Suzy P and the Trouble with Three (10 page)

“I bet
the boys would love to be a fly on the wall to see this,” I say to Millie as we look for somewhere to practise.

“I know, right?” says Millie. “They’d think it was hilarious.”

“Can you stop going on about your boyfriends all the time?” Isabella asks. “It’s getting kind of boring.”

All right, all right, just because you’re too much of a diva for a boyfriend
, I think, meanly.

Millie just laughs, obviously thinking Isabella’s joking. “Where are we going to go? We need somewhere with enough space for us to dance in.”

“Um, the table tennis shed?” I ask. It’s the only place I can think of with a roof.

“No way,” Isabella says. “That place has an open wall, anyone could pass by. We want to surprise everyone; we don’t want them seeing you beforehand.”

I’m getting the impression that Isabella is more than a smidge competitive. Sure, she doesn’t care enough about the talent show to risk humiliating herself by entering it, but wants us to enter and win it for her. That way she gets all of the kudos with none of the shame. Not daft, is she?

We head down one of the tracks into the wood, dodging around the mud as we do so. Murphy, who’s with us, stops to take a long drink from a puddle.

“Look, there’s a clearing,” Millie says. In the woods there’s a circular grassy area, surrounded by tree stumps. It must be a teaching area or something of Devon’s.

“This is perfect,” Isabella says, leading us over. Millie ties Murphy to an alarmingly flimsy tree.

“We haven’t got any music, have we?” I ask.

“I brought this,” Isabella says, waving her phone around. “What do you want to dance to?”

“Definitely something by The Drifting,” Millie says, and I nod in agreement. We love, love, love The Drifting. My friends all went to see them in concert earlier this year, without me. Long story. I’m still a teeny bit bitter about it, although hopefully they’ll be touring again soon and we can figure out a way to go and see them again.

“I don’t know why you guys like them so much,” Isabella says, as she scrolls through her phone. “They’re so
mainstream
.”

“Oi, don’t be rude about The Drifting,” Millie says. “We won’t hear a bad word said against them, will we, Suze?”

“Nuh-uh,” I say, shaking my head fiercely.

“Whatever,” Isabella says. “Right, I’ve only got a couple of their songs. Of course if we were anywhere near civilisation I could download whatever you wanted, but as we’re stuck in the butt end of nowhere there’s not a lot I can do, sorry. I’ve got ‘Break Up, Make Up’ or ‘One Special Love’.”

“One Special Love!”
Millie and I chorus. It’s The Drifting’s newest and it’s
so good
. We’ve played it over and over and over again. We had it on repeat one day after school so many times Clare threatened to throw Millie’s docking station out of the window.

“Okay, so what do you remember from your last routine?” Isabella asks, folding her arms authoritatively.

“Um, there was a kind of shimmy,” Millie says, wiggling around with her hands in the air.

“And some heel kicks,” I say, demonstrating.

“And a twirl, then a kind of leapy thing,” Millie says, grabbing me. “Followed by a little hand action…”

We clap hands together enthusiastically.

“Oooh, and then there was that sort of squat jump we did at the end…” I squat down to the ground, wincing
at the stretch in my thigh muscles. I was a lot more limber when I was nine. Then I wobble, and have to put my hands out to stop myself toppling over backwards.

Gross. Now I’m all dirty.

Millie and I are giggling like crazy, remembering the hours we spent dancing around the playground. We used to have a lot of fun, doing this. I catch Isabella looking at us weirdly, and for a moment I wonder if see a flash of jealousy cross her face.

I’m probably imagining things. What does she need to be jealous of?

“Do you remember when we put on the show?” Millie says.

“Yeah, for our families? And we made tickets, and charged them to come in? Wow, we were lame.”

“Hey,” Millie protests. “We were cool.”

“Terrible dancers, though,” I say.

“I’m not going to argue with you there,” Isabella says. “Well, you’re not too bad, Millie.”

Oof. Isabella’s snarky comments are getting harder and harder to ignore. I’ve tried and tried with this girl, but I’m just getting nowhere. How is Millie not seeing what she’s really like?

“Those moves might have been okay when you were younger, but they aren’t going to work now,” Isabella says.
“Especially if we want to win this thing. You’re going to need some serious training.”

“We’ve only got a few days,” I say.

“I want those prizes,” Isabella says. “And let’s face it, it’s something to do.”

“You probably have to participate to get the prizes,” I say grumpily.

“I am participating,” Isabella says. “I’m choreographer. Now, can either of you do back flips?”

