Busted

Farah is not sure about red lipstick, but she is sure that if her mum finds out, she will literally ground her for the rest of her life.

‘It’s all about the eyeliner anyway.’

We take turns for Farah to apply black liquid liner to our upper lids, sitting still like mannequins, our mouths resting in perfect pouts. With her expert hand, Farah sets down the eyeliner and takes up a small brush dusted in shimmery lilac.

‘Close your lid, don’t squeeze it.’

I exhale to relax my eyelids as she glides the brush over them to ‘complete the look’.

‘My turn!’

We are tickled by the fact that the same eyeshadow looks completely different against Eimear’s pink skin to the way it does against mine. It transforms her eye colour from a familiar green to a sky blue. She chooses a purple top to match her sparkling eyeshadow, and bronzer over blush for her cheeks.

‘You’re a pro – thanks, Farah.’

 

Eimear’s parents think she is having a sleepover at Kemi’s.

‘It’s totally fine, they trust me.’

Kemi looks amazing in a figure-hugging dress. Her parents are ‘chilled’ but the less they know, the better. ‘A birthday party in Brixton,’ if they ask, ‘Erin’s, from school.’

Farah agrees that Kemi was right to ignore her advice, the red on her lips looks showstopping. ‘And it’s matt, not glossy.’

I don’t have to answer to my mum, my dad or Sol but I don’t want to share that.

‘My mum is on nights, so she’ll never know.’

 

We dance to ‘getting ready’ music as we take turns to look in the mirror. Eimear has prepared a sickly-sweet cocktail that is as strong in colour as it is in taste. I have abandoned my cornrows and tamed my thick hair into a chemically straightened style, side parted. Kemi wears her naturally soft hair in gentle twists styled in a half up half down do. We turn simultaneously and suddenly when Auntie Moni knocks on Kemi’s bedroom door and walks into her room. She takes a deep breath when she lays eyes on us.

‘Wow, you girls look . . . amazing! I can’t believe how grown up you all are!’

We smile in unison and tilt our necks from left to right as Auntie Moni spritzes us with expensive perfume.

‘Let Daddy know when you are ready. He is waiting to drop you.’

Kemi maintains her mum’s gaze as she gently pushes a bottle of Archers out of view with a heeled foot.

‘It’s fine, Mum, we’ll get the bus. We’re going to uni next year!’

Auntie Moni and Uncle Obi concede to our maturity and to public transport as they wave us off in the direction of Erin’s birthday party in Brixton.

 

The man who takes a seat two rows behind us on the top deck is handsome at a glance. He is also ‘a Morleys fried chicken eating, bus pole holding, no volume lowering’ weirdo. He wants us to know that 2Pac is his ‘homeboy’ and that he is very much alive. Farah straightens her back as if preparing to write down 2Pac’s new address. Yes, 2Pac is alive and well because they were ‘chillin’ together and bunnin’ weed’ last night. It is only at the mention that he is on his way to meet his ‘boys, Biggie and Pac’ that the fallacy is confirmed. Farah’s shoulders relax. And guess what, the feds are never going to find out who killed Pac. He knows but he ain’t telling. Do we know why? We do not. ‘Cos stitches get snitches. Dats wats up.’ I can tell from the way Kemi has narrowed her eyes that she is fighting an urge to correct the expression: ‘snitches get stitches’. Eimear pleads her into silence with wide, unblinking eyes. Irony hangs in the air with the smell of unwashed clothes as the Morleys Fried Chicken Man gifts to the top deck his enthusiastic rendition of ‘It Was All a Dream’ by the Notorious B.I.G. Spitting bars on the m.i.c. for real as chicken and saliva escape his mouth during his impassioned performance. Eimear, Farah, Kemi and I manage a wordless conversation, communicating entirely with our eyes. We are trapped between a place of fear and uncontrollable laughter. We succumb to laughter as the Morleys Fried Chicken Man interrupts his impromptu performance to disembark at the Hootananny stop – but only when the bus doors have safely closed.

 

When the bouncer waves us through the entrance to the club, we exchange wide smiles of triumph and delight, explanations of forgotten ID shelved for the night. We choose the dancefloor of the RnB room over the cloakroom to store our coats. The cost does not justify the hanger, we agree. Eimear’s dad gave her £50 for a sleepover pizza which she redirects to the bar.

