Gemini Rising
Amie Bellairs and a few of the other ‘A’s stroll in, with Shimmi straggling behind them. Then, in the space of a second, all of the chatting, whispering and giggling that fills the air suddenly disappears. Something happens to the room, as if the temperature has plummeted or all of the oxygen has been sucked out with a straw. Not so much something as someone. Two of them, in fact, if we’re being picky.
I’ve never met identical twins before, and it probably sounds stupid to say it, but I hadn’t realised they would be so completely, well, identical. This fascinating observation is quickly overshadowed by the fact that they are absolutely drop-dead beautiful. Kill yourself beautiful. They have light-blonde hair, pale skin, and wide, blank blue eyes. This simply doesn’t get across the enormity of how pretty these two girls are, so just visualise around it, the most perfect faces and figures you can imagine. Then double that. Then you’ve probably got it.
They are in their own clothes, making our burgundy kilts and polyester jumpers look even lamer than ever before, which is quite some feat. They are both dressed in black and festooned in jewellery, which I’m surprised they’ve been allowed to wear to school. Miss Webb, however, is the only one who appears unsurprised by their appearance in the drama room.
‘I’m Elyse,’ says the first sister, who close up is the prettiest and the most vividly drawn if that makes sense. ‘This is Melanie. We’re supposed to join in, or something.’
She’s smirking and coming across as totally unruffled; however, I note that she looks a tiny bit nervous as well, and that she briefly squeezes her sister’s hand before Miss Webb ushers them into the last two spare seats, a few spaces apart from each other.
‘So, welcome, Elyse and Melanie. First of all – sorry, girls, this must drive you mad – how do I tell you apart?’ Miss Webb asks, when her back has been turned for a moment and the twins have taken their seats.
‘I’m Elyse, and you can tell Melanie from her scar.’
When Melanie turns slightly and tucks her blonde hair behind one ear, we can all see what Elyse means, and how easy it will be to tell them apart from now on – Melanie has a livid scar, thin as a blade but red and angry, running the whole length of the left-hand side of her face. If anything, it makes her even more beautiful. The juxtaposition against her perfect doll face is stunning.
‘OK, ladies.’ Miss Webb claps her hands, in a clear attempt to stop us staring and restore some normality to the class. ‘A bit of fun for a Friday afternoon. As you’ve probably gathered, as part of our English studies, we’re going to be doing a practical drama exercise today. Here’s how it’s going to work: you each have a slip of paper on your seat, with your “stimulus” written on it. This means some background information about the character or situation you will be portraying in your improvised scene. Don’t tell anyone else what your paper says, so that when I call you up to the front, in pairs, the other person won’t know what you’re doing. The audience has to shout out what they think is going on in your scene.’
Predictably, the two biggest show-offs, Shimmi and Sabrina, are called up first. When it comes to audience participation, Miss Webb always does this, to try to get the rest of us to chill out enough not to mind making fools of ourselves in front of the class. It never really works.
The two of them, after a bit of giggling and shuffling, enact a scenario where they’re on a bus and Shimmi is a foreign tourist, complete with comedy French accent, and Sabrina has run away from her own wedding, which she somehow sees fit to demonstrate by singing songs from Mamma Mia! at the top of her voice. Although hilarity ensues with the suggestions from the floor – such as that Shimmi is supposed to be mentally disabled and Sabrina is a Britain’s Got Talent reject – we guess the stimuli within about three minutes, leaving Shimmi and Sabrina disappointed that their moment in the spotlight has been all too fleeting, and most of the rest of us dreading our turns.
Not that any of them is particularly exciting – Amie and Alice manage to make just the precisely minimal amount of effort to preserve their dignity while not annoying Miss Webb; Nathalie and Emily Waldron stand there like a couple of sad pandas, and I shout out the phrase ‘has a broken leg’, which I read off Nathalie’s paper when she wasn’t looking, just to put her out of her misery. She stands there and blinks, surprised, like she’s a better actress than she realised if I could guess it so quickly. Miss Webb glares at me.
‘All right, then,’ Miss Webb says, ‘Sorana and…Melanie, you two have a go next.’
Having previously dreaded my turn, I’m suddenly nervous/excited to get to perform a scene with Melanie. This means that I will effectively be the first person to talk to her and maybe we can become friends as a result of it. I shoot her what I hope is a reassuring look as I shuffle awkwardly to the front of the class. That’s when I see that Melanie is still in her seat, motionless and with her head turned downwards so that nobody can see her face.
