“Seat belt sign,” says Alex, without looking up. “It’s still on.”
I might have guessed he’d be a ‘rules’ based kind of guy. The type who never does anything on impulse. Not like me, Summer, running off to Spain to change her life, say. Now that I’m actually on the plane, and the worst part of the flight is over, my nerves have started to turn to excitement.
I’m actually doing this.
I can’t believe I’m going to Spain.
Wait until I tell Chloe. And my parents. They’ll never in a million years believe that I, Summer Brookes, have the guts to jump onto a plane, with just a few hours’ notice.
This is amazing.
I sit there fizzing with excitement until the seat belt sign above me pings off. The second it does, I jump up, banging my head on the overhead bins again as I squeeze past Rita into the aisle, where I fumble for a few minutes with the door of the luggage compartment, until my backpack falls onto my head, almost knocking me out.
“There she is,” someone says. “There’s our girl!”
I look round to see Gerald-of-the-Fake-Tan sitting right behind us, surrounded by a sea of white heads. I’d always thought of Tenerife as being a bit of a party island, but with the exception of a group of women in their 30s, all wearing matching t-shirts with the slogan, “Libby’s Hen Do” on the front, and an exhausted-looking younger couple with a baby and a toddler, it looks like the median age on board is about 82.
“It’s the winter crowd,” confirms Rita as I ease back into my seat, slamming the backpack into Alex by accident as I go. “The young ‘uns normally come in the summer, or during the school holidays. The rest of the year, it’s mostly us oldies.”
I’m not sure I’m comfortable being included as one of “us oldies” (I might not be married, or have a partner, or, well, alife, really, but Iamstill only 31. That’s young, right? That still gives me plenty of time to ‘make something of my life’, as the woman in the bar said?) but I say nothing to this, and concentrate on rummaging through the bag until I find what I’m looking for.
“Here,” I say, pulling out the battered blue exercise book that served as my diary from the ages of 13 — 17, and passing it to Rita, open to the correct page. “This is why I’m here.”
Four
The Secret Diary of Summer Brookes, Age Thirteen-and-Three-Quarters
Dear Diary
Know what I’ve been wondering? I’ve been wondering what it’ll be like looking back at these words in, say, 10 or 20 years’ time. What will I be like? What will have changed? Will I even remember the people and places mentioned here? Will I have traveled the world, or will I still be stuck here in boring old Margate? The most important question of all, of course, is what will I be doing with my life? Will I be a famous singer? (I hope so!) Will I be married to Jamie Reynolds? Will I still be ALIVE, even?!
Well, this year will decide all of that (except maybe the ‘being alive’ bit. I think that’s probably out of my hands….), because this is the year I have to decide which subjects to take for the next twoyears . I’m terrified, because if I don’t choose the right subjects, it could ruin my whole life. Literally. I want to do music, so I can become a famous singer, but Mum and Dad say I should do economics, just to be on the safe side. Then again, Jamie Reynolds is doing art, and if I want him to notice me, I really need to make sure I’m somewhere he’ll see me, so maybe I should do art too? Like, I don’t think manifesting is going to be enough if we’re in different classes? Or will it?
I don’t know what to do. I feel like my entire life will hinge on this decision, and it’s just so much pressure. I think I could cope better if I didn’t have my period because it makes me really overwhelmed and anxious, but that’s life, I suppose.
Taylor Swift was on TV tonight. She was brilliant! I SO want to see her in concert one day!!!
Summer XOXO
“What does XOXO mean?” asks Rita, looking up from the diary and almost knocking me off my seat with the brim of her hat. “Is that a code for something?”
“No, it’s kisses and hugs,” I tell her. “But that’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” She looks at me expectantly, the bottle of vodka poised halfway to her lips. “Is it the bit about Taylor Swift, then? Did she sing something really inspirational that made you want to go to Tenerife?”
“No,” I say, frowning. “I think she sangTim McGraw. That’s not the point either, though. It’s—”
“Was he in your class, too?” says Rita. “This Tim McGraw? Or did he do economics?”
“No,Idid economics,” I say, frustrated. “That’sthe point. I did economics when Ireallywanted to do music. And now here I am, looking back at this diary entry 20 years later — well, almost — and,actually,nothinghas changed. Ididn’ttravel the world. Iamstill stuck in Margate. I’m notanykind of singer, let alone a famous one.”
Beside me, Alex shifts slightly in his seat, and I angle myself away from him, lowering my voice so he can’t hear me.
“I let myself down, Rita,” I say sadly. “I let my younger self down. I didn’t do any of the things that were important to her. I didn’t do anythingat all, really. I just kind ofsettled. And I don’t want to be someone who settles. I don’t want to be someone who has regrets. I want todosomething with my life. I want to—”
“Do art?” she says.
“Ididdo art too, actually,” I admit. “But I only did it so I could see Jamie Reynolds more often. I can’t draw to save my life.”
