What She Does Next Will Astound You Read online

  April raised her eyebrows at him. ‘He’s not a roller coaster, he’s a magic teacup ride. No thrills, no spills. Like going clubbing and spending the whole night drinking cocoa. Not that, of course—’

  ‘You really go clubbing?’ Ram seemed to have backed down a bit. Which was relaxing.

  ‘Not unless the music is really good.’ There were some things that April would never compromise on. ‘The thing is, I’ve spotted something. In his vlogs. Can you get Tanya?’

  Tanya was dismissive.

  ‘That site? It’s good. Security’s really tight.’ She’d been wondering about that and feeling a bit angrier every time. Wasn’t that a bit too neat? Like encrypting a blog post. It just felt a bit off—a site about risk-taking with every layer of security. Normally, a site like that would throw the odd Easter egg in as a reward for novice hackers—a little pat on the back and now be on your way. But no. Looked like a bouncy castle, behaved like a fortress.

  ‘It’s Seraphin, that’s the thing,’ said April.

  ‘Got you,’ said Tanya. ‘He’s the evil genius behind it all. An evil genius with really, really, really good hair.’

  Ram made a disgusted noise and walked over to the library window. Someone was trying to shin up a lamppost. A few days ago he’d have run out to stop them. Now he was at ‘let them’. Everyone deserved whatever happened to them.

  ‘You’re missing something.’ April already had several tabs open. ‘I’ve got evidence.’

  ‘A conspiracy theory? Love that.’ Tanya lit up, and did a little bounce in her chair. ‘On it.’

  EXHIBIT A:

  ‘ . . . not been out to the show myself. But loads of you sent in great footage from it. Looks amazing. Wish I could have got out of here to go see it. But there we are. Moving on, fanfare gif, here’s some of your challenges. This Girl Took Her Driving Test onto a Train Track . . .’

  EXHIBIT B:

  ‘Hello, Everyone, Let’s Party! I’ve a message for you—Go Everywhere to Meet Everyone! Own Unpleasant Times! That’s the motto I live by—I Aim Mighty! Take Risks and Party, People! Everyone Dies.’

  EXHIBIT C:

  Seraphin was playing on his guitar, strumming away, riffing gently up and down.

  ‘You, girl, listen to me.

  I’m a prisoner of your love.

  I’m stuck right here waiting for you. I don’t know what to do . . .

  Hmm. Is that going anywhere? I don’t know if we can make it work. Maybe I should do something with the harmonica.

  Or something. I’ve been at it a while and I’m getting pretty desperate.’

  EXHIBIT D:

  Seraphin playing ukulele covers of ‘Help’ and ‘Please Release Me.’

  ‘The last one was less subtle,’ said April. ‘You get the point.’

  Ram shrugged. ‘He just likes to talk about himself a lot.’

  Tanya fixed him with a disappointed stare that could make concrete check its shoes. ‘The first vlog contained references to being stuck in his room. The second was . . . an acrostic, yes?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Ram,’ Tanya sighed. Two syllables but she put so much disappointment into them.

  ‘You get it in poems and songs,’ said April. ‘Hiding a message in the first letter of every word. That vlog starts with “Help” and gets worse.’

  ‘So?’ said Ram.

  ‘He’s playing a similar game in the third clip. Hidden message asking for someone to come get him.’

  ‘And the fourth entry?’

  ‘Desperation.’ Tanya laughed. ‘Subtlety’s gone right out the window. Which, let’s face it, if you’re the public face of the site and you’re being made to do it against your will . . .’

  ‘That can’t be true.’ Ram had dug in. ‘That just can’t be. What, there’s somebody standing behind the camera with a gun? He’s a celebrity.’ Pause. ‘Of sorts. Doesn’t happen.’

  Tanya did some rapid Googling. ‘This is interesting.’ She pointed at an image search. ‘I’ve ranked it by date—it shows Seraphin doing what he does, you know, giving talks, going to parties, awards ceremonies, and skateboarding events. People taking selfies with him, that kind of pic. Not vlogs he’s posted claiming to be places, but pictures taken by other people—and look . . .’