‘Melanie?’ Miss Webb presses.
There is a long silence and I don’t know if Melanie has even heard her. It’s impossible to tell whether this is a deliberate ploy to get out of drama or if there’s something the matter with her.
‘Excuse me, Miss? Can I have a word, please?’ Elyse has risen to her feet.
‘Yes, of course, Elyse.’ Miss Webb unquestioningly follows her out of the room, looking back at the rest of us with a quick, tight smile. ‘Just one second, OK, girls.’
For the few moments that Elyse and Miss Webb are outside the room, nobody says a word. Melanie is still slumped down in her chair, but it seems less urgent somehow; I can’t tell if she’s really distressed or if she just can’t be bothered.
When they return, Miss Webb briskly calls the next pair of names. Whatever Elyse said, it seems that Melanie and I do not have to perform after all. Just like that, it’s forgotten. I am in awe. Clearly, so is everyone else because this goes unremarked upon by the entire class – I could never get away with this; it’s a revelation.
Finally, after several more substandard drama skits, Miss Webb calls on Elyse and Lexy.
It’s like we are all holding our breath, after what happened when it was Melanie’s turn, but Elyse just grins and strides out onto the makeshift stage. She screws up her piece of paper, shoves it into her pocket and puts her hands on her hips. Ready for combat. Then she says nothing so that Lexy is awkwardly forced into action.
‘Um, hi. I wondered if you might like to buy—’
‘Saleswoman!’ Alex shouts out.
The word disappears into the ether.
‘You killed it! Was it you? Did you kill it? I know you did! I will never forgive you, you evil bitch,’ Elyse shrieks hysterically.
Then she bursts into tears and, in slow motion, slides down the wall behind her, moaning softly and clutching her head. The room is silent and Lexy doesn’t know what to do with herself, looking over to her friends for help. Elyse carries on, lying crumpled on the floor, wailing and writhing. She’s literally hyperventilating. She doesn’t stop until Miss Webb claps her hands, like a hypnotist breaking the spell.
‘Lexy, sit down, please. Elyse, are you all right?’
But she’s too late.
‘Fine, thank you.’ Elyse smiles politely, already sitting up. ‘Sorry – I thought we were still acting out the scene. Nobody guessed it, so I carried on: my piece of paper said my cat just died.’
Before Miss Webb can say anything in reply, the bell rings. As I put on my blazer and pack up my schoolbag, I can see Amie and Alice corner Elyse before she leaves. Until now, I wasn’t sure which way this would go; I have already decided that the twins are immensely cool, but I had no idea whether the ‘in’ crowd of girls in my class would agree with me. However, it soon becomes obvious that the new girls have already got the seal of approval that I haven’t had the slightest sniff of in all the years I have been at this school. I realise then I’ve already missed my window and the lines have been set.
Still, as I watch them take out their phones and swap numbers with Amie and Alice, I decide that I’m glad they’re going to be around to make things a bit more interesting from now on.
Chapter Three
‘Oh my eff gee! So, do you think they were taking the piss in Drama this afternoon or do you think they’re just total freaks?’
‘I thought you didn’t care, Shimmi?’ I raise an eyebrow at her and receive an elevated middle finger in return.
‘I don’t know,’ Nathalie says, biting her lip. ‘I couldn’t figure it out at all. It was like, just whenever I’d think they were being genuine, they’d look at each other like it was a game or something. I think they’re trouble.’
‘Ha! Chance’d be a fine thing at St Tedious’s.’ Shimmi looks delighted at the thought.
‘I don’t think that’s fair.’ I decide to speak up for once. ‘I liked them. They don’t know how it works in a school like ours. So they were just being themselves. They didn’t bother hiding their feelings like we all do – I thought it was pretty cool, actually.’
‘Yeah, well, you would. Hippie!’
Shimmi chucks a cushion at me that smacks me round my left ear. We’re at Nathalie’s house which, to be accurate, is more like a mansion, on account of her parents being mega-rich and her uncle owning Harrods or something. No joke. It’s behind massive electric gates and down a long driveway that has its own roundabout with a fountain, and inside it’s all gold and marble and Persian rugs and priceless vases – it has more in common with the British Museum than it does with my house.
