Zenna scowled at her phone, disbelieving, sure she’d read the message wrong. She dropped the device to her bed and stared out the window, past the ball gown hanging in plastic on her wardrobe door, blinking back the sting behind her eyelids. If she cried now, she’d ruin her makeup, and Zenna had begged her parents to have it done professionally. She wouldn’t be able to fix the masterpiece the artist had made of her eyeshadow.


She eyed the phone again. Reached out a hand. Unlocked the screen.


Can’t come tonight.


That was it. Zenna bit her knuckles, torn between throwing the phone at the wall, then smashing everything on her bedside table, and calling him, crying, because how dare he?


She wasn’t going to do that.


But Will owed her an explanation, surely. What’s happened? she typed, then backspaced. Probably nothing had happened. He was just blowing her off. Why? she typed, thumb hovering over the send button.


Why not, though?


The inner voice was sly, and Zenna squashed it quickly, like a white-tailed spider spied scurrying across the bathroom floor. Squash it before it disappeared into the gap below the cabinets and taunted you with the knowledge of its existence for the next three days, never knowing where you’d see it, or when. It was everywhere. In your mind. All the time.


She replaced the ‘why’ with a single letter Y because that seemed like she cared a little less and sent the reply before she could think about it any further.

The phone buzzed in her hands.


I don’t think we can go together.


Zenna wanted to scream. Like, go to the ball together? Or go out together, ever? She didn’t want to reply. She wanted to not care. Screw Will and his non-commitment. But she had to know.


Do you mean at all? she typed, then stared at the words, repeating them over in her head, wondering if they sounded childish, if the proper thing to do was say ‘no worries’ and leave it at that. And what if he was only talking about tonight? If she said nothing, they’d pick up tomorrow where they’d left off, hanging at the arcade or sneaking drinks on the beach … except there’d be a hole in their dating history. A ball-sized hole, full of excuses she made on his behalf.


She didn’t want to drag this out, although if they were over, maybe it was better to leave that confirmation until after the dance and not ruin the evening.

Wondering all night would also ruin the evening.


Zenna huffed out a sigh and typed a new message: Are you dumping me?


Make him say it. No hedging. That was what Gabby would do if she dated, although Zenna couldn’t imagine anyone dumping Gabby; she’d know the blow was coming and beat them to it. Zenna took a deep breath, then sent the message.


And turned off her phone.


She spent fifteen minutes trying to work on the lighting plan for the mid-year play before she took a deep breath, and, fingers trembling, switched on the phone.


If you want to put it like that.


How else? She chewed her lip as she typed a barrage of replies, some more curse words than anything else, some more punctuation than actual words.


Finally, she deleted the whole lot unsent and almost sank back on her quilt, remembering just in time that she’d gelled her hair into geometric shapes. She rolled off the bed instead and went to get a cold drink. Something to wash the bitter lump out of her throat.


Zenna mixed orange cordial in the kitchen, tossing ice cubes into her glass and throwing the tray back in the freezer. She slammed the fridge door so hard the milk and wine and assorted sauce bottles clanked in their rack.


Her grandmother tutted from her armchair in the living room, her perpetual knitting needles clacking. ‘What’s got your knickers in a knot?’ she asked, her voice sharp and rasping.


‘Will dumped me,’ Zenna said. ‘Arsehole.’


Clack-click-clack. ‘Mouth like that, you probably deserved it.’


Zenna glared at the harpy over the kitchen bench, her outrage at Will momentarily suspended, but if she had trouble thinking of what to say to Will, she was in a word desert when it came to her grandmother. Her parents were out. When they were around, the bitch was only ever polite.


Zenna fished a straw out of the top drawer and slammed that shut too, then all but ran back to her room, her fingers clenching her glass, the itch rising.

Not tonight. I won’t do it tonight.


The ball was important. The whole drama production class had a table together. They’d worked on each others’ outfit designs for weeks and had planned a flash mob for after dessert.


Her part in the flash mob wouldn’t work without Will.


Zenna set her glass on her bedside table and ran her fingers over the nearly smooth skin of her forearms. While dating Will, it had been easier to stop. He didn’t like it. She’d been happier.


And there was the ball. A personal pact: no scabbed marks at the dance. Plus it was hard to avoid awkward conversations at dress fittings with fresh cuts.

But she had gloves.


No. The gloves were an accessory, part of the look. And insurance, if she was honest, should she give in.


Not tonight.


She sipped her cordial and checked her phone again in case Will had changed his mind about being a decent human being. A bunch of group messages had come through from the class, but Zenna didn’t have it in her to join the chat. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to go to the ball at all.


Her phone buzzed.


For a silly moment, her heart spiked: it might be Will, apologising, saying he’d made a big mistake, and he was dumping some other girl he’d had going on the side. In a small, rational part of her mind, Zenna knew she should ditch him anyway, if that was the case.


It was Gabby. Makeup done yet? Send pics.


Zenna sighed. Gabby wasn’t even going to the ball.


Wait.


That was it.


Well, it wasn’t it, it wasn’t Will, and it wasn’t going to fix the flash mob or the ache in her heart, but it was something. She nearly texted Gabby, then had a better idea.


Cecelia, I need a favour.