  April looked at the row after row of pictures of Seraphin smiling next to blushing boys and grinning girls and unspeakably pretty women and overenthusiastic mothers. Seraphin’s smiles were all identical. Wherever, whenever, he had a smile for everyone, no matter how grabby or sweaty or overkeen they were. Then she checked the date stamps and saw Tanya’s point.

  ‘He’s not been seen for a month,’ said April. ‘Now do you believe something’s going on?’

  ‘That’s one massive, insane conspiracy theory,’ Ram said. And then he leaned back in his chair and laughed.

  Outside, the boy climbing the lamppost reached the top. He made a wild thumbs-up gesture to the watching camera phones, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. The crowd carried on filming his inert body, waiting for someone else to phone an ambulance.

  EIGHTEEN

  THINGS YOU’LL GET ONLY IF YOUR HOME PLANET WAS DESTROYED IN THE NINETIES

  ‘Today on truthordare.com—I want you to be as desperate as me. Today is the start of the Risk Invasion. Nothing is too truthful or too daring. Down with TMI! There is no such thing as oversharing!’

  ‘Question.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ Matteusz carried on reading the textbook, even though his eyes went over the lines three times. ‘What question?’

  ‘I’m still not clear what oversharing is. I have more questions.’

  Matteusz sighed. ‘It is saying too much. Last year, there was girl in class. Her father went to prison. Everyone very sympathetic. She started blog, and we all looked and liked and all that. Everyone was “Oh Becky, you are so brave”—but really everyone was “Do you have to talk so much about this? It is so sad.” After her father got beaten up, she stopped writing it, and that was somehow better.’

  Charlie spent a few seconds chewing through all this.

  ‘So you do not like it when people talk about themselves too much?’

  ‘Correct.’ Matteusz laughed. ‘In that way, I am most English. And you too—you play your cards close to your chest. It is very nice chest, by the way.’

  Charlie edged a little away, smiling bashfully. ‘So, just because I do not say “I’m an alien prince and my entire race died and I am so alone,” that is a good thing?’

  ‘You can say it—but just to me.’ Matteusz rubbed his shoulder. ‘Trust me—you have lovely face, but the only way you fit in is by saying as little as possible. The more you say, the more crazy you sound.’

  ‘But . . .’ Charlie looked confused.

  Oh dear. Matteusz was starting to fear buts as much as questions. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think that I am too reserved? Would I fit in more if I was less . . . private?’

  Matteusz considered it. ‘Maybe. But do not try and talk about yourself.’ He waved a solemn finger. ‘That will not go well.’

  If Varun noticed his son was limping when he got in, he didn’t say so. He just pushed out one of the kitchen chairs and motioned for him to sit.

  Ram sat. The kitchen was his dad’s hideaway. He liked to sit in there, reading, slogging through paperwork, or filling in puzzles. If you’ve ever wondered about those little puzzles at the back of newspapers, they were for Ram’s dad. Varun had a quiet passion for filling them in. His idea of a little peace after work and before dinner was to sit at the kitchen table, scratching his beard, and trying to get from SLUM to BIRD in five moves. He’d stay there until his wife chased him out—or, if it was his turn to cook, he’d potter back and forth between a puzzle and ALL the pans. Varun was the kind of man who couldn’t microwave a spaghetti Bolognese without using at least three saucepans. It was his way of marking his territory.

  The kitchen summed up Ram’s dad. It wasn’t fussy, it wasn’t exactly
the last word in comfort, and it was quite tired around the edges. But it felt familiar, welcoming. Varun slid the paper to his son, watching him intently.

  ‘Last bit of this Sudoku is unholy,’ he said.

  Ram looked at it helplessly then pushed it back.

  ‘Seriously, Dad, what about the apps on your phone? Haven’t you got Candy Smash?’

  ‘Firstly’—Varun waggled a stern finger—‘you sure you should be mentioning phones right now? Secondly, your generation! If it’s not a phone, then it doesn’t count. Well, I prefer solving puzzles with pencil and paper. I’m old-fashioned. I’m practically a hipster.’

  ‘You’re not!’