Nathalie’s mum, who can be a bit scary but we all actually really like, invariably goes out on weekend nights, and her dad’s always away for work; so we’re left with the housekeeper, who spends most of her time Skyping with her boyfriend in Switzerland and couldn’t care less what we do. That’s why Shimmi and I come over here on a Friday night pretty regularly. Sometimes there’s a party on or we go to a gig, or into town to try to get into a pub that isn’t the hallowed A-Group territory of The Crown, but we’re not exactly party monsters.
MTV is blaring – Shimmi is so obsessed with Beyoncé, and wanting to be exactly like her, that Nathalie and I couldn’t get a look in even if we wanted to watch something else. Luckily, we don’t. I might prefer guitar bands and girls with keyboards and synths, but I’m not exactly immune to the lure of wanting to look like Alexa Chung or Natasha Khan.
Nathalie’s mum left us out a couple of Bacardi Breezers each – bless her and her retro ways – and we’ve commandeered everything that looked most exciting from the fridge. We’ll probably order a pizza later anyway, even though I’m already nearly stuffed.
‘So, Sorana,’ Shimmi says, slyly changing the subject, ‘isn’t Josh coming over to your house tomorrow night?’
‘Oh yeah, it’s a totally hot date. Me and Josh and both of our families… Anyway, he might not even come – his mum said he might have some rugby party or something.’
‘Whatever. I would do literally anything to get Josh Green in my house on a Saturday night. And I mean anything.’
‘Urgh, Shim! Stop doing your sexy face about Josh!’
‘Besides,’ Nathalie speaks up, giving Shimmi a sideways look, ‘it’s not like any of us stands a chance, is it? Not unless we suddenly turn into leggy blondes and become friends with Amie Bellairs.’
As this sad-but-true fact has always existed, Nathalie sounds surprisingly vexed about it. So, I might as well take a deep breath and drop a bombshell.
‘Yeah, when I saw him at Easter, he told me he’d got drunk and kissed Lexy White at some house party…’
The gasps that follow this revelation are hardly unexpected, and I cover my face with a pillow as I prepare for the onslaught.
‘Lexy White? That skanky bleached-blonde halfwit?’ Shimmi is indignant. ‘How could he?’
Nathalie just sounds bruised: ‘But Easter was weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell us, Sorana?’
I weigh it up and decide that I might as well be honest. ‘I didn’t tell anyone because, at the time, I was so upset about it. You know, that was when I was completely crushed-out on Josh, and it was like he was rubbing my nose in it – I just didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Urgh, I don’t blame you,’ Nathalie mutters.
‘Anyway, I’m totally over it now so I don’t care.’ And I really am over Josh. I’m sure I was only ever in love with him in the first place because he’s practically the only boy I know in my age bracket.
‘Yeah, but still…’ Shimmi won’t let it lie ‘I can’t believe that bitch Lexy White. Her and her friends think they’re so great. One day, those girls are totally going to get what’s coming to them…’
It’s never going to happen, but it makes us feel better. So, after talking about boys, bands, and – let’s face it: mostly – bitching about our much cooler classmates, we settle down to the serious business of the evening. Ever since we stayed up late to watch Psycho and The Birds with my mum’s boyfriend Pete at my house a couple of months ago, we’ve been obsessed with really old, creepy horror films.
We drag our sleeping bags down to the sitting room, switch off the lights and crack open the Häagen-Dazs, and watch at least two, sometimes three, scary movies. We all scream out loud at regular intervals, make a big show of clutching each other dramatically, but then refuse to admit it when none of us wants to go up to the bathroom on our own afterwards.
Sometimes I think I wouldn’t actually want to go to The Crown on a Friday night, like the A Group do every week without fail, even if I didn’t look like a skinny twelve year old and probably won’t be allowed in until I am actually eighteen. What, and miss all this?
‘Hey,’ Shimmi says, her eyes gleaming in the dark, ‘maybe the Johansson twins are like those freaky girls in The Shining!’
‘Nah,’ I interrupt. ‘Definitely Village of the Damned!’
‘“Come and play with us, for ever and ever and ever and ever and…”‘ Shimmi intones in a spooky voice, until Nathalie actually looks like she’s going to wee herself with fear.
Then we all burst into hysterical laughter, and we can’t stop.
