switch.”
    “Show-off,” I said. I bit my bottom lip to keep from smiling. I was kinda proud of him becoming an empowered ghost, not just a sad shadow no one could see. I knew what it felt like to be the latter.
    The machine whirled into life and the light hit the screen opposite. Logan pressed a button and a photo clicked into place.
    Standing awkwardly with braces and a curly mullet was a boy in a white tux. He was caught mid-shot deciding whether to put his hand around the waist of his date, a girl with almost identical hair and an electric-purple dress that looked as if it was made out of Violet Crumble wrappers.
    “That’s my mate Corey and his date, Shazza,” said Logan. “Don’t they make a rad couple?”
    I had to bite down even harder on my lip. I perched myself on the table next to the projector as Logan flipped through the slides and I became hypnotised by a daze of puff sleeves, taffeta nightmares, permed hair (girls and boys) and white dinner jackets with pink bow ties.
    Ick. So much shoulder-touching and waist-groping and coupledom . I couldn’t stand it. Every time I saw a young couple in public I wanted to run through their hand-holding and break it up. I wanted to say to them that everything looks good when it’s all going right, but what about when the ugly cracks start to appear?
    I’m sorry, but the statistics are clear. One in three marriages result in divorce. That’s reality. That’s my parents’ marriage.
    I screwed my thoughts up and threw them away so Logan couldn’t read them.
    “Logan – remind me what we’re doing again, apart from reliving your glory days?”
    “Helping your friend Nancy Drew look for clues. Like this one.”
    “Oh my God, that’s Rebecca.”
    “Stacey.”
    I got up off the table and I walked right up to the image. But all I did was cast a big ugly shadow so I reluctantly stepped to the side.
    She looked beautiful with her blond hair and short purple dress with the oversized rosette at the waist, which somehow managed to look quirky and different rather than outdated and try-hard.
    It was definitely Rebecca. We were best friends in the whole world so I should know.