Something became clear during the weeks we were campaigning. We defined ourselves by the golf course. Whereas before we’d been ‘Angry Freak’, ‘New Girl’, ‘Gay Boy’ or ‘Anorexic Girl’, we were now ‘The Annoying Golf-Course People’, a label we were all happy with. Perhaps that’s why I’d felt so strange at my last school – I’d been a nomad looking for a tribe. This was my tribe. It was like coming into focus after long years as a blur.
The delightful new clarity only made me more determined. Polly’s dad had spoken to Alex’s dad – proving parents do come in handy from time to time – and managed to wrangle us a meeting with the mayor. Polly was going with her dad but asked me to go with her for moral support and I’d agreed at once. I was in this to the death.
‘Which do you think sounds better?’ Nico asked me one evening. I was splayed face down on his bed, scrolling through Tumblr on his laptop while he strummed away on a guitar, jotting lyrics in his Moleskine. ‘Semtex latex or latex Semtex?’
I thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, “Semtex latex” sounds quite kinky, like exploding fetish catsuits or something and “latex Semtex” sounds like liquid explosives somehow.’
‘OK, maybe “Semtex latex” then.’
‘In what context?’
‘There isn’t one, I just thought it sounded cool. “Semtex latex, high-tech red necks”.’
‘Cool.’ I rolled upright. I looked down at his lyric book. An offer to write with him perched on the tip of my tongue … but that would mean telling him about my poetry and that would be … well … mortifying. He’d want to read them and … just no.
I changed the subject. ‘Would you be sad if I went over to Polly’s later? We think we might have a thousand signatures now. We’re going to try to count up.’
‘Sure,’ he replied without a beat. ‘I’ll ride down to Etienne’s. We have loads of band stuff to sort out.’
‘Yeah?’ Nico talked about the band a lot. If I’m honest, I phased some of it out.
‘Yeah. Can you keep a secret?’ That got my attention.
‘I can.’
He rested his head against my bare thigh. ‘We’re firing Zoë.’
‘What? No way!’
Nico didn’t look me in the eye, instead circling his finger round and round a freckle on my leg. ‘This guy Etienne knows wants to join. He’s amazing, Tor.’
‘But Zoë is our friend … and Polly’s girlfriend.’
‘Yeah but, between you and me, she sucks on the keys. You said that yourself.’ That was true. At the last gig it had sounded like she was playing with boxing gloves on. ‘And she’s joined The Gash too. She misses rehearsal half the time.’
I pouted. ‘OK, well, I didn’t know that.’
‘You did. I told you last week. I bloody knew you weren’t listening.’
‘I always listen. I listen to you breathe when you sleep …’
He laughed. ‘Creepy! She’ll get over it. I don’t think she’s enjoying it anyway. Don’t say anything, obviously … even to Pols.’
I pushed him off my leg. ‘Aw, you can’t burden me like that! I’m a rubbish secret-keeper!’ That wasn’t strictly true; I was still guarding the closet door for Beasley. ‘I won’t, but tell her quickly. Can I have a kiss before I go though?’
He finally looked up at me. ‘I think I can manage that …’
We did a tiny bit of sex.
When I got to Polly’s, I was in for a surprise. When she opened the door I didn’t recognise her. Her hair was black. Plain black. I’d never seen her with such dark hair, let alone hair a colour that could feasibly grow out of a human head. ‘Wow! Your hair!’
‘Do you like it? I wanted it to be a sensible colour for when we meet the mayor. You know, I don’t want her thinking I’m a joke.’
She looked older. Her nose ring was still in, but she could easily pass for twenty … more. It was like seeing a future version of the woman she’d become. I suddenly realised I had no idea what Polly’s natural hair colour actually was. ‘She wouldn’t think you’re a joke. It looks good. It’ll just take me some time to get used to it. You don’t look like you! You look like me!’
Polly smiled warmly. ‘I do a little. We could be twins or something!’
Polly led me to her room, where I found another surprise waiting for me: Zoë, in very much the same position I’d been in on Nico’s bed. ‘Oh hi,’ I said, very aware I shouldn’t talk to Zoë in case Nico’s news somehow fell out of my mouth.
‘Hey,’ she said sleepily, lounging like she was Cleopatra.
I’d assumed it was just going to be Polly and I and felt a little put out at not having been warned. Who wants to be a third bloody wheel? I’d never invite Polly round if Nico and I were doing couple stuff.
Polly brought up the rear and shepherded me in. ‘Zoë said she’d help too,’ she said cheerily.
