Page 42 of The Reunion

‘And even when it wasn’t you saying that stuff, you made sure to laugh loud enough when someone else said it. Made sure everybody heard and laughed as well. And as I recall, you told me plenty of times that I had an over-inflated sense of self and would crash and burn and not amount to anything, too.’

‘But you just …’ He trails off and has to clear his throat. ‘You never cared. You always acted like you were better than – everyone. Couldn’t wait to get out of here, like … Like school was just holding you back from the rest of your life.’

A laugh trips off my tongue and now, finally, I turn to face him. The confused frown on Ryan’s face is set so deep that I wonder the lines in his forehead aren’t permanently etched there. There’s not a trace of his usual grin in the downward slant of his mouth, and his eyes search my face almost desperately.

‘Why do you think I couldn’t wait to get out of here? Because you and your friends and half our fucking year group did nothing but let me know how boring and uncool I was. You think I didn’t learn that not responding and giving you all the satisfaction of knowing you’d upset me was the best way to make it through that? You think I was mean to you, I hurt your ego? I only gave as good as I got, Ryan.’

Impossibly, his frown deepens. His gaze lowers to our feet, but it doesn’t feel like a win; it just tightens in my throat, makes fresh tears blur my eyes until I blink them away.

He doesn’t apologise; neither do I. It’s been ten years and I don’t think it would matter at this stage anyway, neither to clear our own consciences nor soothe old wounds.

His eyes are still downcast, but one of his hands moves, as if of its own accord. It skims up the backs of my fingers, to my wrist, winding its way back down like he thought better of it, finally settling by wrapping around my hand, squeezing it softly. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be an apology or some sign of solidarity because maybe we were both bull-headed pricks back then, but I decide I don’t care. I’m already squeezing it back, and trying to ignore the way his head is tilted towards me and the calluses on his palm and the way my pulse has suddenly started to skitter wildly.

‘Ashleigh,’ he murmurs, and he’s so close that his chest brushes against mine and I don’t know how we got this near to each other, and I can’t do anything except breathe in and stare at him and lose count of my racing heartbeats. ‘You’re—’

I’m plunged into darkness, right along with Ryan, as the lights cut and the power goes out.

Chapter Twenty-One

Bryony

‘Most Likely to Become Famous’

Okay! Okay, this is fine. This is totally, absolutely, completely fine.

Except, it’s fucking not, because the music stops right in the middle of the Macarena and the lights cut out and a few people shriek and some of them yell out and there’s a power cut and shit, shit, shit.

I lunge out of my spot on the dance floor where I’ve been front and centre wiggling away, and hoist myself up onto the stage. It’s a clumsy manoeuvre because I misjudge just how high the stage is, so I flop onto my belly with one leg dangling down, but I make a quick recovery, bouncing up onto my feet.

My little battery-powered strobe lights carry on flashing, and, honestly, thank God for me and my party supplies, I truly am the real MVP here. Steph O’Connell could never. The colourful beams cast the school hall into an eerie glow, bouncing off people’s faces in blues and pinks. Without the overhead lights on, it looks like some kind of retro nightclub from up here. If the music had carried on, I think I could’ve convinced them it was all part of my master plan to give them the most epic, lit reunion they ever dreamed of.

Except, you know, it’s a fucking power cut.

The exact opposite of ‘lit’, damn it.

Faced with a hall full of shouty voices and the tang of panic and disarray in the air, a sea of shocked and concerned faces swimming before me, something steady and calm settles in the pit of my stomach. This feels – familiar. Instinct takes over from years of wrangling rowdy teenagers into line.

I clap my hands three times and shout, ‘Hands down, eyes up, everyone!’

And they do. They listen. My old classmates turn almost as one, silence descending as I become the sole focus of their attention.

‘Alright, no reason to panic! It’s just a little power cut. We probably tripped a fuse with too much fun, huh? I’ll get this sorted ASAP. Maybe someone can set their phone up to carry on playing some music …’ I look around, squinting against the flashes of rainbow lights and, damn it, where’s Shaun when you need him? He was always great at being DJ at house parties, always picked up on the mood perfectly. I jab a finger at Hiro, since he’s one of the more tame rugby lads, and he salutes me.

‘No problem, Bryony, I’ve got you.’

‘So long as you promise to do us your best rendition of “Bet On It”, you wannabe Troy Bolton,’ I say, and there’s a peal of laughter as everyone remembers his old YouTube video he posted, recreating the moment on the rugby field one time. I shout to a few other people – including Roisin, Morgan and, damn it, where’s Ryan? He’d better not be drawing a penis on a whiteboard somewhere. ‘You guys are in charge while I fix this, okay? Make sure nobody goes wandering off. That’s the last thing we need right now, especially if I can’t get the power back up.’

They agree, and I see them slip into their old roles as prefects, ready to monitor their peers and lay down the law if required. Hiro starts playing some music; it sounds kind of tinny and pathetic coming from his phone, but people cheer and I feel their spirits lift, shaking off the jolt of panic that hit when the lights went out.

I clap my hands once more, then strike a pose to set the mood. ‘Party’s still raging on, folks! Don’t have too much fun without me!’

I climb back down from the stage – much more gracefully, this time – and smooth my jumpsuit out. Then I turn on my phone torch, leave everybody singing along to ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ and make my way towards the doors at the other end of the hall.

The corridor is pitch black, but for the spooky shadows thrown out by stray beams of colour coming from the lights in the hall, and a shiver rolls down my spine. I clutch my phone a bit tighter. Without the buzzing of lights overhead and the noise of the music, or the general hubbub of a school day, I can hear the floorboards groaning as they settle and pipes creaking inside the walls, and it’s straight out of a horror movie. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and my heart begins to race.

What if it’s not an accident? I suddenly wonder. What if this was sabotage? Someone cut the power; they’re out to get us all. Or … maybe just me? They knew I’d go out on my own because I’m the only one who knows where the fuse box is, and …

Which, like, maybe, I watch too many true crime documentaries. But these things happen, right?

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