Ten

It was ten to seven on Saturday night, and “Beach Time: The Show” was about to begin.

The place was packed out, and the murmur of voices out in the hall sounded like the rhythmic swooshing of waves against our catwalk. The bust lights had been replaced and the electricity problem sorted. Backstage, there’d been a panic half an hour earlier when Shona Mackinnon’s mum had called Miss O’Neill to say that Shona hadn’t eaten anything for three days and was now too ill and exhausted to do the show. Erm, what do you expect from stupid diets like that? But everything else was good to go.

The first models were already wriggling into their outfits: some brilliant whites and greys and palest pink dresses and tops that billowed around exactly like dawn mist – at least, if you put your mind to it.

On the far side of the stage, a group of lads stood around a canister of dry ice with Mrs Matthews, the science teacher, getting ready. When the chords of the intro music started up – a totally weird choice by Mr Rat, by some group called The Grateful Dead – they were going to open the canister and the dry ice was going to billow out across the catwalk and make it all misty and eerie. Music was already pumping out of Mr Rat’s speakers, and there was this hubbub out in the dark hall which sounded exciting and scary and wonderful all at the same time.

After a great morning shopping with Mum – we’d found the most perfect pair of sparkly flip-flops to go with the blue top and my white cut-offs – I was more or less back to my old self. Even without a rehearsal, I had decided that I was going to be positive and go with the flow. It wasn’t every day that you got the chance to model something as brilliant as my midnight-blue top, and I was determined to make the best of it. Plus, I was standing next to Ben Hanratty, wasn’t I?

Just like we’d practised in class, we all stood in the order we were going on in. Ben was modelling his jacket in the beach-party section, like me (and Summer and Hannah too, worse luck), so we were right at the back of the line. Dave and Ali were modelling some surfy gear for the afternoon section, and were stood further up ahead of us. Mel was on for the sunrise part so she was supposed to be near the front – though right now, she was peeping through the curtains beside me. As there wasn’t enough room for everyone to change at the same time, we were supposed to shuffle up the line as each section went on to the catwalk, reach the clothes rail and then get changed around two songs before our entries. I’d come to school in my white cut-offs and flip-flops already.

“There’s like, a thousand people out there, Coleen,” Mel gulped in excitement, still peeping through the curtain. “We’re really doing this!”

“I feel sick,” Lucy muttered, pacing up and down beside Mel. The words to her song were clutched so tightly in her hand that they were all crumpled and the ink was running over her fingers.

“Throw that bit of paper away, Lucy,” I said, peeking over Mel’s head at the sea of expectant faces out in the darkness of the hall. Mel’s mum was out there – she was wearing the yellow jacket we’d modelled for her at our sleepover! She even had a black belt cinched in around her waist. I felt a rush of total satisfaction that we’d given Mel’s mum the courage to wear her cool clothes again. Then I saw my parents and Em sitting near the edge of the catwalk, and my stomach squeezed up all tight and nervous.

“I can’t throw my words away. I don’t know them yet.” Lucy’s teeth were actually chattering together.

“You’ve been singing those words up in your room for weeks, Lucy,” said Ben. “You know those words back to front.”

“Don’t say that,” Lucy said, sounding a bit hysterical. “I might sing them that way.”

“Five minutes.” Miss O’Neill bustled past us, wearing – shock horror – quite a nice dark green dress with a crisscross thing going on over her back. “All dawn and morning models, please be sure to have your outfits on.”

“Gotta go,” said Mel, and dashed up the line towards the rail and her fabulous orange and yellow dress.

“I am going to be sick,” Lucy wailed.

A hush fell over the hall. We could all hear someone speaking. It sounded like Mrs Gabbitas, our Head Teacher.

“She’s introducing the lady from the hospice,” I heard someone saying further up the line.

Lucy had gone as white as chalk. The paper with her words written on it drifted out of her fingers and landed on the stage. She took a step backwards.

“I’m not going on,” she said.

Everyone around us stopped dead. I recovered first.

“You’ve got to, Lucy!” I hissed as fiercely as I could. “The band needs you!”

Lucy burst into tears. “I can’t, I feel too nervous,” she sobbed.

“But there’s nothing to feel nervous about,” I said. “You are totally brilliant. I would love to be able to sing like you.”

“Me too,” Ben smiled and rubbed his sister’s shoulder encouragingly. “With a voice like yours I could even be the lead singer of Take That.”

Lucy laughed and looked as though she was starting to feel a little better.

“Here, wear this,” I said, reaching over to the clothes rail and grabbing a brooch from Shona Mackinnon’s dress. “For luck.”

“For luck,” Lucy said, tracing the brooch with her fingers.

“Leona Lewis, eat your heart out,” I cried.

I could almost see Lucy standing up taller as she thought about what I’d said.

There was a round of applause out in the hall. It sounded as if the hospice lady had stopped speaking. We were seconds away from starting the show.

“We’re on, Lucy.” Suzanne, the band guitar player stopped beside us, blissfully unaware of the drama.

“Go!” I shouted.

And to my total unspeakable relief, Lucy went.

The applause for the band rippled through the curtains. I turned to head back to my place in the line – and bumped straight into Summer. She looked like some kind of evil light was shining through her. Triumph gleamed in her eyes as she blocked my way.

“What?” I demanded, staring her down.

“Looking forward to your big moment, Coleen?” Summer purred.

“Right now, I’m looking forward to pushing you out of my way,” I growled back.

“You’re going to look soooo stupid,” Summer crowed. “Have you seen your precious top lately?”

