Rebecca Rocks by Anna Carey Page B

why, but Alice was somehow immediately convinced that it was, well, a matter of life or death. She says she was practically in tears as she said, ‘Oh Cass, no – do you have cancer? Are you … dying?’
    Cass, understandably, stared at her in amazement.
    ‘What?’ she said. ‘No! I’m fine! Oh God, Alice, don’t cry all over your hot chocolate, you’ll make it all salty and gross. I’m not dying. I’m gay!’
    ‘Oh, thank God!’ said Alice.
    Anyway, they both realised that this was pretty funny, so things were okay after that, and they drank the nice hot chocolate and then went off and looked at amps in a music shop.
    ‘Did it ever cross your mind?’ said Alice when she rang meto tell me about it (Cass had told her about coming out to me the night before), ‘That Cass liked girls, I mean?’
    ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I never thought about it.’
    ‘Me neither,’ said Alice. ‘I just assumed she was straight. Like I assumed you were.’
    ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘You are okay with it, aren’t you?’
    ‘Oh God, yes,’ said Alice. ‘I mean, I was surprised when she told me. But it’s not like she’s any different, is she? I mean, she’s still the same Cass. It’s not like it means she fancies any of us. So what difference does it make? I’m mostly just sad she didn’t tell us before.’
    ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘But at least she’s told us now.’
    And it’s true, it doesn’t make a difference. I mean, obviously I was thinking about it when she was telling me. But in the morning, when we were making fudge and stuff, it wasn’t … an issue. I mean, I can hardly spend all my time imagining my friends’ love lives, can I? That would be pretty creepy.
    I didn’t mention to Alice that I feel a bit bad about being the only single one of us three. I knew it would sound very babyish and selfish. But I do feel like that, even though most of our other friends aren’t going out with anyone either. It’s different when it’s your very best friends.

    I have decided I am going to do something daring to get out of this blah mood. I am going to get my hair cut and finally get a fringe, so when we start the summer camp next week I will look like a new and exciting person. I have been dreaming of having a fringe for years, but I haven’t got one because of my weird wavy hair. But I bet hairdressing techniques have improved a LOT since the long-ago days when I last had a fringe and it just kept sticking out like a shelf. I mean, it was years ago AND I was a very small child at the time. I told Cass about my plan today.
    ‘Are you sure about this?’ she said. ‘You’ve always been sure you couldn’t have a fringe. It’s a big commitment. And it can go horribly wrong.’
    ‘But you have a fringe!’ I said.
    ‘I know,’ said Cass. ‘But remember, I’ve had one for years. I was trying to grow it out for ages and ages until I finally just gave in and accepted it. Fringes can be tricky things. And your hair is even thicker than mine.’
    ‘But Cass, they can DO things now,’ I said. ‘I was looking in one of Mum’s magazines, and it said if you start thefringe high up on your head, the weight of the hair will keep it straight, even if it’s really thick.’
    ‘I suppose,’ said Cass. ‘It’s still risky, though.’
    ‘What’s the name of your hairdresser?’ I said. ‘The one who gave you the proper fringe a few months ago? I want to go to someone who has, like, proved their fringe-cutting skills.’
    Cass told me the name. ‘But you’re not going to get exactly the same style as me, are you?’ she said. ‘It would look very odd if we turned up at the rock camp as hair twins. Like it was a band uniform.’
    ‘Of course I’m not!’ I said. ‘Anyway, my hair’s much longer than yours. Well, a few inches, anyway. And I’m not going to get much cut off most of it, just the front. You’re not the only person who’s allowed have a fringe, you know!’
    ‘Okay, okay,’ said Cass.