‘Great. Many hands make light work, or whatever.’ I forced myself to smile brightly. I didn’t want to be a Debbie Downer. I don’t know why it bothered me, but it did. It was plainly bad … friend etiquette.
TORIA GRAND’S GUIDE TO FRIEND ETIQUETTE
1. Do not go to the cinema with one friend when you know another wants to see the same film.
2. Do not invite a lone single friend to a gathering of couples.
3. Ask single friends if it’s OK to bring a BF or GF to a gathering – do not assume they’re welcome.
4. Do not cancel plans if it means another friend will be stuck alone with a difficult friend.
5. Never, EVER blow off your friends to see a BF or GF. That comes with the worst karma of all.
We got to work on the petitions, Zoë all the time talking about The Gash and me all the time biting my tongue. I sensed she preferred the sisterhood of her new band, but couldn’t help but think her expulsion from Judas Cradle was going to cause trouble. How could it not?
Polly and Zoë couldn’t keep their hands off each other, making me feel even less welcome: Polly running her hand up and down Zoë’s exquisite long legs. Chipped silver nails stroked Zoë’s inner thigh, all the way under the rim of her skirt. We’ve established I’m no prude, but I didn’t know where to look.
‘So I reckon –’ Polly finished the final stack of papers. They were piled all over her bedroom floor, somewhat spoiling the zen – ‘that we actually have over a thousand. ******* amazing.’
‘That is incredible,’ I agreed, surveying our wonderfulness. ‘We must have everyone at school.’
‘And most of college,’ added Zoë.
‘The mayor has to take us seriously. She has to.’ I was starting to feel that we could actually do this. I felt powerful and it felt good.
‘OK, I’m really underdressed,’ I said on the morning of the meeting with Mayor Thompson. Polly was wearing a tailored jacket that she’d borrowed from her sister. She looked so different: her hair was neat, tied back in a sleek ponytail, although she’d left her nose ring in. She wasn’t the cliché in either direction. I was wearing a blouse and some trousers with my jacket so I looked more like a waitress than a businesswoman. ‘I look stupid.’ I clambered into the back of Mr Wolff’s car. He was so impressed at our good citizenship, we’d been granted the morning out of lessons.
‘You don’t; you look fine.’
‘Have you got the petition?’
‘I do. And I practised what I’m going to say last night. It’s going to be fine.’ It was so weird, but Polly Wolff was bricking it; I could tell from her clenched jaw and the fingertips drumming her knees. I’d thought of her as unflappable.
We arrived at the town hall, a wood-panelled labyrinth that smelled of old people and libraries. There were Haunted Mansion portraits lining the walls, glassy oil eyes following us as we made our way through endless corridors. ‘If you just take a seat,’ said the receptionist, ‘the mayor will be with you shortly.’
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Mr Wolff asked.
‘No. I think that’d make us look like kids,’ Polly said.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t swear …’
‘God, Dad, what do you think I’m gonna do? Nut the mayor?’
‘It had crossed my mind.’ He winked and Polly allowed him a suggestion of a smile. The door opened and a young man emerged.
‘Miss Wolff, do you want to come in?’ I guessed he was the mayor’s assistant or something. I sheepishly followed Polly into the office as if I were Dowdy McFrump, her trusty sidekick.
The mayor looked like a poodle in drag. Lots of frizzy white hair and make-up from the Coco the Clown School of Beauty. She wore a TARDIS-blue skirt suit which clashed so violently with the gold mayoral chains that I had to look away – it was like a two-year-old’s painting of a sunny day.
‘Hello girls, come on in and take a seat.’ We did as we were told. ‘I’m informed you’ve got a petition for me.’
‘Yeah.’ Polly handed her the lever-arch file containing all the signatures.
‘Well, I must say this is most impressive. Do you two do a lot of community work?’
‘No,’ we said in unison. You could do community service as an enrichment activity at school, but that mainly involved rummaging through donated junk in the local charity shops.
‘Oh I see, well, this will look awfully good on your personal statements for university, won’t it?’
‘That’s not why we did it,’ Polly said, calm and polite. ‘Mrs Mayor, we really love that golf course and think it’d be awful if it became a burger place. We already have three burger places in town. There aren’t any other crazy-golf courses.’
Mayor Thompson smiled sympathetically. ‘Oh I know, but it’s not council property dear. It’s really nothing to do with us.’
‘We thought all planning permission had to go through the council?’ I said.
‘That’s true, but with there already being food premises on the promenade, there’s a precedent. There’s no reason to block planning permission.’