  Varun dipped a hand from side to side. ‘I have hipster sympathies. We’ve put in parking for their little scooters at the surgery. Hipsters? I like them—unless they ask if they can use the Wi-Fi to livestream their fillings. That’s just bizarre.’ Ram smiled at his dad. Varun loved being an old man, even though, really, he wasn’t that ancient. But it seemed impossible he’d ever been Ram’s age, ever understood what he was going through—and yet, there was something about him. The way he’d been so quietly supportive after Rachel had died (even though he’d never seemed to like her), the way he’d behaved when Ram had shown him his alien leg, the way he’d stopped mentioning Ram’s possible football career.

  It had surprised Ram. His initial thought had been that his dad would be all ‘I’m sorry your girlfriend is dead, why not go play some football?’. Instead he’d served up something quieter, more supportive, but sadder. It made Ram worried. It was as if his dad knew that life wasn’t perfect, and that, if you had the opportunity for a wonderful, exciting time, it would be taken away from you.

  Hence why he sat in the kitchen, trying to solve puzzles. To make sense of something.

  Ram realised his dad was talking. ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘Meh,’ said Ram.

  ‘I see.’ Varun smiled with his teeth. ‘Are you sure you weren’t given a manual for it? I’d love to read it.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ said Ram. ‘No. It’s supposed to just work.’

  ‘Early days, early days.’ Varun tapped his nose. ‘When you were a toddler, you were slow to walk, always falling over. Auntie Amita was convinced you were backwards. Well, look at you now—you’ll get there. You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ram.

  ‘Don’t be.’ Varun didn’t look up. ‘Whatever it is, don’t be.’

  ‘About the phone, they . . . stole those texts . . . they—’

  ‘Did you say anything in those texts to shame Rachel, yourself, or your family?’

  ‘That’s not the point—’

  ‘Then fssssh!’ Varun stood up, pottered over to the stove, and stirred the dinner critically. ‘Your mother really does think paprika grows on trees.’

  ‘It’s just—’ Ram felt hopeless. ‘It was all going to plan. And now nothing is. It’s all such a mess.’

  Varun dropped the saucepan lid back down and wandered over to a cupboard. He drew out a packet of dark chocolate.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, offering it to Ram. ‘Have a couple of squares. As your dentist, I insist.’

  Ram took the packet, ran a fingernail down the foil, and then broke a couple of squares off. As he did so, Varun chuckled. ‘Look at that—perfect illustration,’ he said.

  ‘Of what?’ said Ram.

  ‘Life.’ Varun was still laughing. ‘It’s never neatly shaped. Never. Little things happen, the edges are rough. You meant to take two squares—but you ended up with a massive jagged chunk of another square and a tiny bit of your first one. That’s life—it never has straight lines. Don’t worry.’

  Ram sucked on the chocolate thoughtfully.

  Varun broke himself off a couple of squares. Rather more neatly than Ram. ‘With age comes caution.’ Varun opened his mouth and the chocolate vanished.

  NINETEEN

  HE THOUGHT HE KNEW A LOT ABOUT GRAVITY. FIND OUT IF HE WAS RIGHT

  April turned out to be completely correct (she wasn’t sure how she felt about this). The first couple of warning coughs were over, and Coal Hill School now had a full-on fever. It showed her a whole new side of Miss Quill.

  It all kicked off in Quill’s class. She’d gone out to get a photocopy, and she came back in to find Geoff Evans leaping from desk to desk. Phones were filming him. He’d vowed to get the whole way round and back before she returned. As she crashed through the door, he had only two desks to go, and was about to sail at Hardeep’s desk. Hardeep had carefully packed all his pens away in advance.

  ‘And what are you doing?’ Miss Quill’s hands were resting on her hips like they were dangerous weapons.

  ‘It’s a bet, Miss.’ Geoff wobbled uncertainly on the desk, his feet all over April’s homework. Normally he was one of the quiet ones, but this craze had swept everyone up, and timid Geoff seemed to be seized with unusual bravado.

  ‘You see, it’s for charity,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Is it now?’

  ‘To stop Skandis.’

  ‘How lovely for you,’ Miss Quill observed. ‘You may step down and return to your desk and we’ll talk after class.’

  ‘No, Miss.’ Geoff was defiant. ‘I’ve got to complete a circuit. I’ve got to.’

  ‘Got to, have we?’ Miss Quill crossed to her bench, put the photocopies down neatly, and turned back to Geoff.

