Page 6 of Short Stack 3

He pats me on the hand. His skin is tanned from our holiday, and I spare a thought to how he looked sun-kissed and golden in the evening sun. Then I pack the thought away to somewhere a million miles away from a school bus.

“Is it time to go home yet?” I say plaintively, but the love of my life just laughs unsympathetically.

Greg Hampson walks up the aisle and stops next to us. “How’s it going?” he asks.

I stare at him. “We’re not off the car park yet.”

He shoots me a wry look. “Yes, but this is the best part of the trip.”

Dylan bursts into laughter, and I glare at him. A click of a camera phone draws my attention to Greg. “Did you justphotographus?”

“Yep.” He scans his phone and taps a few buttons. “Jude made me promise to document this entire event through themedium of photography and hopefully the odd bit of video. That frown wasdefinitelyworth a picture.”

Dylan snorts, and I shake my head. “I’m going to kill Jude, but it’ll be very slowly and inventively.”

Greg pats me on the shoulder and then looks up. “Ingrid, if I catch you doing that with Emily’sFrozenbag again, we will be having a little talk,” he calls. “A backpack is not a lethal weapon.”

There’s a clatter as the tiny culprit drops the implement, and he strides off down the aisle. Dylan hums contemplatively. “I’d like to say this is only for a few hours, but I think school trips warp the space-time continuum.”

“Great,” I say gloomily.

Four hours later, it occurs to me never to doubt my boyfriend again. This day is never-ending. It’s been full of arguments, refereeing on a scale last seen at a World Cup, and handing down judgements that probably would have been received more light-heartedly if I’d been wearing a black cap on my head. And toilet breaks. Somanytoilet breaks. Oh, and in between, we’ve actually seen some fish.

The aquarium is quite nice. Airy tunnels are overhead through which fish swim lazily by, occasionally brushing up against the glass as if giving the children a friendly wave. Christmas decorations wave in the breeze from the heating, and music plays softly.

We’re currently in an area set aside for school parties with lots of little seats. I’d contemplated sitting on one because my feet are hurting, but I reconsidered when Freya, one of the parents, sat down and nearly ruptured something. I’m thereforeleaning against the wall, keeping a careful eye on my group as they draw the fish they can see.

I look at Sita’s paper and do a double take. “I’m not sure that any of the fish look like that,” I offer.

She eyes me with a sceptical expression I’ve become very used to since meeting Dylan. “Mr Hampson said to draw what we see.”

“And you see a fish with purple and yellow sequinned stripes?”

“Yes,” she says, her expression turning somewhat truculent.

“Okay, then. Keep going.” She eyes me, and I nod. “Brilliant. Quite brilliant.”

Appeased, she turns back to drawing her completely fictional fish.

“Billy said that you’re going out with Dylan. Is that right?” a voice says.

I look down to find Kyle and hesitate for a second. Then, “Yes, I am.”

I search his face for any incipient problem, but he looks at Dylan contemplatively. My boyfriend is talking to his group, his face lively, and it makes my heart clench with happiness that he’s mine.

“He’s a bit cheerful, isn’t he?” Kyle finally says doubtfully.

I chuckle. “He makes CBeebies presenters look depressed.”

“Okay, folks,” Greg says. “How’s everyone getting on? One more minute, and then we’ll pack away. It’s nearly home time.” He walks past us and takes his by-now-obligatory shot of me. I resist the urge to stick my finger up at him and smile at Dylan as he comes up next to me.

“Do fish celebrate Christmas, Mr Foster?” The question comes from Polly, another of my group. She has shiny pigtails and a sunny expression.

I eye the tank next to us. “Probably not, seeing as they’re likely to end up on someone’s pla?—”

Dylan coughs loudly, and I stare at him. “Have you got a sore throat?”

“No. Just a sense of impending disaster.” He turns to my group. “I think they do celebrate under the sea with waterproof tinsel, and they leave out little sand dollars for Father Christmas.”

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