All That Glitters (33 page)

There are 250 different types of bees in the UK. Over the following two minutes it sounds like they’re all trapped inside my phone.

Buzz.

Yes! I’m in! You’re THE BEST! X

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

No way! You rock! Xx

You legend! Bringing the whole footie team!

Epic! Can I invite the boys’ school? X

Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz.

And as replies start rolling in by their dozens – even from people I haven’t sent the message to – I put my still vibrating phone back in my pocket and stand up.

I know what it is I have to do.

I’m going to throw the partiest party the world has ever seen. It’ll be huge. Enormous. Prodigious, humongous, jumbo, bumper, almighty. A monstrous, princely, towering and stupendous party to end all parties.

And when it’s over, the old Harriet Manners will be gone forever and she won’t be coming back.

Because this isn’t a game any more or a fun chance to tick things off a list. It isn’t a way to distract me, or keep me busy, or help me forget the people I miss.

The glittering version isn’t just the life I’ve chosen any more.

It’s the only one I have left.

spend the rest of the weekend planning.

With Tabby perched on my lap, I spend three hours in Dad’s home-office: typing, formatting and printing out two hundred individual invitations on different-coloured paper.

Then I hand my sister back for health and safety reasons and spend another four hours carefully cutting all my invitations into cool shapes and drawing really relevant images all over them.

I make a dozen phone calls, compile six different planning lists and do a little shopping.

I even borrow some of the money I made on my Moroccan job from Annabel, on the strict understanding that I pay it all back just as soon as it comes through.

My stepmother is surprisingly on board, actually.

“A
party
?” she says, lurking in the door of the office as I start enthusiastically laminating all my various bits of paper. Everybody knows that a party isn’t official until all the invites are rendered completely waterproof. You just never know what’s going to get spilt on them, further down the line.

“Yes,” I say firmly, taking a warm piece of plastic out of the machine. “I need one, Annabel.”

Then I add one of the little gold stickers I normally save for myself when I get an A+ on an essay.

There’s a short silence.

“Would you like some help?”

I glance up at Annabel in surprise, and then at the bullet-pointed argument I carefully prepared for the moment I had to fight her on it. I’m starting to wonder if having a baby has relaxed my stepmother a little too much: she seems to have become alarmingly easy-going.

The moment she starts doing yoga, I’m calling the authorities and asking for some kind of brain scan.

“I think I need to do this on my own,” I say gratefully. “But thank you.”

Plus there’s always a risk she’ll make everyone sign some kind of legally binding contract before they get through the door, and that’s just not the look I’m going for.

In the meantime, Dad is bouncing around the house as if all two floors have become a trampoline overnight.

“I
love
parties. What’s the theme? Can we make it food-related so I can dress as an Italian chef and turn Tabby into a lobster and carry her around in a really big pot?”

I look at Annabel in alarm.

If my father so much as shows his face, my hard-earned new image is going to go up in flames. Especially if he’s wearing a fake moustache and pretending to boil my sister.

“No, Richard,” Annabel says firmly. “If Harriet needs us we’ll be on hand, but otherwise we’re staying very much out of it.”

Seriously: any minute now she’s going to tell me quinoa is pronounced
keen-wa
and start extolling the virtues of meditation.

“
So unfair
,” Dad says for the six billionth time. “Well if you change your mind, I’ve got the costume anyway. Harriet wore it fifteen years ago and made a very charming crustacean. She used to cry when we made her take it off.”

Which – now I’m thinking about it – explains more about my life than I’d like it to.

By the time I get to school on Monday morning, I’m pretty much ready. I don’t want to sound smug, but this is going to be the most awesome party anybody has ever seen in the history of social gatherings.

I’m even getting pretty excited about it myself.

And I’m not the only one.

“No
waaaay
,” Lydia and her little friends squeak as I hand them invitations, tucked into my latest
Giant Bathroom Reader
. “For
us
? We can come?
Really
? You’re the
best,
Harriet Manners!”

“
Amazing
!” Chloe beams at me, studying it carefully. “You’re so
adorable
!”

“
Ace
,” Eric and co grin as I hand them all shiny slips of plastic. “This is
so cool
of you, Retzer.”

(That’s my name now, by the way. Retzer. I sound like something you take when you’ve got a funny tummy.)