  ‘Got to?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Very well.’ Miss Quill folded her arms. ‘You creatures. You lead such short lives. You’re so ridiculously vulnerable. If I were you, I wouldn’t even dare get in an aeroplane, let alone risk life and limb by leaping about. Especially when one is, let’s be unusually kind, Geoff, not one of nature’s gymnasts. Sit back down. One last chance.’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Right then.’ Miss Quill crossed to the desk next to April’s and dragged it away. Hardeep squeaked in protest.

  ‘I’ve made it more interesting for you, Geoffrey. Double the distance, or just give up, get down, and we’ll say absolutely no more about it.’

  Geoff swallowed. He shook his head back and forth. He chewed his lower lip. ‘No.’

  Miss Quill stood back and sighed really loudly.

  ‘Someone close the window, would you? We don’t want Geoffrey learning he can’t fly as well.’

  Geoff took a couple of practise stumbles across April’s desk, shattering a favourite felt-tip pen, and then he leaped through the air, sailing over Hardeep’s missing desk, and landing on his own, arms windmilling.

  For a moment it looked as though he was going to make it. He smiled, confident and pleased and just in need of another couple of inches to be utterly balanced. And in taking that extra step, it all went wrong. The desk suddenly leaped forward. He toppled backwards, making a grab at the desk, which ended up as a strange empty hug, and then he smacked down onto the floor with a thud and didn’t move.

  ‘Someone take him to the nurse.’ Miss Quill clearly wasn’t impressed. ‘Oh, and hand me all your phones.’ She took a hammer from her desk drawer. ‘You can either delete the footage or I’ll do it for you.’

  By lunchtime three more ambulances had been called. Two pupils with broken limbs. One teacher who’d tried tobogganing down the stairs on a tray.

  One boy went home in tears after his girlfriend broke up with him live on Periscope.

  ‘It’s that site,’ hissed April to Charlie that afternoon. ‘It’s getting totally out of hand.’

  ‘What is?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Truthordare.com. It’s just . . . People are getting hurt. In all sorts of different ways.’

  There was screaming outside the window. It seemed two different classes had gone to war in a vast scrum raging across the yard. Teachers were flocking to it.

  ‘See? The challenges are getting more . . . dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ Charlie frowned. ‘But surely it is all about being true to yourself by s
haring more of your life. And it is’—he sounded pompously grave—‘for charity.’

  ‘You are talking such nonsense!’ April flicked a ball of paper at him. He did not flinch. ‘What charity? It googlewhacks. The only results are for people raising funds for other stupid challenges. Meanwhile, stuff is going up on truthordare.com and it’s all wrong—like what happened to Ram—wrong and hurtful.’

  ‘Hurtful?’ Charlie said. ‘So long as no one is physically hurt then what is the problem?’ He looked slightly shifty—more than slightly shifty. ‘After all, it is good, is it not, to share surprising aspects of our lives online? It shows that we are fully rounded people who know how to have fun.’

  April narrowed her eyes. Sometimes Charlie sounded like a Google Translate error. ‘What are you talking about? Actually, never mind. The point is that site is wrong. And Seraphin, supposedly in charge of it, is sending secret messages asking for help. We’ve got to do something.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. I suppose we must,’ he said simply, and smiled at her. And that would have maybe solved a few problems. If only the door hadn’t crashed open and Matteusz hadn’t come barrelling in.

  ‘What have you done?’ he shouted. He was so angry, he was in tears. ‘How could you do that?’

  He stared at Charlie in utter fury and April saw from Charlie’s expression of bemused innocence that he was completely guilty.

  The picture had been tagged ‘#TMI’ and ‘#sosogay’. It showed a nearly naked Matteusz, barely wearing a towel. He was flexing his arms and smiling, presumably towards Charlie.

  Matteusz was not smiling now. Charlie looked withdrawn, sullen. Royal alien princes did not, in April’s experience, like being caught out. The good thing was that Matteusz looked, April considered, pretty amazing in the picture. It wasn’t posed—he clearly wasn’t aware that it was being taken, he’d just walked into a room looking casual, relaxed, and really very hot. Quite a few of the comments agreed with her. Someone had even done some pastel fan art of him as a centaur, which was rather sweet.

  And that about wrapped it up for the good things about the situation.