Page 63 of The Reunion

Anyway, after all that mess, I don’t have the capacity for anything else except racing to the school hall, where the dodgy sound of the old orchestra has abruptly stopped and people are looking around in a panic, phone torches flashing wildly. It’d look like a cool disco if it weren’t a total fucking disaster zone.

I snatch up the guest book and holler over the noise of a hundred and fifty adults who have suddenly forgotten what they’re meant to do in the event of a fire alarm, like, maybe, I don’t know, get the hell out of the building.

Honestly. Amateurs.

Where would they be without me?

‘Alright, everybody! I’m going to need all of you outside! Exit through the boys’ cloakroom on the left as you leave the hall, no pushing, no shoving, no panicking. Orderly fashion – you got that? You’re all grown-ups here; I don’t want to see any messing about. Line up on the tarmac outside the new languages building. Out, out. Come on!’

I clap my hands like I’m chivvying along some puppies, and a few people nearby spring into action. I stand aside at the door to watch them go and make sure the hall is cleared out, shouting instructions to ‘keep moving’ and remind them that there’s ‘no pushing, no running’.

Talk about the icing on the cake … My epic reunion night is a confirmed shambles. The power cut, sure, was not ideal, but there was some wiggle room. I could’ve come back from that. I bet they were having a total hoot reuniting the old orchestra crowd and playing some live music; it would’ve been such a cool, kitsch vibe, the kind you know is going to make a great story afterwards and that kind of makes up for the fact you might not totally be enjoying it in the moment.

But this? A fire drill?

Yeah, I just don’t know how I can come back from this one.

Spoiler alert: I can’t. This is it. The end.

Roll credits.

The party to end all parties, just not in the way I hoped.

I let out a terse sigh, feeling like I’ve just aged about fifty years in the last five minutes. I should’ve just let Steph organise this bloody thing. She never had this kind of disaster happen at any of her parties.

One more failure to add to the tally.

Great job, Bryony. Great fucking job.

I seethe and sigh and wallow in my own self-pity while I automatically bark instructions for everybody to line up. I borrow a pen off Hayden (who, of course, just has a random pen in his pocket, like the nerd he is) and go down the line, ticking off names against the guestbook I made everybody sign. I dole out a few death-stares at the handful of people who admit to me that they did not, actually, um, maybe sign the guestbook.

‘Well,’ I snap, ‘next time, you will.’

I’m almost down the line when Hayden taps me on the shoulder. Quite why he’s taken it upon himself to trail along after me like some sad puppy or overly keen TA is beyond me. The fire alarm is still belting out its annoying two-tone melody behind us, setting my teeth on edge.

‘What?’ I shout at him. I am only shouting to be heard over the alarm, of course. Not because I’m feeling especially bitchy towards him in that moment. Or because I think he’s about to point out that I’m doing it again, acting like the teacher I am, and everybody must be able to see it.

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, looking harried and awkward. He looks like he wants to run very far, very fast, in the opposite direction. ‘Should I go take another look at that fuse box?’

‘What?’

Is he serious? He thinks now is the time to play boy genius and go mess around with some wires? What, would he like to detour via the DT rooms and collect a soldering iron and some crocodile clips, while he’s at it? I decide to tell him all of this, very loudly and pointedly, because I’m so done with everybody’s bullshit tonight. Everybody pretending they’re more than they are, when they’re just not. Can’t he see we’re in crisis mode? This is not the time.

‘By all means!’ I yell, throwing my arms out. ‘Go! Have fun living out one last grand hurrah as boy genius in your final moments – please, don’t let me stop you! Or maybe you could accept the fact that you’re a washed-up failure who never made it, pipe down, get in line like everybody else and let me do my job so you don’t all burn to death, okay?’

I am vaguely (or, you know, completely and very) aware of the fact that the chatter of the crowd dies down to listen to my tirade. I’m also mildly (aka: agonisingly) conscious that people are whispering behind my back, and Hayden’s face flushes red all the way to the tips of his ears.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, then readjusts them right back to where they were.

‘I just thought, you set the alarm off when you were messing with the fuse box. So, I could go back and fix that, and try to get the power back on, too. I’m sure I’ve retained enough of my ‘boy genius’ knowledge to figure that much out – however washed up I currently am. There must be some perks of having your life stall when you’re eighteen and never move on – right, B?’

Oh, God.

@ me, next time, Hayden. I feel attacked.

I deserve it.

My own face must be burning. Probably enough to set off the fire alarm all over again, to be honest. But I swallow the lump in my throat (pride? Definitely pride, this time) and nod.

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