Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings (3 page)

This is not as straightforward as it sounds. Harry’s bedroom is just down the stairs from mine (our house is very tall and keeps us all fit), but it is a shrine to his music and usually sounds as though it’s home
to a wild nightclub. I have to knock hard.

Harry’s practicing on his drum kit. When he’s not being a photographer, he plays in a band and mixes party playlists for people and occasionally DJs. He’s into jazz and retro-funk and French hip-hop. As I said—supercool. But it’s tough getting his attention over MC Solaar and the snare drum. Eventually, after the fourth bout of knocking, when my knuckles are really starting to hurt, he lets me in.

I tell him about the bazaar and he agrees to bring his camera. Edie’ll be pleased.

Then I play my usual game of Svetlana-spotting. Svetlana Russinova is a supermodel and is Harry’s latest love—apart from his girlfriend, Moaning Zoe, of course. Harry has a montage of Svetlana pictures above his bed. How Zoe puts up with it, I have no idea. Every time I go into Harry’s room, I spot new additions to the montage.

Today, Svetlana is advertising a handbag, a perfume, and a gold watch. She’s also wearing a VERY short dress and high heels for Mario Testino (I’m good at recognizing photographers—it’s a thing I can do). And practically nothing for Rankin.

Zoe, the girlfriend, is short, dark, and pierced. She’s partial to black leather, and not in a good way. Harry has a very teeny photo of her in an old frame on his bedside
table. She’s not wearing her glasses and she’s squinting a bit.

“What does Zoe think about that one?” I ask, pointing to the Rankin picture of Svetlana, where she’s lying on her tummy, doing a crossword, and appears to have given up on getting dressed after putting on some pink silk French panties.

“She hasn’t said,” Harry mutters.

I give him a knowing look. It means, “I’m no expert, but as far as I know, girls don’t appreciate their boyfriends admiring other girls’ bottoms.”

Harry merely shrugs. “It’s art,” he says.

Yeah right.

I bet Zoe saw it and thought, “What lovely French undies. I must get some.” NOT.

Chapter 4

S
aturday comes. Jenny is busy being primped and primed, waxed and fake-tanned, squeezed into her new, tummy-busting pair of Spanx and generally tortured into readiness for her red-carpet moment later on. Harry, Edie, and I are on our way to Notting Hill, the neighborhood where Crow’s school is holding its bazaar.

We all avoid the seats on the Tube and hang about near the doors. Various people check out my outfit. I dare them to say anything. Nobody does.

“So,” Harry says, giving Edie a friendly smile, “how’s the master plan going? Saved the world yet?”

“Not yet,” she answers, going slightly peach. She’s used to being teased by my brother about her plans for world domination, or “peace,” as she calls it.

When she first mentioned the whole United Nations idea, it sounded pretty cool to me.

“Like Angelina Jolie!”

“Angelina Jolie isn’t
in
the United Nations,” she told
me wearily. “She
represents
it sometimes. When she’s not acting in movies or adopting people.”

I get the idea Edie isn’t as impressed with Angelina Jolie as I am. And I’m not entirely sure what the difference is between being in something and representing it, but whatever it is, Edie wants to do more of it than
la
Jolie, possibly adopting fewer children in the process.

And whereas Angelina’s preparations included acting classes (I’m guessing), Edie’s include everything she can think of to impress Harvard University. For example: being top of the class in everything at school, running on the running team, debating with the debating team, playing in the chess club, setting up her own website to promote good causes, and volunteering. I think she had some spare time in grade school a few years ago, but I couldn’t be sure.

Usually I don’t get involved anymore. Edie despairs at my superficial life with its “unhealthy focus” on fashion magazines, customized clothing, and celebrity-watching. It seems pointless to point out to her that I don’t
choose
not to be top in everything and play championship chess; it’s something that
happens
to me. And the spare time I have left over from not doing extra-credit math and orchestra practice (she does that, too, I forgot) comes in handy for adapting T-shirts and
leggings and generally trying not to look like every other fourteen-year-old in London.

Today I’m in a floral halter-neck hot-pants romper combo that I threw together after school one evening. It’s supposed to have a sort of thirties tap-dancer vibe. It’s cool and comfortable, but I didn’t factor in having to go to the loo, which requires a major planning operation. Harry was very complimentary when I appeared in it this morning. Mum just laughed, but not necessarily in a good way. She’d love Edie’s outfit, which is powder blue and pretty and sensible and BORING.

I get a few more strange looks when we arrive at Crow’s school. The bazaar is being held on the soccer field, which is an odd description for a large expanse of concrete surrounded by high fencing, but today it’s decked out like a village fete, full of bunting and bustling, smiling people. There’s a huge banner along one wall of fencing that says:
WELCOME TO ST. CHRISTOPHER’S
and dozens of stalls scattered around, selling everything from old books to jewelry and homemade handbags.

Harry immediately whips out his camera and starts snapping away. Edie and I start looking for Crow’s stall. I quickly get distracted by some girls selling fabulous neon bangles, then a rather irresistible doughnut stand.
I realize it’s ages later when Edie tugs on my arm and pulls me along to the far corner of the playground, where the girl in the fairy wings is standing behind the smallest stall in the place.

