Part 18 (2/2)

I don't know how I feel hearing someone call Ruby a brat, but it makes me want to try and excuse her, even if I don't believe the excuse I'm making. ”I'm sure it's got something to do with Stu.”

Lauren rolls her eyes. ”As if she's the only person with an ex-boyfriend.”

And we both look at each other, neither quite sure what the other's going to do...

Until I burst out laughing. A split second later, Lauren does the same.

Ruby may not like the person I am around Lauren, but Lauren does.

RUBY.

The band on at the Heavy Tent are s.h.i.+t. What now? I can't be sitting on that stupid rug when Kaz and Lauren come back. I wander along the stalls, but it's a lot less fun without Kaz. Everything's less fun without her. When Kaz and I planned all this, it was an adventure we'd be having together, not apart. I know it's my fault for throwing one about Lauren, but that's only because I don't know why Kaz can't just see it for herself. Lauren is a) just not that great and b) SHE IS b.u.mPING UGLIES WITH THE BOY KAZ IS STILL IN LOVE WITH.

Although I have a very strong suspicion that Kaz might be in denial about Tom's uglies and their b.u.mpage.

At the ”tattoo” stall, I browse the designs on display, judging the people who've picked them for their lack of imagination.

”Are these all you've got?” I ask one of the girls at the table, who's refilling her henna pipe.

”Yeah...” She doesn't sound certain.

”Could I design my own?”

”Not really. We've got transfers we need to put on before we apply the henna.”

”What if I drew the pattern on myself and you inked it?” But she's bored of the conversation and asks me whether I'm going to pick a design. The guy on the table next to her waves me over.

”What are you after?” he says. ”I'm bored of drawing characters from Winnie-the-b.l.o.o.d.y-Pooh.” Which sounds like an unpleasant medical condition.

He notices I'm staring at his arms, which are covered in real ink, and he stretches them out, rolling back his short sleeves to show his shoulders. I've not heard of the artists he mentions, but then I'm more into blackwork than colour.

”Do you think you could do me something huge and bold from here” I point to my wrist ”to here?” my neck.

”I think I could,” he says.

20 * ONE MORE ROUND

RUBY.

The straps of my vest and bra are tucked under my inked arm in case of smudging and I admire the design. The guy did an awesome job, using a black jagua ink rather than henna so it'll look almost real once it darkens. I love tattoos. My parents loathe them, which was one of the many black marks against Stu. Imagine how they'd feel if I'd paid his shady mate a visit and come home with some underage ink. They're going to kick off enough about this fake one. Although that's nothing compared to what'll happen when I come home inked for real the day I turn eighteen.

They won't be able to do anything about it though, will they? I mean apart from shout at me.

Why would you SCAR yourself like that?

You'll only regret it in ten years' time.

You'll never get a good job.

We watched a doc.u.mentary about how tattoos are poisonous and the ink seeps into your arm and rots your brain until it falls out and you become a zombie. That's how the apocalypse starts.

OK, so I made that last one up, but they are always quoting doc.u.mentaries or articles that prove how every life choice I've made is WRONG: Subjects I took for GCSE.

What I want to do instead of A-levels.

My art.

My music.

My clothes.

My boyfriend...

Ex-boyfriend.

My feet have taken me back to the Heavy Tent whilst I wait for the ink on my arm to dry. A different band's onstage and it takes a few moments for my ears to adapt until I recognize the song from one of Stu's many playlists. I miss the music chat we used to have, him wanting to share his sounds with me, or spending hours arguing about my Second Alb.u.m Theory, and the way songs would magically appear on my iPod days after I mentioned wanting to hear more of a particular band.

Kaz is a musical omnivore, but Stu was like me we thrive on the meat of one genre.

I hadn't realized I was looking for him until I catch sight of him standing near one of the pillars. Seemingly alone, his hands are resting in the back pockets of his shorts, head tilted at an angle that tells me he's listening, judging, a.n.a.lysing.

Instead of doing the sensible thing and leaving immediately, I walk round to the side of the crowd and start edging in. It's a stupid thing to do, but I'm in a stupid mood. I want him to see me. I want him to distract me. I want him to... I have no idea what I want.

I force myself through one song, concentrating on the people in the crowd in front of me, reading the dates on the back of someone's Green Day tour T-s.h.i.+rt, realizing I wasn't even born then. The singer shouts out that this is their last song and I decide to wait it out. After this I will have a totally legit reason to turn round and ever so casually catch Stu's eye.

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