Liv takes one look at the invitation and immediately starts hyperventilating.

“Look! LooklooklookIcan’tbelieveitwhatamIgoingtowearthisisamazingI’mjusttotallygoingto
—
”

“
Olivia
,” India snaps, rolling her eyes. “Calm
down
or you’re going to pop something.”

“It’s just the best idea
ever
, Ret,” Ananya says, giving me a huge hug. “Is
everyone
coming? Will I know them all?”

I beam at her. “Hopefully! They all texted back straight away so it looks like it!”

Ananya and Liv both squeak.

“I’m going to take
loads
of photos,” Liv says, kissing my invite. “This is
so exciting
!”

Six hours of burning my fingertips on melting plastic were
totally
worth it.

Everyone
loves them. So much so, even I am a little surprised. The last time I saw my peers this excited about anything, we were six and Father Christmas took an impromptu assembly with three real-life reindeer.

I’m handing out invitations in form time and biology, maths and physics and chemistry. I stand outside French and English and history, even though I don’t take those classes. I do the rounds in the dining room at lunch, and construct a little booth in the common room at breaktimes.

The most important thing is I don’t leave anybody out.

Even if that means giving one to Alexa.

Then – slightly less courageously, because she’s still staring at me in silence – running away again.

Finally, when almost all my bits of laminated plastic are gone, I head to Toby’s form room. Despite still being cross with him, I’m kind of hoping he’ll get over it eventually. Hopefully by Friday evening: I spent extra time drawing on his invitation, and used all of my very best stickers.

“Thank you for this, Harriet Manners,” Toby says rigidly as I jump out from behind the door and thrust it in his face before he can spot me and run away again. Except he’s still not meeting my eyes and it’s impossible not to notice. “I’ll need to check first. I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be allowed.”

I nod sadly.

Then I glare daggers at Jasper from across the hallway until he blinks and looks away again.

By Wednesday morning, I can’t move a single step down a school corridor without being high-fived, hugged, kissed and affectionately pretend-punched on the top of my arms.

“Hey, Ret!” “Yo, Retty!” “Retzer! How’s it going?” “Looking
coooool
today, Retty-girl!”

And as the lower school starts to slowly fill up with sequins and bright scarves and red leather satchels, I realise in bewilderment that maybe I was right.

Maybe it really is this easy.

Because as I smile confidently and wave bravely – as I laugh riskily and high-five people carelessly back – it occurs to me that maybe I’ve finally found my Inner Star.

And it wasn’t as far away as I thought.

y Thursday afternoon,
Harriet’s party
is the only thing anyone can talk about.

My entire biology class has been moved outside to the netball courts while we wait for the two other classes to join us, and it’s raining hard. We’re all standing in the cold: huddled and shivering under little umbrellas.

But nobody seems to have even noticed.

Everyone is using the extra time to animatedly discuss their favourite parties over the years. Apparently there have been a plethora of imaginative themes, ranging from 80s Lycra to toga to Halloween, and they’ve all had varying degrees of success.

Which I wouldn’t know, obviously, because I wasn’t invited to any of them. I’m getting as involved as I can, but apparently Tudor regalia isn’t as cool as I thought it was, and neither is ‘Victorian Orphan’. ‘General home appliances’ isn’t cutting it either.

“But honestly, Ret,” Chloe says as we stand in a little group of girls. “I think your one on Friday is going to be better than
all
of them.”

“It’s
such
a cool idea. What made you think of it?”

I consider this carefully. “It’s just nice to share the things you love with other people, you know?”

“
Totally.
Oh my God, that is
so true
.”

“It’s
so
kind of you to share them with us.”

“
Girls
,” Mr Collins says as the second sixth form biology class walks out of the building to join us in the rain, “I’ve asked you to stand in silence, please.”

“So what should we wear? Something shiny, right?”

“The last party I went to I had this awesome bee costume with adorable antennas that wobbled when I danced.”

Huh. I didn’t know Attractive Animals was a socially acceptable dress theme.

In fact, I thought it was kind of illegal.

“Oooh,” I interject excitedly. “Research shows that bees use their right antenna to determine whether another bee is friend or foe. Did you use that to flirt with boys?”