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  “It’s two bob to get in, for the drinks and crisps. And the caretaker, of course, Bert will be here soon. Mrs Bassett has kindly come along to add a woman’s touch, look after you girls and everything.”

  Mrs Bassett comes out of the kitchen. Wipes her hands on a flowery apron. Like Marilyn’s mum. Smells of old tea and cigarette smoke. Gross. The whole hall smells of cigarette smoke, with a hint of overcooked cabbage somewhere.

  We all file in. The vicar takes our money. Everyone’s unbelievably quiet. Boys spread out over the chairs. Metal. With canvas seats and backs. Faded green. They clank them together into piles and drag them off to the side of the hall. Now there’s a huge space in the middle. It’s getting dark outside now. Bare lights are on. Dead bright. Stage at the front. Ancient red velvet curtains. Faded into stripes. Can’t believe this. Where are the spots? Stacks of speakers?

  Where’s the bar?

  Sheila and I stand by the wall with the other girls. Eyeing the boys. A few more creep in. They cling to the other wall. Look at their feet. Or talk. Laugh. Acres of floor space between us and them. So weird.

  “There’s Tony, that one who asked you out. Look, he’s taken off his glasses.”

  None of the boys are wearing glasses. Couldn’t see them properly if they were. Haven’t got Marilyn’s on. Not sure where they are, now I think about it.

  Maybe I’ve lost them.

  I don’t know any of these people. It’s so complicated. Being in someone else’s body.

  “And there’s Alan, talking to him. He’s not bad, is he?”

  “Yeah.” What else can I say? Wouldn’t look at any of them if I passed them on the street. I take a look at Alan. He’s taller than most, but his hair looks as if it’s been painted on. And zilch style.

  The vicar fights his way through the curtains on the stage. Rubs his hands again. Like some nervous tic.

  “I’ll say a quick prayer, then it’s on with the music!” Flab wanders round his body. As if it belongs to some alien creature wrapped around him. He puts his hands together. Surprised he can reach over the stomach.

  Everyone goes quiet. A few people put their hands together. Sheila bows her head. The vicar mutters something. Stops and claps his hands. Ripples down his front.

  “Now then, boys and girls, you enjoy yourselves, remember we’re here to make sure nothing – untoward – happens. We’ll bring out the squash and crisps in a while. And after the break – competitions!”

  There’s almost a groan. Then a scatter of clapping.

  Vicar levers himself down the steps off the stage. He goes to an ancient record player on a table at the front of the hall. Puts a stack of records on the player. Turns it on. Music comes out. If you can call it music.

  Nobody moves. Boys stand on their side, leaning on the wall. Girls on ours. Looks are flashed across the divide. The boys flash looks back. Kick their shoes. Pick their noses. Talk.

  One boy stands out. He’s thin. Longer hair. Taller than the rest. Maybe older too. Slouches in the corner. Doesn’t talk to the others. Looks at the girls. Up and down. Like he’s making an assessment. I know his type. Unhappy childhood. Violent father. Could have been in care. Mum would have a ball. Her type. He’s wearing a black top and jeans. Nothing like the others. Nobody’s talking to him. Got their backs to him. Like they don’t want him here.

  The vicar walks across the empty space. Right up to him. Don’t know what he’s saying. Music fights its way out of the speakers. Tinny fuzz. Kind of the vicar to talk to the one who’s left out.

  Whatever he says doesn’t work. The guy turns his back. Walks out. Leaves the vicar gaping like a fish.

  Now this is interesting.

  It was dark by the time Marilyn and Kyle got to town, but the street lights were bright, and all the shop windows were lit up. They took their time, walking, telling stories and laughing. Marilyn drew on the little time she’d spent with Kyle to piece things together. She knew how to be kind. She knew how it was to be rejected and abandoned. Even if Kyle’s mum hadn’t exactly abandoned him, it came to the same thing.

  He told her stories about his mum, how funny she was, never sad when she had grown thin and her hair had fallen out. How she had shaved her hair off herself so she would be in control of it going. How it began to grow back wispy and fair, like bum-fluff, he said, before she began to get sicker and sicker, and eventually all he could do was sit by her bed and hold her hand. He’d missed college for ages, so hewas doing his A’s all over again. That’s how he met Holly, on her first day.

