The Square Root of Summer(59)

“We’re running out of time,” I try to explain. “You’re leaving, and, and…”

“Wait.” Thomas holds up a hand, as though I’m a runaway train that he’s trying to stop. His other hand digs in his pocket for his inhaler, and he takes two puffs. “Is that the cake?”

In the gloom, we both look at the slice of Black Forest gateau I stole. It’s squashed from where I pushed Thomas into it.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Let’s just go back to the party, okay? I’ll get you some water.”

He holds out his hand. I take it and let him lead me out into the garden. The darkness follows us.

“Thomas, I…”

“We can talk properly, tomorrow,” he says, squeezing my hand. Not looking at me.

I nod as I stumble after him. There’s cake all over the back of his cardigan. Halfway through the crowd, the music cuts out.

“Weeeiiirrrd.”

“Just wait,” Thomas says as a guitar chord slices through the silence.

Ned’s voice echoes over my head as he yells, “Hello, er, garden! Let’s rock!”

“You knew about this?” I say to Thomas as the crowd surges forward, knocking me out of his hand. Ned begins to play. I’m confused—where is he? I can see Jason and Niall through a clump of people. This isn’t Fingerband. A girl’s voice begins to sing and I’m turning around, stumbling into people, trying to work out where Ned is.

Thomas grabs me and steers me through the crowd, spinning me round on the grass and when I stop spinning everything keeps whirling around me, I think I’m going to be sick, and then I’m not going to anymore, I’m just dizzy.

I look up and there, on the shed roof, is Ned, gold jumpsuit and eyes closed, bent over his guitar, hair streaming to the ground. Next to him at the mic, her gold minidress matching his outfit, is Sof. They look like a pair of C-3POs. Oh.

My brother has a new band. And everyone knew except me. They must have spent so much time practicing, to be this good. Is this what Ned’s been rushing off to all summer? And since when does Sof sing in front of anyone but me?

“Thanyouvermuch.” Ned Elvises out of the song. His guitar swings from its strap as he swaps it for his camera, takes a photo of the party. “I’m Ned, this is Sofía, together we are Jurassic Parkas. We’re not The Wurst band in the world…” He winks at the crowd. “I bet you’re all just glad it’s not Fingerband up here.”

Did he really just say that? I can’t stop staring at them. They’re twins. More brother and sister than he and I are. And I’m the one who made up Jurassic Parkas, last summer.

“Now we’re going to play: ‘Velocirapture,’” Sof growls into the mic. She doesn’t sound shy.

I turn and stumble away, pushing my way through the people cheering. My head is throbbing, I need quiet, I need …

“Ermahgahd, ermahgahd, ermahgahd!” Suddenly Sof’s croaking at me in the kitchen. I look up from the drink I’m nursing in the corner. My mouth tastes vomity but I don’t remember throwing up.

I don’t remember how I got here.

“Did you see me?” says Sof. She’s extra-raspy, grabbing my arms and bouncing up and down, it’s annoying, before jumping past me. “I’m so thirsty, ermahgahd, I might drink straight from the tap.”

I trail in her wake. Somewhere near, I’m aware Ned and Thomas have followed her into the kitchen. The half-destroyed cake is on the counter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ned’s stereo is blasting Iron Maiden, and I have to yell. It makes me sound angrier than I am—I just want to know why it had to be a secret.

“I’m sorry!” she yells back, reaching into the cupboard for an actual glass, not the plastic cups everyone’s drinking from. “What if I’d chickened out, or been terrible? I always told you I wanted to see what it was like to be in a band.”

“All your bands are imaginary.”

Sof yanks on the tap, which doesn’t budge. “I know—but”—she readjusts, shoving aside debris to put her glass on the counter, both hands on the tap—“you’d have wanted to hear us rehearse, and I could only do it if it was me and Ned alone, and—shit, this is annoying—I dunno, what if we were terrible?”

Ned hops onto the counter next to us, even though it’s disgusting—broken cups and drink spills, wet cigarette butts and weird sticky stuff. I suppose in spandex it doesn’t matter.

“You were brilliant,” he says, looking at Sof. There are ten thousand people in the kitchen but it’s just the two of them, in a bandmates bubble. Friends, conspirators. Swaps: I get dark matter, you take my friend.

You’re being a dog in the manger, says Grey’s voice in my head.

Yeah, but Ned’s MY brother, I argue back. And you’re dead, and I’m so, so angry at you about that.

“Who wants what?” says Thomas, catching up to us and plonking down a bunch of bottles, not looking at me. He didn’t want to kiss me. How stupid. How embarrassing! I laugh hysterically. Everyone ignores me.

“Is there any water? Even some pop?” croaks Sof. “Your tap is KILLING me!” She twists at it again, her knuckles white. The sink is full of darkness and I’m struck by how hugely unfair this is, that I’m the one who’ll have to face it.