‘Couldn’t the council take it over?’ said Polly. ‘It already runs the beach and the parks.’
The mayor took a sip of tea from her pink MRS BOSS mug. ‘You’ve done your homework, I’ll give you that, but I’m not sure there’s the budget for it. There’s actually a deficit to reduce.’
I cut in. ‘If the land is going to change use from a park to a restaurant, doesn’t there have to be a public consultation?’
Mayor Thompson smiled. ‘Well, of course. Although you’d have to get local residents to oppose it. If it was a residential area, you’d stand a better shot, but it’s commercial.’
‘They do oppose it,’ Polly said defiantly. ‘They signed the petition.’
‘A lot of people sign petitions; they might be less keen to write to the town-planning office.’
Polly shrugged. ‘Well, we can try.’
‘I have to ask –’ Mayor Thompson took another sip of her tea – ‘why is this crazy-golf course so important to you? I would have thought you’d be a bit old for it.’
‘Because crazy golf is cool,’ Polly said simply.
I was ready with our pre-prepared arguments. ‘There’s hardly anything for young people in Brompton. The arcades are about it, and they’re kinda scary. Tourism is important to the town, especially in the summer months; and, finally, do we really need more junk food? Let me ask you this, Mrs Mayor, do you want to encourage childhood obesity?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you two are brilliant! I love it! Between you and me, I don’t want another burger place either, but, like I said, it’s not council business. I wish you well though, I really do. I hate it when people come to me complaining about youths and ASBOs and hoodies when I get to meet inspiring young women like you.’
Polly and I shared a quiet, pride-filled glance. Patronised, but proud.
When we got back to the common room at Brompton Cliffs, we filled the others in on what had been said. ‘Why can’t they just keep it open?’ Beasley whined.
‘Apparently they’re in debt or something.’ I scowled. ‘I think she only saw us to be polite, to be brutally honest.’
‘No need to be dispirited. We continue our crusade with gusto,’ Alex said. ‘We rouse as many people as humanly possible to block the planning application.’
Polly looked less enthusiastic. ‘It feels ******* hopeless. We have no money. The people with the most money will win. They always do.’
‘We can certainly make the lives of whoever buys it a lot more difficult,’ I put in.
‘But we still don’t get to play crazy golf. Isn’t that the whole point? We don’t have anywhere to go and I’m not going to The ******* Mash Tun every night.’
We fell quiet. Finally Daisy spoke, and when she did she jumped out of her chair like something had bitten her bum. ‘We should have a prom!’
‘What?’ I said.
‘To raise money for the cause. We have to do something and I think we should have a dance.’
‘Again,’ Beasley said. ‘What?’
‘Like in America! With limos and dresses and corsages and punch. We don’t get a dance until the Leavers Ball in Year 13 and that’s only for Year 13s. What if we had a prom for Year 11 and 12 too? We could charge, like, twenty pounds a ticket.’
‘People would pay more than that,’ Alice said. ‘I reckon people would pay thirty.’
‘OK, I don’t hate it. What would we use the money for?’ Polly asked, now looking less gloomy.
‘For PR,’ Alex said. ‘We could make flyers or buy an advert in the Gazette – a targeted media campaign to gain momentum. We could even attract new owners for the golf course.’
I took Polly’s hand – her snow-white skin betraying how warm she really was. ‘Come on, Pol. We can’t give up now. We’ve worked so hard.’
‘A prom, though? I’d rather **** in my hands and clap.’
‘Consumer demand!’ Alex said. ‘We have to get people to buy something they want.’
‘Do I have to go?’
‘No!’ I laughed.
‘You must!’ Daisy said. ‘We all must. It’ll be our prom, so it can be how we like. We can even have a crazy-golf course at the prom! You can hire mobile ones!’
‘That’s actually a pretty good idea,’ Beasley said. ‘I’m in. You think your dad will go for it?’
‘I can ask. I think he quite likes all this Hermione Granger **** so he might.’
My old school did have a Year 11 prom. I didn’t go because it was an in-joke in-waiting for the popular kids and I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to dress up like a Miss World contestant. But if we were in charge … it could be something as weird as we were. It reminded me of what Polly had once said: we weren’t the dregs of the school, we were the misunderstood elite. For the first time I believed her.
‘Let’s do it!’ I said.
It was all going to be so awesome! We’d have a prom and save the golf course and I’d marry Nico and we’d solve world hunger and live happily ever after!
I was so naive. Such a foolish little fool.