  As they got to the High Street, light from the bars was spilling out onto the crowds of people huddled outside smoking. The music of one bar overlay the next, like moving through a noisy fairground. Kyle knew plenty of people and they stayed for a while chatting, looking at each other, taking photos on their mobiles. She watched them do it. How could a phone be a camera too? They were sending the photos off to people Marilyn had never met, who were apparently their friends. They took a photo of themselves, Kyle stretching out a long arm to gather both their faces in the frame, leaning his face in to hers. They looked at the result in the little screen. It was like the photo on the mirror frame. There was nothing to show that it was Marilyn, not Holly, inthe picture. Except the thin gold chain with a cross hanging round her neck. The people all seemed really nice and friendly. Marilyn did her best to say the right things. But everyone seemed to be expecting Kyle to do most of the talking. It was like Holly’s closeness to Kyle was a connection she kept just for him. People liked Holly though. Marilyn could see that.

  At eleven o’clock they were on a busy corner, by a tall building covered in banners advertising events on different nights of the week. Mosh, it was called, but Marilyn didn’t dare ask Kyle what it meant, if it meant anything at all. A huge man dressed in black stood at the door, watching everyone who came in. He looked like a boxer, or a wrestler, he must have been over six foot six tall. There was an old scar on his right cheek. Kyle drank the last of the drink from the bottle.

  “It’s a new guy. Remember, don’t look him in the eye, just act like you’re always coming in here and talk to me. Or they’ll start asking questions.”

  “We’re not supposed to go in?”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “I haven’t got my ID.”

  Marilyn wanted to ask what would happen if they were found out. They were already almost through the door. Kyle pulled her close to him. The huge man hardly glanced at them. They paid at the booth and nobody there looked at them either. Kyle grasped Marilyn’s hand and turned for the huge double doors behind them in the little foyer.

  Inside everywhere was painted black. The walls and the ceiling. The bar. Even the floor was black.There was one dim light on the wall. There were no windows. It was like entering a dark dungeon. The music was already pulsing through Marilyn’s body. She’d never experienced anything like that. It felt dangerous, exciting. The music was so loud that they had to shout. The array of drinks behind the bar caught her eye. The shelves were lit up and on them were rows and rows of bottles, most of them brightly coloured. There were yellows, greens, pinks and even a blue drink. It was like something out of a crazy chemistry experiment. Marilyn wondered what on earth could be in those bottles.

  Kyle steered Marilyn further in.

  “We’ll see how the ground floor’s doing. Can’t stand the Indie.”

  She was feeling light-headed from the music, and from her small share of the bottle. Kyle had drunk two more. They headed further in, to a dark corner with high stools and tables, and a place to dance with coloured lights in the ceiling flashing to themusic. The wall here was covered in black and white wallpaper with photos all over it.

  This was nothing like her youth club. And there were no old people, anywhere, no adults at all.

  “It’s not started yet,” said Kyle. A few people were leaning on the railings by the dance floor, looking self-conscious. The girls had hair like Holly’s but their clothes were all different. The b
oys looked much like Kyle.

  “Let’s go over there,” said Marilyn, heading towards a corner between the seating area and the dance floor where they could see everyone who came in. There was no sign of Saleem. But, as Kyle said, it was early, in this world at least.

  Then a big group of people came in together, scattering over the room like birds on a field. They were all about her age. They looked in a good mood and ready for a great time. Scanning the faces, Marilyn saw Saleem at the centre of one group, heading for the bar. He hadn’t seen Marilyn. He was talking with a girl much shorter than him, looking down at her and smiling.

  “Let’s go to the toilets,” Sheila says. Any excuse to get outside. We sidle up the line of girls. Helloing and laughing and all that. We follow the guy out of the door. Sheila’s looking to see if Alan’s noticed her. He looks like he’s pretending he hasn’t.

  There’s no sign of the guy by the toilet block. Stinks inside. Have a pee. Hard toilet paper. Dirty sink. I wash my hands. Nowhere to dry them. Run them through my hair. Looks rubbish. Don’t they have hair stylists? Sheila goes off.

