The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones by Susie Day Page A

proudly forward – at the exact moment an older couple walk into The Shed to buy takeaway teas. I hide behind the camera, embarrassed, as Fozzie laughs her seagull laugh, and serves them anyway, shirt stretched tight, and Red nearly falls off her chair laughing.
    Red’s so funny. I didn’t know I was funny.
    I love us three, hanging out together.
    We’re interrupted by an amplified roar, the stink of petrol, and as I peer through the Shed doors, the huge fanged head swings into life, eyes blazing.
    The POLICE INCIDENT signs are gone, along with the stripy tape. The Red Dragon, empty of riders, rattles effortlessly around the tracks. A huge plume of flame shoots into the sky.
    â€œOh my god,” breathes Fozzie, throwing the cones away and hurrying to the door. “They did it! Mum said they were going to beg the insurers to sign it all off by this weekend, but I never thought. . .”
    â€œThe beast is alive!” yells Dan, throwing off his pirate hat as he sprints towards me, Mags and Merlin following behind. “Let’s crawl!”
    A fairground crawl. Fozzie explains it, as she gleefully flips the “closed” sign on The Shed and pushes me outside. Every single ride, in a row: no stops, no get-outs.
    â€œNo throwing up,” says Dan with a wink at me.
    No chance. I’m not getting on any of those things. I catch Red’s eye as she watches me anxiously, then turns away, fiddling with something.
    My phone buzzes in my pocket.
    Pretend I’m calling you so we can talk?
    I blink, then mime surprise, and vaguely jab at the screen.
    â€œUm. Hello?” I say awkwardly, holding the phone to my ear. “This is Blue. Which, um, you would know, because you called me, so. Um. Who is this?”
    â€œWow, I am never letting you improvise again,” says Red. “Now shut up and listen. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t do fairground rides, they’re scary and they go fast and sometimes they get stuck upside-down and people nearly fall out of them, waah waah waah .”
    â€œI don’t sound like that.”
    â€œYou do inside your head, when you know you’re being a whiny little crybaby.”
    I glare at her – then tone it down when I realize Fozzie is behind Red, and thinks my glare is for her. I plaster on a quick smile.
    â€œLook,” I hiss, spinning away from the group. “I can’t do it. You know I can’t.”
    â€œWhat if I know you can?”
    I blink.
    â€œTrust me, Blue. This is on your road. You never know: you might even enjoy it.”
    I look at her: smiley-faced T-shirt, chunky boots, flaming red hair dangling over one eye. She’s a pushy pain in the arse, but she’s still who I want to be.
    If she can do this, that means one day I’ll be able to. So I might as well start now.
    We buy baby-blue wristbands from the kiosk, the ones that let you ride all day.
    We start small: Dodgems, and Teacups; the slow gilded horses of the old-fashioned Carousel.
    Merlin gets his long spider legs stuck inside the red London bus on the Funtown Merry-Go-Round. We go off to do the Whirler Twirler. When we come back he’s still there, knees tucked up around his ears, mournfully going round and round. We’re all laughing so hard I can barely take his picture.
    Haunted House. Pirate Ship. A nasty one called the Domino Dancer, which leaves Dan green and sweaty because he “doesn’t do sideways”.
    We hesitate outside Madame Soso’s, but she glowers at me from under today’s wig (red, with silver streaks), and slams the booth shut.
    Wacky Gold Mine, Rock’n’Roller. We ride them all.
    Last up, the Red Dragon.
    Madame Soso’s gloom about the fairground’s future was rubbish. There’s a crowd around the number one ride again already, a queue at the gate oohing every time the plume of flame leaps into the air, licking at the tail of the dragon but never catching