She’s a funny sight. Her head appears much too large for her tiny body. Her face is round and her large lips look made to smile, but they always seem to be pursed in concentration. Her hair is a crazy seventies Afro, on which she has perched two crocheted caps today, side by side. They look great. Her skin is glistening and gorgeous and pimple-free. Jenny would be
sooo
jealous. From the neck up, she is soul-singer fabulous. From the shoulders down, though, she is like a bony child-bird. Except for her hands, which are beautiful. She has the longest, most graceful fingers I’ve ever seen.

The stall’s a bit of a mess. She has just one table and it’s scattered with colorful bits of cheap nylon fabric. She doesn’t look up when we get there. She’s got her notebook out and she’s busy sketching, as usual. If she expects to make a sale, she certainly doesn’t show it.

I pick up one of the scraps of fabric.

“How’s it going?” Edie asks.

Crow looks up with a scowl. Naomi Campbell on a bad day. She glances at Edie and shrugs. I’m guessing sales haven’t been fantastic so far.

“Oi! Fairy.”

A shout comes from behind us. I turn around to see three very pretty blonde teens in matching minis and open-necked shirts, arranged to show off their flat, tanned, bare midriffs and belly-button piercings. They’re all grinning across at Crow. Their stall is selling handbags made out of patchwork squares. Quite nice ones, actually. I feel disloyal for thinking it.

“Got a customer? Ooh, Fairy. Lucky girl! Going to make your fortune?”

They cackle with laughter, amazed at their own cleverness.

“Are they always like that?” asks Edie indignantly.

Crow shrugs again. Shrugging seems to be her major form of communication.

I’m indignant, too. I know how it must feel.

“Nice hats, Fairy!” They cackle again. Then one turns to the others and says very loudly, “D’you remember when she wore that gold cape? Proper little Wonder Woman she was, weren’t you, Fairy? Shame it got ruined in that nasty drain.”

They laugh hard, holding on to each other. I can imagine how the cape ended up in the “nasty drain.” Crow carries on drawing without any change in her
expression, though. It’s as if they’re not there. In fact, she seems to be annoying them far more than they’re annoying her.

However, by now, Edie and I are more annoyed than anyone.

Edie picks up one of the nylon things.

“How much is it?” she asks.

“Fifty p,” Crow almost whispers, hardly raising her eyes.

“I’ll take three,” Edie says loudly. “Nonie, how about you?”

“Oh, me, too,” I agree. “And one of these.”

There’s a raspberry-pink knitted thing peeking out from under all the nylon. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m happy to pay two pounds for it.

“And I’ll have one as well,” says a voice right behind me. It’s Harry. He seems relaxed enough, but I can tell from the way he’s breathing that he’s as annoyed as the rest of us.

Startled, Crow starts putting things in bags and collecting up our proffered coins.

“Actually, we’re from
Teen
magazine,” Edie adds after a moment’s thought, still keeping her voice up. “My friend here’s our stylist and this is one of our staff photographers. We love your stuff and we’d like to feature
you. Such a shame everything else today is so TRASHY. Here’s my card.”

She hands something across to Crow, which on inspection turns out to be her library card.

Then she turns on her heel and sweeps off, with me sweeping after her and Harry bringing up the rear, after running off a few shots of the stall for effect.

“Ooooh, Fairy!” we hear just before we head out of earshot. But it sounds like air coming out of a balloon. The blondies’ hearts don’t seem to be in it anymore. And Crow seems to be too busy examining the library card to notice.

Once we’re outside the playground, Harry throws his arms around Edie and hugs her.

“Well done! You could be Wonder Woman yourself, you know.” Then he laughs. “You’re shaking.”

She is. I can see it now. It must be a mixture of nerves and indignation.

“We have to DO something,” she splutters.

“I certainly owe her one,” Harry says. “I got another great picture out of it.”

He scrolls through the pictures on his camera and shows us the one he means. It’s of the blondies, all clustered together, looking gorgeous but positively evil.

“I’m going to call it ‘The Three Bitches.’ See?”

Edie nods wisely, then sees my dumb expression. “He means like the three witches.
Macbeth
. Get it?”

I sigh. It wouldn’t surprise me to know she’s read all the works of Shakespeare in between the Jane Austens.

“You can have these, by the way,” she adds, thrusting her bag of nylon things at me. “They’re more your style than mine.”

By which she means they’re more weird than wonderful, which is probably true. I can’t wait to get them home, though, to find out for sure.

Chapter 5

I
t’s late afternoon, and Edie and I are standing in Leicester Square, praying that the unsummery dark gray clouds that have suddenly appeared don’t actually spill their contents onto us until all the people in silk and stilettos have been safely shooed off the red carpet and into the cinema.

Leicester Square is THE place to go for movie premieres. It’s got three cinemas and enough places to buy ice cream and hamburgers to keep you going for a year. Normally it’s full of pigeons and tourists, but today it’s full of red ropes, red carpets, people with walkie-talkies, photographers, and us. It’s very buzzy and everyone seems to have their iPhones out, hoping to get a picture of a celebrity.

Most of the
Kid Code
stars have arrived and are milling around, posing for photographers and TV cameras. Other famous people and their children keep popping up, too, posing quickly and disappearing into the dark of
the cinema. They know it would be pointless to try and upstage Hollywood’s Sexiest Couple Alive, who are happily chatting to people near the ropes and pausing for TV interviews. So is Joe Yule. Briefly, I get a flash from those laser-green eyes. I actually go fluttery. Whatever he’s got, they should bottle it. I suppose that’s sort of what they’re doing.

Edie might as well be in chess club. She’s immune to HSCA and even, it appears, to Joe Drool.