‘Hallo, Skippy,’ a sepulchral voice says. ‘Happy Holiday of the Dead.’
‘Thanks, Geoff.’
‘Isn’t this incredible?’
‘It’s pretty amazing…’
‘Would you like some fruit punch?’
‘Okay.’
Elf follows zombie to the table where ‘Jeekers’ Prendergast is ladling punch from a huge vat prepared by Monstro from the ends of various cans of fruit concentrate. Dennis is there too, with Ruprecht; the former has just suspended Jeekers for his gay costume (eighties tennis ace Mats Wilander) and then expelled him for not ensuring there is booze in the punch. A moment later Niall bursts onto them. ‘Hey everybody, Mario just got turned down by a girl!’
‘I was not turned down, you faggot who is dressed as a woman,’ Mario snaps, arriving behind him. ‘I told you, she is a diabetic and she must go and take her insulin.’
‘I saw the whole thing!’ says Niall with an unrepentant air of jubilation. ‘Wiiiipeouuuuut.’
‘Keep laughing, Mr Funny, and when this bitch comes back from taking her insulin you are going to look pretty silly.’
‘Well, even if she doesn’t…’ Geoff begins consolingly.
‘She will.’
‘Yes, but even if she doesn’t, there are plenty of other ladies here anyway.’
‘And most of them are drunk,’ Dennis adds.
‘Fascinating,’ Ruprecht muses to Skippy. ‘The whole thing seems to work on a similar principle to a supercollider. You know, two streams of opposingly charged particles accelerated till they’re just under the speed of light, and then crashed into each other? Only here alcohol, accentuated secondary sexual characteristics and primitive “rock and roll” beats take the place of velocity.’
Skippy has gone to replenish his punch. Ruprecht sighs quietly, and looks at his watch.
Patrick ‘Da Knowledge’ Noonan and Eoin ‘MC Sexecutioner’ Flynn pimp-roll by, plastic Uzis tucked under their arms, the faint frisson of tension still detectable between them, the aftermath of a heated debate earlier today over who was going to come as Tupac, which debate Patrick won, meaning Eoin is now waddling along in a fat suit, dressed as Biggie Smalls. The squalling riff from Cream’s ‘Layla’ blasts from the speakers; in the DJ booth, Wallace Willis nods to himself: oh yes. ‘Flubber’ Cooke, who has come in his supermarket shelf-stacking uniform, explains to a sexy nun that while it’s part of his costume the trolley is actually company property, so although he’d like to let her ride in it, he can’t. Mr Fallon, the history teacher, drifts along the periphery with his hands in his pockets and a melancholy air.
‘I’d like to say a few words about bullying,’ Dennis, in an authentic sheen of perspiration, is declaiming to anyone who’ll listen. ‘Here at Seabrook, we simply will not tolerate bullying of a second-rate nature. Bullying must meet the same standards of excellence we expect everywhere else. If you need help with your bullying, please do not hesitate to speak to me or Father Green or Mrs Timony or Mr Kilduff or…’
And then, grabbing his arm, Geoff Sproke says, ‘Hey, Skippy, look! Isn’t that your girlfriend over there?’
‘Skippy?’
‘… uh, Skippy?’
‘Hey, we’re going to need a new Skippy over here!’
It’s just like in a film. The music dims to nothing, voices fade out, everything melts away, leaving only her. She is talking with her friends, dressed in a long white dress, a slender tiara woven into her dark hair. She seems to glow like she is lit from within, and even though he is looking right at her, Skippy can’t believe how beautiful she is. He looks right at her, and he still can’t believe it.
‘Hubba hubba,’ Mario says. ‘Like a steak on a barbecue, this bitch is smokin’. It is lucky for you that you have first dibs, Juster, otherwise she would be the prime candidate for some of Mario’s Special Sauce.’
‘Keep an eye on him, Skip,’ says Dennis. ‘Never trust an Italian. The Nazis did that, and look where it got them.’
‘You’re not going to throw up again, are you?’ Ruprecht asks.
‘I can’t believe she’s here,’ Skippy whispers dazedly.
‘Skippy, old pal,’ Dennis claps a hand on his shoulder, ‘it doesn’t make any difference whether she’s here or not. As far as you’re concerned, she’s on the North Pole. She’s on the moon.’
‘What’s the deal with her costume?’ Niall wonders. ‘She looks sort of like one of the elves from Lord of the Rings.’
‘Or the girl from Labyrinth?’
‘You clowns, she’s obviously Queen Amidala from Phantom Menace.’
‘Oh, right, you mean in that scene in Phantom Menace where she wears a tiara in her hair? The special magical scene that doesn’t exist? That scene?’
But Skippy doesn’t think she looks like Queen Amidala, or the girl from Labyrinth, or anyone else. He has seen beautiful girls before, in films, on the Internet, in pictures pinned to locker doors and dorm rooms; but the beauty this girl has is something bigger, something beyond, with infinitely more sides to it – it’s like a mountain with an impossible shape that he keeps trying to climb and falling off, finding himself lying on his back in the snow…
‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ Geoff announces, arriving back on the scene with Titch Fitzpatrick. ‘Frisbee Girl’s true identity is about to be revealed!’
Titch, in a red Formula One jumpsuit crowded with company logos, clearly has other fish to fry tonight: from every side, girls wave and pout and send him amorous gazes. ‘Where is she, then?’ he says impatiently.
‘Over there,’ Geoff points with a decomposing finger. ‘Near the DJ booth?’
Titch presses his lips together, and rising onto his tiptoes cranes his head over in the direction Geoff is pointing. Inside, Skippy squirms. Finding out her name! This is becoming real! Is that what he wants? He can’t even tell –
She is with three other girls – a GI Jane with sharp, intelligent features and bouncy curls, a scuba driver in a tight-fitting wetsuit and an overweight girl in some kind of incredibly voluminous Victorian-type ballgown that keeps slipping down her shoulders. The four of them are huddled together, conferring, Frisbee Girl’s eyes darting repeatedly from the dancefloor to the door, like she’s watching out for someone.
‘Lori Wakeham, Janine Forrest, Shannan Fitzpatrick, KellyAnn Doheny,’ Titch reels off the names in a bored voice. ‘I presume you’re talking about Lori Wakeham, she’s the one in the white dress.’
Lori.
‘Who is she?’ Geoff asks.
‘Uh, Lori Wakeham? Did I not just say that?’
‘No, I mean, you know, what’s her story?’
Titch shrugs. ‘Just your typical Foxrock princess.’
‘She going out with anybody?’ Mario says.
‘Dunno,’ Titch says indifferently. ‘I’ve seen her with people at LA Nites. I don’t know if she’s got a boyfriend. She acts a bit like no one’s good enough for her.’
‘Frigid,’ Mario comments.
‘So basically you’re saying Skipford here is wasting his time, right, T-dog?’ Dennis interprets. ‘You’re saying that Skippy fancying her is like some kind of slime or ooze fancying, you know, Gisele. It’s like some sort of disgusting slime or algae seeping over to Gisele and telling her to get her coat.’
‘That’s not what he’s saying,’ Geoff objects. ‘He’s just saying she acts like no one’s good enough for her. But that’s because she hasn’t met Skippy yet.’
‘What’s so great about Skippy? No offence, Skippy.’