Millie and I stare at her.

“Cartwheels?”

“I used to be able to…” Millie says.

“I stopped after I cartwheeled into a canal,” I mutter. “Gymnastics is not my strong point.”

“Then this is going to be tougher than I thought it would be. Okay, give me a moment.”

“I brought my pompoms along, if they’re any use,” Millie offers.

Isabella shakes her head. “Let me hear the song again.”

Isabella walks around as The Drifting plays out of her phone, scrutinising us, before she stops and says, “Right, I’ve got it. I’m going to adapt one of my routines for you both. I danced with a boy, so we’ll have to change it around, but it should be fine. Suzy, you’ll
obviously be the boy, and—”

“Hang on,” I interrupt. “What do you mean, obviously I’ll be the boy?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s just, you know, Millie’s a bit more… girly.”

Ouch.

“I don’t mind playing the boy’s part,” Millie interjects.

“The boy’s part is easier,” Isabella says.

“Oh,” Millie says. “In that case…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, defeated.

Isabella starts demonstrating what she wants us to do. And she’s seriously, seriously impressive.

“Are you sure you don’t want to enter the competition?” Millie asks, in awe. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m not going from performing to a crowd of thousands at professional competitions to a crowd of ten in a marquee in a field. It’s humiliating,” she says.

I guess it would indeed be one hell of a come-down.

“Okay, let’s get going,” Isabella says. “What I want you to do is walk forward for four, swinging your arm like this, then…”

And after that I’m totally lost. She’s reeled off a ton of instructions that sound like she’s speaking Dutch. I’ve no idea what she wants me to do past the arm swinging.

“Got that?” Isabella says.

“Think so,” Millie says.

“Suzy?”

“Yep,” I lie, not wanting to admit I don’t have a clue. Isabella will only think I’m even more stupid.

“Try it and see how you get on,” Isabella says. “I’m turning on the music in three, two, one.”

As the opening bars of The Drifting tinnily spill out of the phone, I rack my brains, trying to remember what we had to do first. Marching in a line with arm swinging. I scamper after Millie, who’s already several steps ahead.

“Stop!” Isabella calls, pausing the music. “Suzy, you should be starting on the beat.”

“I know,” I say.

Millie smiles at me sympathetically, and while her back’s turned away from Isabella, she rolls her eyes, which makes me laugh.

“Let’s try again!” Isabella calls.

But I just can’t get it.

I’m late on the beat. I’m not ‘sashaying’ enough. I’m not swinging my arms the right way.

According to Isabella, I’m wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Isabella complains.

“I am,” I say. “Well, no, maybe I’m not. But how serious do I have to be?”

“Do you want to do it one more time?” Isabella asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“We need to have a think about costumes, too,” Isabella says. “You do realise that on the night you’re going to have to do this in heels, don’t you?”

“What?” I say, horrified. I can hardly dance in flats, never mind heels. “I, um, didn’t bring any with me,” I say.

“Well, you’re going to have to find some. You have to do this kind of dancing in heels. And you need matching outfits.”

“Come on,” I say. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”

“Look, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it to win, okay?” Isabella says.

“We don’t exactly have much that matches,” I say.

“Hmm,” says Isabella, scrutinising us. “Yes… I can believe that. You’ve got very different styles. Millie, you’re so individual and eclectic, and Suzy, you’re more, um, high street.”

Hmph. She may as well have called me boring.

I’m about to protest, but Isabella’s not paying any attention.

“Look at that,” she says, a slow smile crossing her face as she points towards the campsite. It’s easy to see what she’s spotted. Across the field, a minibus has just pulled to a stop. And emerging from it, behind a younger boy about Harry’s age, are five older lads.

Oh my sweet Lord.

With the exception of one, who’s a bit scrawny, the others are seriously buff, and
seriously
sexy.

Millie grabs onto my arm and squeezes. “Oh, wow.”

“Suddenly things have got a lot more interesting,” Isabella says. “I think it’s time we got to have some fun. Come on, Millie, let’s take some plates over to the sinks so we can pretend to do the washing-up and get a better look.”

“Okay!” Millie says.

Although I’m pretty sure Millie wouldn’t do anything, especially after she saw what happened with the whole me, Danny and Zach disaster, there’s something about the way she’s staring at the boys and giggling with Isabella that’s making me nervous.

“Um, I think I’m going to go and ring Danny,” I say.

“Say hi from me,” Millie says distractedly.

“Do you want to come and speak to Jamie?” I ask.

