Destiny Date (7 page)

‘Wait.’ Treacle grabs my hand. ‘What were you going to tell me?’

‘Nothing important,’ I lie.

Treacle frowns. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure.’

Ben starts kicking the bottom of my door. ‘Gem-
ma
,’ he whines.

‘Go and get into bed and I’ll be there in a minute.’

He races down the hall. ‘I’m timing you.’

I roll my eyes at Treacle. ‘He’ll be counting elephants.’

He starts chanting in his room. ‘One elephant, two elephants, three elephants . . .’

I pick up Treacle’s bag. She’d been so busy daydreaming she hadn’t even unzipped it. ‘You’d better go before he gets to sixty or he’ll never go to
sleep.’

Treacle hugs me. ‘See you tomorrow, Gem.’ She pauses to give me a look and I know she’s worrying about me.

‘I’m OK, honest,’ I tell her.

As she thumps downstairs, I head for Ben’s room.

‘Fifteen elephants!’ Ben exclaims as I sit on his bed. He’s tucked under the duvet. ‘That’s a record!’

I reach for one of the books piled on his bedside table.

‘No!’ he shouts. ‘Make one up. A superhero story.’

I grin. This is more fun than an English essay. I snuggle in beside him. ‘There was once a superhero called Elastic Ben.’

‘Is that me?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s my superpower?’ Ben tugs his duvet up and peers over the top with round, dark eyes.

‘Guess,’ I prompt.

‘I’m elastic.’

‘Super-elastic.’ I nod. ‘One day, Elastic Ben was lounging around in his superhero apartment.’

‘Superheroes don’t have apartments,’ Ben argues.

‘Yes they do. They have big penthouse apartments with great views over Central Park.’

‘Is that in New York?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘It’s where Elastic Ben lives with his sister, the Gemmanator.’

‘What’s her super power?’ Ben asks.

‘She’s super-strong and not scared of anything.’ I steal a pillow and make myself more comfortable. ‘One day, Elastic Ben was having fun hanging off the top-floor
balcony. Using his super-elastic powers, he can stretch all the way down to the pavement so he’s as tall as the building.’

‘That’d be fun.’ Ben sounds impressed. ‘Can I ping myself into the air like an elastic band?’

‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘And bounce like a rubber ball.’

‘What happens next?’

‘Suddenly . . .’ I pause for effect.

Ben’s eyes widen. ‘What?’

‘The people in the streets start freezing like they’ve been zapped with some sort of ice-spray. They’re just stuck to the spot. Everything in the city grinds to a
halt.’

‘What about Elastic Ben?’

‘He springs up onto the balcony and rushes inside the apartment shouting: “Gemmanator! Everything’s stopped!” Elastic Ben searches the apartment, but he can’t see
his sister anywhere.’

‘Has she frozen too?’ Ben fidgets under the duvet.

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s upstairs in the super-secret rooftop cabin, scanning the city with her X-ray monitor.’ I’m totally in superhero world now. ‘Ben spots the ladder to the cabin
and springs up it.’

‘Can Gemma see what’s wrong in the X-rays?’ Ben gasps.

‘She can see a tall creature, as high as the Chrysler Building, stomping towards the city. The Gemmanator and Elastic Ben rush onto the rooftop. Across the tops of the skyscrapers, they
see the giant creature. It’s a giant Barbie doll and ice-rays are shooting from its eyes and freezing everything they touch.’

‘Where did it come from?’ Ben asks excitedly.

‘Outer space. It’s Cindytron, the evil queen of a heartless alien race of killer dolls who want to turn the whole galaxy to ice.’

‘Let’s destroy her!’ Ben whoops.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ I warn him. ‘One touch from that freezing stare and Elastic Ben and the Gemmanator will be ice pops.’

‘What do they do?’

‘The Gemmanator races down from the secret rooftop room and grabs her handbag.’

‘Superheroes don’t have handbags.’

‘The Gemmanator does.’ I’m on a roll, despite the interruptions. ‘Elastic Ben dangles from the balcony. The Gemmanator swings her handbag over her shoulder and climbs on
his back. Then Elastic Ben reaches down to the pavement with his feet and lets go. With a twang, they’re at street level and running along the pavement. Elastic Ben takes giant steps, thanks
to his elastic legs. The Gemmanator hangs on as they dodge between frozen people.