And with a silvery laugh, she trotted off to join Hannah Davies at the back of the line.

The hippie, misty notes of Mr Rat’s Grateful Dead track started swirling out of the speakers. I could smell the dry ice hissing out of the canister. The first speaker was introducing the dawn. Dread grabbed at my guts.

How could I have forgotten Summer’s threat?

I spun around and pushed up the line to the clothes rail. Pulling out my top, I stared dumbly at the huge, ragged holes that had been cut into it. Slash marks ran the length of the arms, and the seams at the side had been ripped apart. I knew at once that my silver belt was never going to hold the top together. It was ruined.

The Grateful Dead ended, and the cheery notes of Walking on Sunshine started up from the band. The audience cheered. Deaf to it all, I clutched the top and ran.

My brain was whizzing at a million miles an hour. Everything had been held at Summer’s dad’s storage place overnight. She must have got hold of the key. Tears sprang to my eyes. I kept running. Shoving past everyone, I leaped down the backstage steps.

“Coleen!” Miss O’Neill ran after me, waving her clipboard at me. “Come back! Where are you going?”

It was a good question. Where was I going? My feet had a mind of their own. I flew down empty corridors like something in a nightmare, pushing at classroom doors in a desperate bid to find something – anything…

Textiles room.

I stopped like I had slammed into an invisible wall. The textiles room door was ajar. People had been in and out of it all afternoon, fixing broken buttons and stitching up hems. There had to be something here that I could use.

Strains of the Beach Boys’ Surfin’ USA floated down the corridor. With a gulp, I realised how fast the show was moving. It had always felt much longer than just forty minutes in rehearsal. Now those precious minutes were melting away. Trying not to think of my family’s faces when I didn’t make it on to the catwalk in time, I pulled out drawers and tipped them over the floor, muttering invisible apologies to Miss Smith the textiles teacher. Zips, buttons, feathers, rolls of felt. I threw aside Velcro and rolls of black thread, puddles of silky fabric and balls of wool. Seizing on a large bottom drawer, I heaved it open in desperation.

A bunch of multi-coloured ribbons spilt out of the drawer, rolling away gently underneath the desks and cupboards. I fell on my knees and grabbed handfuls of reds, oranges and yellows. Dawn sky, I thought feverishly, seizing a nearby pair of scissors and lopping off lengths of bright ribbon, adding purple and pale blue as I went along. I pulled on the top, seized the ends of the ribbons in my teeth, and started wrapping myself up like a parcel. I wound the red ribbon around one arm, and the orange one around the other. The yellow crisscrossed across my stomach and did a decent job of covering up the thumping great hole. That left the blue and the purple. I turned myself like a chicken on a spit, lifting my arms and tucking the ribbons together as best I could. The top was starting to look less like a torn-up dishcloth and more like something you could wear again. At least, I hoped it was. The only mirror that I had was the window in the textiles room door.

The intro to Here Comes the Sun had started up. I stopped, my teeth still clamped around the ribbon ends, and listened. Lucy’s voice floated down the corridor like an angel’s.

Well, at least that’s one less thing to worry about, I thought.

And just as I thought it, the ribbon ends fell out of my mouth and I had to start all over again.

I wanted to bawl. I wanted to lie down and yell and bang the floor with my fists. Summer Collins had won. But I found one last, limp little bit of pride, and forced myself to take up the dangling ribbon ends again.

Rhianna’s Music of the Sun was fading out. Now it was the band’s last live song. I carried on, desperately trying to tie and tuck the ribbon ends in place to hold my creation together. Forcing myself to concentrate, I tucked the last trailing ribbon end into my trousers and took a deep breath. Not too deep, mind. There was no way I was risking one of my ribbons pinging off again. I gave myself a long, hard look at my reflection in the textiles room doorwindow. Then, hugging myself just in case any of the ribbons got some funny ideas about working their way loose, I started running back to the stage.

The corridor had never seemed so long. I could hear Nitin Sawhney’s Sunset fading out. The little intro of When You Wish Upon a Star was about to start, when the first twinkling stars would shine on the stage curtains and prepare the way for the beach-party finale. My beach-party finale.

I skidded around the last corner and pelted towards the backstage steps. When You Wish Upon a Star was fading, and Pink was about to bring the house to their feet.

“Coleen!” Miss O’Neill looked like she was in a state of shock as she saw me racing towards her. “What…your top…”

“Ask Summer Collins, Miss,” I shouted, bombing past her. I flew up those steps like my life depended on it. Which it kind of did.

BOOM!

Pink’s Get the Party Started leaped into life from Mr Rat’s speakers. Nearly everyone had been on the stage already, and were now standing around waiting to go back on for the final bow.

“Out the way!” I yelled.

I nearly crashed into Ben, who was just coming off the catwalk. He did this double-take at me – and then grinned so wide that his mouth practically wrapped around the back of his head. If I wasn’t sure I looked hot before, I was now!

“Whoo, Coleen!” Mel whooped, clapping like crazy when she saw what I’d done.

Summer minced through the curtain behind Ben, all silvery and hideous and totally smug. And I’ll tell you this: if smugness made a noise when it fell off someone’s face, it would make the most satisfying scrunch you ever heard.

I blew Summer a massive raspberry. And laughing with delight at the total look of shock on her face, I burst through the curtains, leaping down the steps in one go with my ribbons flying behind me. The show was almost over. But Coleen, Style Queen’s fabulous fashion career had only just begun…