Even though it’s totally worth it, waking up at Nathalie’s is always rubbish – it’s freezing in her enormo-house first thing in the morning. Nathalie and Shimmi are both still fast asleep. I switch off the TV, which has been on silent all night, and pad quietly into the kitchen to ring my mum. Unlike Shimmi, who’d move into Nathalie’s house and be adopted by her parents if she was allowed, I like staying over at Nathalie’s, but then I like to go home and be in my own house.
Usually someone in my household is up and about, and prepared to give me a lift on a Saturday morning. Unfortunately, I am still a way off driving, and even further off a shiny car of my own like a large proportion of my classmates are automatically given on their seventeenth birthdays. Daisy answers the phone; of course my mum’s there but still asleep, so Daisy and Pete will come and get me. The two of them are already up and watching cartoons, apparently.
Almost no sooner than I’ve changed into day clothes and packed my little overnight bag – actually an ancient old-lady vanity case that I found in Oxfam last year – I hear Pete’s crazy sports car growling up the driveway and I slip out through the ludicrously grand electric gates. Nathalie and Shimmi are used to this disappearing act, so I don’t have to wake them up.
‘Morning, Sorana, you dirty stop-out.’
Pete always says this and thinks it’s funny. He’s sweet, and tries really, really hard to get on with Daisy and me, so I don’t hold it against him.
There are only two seats in Pete’s car, so Daisy squashes up on my lap – she loves going fast, so wouldn’t have missed this early morning ride for all the chocolate in the world.
‘Don’t tell your mum,’ Pete says automatically.
Mum hates Pete’s car, and especially hates Daisy and me going in it when Pete breaks the speed limit, which we encourage him to do as much as possible. We take a slight detour to stop at Krispy Kreme on the way home; Pete gives Daisy the money to run in and get a mixed dozen to share for breakfast. Yep, Saturdays at my house are all right.
By the time we get home my mum is up, still wearing her dressing gown and singing along with Radio Two in the kitchen. Basically, it’s no wonder Pete’s so desperate for the seal of approval from Daisy and me, because my mum is stupidly pretty and really quite cool for a mum. She looks like me, but somehow really beautiful in a way that I’m most definitely not. This would give me hopes of improving with time, if not for the fact that I’ve seen photos of my mum when she was my age – sadly, she was already a full-blown hottie.
I make myself the world’s weakest coffee and pretend to enjoy it in between scarfing down bites of chocolate-cream doughnut. Mum’s already demolished an apple-cinnamon when she sits down and reaches across me for a second one.
‘How was Nathalie’s?’
‘You know, palatial. The usual. How was your evening?’
‘You know, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. The usual.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. The sad thing is your night probably was more rock ‘n’ roll than mine!’
‘Well, we did have a kitchen dance party to Santigold – so let’s call it a draw. Now, what are you doing today?’
‘Um, dunno?’
My mum rolls her eyes, grins and fake-throttles me out of what she calls my ‘clichéd teenage ennui’.
‘Well, I’m taking Daisy into town for summer school sandals, if you want to come with us? I got paid yesterday; make the most of it. If you find something you like, we’ll call it an early birthday present. Not long to go now.’
I’d better jump at this chance while I can. Despite my protestations to the contrary round at Nathalie’s house last night, I’m keeping all of my fingers and toes crossed that Josh will blow off his rugby party and turn up at my house later.
My heart leaps a tiny bit as I watch the Greens’ massive Range Rover pull up outside our house, from the safety of my bedroom with the overhead light switched off. If they came in ‘the beast’ rather than Tina’s little yellow Mini, this must mean the whole family is in attendance…
There’s Tina – my mum’s best friend – and her husband Greg, followed by Tristan, Josh’s little brother, leaping out of the back ninja-style. And that’s it. The car does that annoying double-beep and locking sound behind them, just to rub it in.
I’m not so much heartbroken as a bit blah. Especially when I add up all those hours of wasted time – washing, blow-drying and straightening my hair; painstakingly applying liquid eyeliner; painting my nails and toenails a new shade of navy blue that I bought in town today; trying on three different outfits before settling on leggings, flat sandals and a short shift dress in sixties fabric that I bought on Etsy. Not to mention wasting some of the last precious drops of my Marc Jacobs perfume that I’m trying to eke out until my birthday, when I might get enough cash to buy some more.
‘Sorana!’ my mum’s voice inevitably drifts up the stairs.