“Don’t you dare,” Isabella threatens. “You have to come with
me
. It’ll look too obvious if I’m by myself.”

As Isabella drags Millie away, my mate doesn’t even look back.

I’m almost at the shop when I see Clare walking ahead. I haven’t managed to catch her up by the time she enters
and makes her way over to the payphone. Oh yeah, that’s right, she told Millie she was going to call Martin today.

I’m about to say something, to let her know I’m here, but as her hand reaches out for the phone, she pauses for a moment and then it drops back down to her side. She stands in front of the booth, leaning her forehead against the wall for the longest time and then turns and walks back out.

I duck down behind a shelf, and she doesn’t spot me.

Something tells me she wouldn’t have wanted to be seen.

Later that night
,
we’ve finished our dinner – Dad finally got his fire-charred burgers and sausages tonight, after using the Devon-approved wood in his fire pit – and are all sitting around the campfire. Mainly because it’s the only place that’s warm, although it’s actually stopped raining, which is some kind of miracle. Millie and Isabella have been on full alert for the boys, who’ve all pitched their tents around a fire pit not too far away. Right now their camp is empty. They left a while ago, carrying maps and wearing hiking boots.

“Hey, Mum, did you speak to Dad?” Millie asks.

“Um, yep,” Clare says. “He sends his love.”

Huh? That’s weird. She didn’t ring him. Unless she went back later, after I’d seen her. I guess that’s what must’ve happened.

“A sing-song, anyone?” Clare asks. “It’s traditional to sing around a campfire. What do people want to sing?”

Singing? Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. We’re not that sort of family. Not for the first time, I wish I was at home, hanging out in the dry, cosy Bojangles with Danny.

“How about ‘Kill Me Now’?” Isabella suggests.

“I don’t think I know that one,” Clare replies, completely missing Isabella’s sarcasm. “What about ‘Kookaburra’?”

There’s a deafening silence as only Millie and Amber look even half-interested. Isabella shakes her head and returns to fiddling with her phone. I think she’s playing some kind of game.

Dad clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, I don’t think my voice is up to singing. Throat’s a bit sore. But it’s nearly seven. Do you lot want to see tonight’s entertainment?”

Isabella shoots a look at Millie. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking those boys might turn up there.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Isabella says sincerely, smiling winningly at Dad.

“Good,” Dad says.

“I need to put some make-up on…” Isabella says. “Won’t be a tick. Millie, will you give me a hand?”

As they dart off into their tent, giggling together, I’m suddenly feeling really left out. Why didn’t she ask me to go, too? I head into the awning to fix my own make-up and try to sort out my hair. Ten minutes later I give up in despair, change into a nicer pair of jeans plus a snuggly
sweatshirt (I’m
freezing
), then grab the book I’m reading and return to my wobbly log seat by the fire. I bury my head in my book, trying to ignore the shrieks and laughter coming through the canvas.

Half an hour later, Dad’s starting to lose patience.

“Look, we’ll go over and meet you there,” he says in exasperation, pacing around the fire pit.

“Almost ready,” Millie calls from the tent.

“I don’t understand how you women always take so long,” he says, just as Isabella and Millie emerge from their tent.

Dad’s eyes almost pop out of his head.

Millie’s wearing pretty standard Millie attire – a turquoise T-shirt that matches the front of her hair with a silver heart on the front, purple skinnies and red pumps. She’s wearing more make-up than usual, and her eyes are all dark and smoky. But it’s not Millie that’s getting Dad stressed. It’s Isabella. She’s wearing a very short red miniskirt, strappy black and white top and possibly the entire contents of her make-up bag. Her hair’s been swept back on one side, but the rest of it tumbles around her shoulders. She looks about eighteen.

I’m so envious I could pop. And I’m feeling seriously underdressed. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and trainers,
for goodness sake. I dressed for warmth and comfort. I can’t go looking like
this
if they’re looking like
that
.

“You’re not coming in those clothes, you’ll freeze to death,” Dad says.

“Um, could you be any more of a cliché?” Isabella says.

“We’re responsible for you at the moment,” Mum says. “That outfit seems more appropriate for a nightclub, not a campsite.”

“My parents let me go out like this all the time,” Isabella replies. “Who do you think paid for these clothes?”

“Even so, I’m not sure…” Mum dithers.

“Well, if you really want me to go and get changed again…” Isabella says. “It might take a while to choose a new outfit, though.”

“Oh, let’s go,” Dad says. “If she freezes, that’s her lookout.”

