The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones by Susie Day

her throat in a fake strangle while she fake-pummels him, and I realize, earlier, Fozzie never meant to send me off to the kiddie table. Her little sister is part of the gang, a mate like the others.
    â€œNice to meet you, Mags,” I say, smiling extra hard. Mags shrinks her shoulders, smiling shyly.
    Top Hat Boy slides out of the booth. “Merlin the Magician,” he drawls, his accent a little softer than Dan’s, hazel eyes circled with smudgy eyeliner. He flips his hat off to reveal dyed-black hair, falling into his eyes; the hat tumbles down one arm, to land perfectly in his hand. “Always enchanting to meet a fellow illusionist.”
    He delicately bows, takes my hand, and presses his lips lightly against my fingers.
    I yelp and snatch my hand away. “Sorry!” I squeak, regretting it instantly. “I – didn’t mind! Only I was a bit surprised. People where I come from don’t do things like that.”
    â€œPeople round here don’t do things like that either,” says Mags wearily.
    Dan claps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Merlin here is what we call a special child. That’s why we gave him the hat: so you can see him coming and run away.”
    Merlin rolls his eyes at me, as if to apologize for the company he keeps, and flips the top hat expertly back on to his head with a flick of his wrist.
    My hand begins to twist behind my back, unbidden, trying to copy the movement. I want to know how to do that.
    Maybe he’ll teach me. Red’ll know.
    I look round, and spot her perched on the counter, legs swinging in their boots, an odd proud smile on her face.
    Thank you , I want to say. Red nods her head minutely, like she hears it anyway.
    Fozzie pushes me on the shoulder to sit in the booth, squeezing in beside me. “So come on then, you little star: spill,” she says, bright red lips curving. “How did you do that? With the names?”
    I can feel Merlin’s scrutiny, those hazel eyes trying to see through mine. The others think it’s funny. He really, truly wants to know.
    I look over at Red, swinging her feet.
    I flash them a grin, and tap the side of my nose three times: tap-tap-tap.

 
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    5. The Fairground Crawl
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    Mum covers Peanut’s ears whenever Dad swears, her hands pressed on either side of her bump, and when he rolls his eyes she says, “Don’t mess with Team Peanut: we’re buddies, we’re an ‘us’. Where I go, it goes.”
    He apologizes to her tummy and calls her “we”. Would we like a cup of tea? Will we be taking up all of the sofa, or is there room for one more?
    I’m half of Team Red, now. She’s not my baby (obviously: urgh). She’s better. My constant companion. We giggle together on the trip to the chocolate factory, as she moans enviously at the free samples. When my handwritten itinerary has scheduled Penkerry Attraction Number 6: Cliff-top Crazy Golf, she puts new words in my mouth – I’m going to the fair instead, OK? – and I play pinball with Mags, drink coffee (black, sugary) with Fozzie while she smokes and Dan eats chips. At night, Red reads my book over my shoulder, and tells me not to sleep yet because there’s a good bit coming up.
    She sits on the sink and watches the family eat dinner, like we’re her TV.
    It makes me feel special.

    On Friday, as predicted by my remarkable clairvoyant self, the Red Dragon reopens.
    I’m in The Shed, showing Fozzie my camera. She thinks the chunky buttons are “tidy”, and wants one for herself.
    â€œGo on, take her picture,” prompts Red, watching us with her feet up on a table – so I do: unicorn Fozzie, an empty ice-cream cone held to her head.
    â€œMore horns!” Red shouts, pointing fingers like a bull on her head, and I shout, “More horns!” too, till Fozzie makes like a Viking. Then she tucks them inside her shirt, giant pointy norks thrust