Wonderland by Joanna Nadin Read Free Book Online Page A

date.” She is wide-eyed and helpless with happiness. “It’s in two weeks.”
    “I know.” I make a face.
    Stella grins. And I laugh, infected with her delight.
    She claps her hands to her chest.
“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”
    “Shut up!” I smile. “I’m not doing that, anyway. Too clichéd. And I’m hardly Juliet.”
    “Yeah, you are. All innocent . . .” She lingers on the word, savoring it.
    “I’m doing Isabella again. Same as the GCSE.”
    “A nun! Even better. I bet Mr. Hughes loves that. Imagining you in your penguin outfit. Or out of it . . .”
    “God, Stella. Is that all you think about?”
    “Yup. Mostly. That and vodka. Decadence is so this year. Says so in the Bible.” She waves
Vogue
at me. “So, this calls for a party.”
    “Yeah. I guess.”
    “I guess? It’s Saturday night. You’re going to drama school.”
    “Might be.”
    “Bugger
might be.
You’re going.”
    Then it hits me. And it’s like in films when you see the background rushing toward someone. The world is turning around me. I feel the blood drain from my face. This is it. My chance. And I’m terrified and exhilarated. Because it’s everything I’ve wanted for so long. To go somewhere. To be somebody. I want this feeling, this day, to last forever.
    “The Point,” she says.
    “What?”
    “Tonight. Let’s go there, me and you.” Stella has a plan.
    “OK . . .” But then I remember something. Heard some kids talking about it in the shop. “No. Wait. We can’t. There’s this party up there.”
    “Even better.” She smiles.
    “No, but —”
    “But nothing. There’ll be vodka, right?”
    I nod. And dope, I think. And Emily Applegate and the Plastics. And all those same million reasons why I shouldn’t go. But then I think of Ed. And I want to tell him. To know what he thinks. To see if he’s pleased for me, proud of me. And I’m high again on possibility. I want to dance, to drink, to kiss someone. Anyone. Maybe.
    “Well . . .” Stella drawls, playing it cool. “I think we should grace them with our presence.” Then she shrieks again. And we’re hugging, jumping up and down, shouting. Breathless, I feel more alive than I have ever been.
    Then Dad bangs on the wall. We fall apart.
    “Shit. Tom,” says Stella. “You’ve got to tell him.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
    Stella sighs. “OK. So, gotta go, pussycat.” She takes a packet of Marlboro Reds off the shelf behind her. “Take it out of what you owe me, yeah?”
    “OK . . . Wait!” I say. “Pick me up? At eight?”
    “Half seven,” she replies. “Then I can help you get ready.”
    I feign horror. “Are you saying I can’t get dressed by myself?”
    “Yup.”
    “Fair point,” I concede. “Half seven, then. Bring makeup.”
    “OK. Bring booze.”
    I laugh. “See you.”
    “Wouldn’t want to be you.”
    And she’s gone. I’m alone again. But this time it’s different. Everything is different.
    The shop is empty, so I slip out the back, letter dazzling white in my hand. Dad’s in the stockroom, listening to some twangy folk music about shipwrecks and white hares.
You should be proud of where you come from,
he says. But it’s not where you come from, is it? It’s where you’re going. That’s what matters. London. Johnny Gillespie and the Rocket and a high-class hooker in the basement.
    I hear a sound above the fiddles and drums. Talking. Dad’s on the phone. I listen in. Just in case. Once I got lucky. It was a woman. Rachel, she was called. Worked at the wholesaler’s. I met her when she dropped Dad off one day. She wore Mrs. Hickman clothes. Her hair was short. Not even elfin, just short. She smelled of cheap perfume and said she tap-danced. Giggled, like it was exotic, amazing. And I thought of Mum’s hobbies. How they changed by the week. Phases, Dad called them. She would take up yoga, then beekeeping, then Buddhism. Trying everything on for size. Trying to find something that would fill the