‘Oh my God!’ I hear when I am only halfway down into the hall. ‘Sorana, you look more like your mother every time I see you. Only much younger and taller and thinner, obviously – damn you. Lucy, your daughter is getting far too beautiful.’
I’d be flattered if Tina didn’t say this sort of thing to everyone. She’s my mum’s best friend – they used to work together. She’s about ten years older than my mum but she’s immensely cool, with a loud voice and hair that changes colour every week. It’s currently pillar-box red, with a quiff at the front. Josh finds her mortifying and I don’t blame him, but she takes it with the sort of good humour that annoys him even more – Tina’s awesome, but I’m quite glad she’s not my mother.
‘Josh is following in his own car,’ she adds. ‘I hope you don’t mind him having such bad manners – he’s just going to pop in for some food and then he’s got a party to whizz off to later. You know what these teenagers are like.’
‘Only too well.’ Mum shoots me a smile as she says it. ‘Now, what are you drinking?’
Daisy and Tristan – who are roughly the same age, just as Josh and I are – have already disappeared to play on the Wii. I pour myself a glass of wine, and then I have to try not to react when I hear the doorbell ring. Instead, I choke on my drink and do a weird half-cough/half-hiccup type thing and fiddle with the buckle on my shoe like the meaning of life is stuck in it somewhere.
‘Sorana!’ Pete shouts, wearing oven gloves and poking his head out from the kitchen. ‘Can you get the door, please?’
‘Yeah, all right, calm down.’ I immediately feel bad for snapping at Pete, who is never anything but totally easy-going. ‘I mean, yeah, OK, just a minute…’
Deep breath. Gather.
‘Oh, hey, Josh – how are you doing?’
‘Not bad, not bad. How are we?’
Josh casually kisses me on the cheek before walking straight past me and heading into the kitchen, where he falls into instant conversation with Pete and Greg. Assessing him objectively from afar, I do kind of wonder what I ever saw in Josh. It’s not as if we have anything in common, except for our families and age. I mean, he’s wearing a rugby shirt, board shorts and flip-flops even though it’s raining outside.
‘And what the hell did you do to your hair, kid?’ Pete asks out loud. ‘Didn’t have you down as the punk-rocker type, Joshua.’
‘Don’t even ask,’ Josh groans, gesturing to his hair – which is usually a sort of dark biscuityginger – and trying to hide the fact that he’s obviously rather pleased with himself. ‘We were on this school trip to Vienna, and of course I fell asleep on the back seat of the coach, and some of the guys attacked me with this girl’s Sun-In or something. At least I kept my eyebrows, I suppose.’
Josh goes to a school that is way posher than mine, but somehow much more normal. It’s a boys’ school but they let girls in for sixth form – and imagine how lucky those girls are. It’s in the countryside, only about an hour away, but Josh boards during the week because he actually likes it.
Despite this, he somehow manages to know absolutely everyone our age in this town, and is kind of universally beloved. When they’re not hanging out at The Crown – where Josh sometimes goes on a Friday night, too – Amie Bellairs and co sometimes deign to go to house parties held by boys from Josh’s school. Somehow he manages to be the guy who all the parents love, while always having a stash of weed on him and being the drunkest at parties.
‘I swear, this boy’ll be the death of me,’ faux-laments Greg, ruffling Josh’s hair affectionately and handing him a beer.
‘Come on! Sit down, let’s eat!’
The cries begin reverberating around the house as the younger kids thunder down the stairs, more drinks are poured and we all pile in around the kitchen table – kitchen rather than dining room because it’s just the Greens and we’ve been having these kind of chaotic, casual family dinners since the days when Josh and I used to smear food on our faces and then get thrown in the bath together. OK, great – that’s just put a weird picture in my mind that I can’t get rid of as I slide into my seat…
‘So, Sorana,’ Tina asks, as soon as we’ve all got loaded plates of lasagne in front of us, and the salad bowl and garlic bread are doing the rounds, ‘it’s your birthday coming up soon, isn’t it? The big one-seven. What are you up to? Are you going to be out partying?’
‘Um, Trouble Every Day are playing at the Arts Centre. I’m going with my friend Shimmi.’
An all-ages local gig at the Arts Centre may not sound like the most amazing thing to be doing to celebrate my seventeenth birthday – but it’s my favourite band of all time, playing a small venue about ten minutes’ walk from my house and, even though it’s still a few weeks away, I could not be more excited.