Chapter Twenty-One

Bryony

Most Likely to Become Famous

Okay! Okay, this is fine. This is totally, absolutely, completely fine .

Except, it s fucking not , because the music stops right in the middle of the Macarena and the lights cut out and a few people shriek and some of them yell out and there s a power cut and shit , shit , shit .

I lunge out of my spot on the dance floor where I ve been front and centre wiggling away, and hoist myself up onto the stage. It s a clumsy manoeuvre because I misjudge just how high the stage is, so I flop onto my belly with one leg dangling down, but I make a quick recovery, bouncing up onto my feet.

My little battery-powered strobe lights carry on flashing, and, honestly, thank God for me and my party supplies, I truly am the real MVP here. Steph O Connell could never. The colourful beams cast the school hall into an eerie glow, bouncing off people s faces in blues and pinks. Without the overhead lights on, it looks like some kind of retro nightclub from up here. If the music had carried on, I think I could ve convinced them it was all part of my master plan to give them the most epic, lit reunion they ever dreamed of.

Except, you know, it s a fucking power cut .

The exact opposite of lit , damn it.

Faced with a hall full of shouty voices and the tang of panic and disarray in the air, a sea of shocked and concerned faces swimming before me, something steady and calm settles in the pit of my stomach. This feels - familiar. Instinct takes over from years of wrangling rowdy teenagers into line.

I clap my hands three times and shout, Hands down, eyes up, everyone!

And they do. They listen. My old classmates turn almost as one, silence descending as I become the sole focus of their attention.

Alright, no reason to panic! It s just a little power cut. We probably tripped a fuse with too much fun, huh? I ll get this sorted ASAP. Maybe someone can set their phone up to carry on playing some music I look around, squinting against the flashes of rainbow lights and, damn it, where s Shaun when you need him? He was always great at being DJ at house parties, always picked up on the mood perfectly. I jab a finger at Hiro, since he s one of the more tame rugby lads, and he salutes me.

No problem, Bryony, I ve got you.

So long as you promise to do us your best rendition of Bet On It , you wannabe Troy Bolton, I say, and there s a peal of laughter as everyone remembers his old YouTube video he posted, recreating the moment on the rugby field one time. I shout to a few other people - including Roisin, Morgan and, damn it, where s Ryan? He d better not be drawing a penis on a whiteboard somewhere. You guys are in charge while I fix this, okay? Make sure nobody goes wandering off. That s the last thing we need right now, especially if I can t get the power back up.

They agree, and I see them slip into their old roles as prefects, ready to monitor their peers and lay down the law if required. Hiro starts playing some music; it sounds kind of tinny and pathetic coming from his phone, but people cheer and I feel their spirits lift, shaking off the jolt of panic that hit when the lights went out.

I clap my hands once more, then strike a pose to set the mood. Party s still raging on, folks! Don t have too much fun without me!

I climb back down from the stage - much more gracefully, this time - and smooth my jumpsuit out. Then I turn on my phone torch, leave everybody singing along to Never Gonna Give You Up and make my way towards the doors at the other end of the hall.

The corridor is pitch black, but for the spooky shadows thrown out by stray beams of colour coming from the lights in the hall, and a shiver rolls down my spine. I clutch my phone a bit tighter. Without the buzzing of lights overhead and the noise of the music, or the general hubbub of a school day, I can hear the floorboards groaning as they settle and pipes creaking inside the walls, and it s straight out of a horror movie. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and my heart begins to race.

What if it s not an accident? I suddenly wonder. What if this was sabotage? Someone cut the power; they re out to get us all. Or maybe just me? They knew I d go out on my own because I m the only one who knows where the fuse box is, and

Which, like, maybe , I watch too many true crime documentaries. But these things happen, right?

Oh, God, is this it? Is this my penance for lying so spectacularly? Someone has found me out and decided to make me pay - decided that I will live on forever in infamy, when I am plastered all over the front page of the papers having been brutally murdered at a school reunion? Someone is going to jump out from one of those black, empty hallways and slash my throat, or-

A hand closes on my shoulder and I shriek. Shriek. Loud enough to shatter glass. A high G I never could hit on the stage.

My right arm swings out and someone ducks away from the hand I ve fisted around my phone. It clatters to the floor and I think I black out for a second, but it s hard to tell when everything is already pitch black. My heart seizes. It feels like I ve just been kicked in the chest and I m going to be the world s easiest target for the School Reunion Slasher, because all I do is double over and clutch my knees, trying to get my breath back.

My would-be attacker bends to pick up my phone and it illuminates a tall, skinny frame, a spray of ginger hair and a pale, awkward face.

Sorry, Hayden says gently, and holds my phone back towards me. He sways a little, his eyes still that glassy drunk from the last time I saw him. I didn t mean to startle you, B. Just thought you might want some help. I er - well, you know me. I know my way around a soldering iron, ha-ha.

