Love-Struck by Rachael Wing Page B

pieces!”
    Possibly not the best attack, but never mind. Margo always just wants to mix everything up – she loves nothing more than to make trouble for everyone else and then to watch the chips fall. I decided to re-jiggle The Plan.
    â€œLook,” I said, suddenly assertive. “We just need to get through tonight and then regroup. What are you up to tomorrow?”
    Wes paused, thinking. “Nothing – I’m not doing anything, but aren’t you covering a shift for Ozzie?”
    Damn.
    â€œYeah, I am. Humph! Right – tomorrow night?”
    â€œMy mum’s not in – she’s at a dinner, so you want to come round here?”
    â€œPerfect!” I grinned. “I’ll bring us a supply from Ozzie’s and we can fix it, no problems. But back to tonight, are you wearing what we said?”
    â€œYou bet.”
    The doorbell rang, and my mum shouted up.
    â€œHolly, it’s for you!”
    I gasped. What if it was Jonah?
    â€œLook, I’ve got to go,” I whispered. “I’ll see you later!”
    â€œYeah, all right, see—”
    â€œThanks, Mum!”
    I put down the phone and chucked it on to my dresser, then checked my reflection. No make-up. Yikes! At least my hair looked good. And the top really was killer. I didn’t even hear the door open.
    â€œDarling, I do rather like your shirt. Very Project Runway meets … Goth. Truly a daring number indeed – so unlike your usual, ah, style .”
    I turned around to see Margo dressed to kill in the best LBD (Little Black Dress) you have ever seen (think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s , but short). She looked stunning, as ever. You would think she was going to have high tea in a Parisian black-and-white art movie, not going to see a band. But that’s Margo for you – always doing the unexpected.
    Like turning up at my house, unexpected and alone.
    I could smell a Chanel-covered rat.
    â€œErm, thanks,” I replied cautiously. “Nice dress. What’s up?”
    She prowled into the room, over to my dresser, where pictures of Wes and me were stuck inside the rim of my mirror, along with a picture of my mum and dad, and then a picture of Lizzy and me. There were three pictures of Wes and me. One from last summer, where we were sunbathing and decided to put lines across our cheeks in sun cream like we were Native Americans; we’re both cross-eyed. Then there’s one from his birthday last year where everyone had to dress up as little kids – me in huge denim dungarees with bunches and drawn-on freckles, and Wes dressed up as Dennis the Menace. The last one was the most recent. Mum took it whilst we were just messing around in the back garden a few weeks before, and I’d stepped on some glass down the bottom of the garden (probably a bit that I hadn’t managed to pick up after my last party that the folks will never, ever know about) and cut my foot. Mum had been taking pictures of Lizzy out in the garden in her sun hat, to send to my aunt. Wes had insisted on carrying me back up to the house, and Mum had just taken the picture: we were both in hysterics, I had my arms wrapped tight around his neck and was looking up at him, grinning like a loon, and our faces were inches apart but he was looking back at me, laughing and staggering like he was going to fall over. I love that picture. It’s so happy. Mum put it in black and white, so it’s all arty, too. It looks like one of those pictures you find already in the picture frame when you buy it. I look pretty in it – my hair looks all shiny and soft – so I’ve put it up with the others.
    Margo went over and picked it out of the mirror, looking at it as she talked to me.
    â€œDear Winston is taking Emily to The Venue tonight, is he not?”
    â€œYeah. So what?”
    â€œHmm. The two of you usually do this kind of thing together, do you not? But instead Emily is going with