“I might go and put on something else,” I say, jumping to my feet.

“No!”
says Dad. “There will be no more outfit changes. None!”

Amber hauls herself to her feet. “I think I’m going to give it a miss and go to bed. I’m missing Mark too much to have a good time, anyway.”

“Uh oh, Devon’s heading this way,” Dad says. “What did you lot do now?” He eyeballs us all suspiciously.

I rack my brains. Nothing comes to mind. It can’t be me, not this time.

“Evening,” Dad says.

“Evening,” Devon says, his voice sounding tense.

“You seem to be spending a lot of time visiting us,” Dad says, with a fake-sounding laugh.

“Don’t I just,” says Devon. He shakes the rain off his ponytail. “I’ve come over for two things. Firstly, Mr Puttock, um, this is a little awkward, but there’s something I need to speak to you about. I’m afraid we had a complaint about you peering in the window of the Gilberts’ caravan.”

“Chris! What were you thinking?” Mum says.

“I wasn’t doing anything bad,” Dad protests. “They had their TV on and I only wanted to watch five minutes. It was the athletics!”

“They thought you were a peeping Tom,” Devon says. “Mrs Gilbert was very upset.”

“It
was
unfortunate she took her dressing gown off,” Dad concedes. “And even more unfortunate she didn’t have anything on underneath.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Mum while the rest of us try not to laugh.

We fail.

“I assure you this is no joke,” Devon says. “Next time,
bring your own TV if you want to watch one so badly.”

“I would have brought one this time if I could,” Dad says, shooting a look at Mum.

“Now, the other reason I’m here is because I’ve been getting calls from Mark—” Devon continues.

“Mark?” Amber interrupts. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Devon says. “But he’s called six times in the last half hour, wondering where you are.”

“Didn’t you speak to him before supper?” Mum says.

“I did,” Amber wails. “But we’re missing each other soooooo much. How did he sound, Devon? Like he’d been eating okay? Like he was missing me?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Devon says. “But if you could call him back so he stops distracting me from my stocktake, it would be wonderful. He also wanted to know what you thought about the names Mufasa and Simba for the babies.”

“Aw, he’s been watching
The Lion King
again,” Amber says. “I’ll give him a call, and then I’m going to go to bed to read my baby books. After I’ve read Conni G’s pregnancy update in my magazine. You all go to entertainment without me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As Amber dons her waterproofs and waddles off behind Devon, the rest of us look at each other.

“To the entertainment?” Isabella says hopefully.

“To the music,” Dad says, leading the way.

We duck our way into the marquee and our ears are immediately assaulted by a terrible noise.

“What is
that
?” Millie asks.

“It’s very loud, whatever it is,” Mum says.

Inside the marquee, it’s dimly-lit and there’s an overwhelming scent of incense. There are about four people sitting watching a middle-aged couple. The woman’s singing something in a foreign language, and the man is playing something like an oboe or a clarinet. It doesn’t sound like either. It sounds kind of… alarming.

The song comes to an end and there’s some
half-hearted
applause from the people watching, none of whom are the boys Isabella and Millie were hoping for.

“Thank you, ladies and gents,” the man says. “It’s a joy to hear your appreciation of my wife’s glorious voice and my shenai. Now for our next song, a number we composed ourselves…”

As the woman’s voice starts warbling again, harsh and shrill, we all gaze apprehensively at each other.

“Shall we sit down?” Harry says. “I like them. I think they sound awesome.”

“Um, okay,” I say. Next to me, Isabella and Millie are frantically whispering.

“They might come later,” Isabella hisses.

We sit through four more songs, each one worse than the last and increasingly ear-assaulting.

Mum stands up. “I’m going back to check on Amber,” she says.

“I’ll come with you,” Dad says, jumping to his feet.

Clearly it’s not just me that wants to get outta here.

“Harry, it’s bedtime,” Mum says.

“Awwwww,” Harry whines. “Can’t I stay a bit longer?”

“Well… I suppose you can stay for a bit, as long as Suzy keeps an eye on you,” Mum says.

Up on the stage, the performers, who we’ve learned go by the name of Laka and Shan, are giving us evils as the man gives a long, detailed and exceptionally dull history of the shenai.

“Make sure you girls are back by eleven,” Mum says. “I won’t go to sleep until I know you’re back safely, so don’t think about breaking curfew unless you want me to appear in my pyjamas to retrieve you.”

She would too. She has no sense of shame.

“They’re not coming, are they?” Isabella whispers.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Millie replies.

