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

it. Whenever it makes its stop in the centre of the biggest loop, the whole fairground seems to hold its breath – I can see the girl, her hair hanging down, her shoulders slipping out, that breathless moment before she was caught – but the flames spurt up, the cars glide through the rest of the loop, again and again. Safe. Not dangerous. Perfectly, legally approved, police-checked, safe.
    I can do this , I think, all the way to the front of the line. I did the others, I can do this one .
    But the dragon’s yellow eyes blaze at me, and suddenly I can’t move. There’s an empty seat next to Mags, in the last carriage, by the tail. They’re all beckoning me on board, but I shake my head, backpedalling through the line. I don’t care what Red says about road maps. Nothing is going to get me to ride that thing.
    They clang the gate shut. Smoke begins to billow from the dragon’s mouth, and they’re off, without me. With Red instead. I see her hair blowing in the seat beside Mags: hear her yells of delight as they rattle round the curves, through the corkscrew and up to the big loop.
    I can’t look and can’t look away, both at once.
    They hang upside-down. Red lets her arms hang too, waving.
    The plume of flames shoots into the air, snapping at their dangling fingers – but the cars are already moving again, bringing them safely back to earth.
    I’m trembling, shaky, wondering what they’ll say. What she’ll say. Stupid Blue, scaredy-cat, whiny little crybaby.
    But everyone else is trembling and shaky too, and no one says a word about me; not the gang, not Red. We tumble together laughing at the snapshot they show at the end: the four of them at the exact moment the flames go up, mouths open, eyes like eggs, Merlin with both hands clamped over his top hat and a look of sweet possessive panic on his face.
    Red gazes at it too beside me, windswept and glowing, her eyes bright.
    She’s not in the picture, but it doesn’t matter. I know she was there.

    That night, Joanie and the Whales play the Pavilion again.
    I wish them luck from backstage, again, then skid along the boards of the pier and back to the dark dance floor, pushing through the crowd. I’m not going to dance tonight, like last week – but this time I don’t mind. I’m Blue. I’m here to take pictures. Dancing’s a few more miles down my road.
    I weave through the people until I find Fozzie, all dressed up: bright red prom dress, lippy to match, and she’s wearing her purple boots again, though they stink of disinfectant. Beside her Dan’s got tissues stuffed in his nose, like crumply white moustaches. Mags is at home – no gigs for her, too young, and I’m guiltily pleased that’s not me. No Merlin, either. (“Who knows where Mr Mystical goes off to,” Dan said, when I asked, sharing an eye roll with Fozzie.) I feel a pang of disappointment, though I don’t know why. It’s not as if he says much.
    Tiger’s sitting on the bar with the elf girl and a crowd of friends, drinking the free tap water.
    I mess around with the camera buttons, the chunky clip-on flash, wishing I knew what I was doing, squinting through the viewfinder. I still miss the digital screen. Till I print this first film, I won’t have a clue whether any of these pictures will come out at all. It’s photography Red-style, I guess. No fun without surprises. I’m safe with this subject, anyway: Tiger can make a blurry, badly lit smartphone snap look like art. Her eyes always seem bigger and bluer in pictures, her neck long, swanlike. Not quite human. Sometimes I wonder how she can really be my sister; if Mum and Dad found her on the doorstep, hatching out of an egg.
    I snap one shot off, at the precise moment the lights drop, the precise moment her smile widens.
    There’s a hush.
    Dad steps out into his spotlight as Mum settles herself behind the drum kit, and