The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones by Susie Day

says, once we’re too far off for them to hear. “He always says he wants to come, and then he just sits there looking like a sad crow, and we all feel crap about having a laugh without him, even if it’s his own fault.”
    â€œOh. That’s OK. I don’t mind.”
    â€œYou don’t have to, though. I know he’s a weirdo. He wasn’t rude to you or nothing, was he?”
    She puts a cigarette between her lips, her hand fumbling with the lighter awkwardly.
    â€œOh, look at me. That’s ’cos I feel bad, ’cos that sounded awful, didn’t it? I do like him, don’t get me wrong. But, well. You know. All that ‘ooh, I’m so spooky and meaningful’ stuff’s a bit much. And there’s the whole nerdy magician thing.”
    â€œIs that nerdy? I thought it was cool.”
    Fozzie brushes sand off her face, wiping at the smudges of washed-away make-up. She nods, and laughs, argh argh argh . “Yeah? I suppose it’s that, too.”
    Penkerry’s so different. At home, things are either in or out with Grace and Monique. They don’t get to be nerdy and cool at the same time. I haven’t thought about Grace for ages. I wonder what Bali’s like, and realize I don’t really care.
    We lounge around on towels while lunch goes down, watching kids and dogs mess around as the next boat arrives and the beach gets busier. Dan and Fozzie roll more cigarettes, while Merlin does big fake coughs, and Mags pretends to die of a tragic lung disease. Fozzie blows smoke in her eyes, as revenge.
    Fozzie, Dan and Mags go back in the water.
    I hesitate. I could strip off, right now, and follow them. I should. It’s what Red would be telling me to do.
    But I’m not far enough down Bluebell Road yet. We’ll come back here, I know it. I’ll get another chance. Instead I dig a hole with my hands, letting the light golden stuff trickle through my fingers; scooping the darker, damper sand out and building a mountain, a castle, a mermaid lying marooned on the beach. I spend for ever sculpting her face: smooth cheeks, curved chin. Her nose crumbles as the sand dries out. I try to fix it, but the rest crumbles too, ruined. It’s weirdly upsetting.
    Merlin says, “Hey,” and curls a finger, beckoning.
    By the time the others stagger back up the beach, ready to finish off Merlin’s posh crisps, I have learned how to flip a top hat on to my head with one sharp flick of my wrist.
    Nearly.
    â€œShe got it twice in a row earlier, no lie,” says Merlin, as attempted demonstration number three bounces off my nose. “All down to the excellent teacher, of course,” he adds.
    Fozzie catches my eye and gives me a grateful nod.
    I manage it on the fourth try: not straight, and it’s too big so it slips down over my eyes, but undeniably square on my head. It earns a round of applause, and I skip triumphantly up the beach and on to the steep path off the beach before Merlin can snatch it back off my head.
    â€œOi! You let that blow away up there, there will be consequences!” he shouts, and I remember to clamp my arms over it just in time, as I reach the top of the slope and get hit by the wind.
    I stand up on the top, gazing out across the sparkling water, to the stripy Bee rock, to Penkerry. It looks tiny and unreal from here: a strip of pebble beach, pier, the fair just a flicker of sunlight on metal.
    I want a photograph, but I’ve left the camera on the beach.
    When I turn to fetch it, Diana’s already in Merlin’s hands, already lifted to his eye. He makes the shot before I have time to hide.
    â€œHey!” I yell.
    He lowers the camera and shrugs, exaggerating it so I can see from up here.
    â€œYou steal my hat, I steal your camera,” he shouts, the words drifting on the wind alongside laughter as Fozzie and Mags team up to tackle him.
    He sounds smug, and I run down, to point out to him that I’ve