HALLOWEEN

The Hannibal Lecters wear straitjackets and face masks, Goodfellas’ gangsters tote machine guns, William Wallaces threaten to show what hides beneath their kilts and there’s even a Terminator with leather pants, razor crop and shotgun. The boys’ swim team swagger in their Baywatch lifeguard shorts. Some have added ghoulish wounds or zombie features in a Nineties Halloween mash-up. The male staff are decked out as era-specific Michael Jacksons and the female staff as Madonna in her Blond Ambition phase. The line-up of pointy-breasted corsets and platinum wigs is frightening on its own.

We pause in the crush of the huge stone foyer to Gainsborough Collegiate’s Great Hall, waiting for a pantomime horse to pass by. We check our jackets and bags. Despite a moment of grumbling from Jamie, I unbutton my coat to whistles from passing lifeguards. Jamie raises his whip. They laugh and pat him on the shoulder, winking at me and lumbering through the crowd, expressing loud appreciation for the spectacle that Kaylee and Kitty provide. Eric and Pete move closer to their dates.

In the Great Hall, Kitty’s committee has created a pavilion of orange organza, sweeping in folds from the distant regions of the ceiling. Looking up makes me dizzy and I lean on Jamie’s arm. The place is already humming and the noise, the mass of bodies, the endless twinkling lights swirl in my head, disorientating and marvellous. I reach to squeeze Kitty’s shoulder.

“Gently,” Jamie says, his mouth at my ear.

I temper my touch. Kitty smiles back at me, fizzing with satisfaction.

The committee signed several bands for the evening and a DJ to fill between sets. Pete’s band, Middlesex, is scheduled for later in the night. The current band rips up a conclusion to a song with grinding guitar and throbbing bass. I’m already bouncing on my toes, pins and needles zapping with the stimulus.

Impatient with the slow progress to the dance floor, Gil lifts Lila onto his shoulder and, squealing, she points the way with her red patent leather boot, the ponytails of her blonde wig swinging down to her waist. Jamie moves me before him with his hands on my hips so that we trail single file. “Just try not to touch anyone,” he shouts over the music. “Stay with–”

“Anthem!” Two of the senior boys’ rowing team hem us in as the band introduces the next song. “You’re up, Skipper!” I see only Jamie’s worried face looking back at me then he’s beyond reach. A shot of panic thrills through me and I freeze, afraid to brush against anyone’s shoulder – I might leave them bruised. I keep my arms at my side and try not to pitch headfirst into a refreshment table. Out on the dance floor, the rest of the team converge. They lift Jamie off the ground and thrust him into the middle. Gil leads them through a routine that, among other things, involves pogo-ing and waving invisible lassos. I manage to shuffle my way forwards as gaps appear, joining the line-up of crew widows. Lila wraps her arm around my waist, grinning up at me then out at the boys. She was the first of Kitty’s friends to make me welcome, as though Kitty’s approval was all the recommendation she needed; a rush of affection fills me.

In the minutes from the limo to the dance floor, with Jamie consenting to let me come to the dance, my mood has elevated. It’s probably the chemical cocktail in my bloodstream that makes me loose in my joints, warm in my bones, light in my chest. Still, it feels good and I laugh as loudly as the others as the rowing team’s routine becomes more flamboyant. Jamie dances with effortless rhythm. His eyes meet mine in question. I smile and nod. I can totally do this. Everything’s going to be fine.

When Lila tugs me towards the dance floor, I hold my breath, lifting my arms over my head to keep them out of the way. Lila copies me like it’s a dance move. Kitty, Imogen and Kaylee follow, arms aloft, flailing like reeds in a storm. I laugh, shaking my head, turning as I rise and fall with the beat, carefully judging my distance from each of them. Nervous and elated at the same time, I can feel my strength, the power in my body, torrents of electric energy. Despite my liquid state, there comes a linear focus as I dance. The slowness, the clumsiness of being drunk gives way, as though all my receptors have amplified.

Every detail becomes distinct – the erratic white stitching of Kitty’s skin-tight suit, the glinting divots in Kaylee’s breastplate, the pins holding Imogen’s auburn hair in loose curls, the lacquer of Lila’s nails as she waves her hands. I see it all without really trying to see. I sense the frenetic toss of heads, the pivot of feet, the swing of hips back and forth, eyes glinting in the lick of light and shadow.

Like a deranged conga line, the boys’ routine takes them on a circuitous path around the room, cheered on by adoring fans. Mostly female. I keep my sights on Jamie as the music grows deafening and the dance floor fills. When the boys finally give up on their crew theatrics, manly backslapping included, they’re on the other side of the room, past the refreshment tables. Jamie begins to make his way back, exchanging what look to be good-natured jibes with his teammates. He spots me over the heads of the swirling crowd.

When a knot of cheerleaders gestures for Jamie to stop, a prickling sensation in my spine brings me to a standstill. I can’t hear what they call out as he passes, but I watch their glossy mouths part and their hungry eyes moving over him. One touches his arm, another his shoulder, one even puts her hand on his chest as she pushes up on her toes to yell something in his ear, back arched, pert breasts thrust forwards.

The hostile flicker I usually ignore when territorial jealousy rears in me is nothing on the fire that ignites now. I don’t think. I burn. Pushing between Abe and Imogen, my vision grows razor-edged as my pupils expand. I don’t hear the cries or loud complaints of others as I barge through the crowd, stalking my way towards the small redhead with her hand on my boyfriend, high-pitched ringing in my ears. I know exactly what Jamie’s chest feels like under my hand, through a jacket, a cotton shirt or touching his bare skin. His heartbeat. His heat. Her hand doesn’t belong there, feeling those things. I will move it.

The refreshment table looms, punchbowl, pyramid of glasses, the only remaining obstacle. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me to jump it. In fact it seems efficient, given the crowd. Desirable. To get me quickly to my goal. The thought leads to instant action. Two steps, I spring up, a modest leap. A brief glimpse of always friendly Angelo from gym class, who smiles when I approach, about to greet me as I leave the floor. Halloween axe buried in his back. Green eyes goggling through his blond hair. A flash of his blue Not without a mint commemorative T-shirt. Everything is crystal, everything is clear.

Jamie’s mouth opens as I reach peak trajectory. Beneath me the glasses clink and dance in their pyramid at the pulse of my signal. He gives a curt nod and says something to the girl. She steps back, disappointed as he darts forwards, startled as he intercepts my landing. The hurtling girlfriend! Catching my waist, he grunts when I slam like concrete into his chest.

“Watch yourself!” I call over his shoulder, curling my lip at the girl.

Shouts of surprise, cries of shocked laughter, cheerleaders’ catcalls.

“Bloody hell, Everton.” He lifts me up and carries me back a few steps, sharp glances for signs of any approaching teachers. “Think, love.”

Pins and needles cut up my spine. “She needs to–”

“Live long enough to finish high school?” He puts me down, but doesn’t let go. The girl glares at me, a mixture of alarm and derision – but mostly alarm, as the crowd closes back around us.

“Did you see that?” Angelo cries, fighting his way around the table. “That jump! Un-freaking-believable! Were you going to take that girl out, Evie?”