  “I’ll get some air,” I say. Can’t go back in yet.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, you go in.”

  I have a look round outside. He’s over by this cool motorbike. Dead shiny. He’s smoking. He gives me a long look. Shivers up my spine. Then right back down again. I step towards him.

  I can see him clearly now. Blue eyes. My favourite. Looks kind of haunted.

  There’s a scuffle behind me. Sheila grabs my arm. Hisses in my ear.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get back in.”

  I let her drag me off. Give the guy a long look of my own. Turn to Sheila. She’s red in the face.

  “What are you doing with him? That Dave Richards is trouble, you know that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must know about Daphne, in the fourth year. She fell for his line. Her dad went mad and threatened to kill him if he didn’t marry her.”

  “What, just because they…?”

  “Because he got her pregnant, and who knows what else besides. That Dave Richards laughed in his face. ‘Prove it,’ he said. ‘Prove I’m the father. I’m not marrying on your say so. I’ll marry when I’m ready.’”

  “He’s fit.”

  He’s still watching us. He throws down the cigarette. Squashes it under his foot.

  “Of course he’s fit. He works on the railways. Or he did.”

  She pulls me inside.

  Fit doesn’t seem to mean fit.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Marilyn, but you’re my best friend, and I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

  "Thanks.”

  Only being kind. Suffocating me. But she’s my lifeline.

  “You getting broody or something? You’d better get after that Tony. Leave Dave Richards alone. Do you think Alan has noticed me? Look, he’s at the end there, next to Tony.”

  I squint my eyes. Tony. Short. Stubby. Dork. Then Alan. Taller. Better body. Longer hair. At least three centimetres. The line of boys is still there. Two girls dance round their handbags, close to the line of girls. They seem to be doing the same thing. Self consciously. Like they practice at home.

  Eyes swivel towards us. Sheila keeps well in. Close to the row of girls. Like there are sharks out in the middle. But I step out into the space. Enjoying every moment of the attention. Doesn’t matter that I’m in the wrong time, the wrong body. I know the rules of this game. I can play it.

  The space in the middle of the hall begins to fill up. I walk towards the stage and begin to dance. Slowly. Alone. The dance Kyle calls sex goddess. Not that he’d care. Not his scene. Where are you, Kyle?

  “Marilyn,” hisses Sheila. Desperate. She comes to join me. Dances. She seems to be grinding her feet on the floor. Scrubbing her back with a towel. It looks grotesque. Then I see. Everyone else is doing the same thing. Grind. Scrub. Grind. Scrub. And I mean exactly the same. Like clones. It’s spooky. Sheila positions herself so Alan can’t help but see her. I keep my back to them all. Aware that I’m being watched. I find myself beginning to dance a little like the others. I can’t help it.

  “Do you want to dance?” A thin male voice behind me. In my ear. I turn to see the boy Sheila pointed out. The one who asked Marilyn out. Tony. Up close, he’s got awesome acne. His eyes are too close together. Needs to pluck his eyebrows and have a facial. He’s smiling like someone trod on his toe. Looks like there’s a boil on his shiny forehead. Sweating. Armpits.

  Gross.

  Do I want to dance? Can’t he see I’m dancing already? Do I need his permission or something? Want to turn him down. But I’m here for Marilyn’s sake. On a mission. To get her kissed. Maybe she’d be happy with this geek. Not like I know her or anything. I just am her. For a couple of days.

  It couldn’t be longer.

  It can’t be.

  But then I think of Dave Richards. Fit. Dangerous. Smile at the thought of him. Seems Tony thinks I’m smiling at him. He steps round in front of me. Starts to do this stupid dance. Out of time with the music. He thinks he’s doing it so well. Going up and down. Like a crazy yo-yo.

  Tony’s looking at me very seriously. Hungry. And frightened. I can’t take my eyes off the boil. Red. Puffy white centre. I want to burst it with my fingernails. But Marilyn’s fingernails are short and bitten. I can nearly see Tony’s boil throbbing. I want to ask him if it hurts. Sheila’s turning away from me. Leaving me to Tony. Eyebrows raised. Smarmy smile. Tony’s beginning to get closer. He doesn’t smell good. Shirt soaked at the armpits. Have they not invented antiperspirant yet? Disgusting.