I shove weakly at Hayden s stomach, all I can reach of him where I m keeled over, and my legs turn into jelly as the adrenaline rush of almost being murdered recedes.

You dick, I gasp out, but can t quite find it in me to scowl at him as I right myself. I thought you were some creeper lurking around the corridors with a hatchet or something.

A hatchet? Really? That s what you re going with?

I ignore him and finally snatch my phone back. I notice his own is out, the torch on too, casting some extra light around the hallway.

I don t need your help, I tell him.

Well, then, consider me a buffer from the hatchet-wielding menace you re sure is after you. He gives me a wide, sloppy sort of grin that s so unlike him, and salutes.

Hilarious, I mutter, but - honestly, was Hayden always this funny? Did he always have that dry, deadpan kind of humour, or did we just never notice it?

He gives me a patient look, undeterred and unoffended. Look, there s not a lot I can really contribute to the party atmosphere, but I can probably help with this. Least I can do. Plus, you d be doing me a favour, letting me tag along.

Oh yeah?

He nods and doesn t expand, so I narrow my eyes at him in the most melodramatically haughty and suspicious way I can, then toss my hair. Slipping back into my role, shaking off the heebie-jeebies. If this is a spooky episode in my life, then I am Daphne. Fabulous and unfaltering. Hayden can be Scooby-Doo if he wants, I guess.

Alright, I tell him, very magnanimously. You can come along.

He falls into step beside me with long, loping strides to match my brisk pace. The sooner I get this sorted, the less of a shitshow it threatens to become. I will not have this party fail on my watch, and God, how humiliating if I had to call it a night early. How quickly will the appeal of sing-alongs to a few cheesy hits from one guy s phone wear off? Everyone will get bored sooner or later, the vibe will be well and truly killed, and everybody will leave, and it will ruin the whole thing.

That s not how I want people to remember tonight.

Or me. Mostly me.

We get to the caretaker s office where I know the fuse box will be, but when Hayden jiggles the handle, it s locked. He looks at me like I have the answers.

Which I do, and before I can second-guess myself, I m blurting, There s a spare key in the staffroom.

He blinks, which feels like a question.

He says, Won t that be locked, too? Only I know that s not the question he was really just about to ask and my adrenaline spikes all over again. Goddamn Scooby-Doo over here, solving mysteries. And I would ve gotten away with it, too

I wonder if, without the music leaking down the corridors from the hall, he can hear how ferociously my heart is pounding. It roars in my ears like applause and my chest tightens the way it does when my cue is approaching. Time for the performance of a lifetime, Bryony. My bracelet snags on a loose thread on my jumpsuit and I yank it free to gesture widely, emphatically, casually.

You know what? Why don t you head back to the hall. I think there might be a fuse box behind the stage; you could look at that. I ll take care of this. It s no big.

Hayden s brow furrows and he bumps his glasses up his nose a little. He s got that look brewing, the haywire one. It used to be funny; now, it just spells trouble. Capital T .

He s going to figure it out, he s going to know and he s going to tell people, and he ll tell Ashleigh and she ll tell Steph and Steph will tell Shaun and all their friends will know and then everyone will know and

Seriously. I start pushing him away, chivvying him back towards the hall. You look backstage, okay? I ll - I ll break in! They ll totally understand; it s all good. I wouldn t want to get you in trouble, though. I ve got this. Promise.

But-

You know what, I bet the staffroom s not even locked! And it s just going to be a tripped fuse anyway, right? So it s an easy fix! If it s not, we better not mess with it anyway, in case we break it even worse. You go on back, Hayden - it s fine.

Even in the wake of my delusions of grandeur I ve played into so much tonight - for years - even I can tell how try-hard and fake I sound. I could not be making it more obvious I m hiding something. Even I wouldn t give me a callback for this role.

Hayden doesn t budge, but just says very gently, Which way is your classroom, B? Drama department?

And, shit.

There goes the lie. The beautiful dream of who I used to be.

It s too late to mourn it, when that dream died almost a decade ago, but it snuffs out some flicker of hope in the pit of my chest I ve been clinging to all this time, and I suddenly feel so cold and weary. My shoulders slump, the gusto and gumption vanishing from my bones in one long, heavy exhale, and I can t meet Hayden s eyes.

How many times did I pooh-pooh his dorky interests, or giggle when someone made a joke at his expense? How many times did I overlook him because he was too quiet, too uncool? I bet he s loving seeing me laid low like this. I would, in his shoes.

Yeah, I mumble, folding my arms around myself. Drama department.

Hayden nods once, and leads the way. And I don t know what else to do except trudge after him, the fragments of my glory days falling away from me in a trail of sequins, left glittering and crushed on the floor behind me.