The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones by Susie Day Page A

she must be trouble. So what did she lie about?”
    I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”
    â€œYou’re worse than Merlin!” she smirks. “OK, so what are you going to do? She a friend worth keeping hold of?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say, knotting my hands. “Don’t know if I even know her all that well.”
    â€œDoes she have a good reason for doing what she did, for lying to you? I mean, from her point of view?”
    â€œThat’s not the point. Her point of view doesn’t matter.”
    â€œDoes to her,” Fozzie says, looking at me sideways. “Not being funny, but if you think that, doesn’t sound like you’re very good mates in the first place.”
    I can hear what she’s not saying. I’m not a very good mate.
    I wish I could explain why I’m not being a horrible person; not when Red is the lucky one, perfect and seamless and already ready to speed off into my future.
    â€œInvite her round here,” Fozzie suggests. “Go on! I’ll get Dan to bring doughnuts. They fix everything. Or are you ashamed of us?”
    She leans in and elbows me jokily, stale smoke on her breath, a forced edge to her argh argh laugh.
    â€œThanks. I might. I’ll see. Forget I said anything, yeah? Come on, let’s cover up some of this pink.”
    Fozzie looks at me sideways a few times, suspicious, maybe disappointed – but once we start piecing the prints together, she’s all smiles again.
    Mags taps on the door, and coos when she sees the prints.
    â€œYou’re an amazing photographer,” she tells me, shyly picking up a shot of her on the beach, on Dan’s shoulders. The colours pop: blues and greenish-yellows, brighter than life.
    â€œIt’s all down to the camera, really,” I mumble, but I glow all the same.
    Mags joins in. We decide to frame James Dean, matching colours or clashing them, filling up gaps and spaces with overlaps before starting to tack them to the wall.
    â€œI can’t take all of these,” Fozzie says, sliding me some of the Mulvey Island beach shots. “You have to keep that one for yourself,” she adds, passing me the top-hat silhouette.
    â€œAnd I don’t know what that was meant to be, but you can have that one too,” Mags giggles, tossing me a bland-looking sea view.
    It’s Penkerry Point, on a murky day. Nothing special, grass and grey sea and some cloud.
    Something special: the first photo, the one I tried to take of Red, the morning after my birthday. Red was right. It’s as if she was never there.
    I pick up the top-hat silhouette shot and hold them side by side. Red, invisible. Me, a black shape against the sun, empty space.
    Two photographs of me, and I’m not in either of them.
    It’s like the photograph of Mum, drumstick to her belly: a picture of Peanut, though there is no Peanut yet. Part of the family. My family. Not there, and always there.
    I hate Peanut.
    I’ve never admitted that before. I don’t think I even realized it till I thought it out loud in my head.
    I hate Peanut for coming along and changing everything.
    I love it, too, love it madly. But there’s a corner of my heart – an alveolus; maybe two – that hates.
    I hate Red too, just a little.
    It aches, knowing I’ll never be good enough by myself.
    My brain ticks backwards. I look at Fozzie’s purple boots, askew in a corner; stare at the top-hat photo and wonder if I’d ever have got on that boat to Mulvey Island without Red’s help. Something tugs at the back of my mind; as if I’m looking directly at something, and it’s so obvious I can’t see it.
    I remember what Red said outside the hospital, about watching the same movie over and over, knowing all the words. That’s what this summer is for her. Action replay. No surprises.
    No wonder she’s lonely. I’m the only friend she’s got in the world