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

right now, and I’ve shut her out.
    I bite my lip, and listen to the seagulls wheeling outside, argh-argh-argh .

    I watch Giant on Fozzie’s mum’s sofa without seeing it, and text Red on the way home.
    Sorry .
    She texts back: Me too.
    I reply: No me.
    She texts back: No you , and then, a minute later, Yes, I am wasting 10p from the future. Suck it up.
    That night, I pin the top-hat silhouette and the empty patch of grass to the ceiling above my bunk bed. My secret selves, watching over me while I sleep. When we go home, I’m going to rearrange my room. Paint, maybe, a few posters, to reflect my Redness back at me.
    I sneak into Mum’s handbag and pin up the fuzzed black-and-white printout of Peanut’s scan too, to say sorry for that unkind corner of my heart.
    In my dream, Peanut has a mobile phone, and texts me daily.
    Grew 6 millimetres today .
    Body now covered in fur, like a monkey.
    Tell Mum not to have curry again, it makes me uncomfy .
    I text back questions: What’s it like in there? Are you warm enough? Is it dark?
    Peanut’s ringtone is one of those long loud ones, and it makes Mum wriggle, though only we know why.

 
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    9. The Cave
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    â€œSo what do I wear?”
    It’s a Wednesday afternoon, Dad’s on nursing duty, and tonight I’ve been invited to something called “The Cave”.
    â€œHow should I know? What do you want to wear?” Red’s lying on my bunk bed, gazing up at my pictures.
    â€œAt least tell me if it’s going to rain or not?”
    She rolls over and peers out of the narrow window. “Looks a bit cloudy,” she says.
    I give her a stare.
    â€œWhat am I, a weathergirl? I don’t know. A summer’s a long time to keep track of. I don’t remember eating four Weetabix for breakfast this morning either,” she says, with a meaningful nod at my overfull tummy.
    â€œI had a light lunch,” I snap back, sucking in anyway.
    And I’m going to be you next year, I think: you, with your boobs and your waist, so I can eat what I like.
    I pull out two different tops and hold them up for comparison, like they do on TV makeover shows. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for. Mainly I’m just checking for tomato ketchup blobs. “Look, if you won’t tell me the weather at least help me out with the fashion. Which one looks older?”
    She gives me a hard stare. “Which one do you like, Blue?”
    I glare back. Opinions are fine for hipster people: the ones who fell in a vat and developed an acute case of Topshop. Me, I’m fashion-blind.
    â€œI wished you here to help with exactly this kind of thing,” I growl.
    â€œYeah. Your wish came true and time-travel was invented so I could help you pick an outfit.”
    I glare at her, decide on the spotty one at random, and turn my back, self-consciously pulling up my top to change.
    â€œYou’re ridiculous, but no, I’m not looking,” sighs Red as I peek over my shoulder, her eyes locked on the ceiling. “This photo’s amazing, by the way. Who is it in the picture? The sunshine silhouette?”
    â€œIt’s me, you idiot,” I mumble, wrestling spotty cotton and armholes.
    â€œThat’s you? Wearing Merlin’s hat?”
    Finally I get my head through the right hole, and tug it all straight.
    Red’s still got her eyes fixed to the ceiling.
    â€œYeah.” I frown. “But you already know—”
    There’s a clack from the front door behind me, and with a swish of the curtain Tiger’s home, grabbing me from behind in a hug. She doesn’t have much choice, since the room’s so narrow, but she lingers, squeezing tight, head on my shoulder, getting her perfume up my nose.
    â€œHello, gorgeous, talking to yourself again?”
    â€œUm. Yes. I’m funny that way,” I murmur, glaring meaningfully at Red.
    Tiger spins me round on the spot so she can