Chapter Thirty-One

Bryony

Most Likely to Become Famous

This is one giant, colossal, cosmic joke. God is well and truly giving me the middle finger tonight, and I can just tell she s laughing as she does it.

I don t exactly have time to dwell on that, though, because after frantically flipping several more switches in the fuse box in blind panic, then finally toppling over and losing my balance on the spinny chair and, okay, yes , maybe Hayden was right because I totally would ve broken a bone if he hadn t been there to catch me, steady me, and help me down

Anyway, after all that mess, I don t have the capacity for anything else except racing to the school hall, where the dodgy sound of the old orchestra has abruptly stopped and people are looking around in a panic, phone torches flashing wildly. It d look like a cool disco if it weren t a total fucking disaster zone .

I snatch up the guest book and holler over the noise of a hundred and fifty adults who have suddenly forgotten what they re meant to do in the event of a fire alarm, like, maybe, I don t know, get the hell out of the building.

Honestly. Amateurs.

Where would they be without me?

Alright, everybody! I m going to need all of you outside! Exit through the boys cloakroom on the left as you leave the hall, no pushing, no shoving, no panicking . Orderly fashion - you got that? You re all grown-ups here; I don t want to see any messing about. Line up on the tarmac outside the new languages building. Out, out. Come on!

I clap my hands like I m chivvying along some puppies, and a few people nearby spring into action. I stand aside at the door to watch them go and make sure the hall is cleared out, shouting instructions to keep moving and remind them that there s no pushing, no running .

Talk about the icing on the cake My epic reunion night is a confirmed shambles. The power cut, sure, was not ideal, but there was some wiggle room. I could ve come back from that. I bet they were having a total hoot reuniting the old orchestra crowd and playing some live music; it would ve been such a cool, kitsch vibe, the kind you know is going to make a great story afterwards and that kind of makes up for the fact you might not totally be enjoying it in the moment.

But this? A fire drill ?

Yeah, I just don t know how I can come back from this one.

Spoiler alert: I can t. This is it. The end.

Roll credits.

The party to end all parties, just not in the way I hoped.

I let out a terse sigh, feeling like I ve just aged about fifty years in the last five minutes. I should ve just let Steph organise this bloody thing. She never had this kind of disaster happen at any of her parties.

One more failure to add to the tally.

Great job, Bryony. Great fucking job.

I seethe and sigh and wallow in my own self-pity while I automatically bark instructions for everybody to line up. I borrow a pen off Hayden (who, of course, just has a random pen in his pocket, like the nerd he is) and go down the line, ticking off names against the guestbook I made everybody sign. I dole out a few death-stares at the handful of people who admit to me that they did not, actually, um, maybe sign the guestbook.

Well, I snap, next time, you will.

I m almost down the line when Hayden taps me on the shoulder. Quite why he s taken it upon himself to trail along after me like some sad puppy or overly keen TA is beyond me. The fire alarm is still belting out its annoying two-tone melody behind us, setting my teeth on edge.

What? I shout at him. I am only shouting to be heard over the alarm, of course. Not because I m feeling especially bitchy towards him in that moment. Or because I think he s about to point out that I m doing it again, acting like the teacher I am, and everybody must be able to see it.

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, looking harried and awkward. He looks like he wants to run very far, very fast, in the opposite direction. Should I go take another look at that fuse box?

What?

Is he serious? He thinks now is the time to play boy genius and go mess around with some wires? What, would he like to detour via the DT rooms and collect a soldering iron and some crocodile clips, while he s at it? I decide to tell him all of this, very loudly and pointedly, because I m so done with everybody s bullshit tonight. Everybody pretending they re more than they are, when they re just not . Can t he see we re in crisis mode? This is not the time .

By all means! I yell, throwing my arms out. Go! Have fun living out one last grand hurrah as boy genius in your final moments - please , don t let me stop you! Or maybe you could accept the fact that you re a washed-up failure who never made it, pipe down , get in line like everybody else and let me do my job so you don t all burn to death, okay?

I am vaguely (or, you know, completely and very) aware of the fact that the chatter of the crowd dies down to listen to my tirade. I m also mildly (aka: agonisingly) conscious that people are whispering behind my back, and Hayden s face flushes red all the way to the tips of his ears.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, then readjusts them right back to where they were.

I just thought, you set the alarm off when you were messing with the fuse box. So, I could go back and fix that, and try to get the power back on, too. I m sure I ve retained enough of my boy genius knowledge to figure that much out - however washed up I currently am. There must be some perks of having your life stall when you re eighteen and never move on - right, B?

Oh, God.

@ me, next time, Hayden. I feel attacked.

I deserve it.

My own face must be burning. Probably enough to set off the fire alarm all over again, to be honest. But I swallow the lump in my throat (pride? Definitely pride, this time) and nod.

That, um. That s. Yeah. Thank you. That d be

I think, for a minute, Hayden s going to push it. He s going to drag it out, make me say it and suffer. But he just nods, ducks his head, and goes back into the school to fix what I broke.

I turn back to the crowd of people who, less than an hour ago, thought so much of me. They were hanging off my every word, looking up to me, admiring me , exactly as I expected them to. I was the belle of the ball; now, in a stunning plot twist, I ve just undergone a magical transformation before their very eyes into the beast instead.

Which is, you know. Great. Super fantastic stuff.

Exactly the kind of gossip I want them to take away about me.

I carry on with the rest of my list from the guestbook, double-checking the pages with their little Biro ticks next to each name. I tick off Morgan and Thea and Priya and their spouses, and I tick off Steph s new beau, Curtis, and my heart stutters to a halt.

Because - she s not here. And now that I think about it, I haven t seen her in ages.

And

I flip a few pages ahead in the guestbook, where I know I ticked off Josh and Hassan and whatsherface with the long legs and good makeup, Aisha. And he s not here either.

I look up at everybody, eyes scanning frantically, and they re all silent, waiting.

And shit, shit, shit. This is like last year s trip to the West End all over again; I ve lost a kid.

Not just one, this time.

Dread thick in my throat, I call out, Has anybody seen Steph and Shaun?