“Want to go back?” Isabella says, disappointment written all over her face.

“Might as well,” Millie replies, and I silently sigh with relief.

“Night then, have fun,” Mum says.

“It’s all right, we’ll come back with you,” Millie says, standing up.

“Awwww,” Harry whines. “Does that mean I can’t stay?”

“’Fraid so, kiddo,” Dad says.

I follow everyone out of the marquee, watching as Millie and Isabella continue to whisper non-stop to each other. Seeing them gives me a hollow feeling I can’t quite place.

For some reason I can’t get to sleep. I’m counting my eighty-eighth sheep when I hear a load of people walking past the tent, chattering and laughing as they go.

“Keep it down, lads, people are sleeping,” a man’s voice says.

I sit up to peep out of the curtains, and although it’s dark, I can just about make out from the light of their torches the group of boys returning to their tents. And it’s then that I hear something else.

A strange rustling noise, coming from the food area. Because Mum bought so much stuff along with us, half the food has had to be stored out in the awning.

The rustling’s coming from bag of vegetables on the floor. And then I hear a squeak.

Oh God. It’s Hagrid. He’s escaped.

“Harry,” I hiss. “Harry, wake up.”

But Harry doesn’t stir.

I’m not going to get back to sleep knowing that stupid rat’s on the loose in here. And besides, Harry will be devastated if anything happens to him.

Honestly, the things I do for a sister who torments me and a rat I don’t even like.

Sighing heavily, I haul myself out of my sleeping bag and walk over to where the cereal boxes, crisp packets and spare tins have been stored.

“Hagrid,” I say softly. “Hagrid… come here…”

Another squeak and more rustling. This time coming from my rucksack. Uh oh. He’d better not have found my secret chocolate stash, otherwise I’m actually going to kill him.

I start moving things aside, trying to see in the semi-darkness, and then scream as my foot brushes something soft before the most awful pain shoots up my foot.

I’ve been bitten!

I grab at my big toe, hopping up and down, trying not to cry with the pain, as I see the shape of a rat disappearing off into the night.

“Whass going on?” Harry says blearily.

The caravan door flies open and Dad jumps out, waving
a rolled-up pregnancy magazine threateningly.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Hagrid bit me,” I say. “Ow, ow, ow, it really hurts…”

“Hagrid wouldn’t bite you!” Harry says.

“Want to see the teeth marks?” I shout.

Dad lets the magazine drop. “Am I ever going to get any sleep in this damn place? How did he get at your foot, anyway?”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” I say. “I was trying to catch him. He’s escaped.”

“He’s escaped?” Harry says, leaping out of bed. “Where is he? Where did he go? Hagrid? Hagrid!”

“What’s the matter, girls?” Mum says, emerging behind Dad in her pyjamas, hair tousled.

“Hagrid’s gone,” Harry says.

“Er, hello, can we focus on my toe, here? I’m still in a lot of pain, people,” I say.

“He’s here,” Harry says, peering into Hagrid’s cage. “It can’t have been Hagrid that bit you.”

“It was definitely a rat, I saw it,” I say.

And then I realise.

If it wasn’t Hagrid that bit me, it must have been a wild rat.

My mother realises at exactly the same time as me and immediately lets out a scream of horror.

“You were bitten by a rat? Oh God. Oh God, Chris, can’t you catch diseases from wild rats?”

“Diseases? What kind of diseases?” I ask. “Am I going to die?”

“Weil’s disease. You can get that from them, can’t you?” Mum says.

“What’s that?” I ask, feeling increasingly alarmed.

“She’s not going to get Weil’s disease,” Dad says.

“How do you know?” Mum asks. “She should go to a doctor. She needs to get that toe looked at…”

“What
is
Weil’s disease?” I ask again.

“I think you can die from it,” Clare says, as she joins us in the awning. “I was a first-aider for a while.”

“You what?” I shriek.

“Do we need to suck the poison out or something?” Amber suggests, finally having dragged herself out of bed.

“It was a rat, not a snake,” Dad says through gritted teeth.

“What if Suzy gets seriously ill?” Mum asks.

“She’s not going to get ill,” Dad says. “It’s only a little bite…”

“Are you a doctor? Do you have medical training?”

“No,” Dad sighs.

“Then how do you know? If anything bad happens to her it’ll all be your fault, and then you’ll be sorry…”

“Suzy, come over here,” Dad says. “Let’s look at it in the light. Look, it’s a tiny nibble. It’s not even bleeding much.”