‘As they race round a corner, a freeze-beam turns the pavement to ice in front of them. Elastic Ben jumps, springing over the freeze-beam, and ducks behind a car. Cindytron is towering
over them, taller than the Empire State Building. Her ice-cold eyes flash as she scans the street to find them.

‘“Lift me up to her head,” the Gemmanator orders. Elastic Ben stretches, fast as light, until he’s as tall as Cindytron. The Gemmanator leaps onto Cindytron’s
shoulders as Elastic Ben snaps to teeny size and shelters under a frozen dog. Cindytron turns, confused. She can feel something climbing up her hair. It’s the Gemmanator!’

Ben grips his duvet. ‘Go, Gemmanator!’

‘The Gemmanator struggles to climb up Cindytron’s super-slippy hair, but she makes it. She dangles off Cindytron’s perfectly straight fringe and slides her pocket mirror from
her handbag. As Cindytron raises her gaze, the Gemmanator holds out the mirror. It reflects the ice-beams back into Cindytron’s eyes.

‘Cindytron screams and staggers. The Gemmanator loses her grip and falls. She hurtles towards the ground so fast she’ll be jam in two seconds. But Elastic Ben stretches right over
the street like a trampoline and the Gemmanator lands on him with a bounce. She climbs onto the pavement and Elastic Ben snaps back to normal size. Meanwhile, Cindytron is staggering, as she turns
to ice, frozen by her own ice-beams. Her giant body cracks with a loud splintering noise. Elastic Ben and the Gemmanator duck behind a postbox just in time. With a scream, Cindytron shatters into a
zillion pieces, which shower to the ground like hailstones.’

‘What about the frozen people?’ Ben asks.

‘As soon as Cindytron shatters, the people and cars start to unfreeze.’

Ben grins. ‘We saved everyone!’

‘Yes, we did.’ I tuck his pillow back under his head. ‘We’re invincible.’

He yawns.

‘Come on.’ I coax him deeper under his duvet and tuck it round him. ‘It’s time to go to sleep.’

He snuggles onto his side. ‘Will you tell me another story tomorrow?’ he asks drowsily.

‘Of course,’ I promise.

He closes his eyes and I push his hair away from his cheek. ‘Night, night, Ben.’ As I lean down and kiss him, his breathing has already softened towards sleep. I switch off the light
beside his bed.

I can’t believe I’ve been stressing about Sam and Cindy so much. I’ve forgotten the important stuff; Ben’s cystic fibrosis means our family is always on edge, scared
every time Ben coughs or sneezes. He gets infections easily and, when they come, they could kill him. But he’s well at the moment. He hasn’t had a chest infection for months. And
he’s grown a centimetre taller since Easter.

I pause in the doorway and watch Ben, still and small in his bed. Love rushes through me, fierce and protective, and I vow to take care of him always.

I’m going to stop obsessing over Sam. It’s Ben, my family and my friends that really matter.

It’s raining as I pull the front door shut behind me. I pause on the doorstep.

My hair!

I’ve been up since five am subduing my wild curls into elegant corkscrews. Rain will frizz it.

I pop open my umbrella, zip my mac and pull up the hood. My watch reads 6.37. The bus will be reaching my stop any minute.

I head up the drive, fighting back nerves. A trip to a fashion show is meant to be fun, but with Cindy and Mr Harris as escorts, I’m having trouble whipping up any excitement.

I wish I felt more confident about the way I look. Savannah persuaded me to borrow her micro-mini in an attempt to pimp my school uniform. It looked OK in front of her bedroom mirror. Now, even
with thick black tights, it feels like I’ve forgotten to finish getting dressed.

As I reach the pavement, the wind starts tugging my umbrella. I fight to keep it over my head and don’t notice the sound of the bus until it’s too late. It swooshes past me, throwing
up spray, and sails past my stop.

Panic flares in my chest. I’ll be late. I break into a run, struggling to keep my brolly pointed into the blustery rain. I don’t see the dog-walker heading towards me. Her lead snags
my legs like a tripwire. With a yelp, I tumble onto the soggy grass verge. Pain sears through my leg as a stone digs into my knee. I sit up, fighting the urge to cry.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

The dog-walker’s an old lady and she’s leaning over me, looking anxious, while her drenched dog snuffles my face.