‘Three rum and Cokes, one with Diet Coke, please, and a plain Coke. Can you add a slice of lemon to each? Thank you.’ What Farah lacks in alcohol consumption, she makes up for in nicotine inhalation. We take turns to accompany her to the smoking area at the entrance of the club. Farah is concerned that there is a man who keeps staring at her from across the dancefloor.

‘The one who looks like Ron Weasley!’

Eimear decides that he is ‘off his face’ and that we shouldn’t make eye contact with him.

The smoke machine transforms the dancefloor into a clouded utopia as we dance around our coats to Blackstreet and Ginuwine and Dru Hill. On cue, and channelling Kelis, we lean into each other to confirm that it is our milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard, ‘and they’re like, it’s better than yours’. Missing all but two glacé cherries to make our performance MTV worthy. When the chorus of the next song drops, I turn to ask Farah whether she can pay my telephone bills, can she pay my automo’bills? And then to Kemi, ‘I don’t think you do’. Eimear’s gestures mirror mine as we tell each other with conviction and resolve, ‘you and me are through’. Each of us reaching for our inner Beyoncé as we sing and dance on our clouded stage.

 

Ron Weasley is having a fit. He is going to have a fit on Kemi. OMG is he okay? A frantic look for help. Help for Ron. With a look of terror on her face, Kemi braces to catch him – until she realises that Ron Weasley is not having a fit at all – he is challenging her to a dance off. Ron Weasley’s dance moves are . . . dangerous. He does not know about Kemi’s dance moves – or personal space. He thinks that he is body popping; we know that he is not.

 

‘When I say oli, you say oi. Oli—’

‘Oi.’

‘Oli—’

‘Oi.’

‘Oli oli oli—’

‘Oi oi oi!’

 

Kemi announces over the noise of hedonism that we should go to Ibiza next year! To confirm it as the best idea ever, the DJ sounds a piercing horn and emits a gust of smoke across the dancefloor. The smoke spreads like a field of clouds and makes our feet, strained in high heels and discomfort, temporarily invisible. Mr Kelly is invisible too as he approaches us on the dancefloor on a no-nonsense mission. The ‘no hats no jeans no trainers’ dress code temporarily suspended to allow him entry to the club to retrieve his daughter and her friends from its premises. Mr Kelly having informed the bouncer that he had ‘reason to believe that there are four under-aged girls – descriptions given – in this club right now’; and having secured confirmation from said bouncer that he had failed to ID said girls.

Our shock in seeing Mr Kelly on the dancefloor causes Eimear to direct her question – ‘don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?’ – to her dad, her volume disappearing with the smoke from the dancefloor. We lower elevated arms, straighten dancing feet and sober girlish laughter, our mouths agape. The sight of Mr Kelly’s face makes something that was very funny not funny any more. The smoke, now disappeared completely, adds clarity to the fact that we have been well and truly busted. We collect our coats in silence. Our dancing quartet, disbanded until further notice, is escorted off the dancefloor by Mr Kelly and a burly security guard. At the exit, Ron Weasley winks at us. He has a gold tooth, and his flies are open.

 

Mr Kelly drives us home to Eimear’s house because it is ‘too late to knock on your parents’ doors’. Mr Kelly is cross and serious but he does not shout. He is going to trust us to tell our parents the truth about tonight: a lesson in accountability. Eimear, in the passenger seat, focuses on the early morning revellers outside her window to avoid eye contact with her dad. They stagger in a way that alcohol-inspired revellers do. In the back seat, Farah and Kemi exchange looks that teenagers who have no idea what they are going to tell their parents exchange. Sandwiched in between them, I can’t get over how much fun I had tonight: Eimear making cocktails; Kemi hiding the bottle of Archers from her mum who was literally standing right in front of it! Farah doing our make-up; the crazy man on the night bus; Ron Weasley! I had the best time ever. I wish we could do it all over again.

Mr Kelly doesn’t tell Eimear off in front of us; I don’t know if he is going to tell her off at all. Eimear’s mum still makes us crumpets with eggs to order in the morning before Mr Kelly drops us home.