  It’s no good. Can’t possibly let Marilyn kiss this guy.

  She’d be better off staying a virgin.

  For ever.

  “Hi, don’t you look fantastic, where did you get that fabulous basque, you are so brilliant!”

  Three girls joined Kyle and Marilyn in their corner, and they obviously knew Holly well. Were these her best friends? They all hugged Marilyn with screams of delight, as if they hadn’t seen her for months. Marilyn wondered where Holly was. She surely wouldn’t go to the church social, would she? With Sheila. And that Tony. Marilyn almost laughed out loud at the thought of it.

  “How long have you been here? This is so cool, don’t you think? It’s taken forever to get ready, hasn’t it, Sumila? And Maria’s been on the sauce since two.”

  Sumila got out her mobile and started taking pictures of them all. She was brown and thin, with long black hair. Everyone seemed to be thin here. Too thin.

  “I’ll send these to Katie. She’s on holiday with her parents in Crete. She’ll be sooooo jealous.”

  To Marilyn, this did not seem a very kind thing to do, but she was trying to grasp why anyone should feel like coming home if they were on a Greek island, whoever it was they were with.

  Sumila went on.

  “Crete is so boring, I’ve been there three times and there is just no scene at all.”

  “Yeah,” was all Marilyn could offer, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  “We’ve got to dance.”

  The floor was suddenly filling up as a new song was played. To Marilyn’s surprise everyone was dancing on their own, doing whatever they felt like, jumping up and down, arms up in the air, swaying, moving from one foot to the other. How did they learn all that? Didn’t anyone show them the latest steps? Sheila and Marilyn spent ages each week practising, even though they hardly ever went out to a dance. And they didn’t seem to be dancing boy and girl, just anyone anywhere.

  Marilyn didn’t think she could ever be like that. She wouldn’t dance, she wouldn’t.

  Kyle took her hand and pulled her off the stool and onto the dance floor. She couldn’t help following. But as she stepped onto the floor, Marilyn had a flash of a thought: she didn’t have to be wary here. This place wasn’t about talking and making mistakes and getting it wrong. The music was too loud for talki
ng. She didn’t need to protect herself from saying something stupid. This place was about being herself, in a way she’d always longed for, but never dreamed she could have.

  They joined all the others. Marilyn began by doing the twist. It was the latest dance, she and Sheila had learnt it from Chubby Checker on the telly. But then she looked round at the others and copied them. She found she could easily do this kind of dancing. And as she got used to it, she found she could make moves that seemed right for her, for the clothes she was wearing, for who she was, now that she was outside the prison of Marilyn and her world. In that world everyone danced the same dance. But she was in Holly’s world now and it seemed that there weren’t many ways you could get it wrong. She was Holly. And being Holly was brilliant, fantastic, fabulous, just like her friends said.

  She took off the jacket and threw it onto the railings, and she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She held her arms high in the air and undulated. Lights played over the dancers. The music throbbed through her body. The music flooded her veins, moved her feet, beat her heart. She was at one with the music, one with the other dancers, one with the dance.

  There was no sign of Saleem, but it didn’t matter. She lifted her head, closed her eyes and danced.

  The music changes. Slow. Tony’s reaching out for me. I duck under his arm. Mutter an excuse he’ll never hear above the sound of feet shuffling. I start off down the hall. Lights still on. Dark through the windows. Mrs Thing is setting out glasses and jugs on the table.

  I thread my way through the circles of girls dancing round their handbags. Dotted with a few boys. The rest of the boys are at the back of the hall. Some jigging up and down to the music as if they didn’t care about the girls. As if they’re desperate to pee. The vicar is standing with two of the older boys, shouting to make himself heard. Even though the music is dead quiet.

  I can hear the vicar now. “Remember I’m hoping for more of you older lads to rejoin the choir, now your voices have broken.” Recognise Alan, Sheila’s favourite. Eyes on his shoes.