‘I’m fine.’ I breathe deeply, waiting for the pain to ease. When it does, I elbow the dog away and check for dam age. My knee’s not bleeding, but my tights are
shredded.

‘Come on, dear.’ The dog-walker heaves my elbow and I struggle to my feet. She picks up my brolly and hands it to me apologetically. It’s origamied into a flapping mess of
steel rods and nylon.

I check my watch: 6.45. ‘I’m late,’ I tell her and limp along the road. As I reach a litter bin, I shove my brolly in.

Rain batters my face. A strand of hair escapes and sticks to my cheek. I prod it back, but more pokes out, fighting my hood like snakes in a bag. Rattled and anxious, I break into a run.

Thank goodness for flat shoes.

I’m at the gates in twenty minutes and streak across the wet playground to the shelter of the front entrance.

Cindy is pacing at the top of the step. ‘You’re late,’ she snaps.

I check my watch: 7.05. ‘I missed my bus,’ I apologize.

Cindy stops and looks at me. Her face seems to flip. Horror flashes in her eyes. ‘You do know that Anna De Vine will be there?’

‘Anna De Vine?’ I stare back blankly. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Anna
De Vine
!’ Cindy says it louder in case that will help me understand. ‘She’s fashion critic for
Icon
magazine.
How
have you not heard of
her?’

I decide not to tell Cindy I’ve never heard of
Icon
either.

Cindy clasps her forehead. ‘You . . . You . . .’ She’s struggling for words, looking me up and down like I’ve arrived in a clown costume. ‘What on earth do you
look
like?’

‘I don’t know!’ Panic floods me. I glimpse myself in the glass panels of the front doors, but they’re streaked with rain and all I see is the wobbly outline of a drenched
schoolgirl.

My reflection disappears as the door swings open and Mr Harris strides out. ‘Ready, girls?’

He doesn’t comment on my appearance. Perhaps Cindy is overreacting. I follow her and Mr Harris through the puddles to his car. His back seat is covered in newspapers and dog hairs.

‘Do you mind if I sit in the front, Gem?’ Cindy looks at me, but her sugary smile is aimed at Mr Harris. ‘I get car sick.’

I’m used to the back seat. In fact, I’m happy to have it to myself. ‘No problem.’ I mirror Cindy’s smile through the hammering rain.

Mr Harris unlocks the doors and I clamber in, pushing the papers aside and settling back against the soft leather. Cindy fidgets, adjusting her seat until it jams against my knees.

‘Sorry, Gem.’ She flips down the sun visor and checks her eye make-up in the mirror. Smoothing her lashes with a finger, she ignores me as I struggle to free my legs. They’re
squished in the footwell and I lose a shoe as I tug them free. Curling them onto the seat beside me, I reach for my shoe. It’s soggy and I put it to dry with the other one on the parcel shelf
while I struggle out of my dripping mac.

‘What are you doing back there?’ Cindy snaps.

‘Trying to get my wet things off.’ I push my mac into the other footwell and fasten my seat belt.

‘Not much of a day for July.’ Mr Harris starts the engine and backs out of his parking space. His windscreen wipers flap noisily back and forth. ‘You look damp.’

It’s the understatement of the year. Water’s dripping from my hair and soaking into my blazer.

We pull onto the dual carriageway. Cindy takes her phone from her bag and reads from the screen. ‘It’s sunny in London.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Mr Harris answers as a lorry thunders past us, spraying water over the windscreen.

She’s right. By eight o’clock, we’re sailing down the motorway under blue skies. I crack open a window. Wind tugs my hair. I touch it hopefully. Perhaps the gel will hold as it
dries.

Cindy’s phone beeps as she taps out a text. She’s been texting since we hit the motorway. She laughs suddenly. ‘Sam is
so
funny,’ she announces
unnecessarily.

When no one replies, she adds, ‘I mean, he’s
really
funny.’

Mr Harris takes the bait. ‘Sam Baynham?’

‘Yes,’ Cindy giggles. ‘He’s our music critic.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Harris remembers. He calls over his shoulder. ‘Gemma? Are you all right back there?’

‘Yes,’ I assure him as I quietly morph into Coco the Clown. I wriggle along the seat so I can peek at my hair in the rear-view mirror.