I think we can safely say I’m not quite there yet with the ‘cool’ thing.
Before I put the diary back down, I flip idly through the pages, selecting an entry at random to read:
The Secret Diary of Summer Brookes, Age 16
Last night I decided to record myself singing, just for a laugh, and it was the weirdest thing ever, because, when I listened back to the recording, it didn’t sound like me AT ALL. Or it didn’t sound like I do in my head, anyway. Like, in my head, I don’t have a voice that high. Then again I don’t have freckles or one giant eyebrow in my head, either. In my head I’m not even 16years old: I’m at least eighteen, and I sing in a band, while also starring in movies. And I look a little bit like Amy Adams, only younger, obviously.
So, I guess what I’m wondering now is whether it’s just me that this is happening to, or whether everyone has a secret person in their own heads? Take Chloe, for instance. Is the Chloe I know the same Chloe that gets into bed at night and dreams about whatever people who aren’t me dream about? (And actually, while we’re on the subject, what DO people who aren’t me dream about? Because I really want to know?)
I mean, if anyone has a secret self tucked away in their head, it would be Chloe. The Chloe who sits next to me in school and is going to come to see Taylor with me if she ever comes to Margate on tour definitely isn’t the same Chloe who laughed at me when I said I was going to be famous; or who said I’d be really pretty if I just had eyelashes? (And I DO have eyelashes; you just can’t see them because they’re so pale.) I just don’t think that was a very nice thing to say. I’m still growing into myself, like Mum always says. It doesn’t mean I won’t one day make something of my life. And I will. I know I will. To the rest of the world, I’m like a TV set stuck on one channel that I can’t seem to flick past. The wrong channel. And I’m stuck being the Wrong Summer. But I can change that, I know it. It just might take me a little longer than other people, that’s all.
Anyway. Jamie walked Chloe and I home from school today — it really feels like we’re starting to become friends now — and once we’d dropped Chloe off at her house, we sat on the wall outside mine chatting for ages: mostly about music, but about other stuff too. He’s SO nice. I just feel like he really GETS me, you know? And I was going to ask him if he has asecret self inside his head, too, but then he started talking about this band he’s going to see soon, and it didn’t seem like the right time. I will, though. And I bet he won’t laugh at me like Chloe would, because he’ll get it. Because he’s like me. And that’s how I know we’re destined to end up together.
I put the diary down on my pillow, thinking about the photo Alex took of me earlier today, and howitdidn’t feel like me, either, at first — a bit like when you hear a recording of your own voice, and you don’t sound anything like you do in your head. And I guess that photo threw me for a second, in the same way the recording did, back when I was 16. It was a bit like Alex had somehow managed to see the ‘secret’ Summer my 16-year-old self kept incoherently banging on about, and captured her on film.
Maybe that’s why it made me so uncomfortable?
And maybe that means Ihaven’tactually ‘grown into myself’ at all?
I got one thing right in that long-ago diary entry, though: Icanstill make something of my life. I can still figure out which Summer is the real one — and get everyone else to see her, too. I’m in the process of doing it, in fact, with this trip.
It’s just taking me a little longer than other people.
That’s all.
Fifteen
Iwake up with the diary stuck to my face, and the vague feeling that something bad happened last night.
Then I hear the door of Alex’s room slam shut and I remember how I croaked on stage, with him watching me and smirking.
Oh yeah.That.
I take my time in the shower, hoping he’ll have finished eating by the time I get downstairs, then wander just as slowly around the breakfast buffet, which is even better than the dinner one from my first night — not that I got to try much of it, mind you. To make up for it, I pile my plate high with bacon, eggs, and a couple of pink iced donuts, then carry it carefully to my designated table on the terrace… where, of course, I find Alexander Fox finishing up a healthy-looking bowl of cereal, which he’s washing down with an orange juice.
“Good morning,” I say breezily, determined to shake off the lingering embarrassment of last night, and not let Alex’s glowering presence spoil the beautiful morning. “Sleep well, did you?”
Alex looks up, as if he’s surprised to see me.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says suspiciously. “What happened? Did Mr. Wonderful call?”
I glare at him over the top of my first donut.
“Iwasin a good mood,” I tell him. “But it’s rapidly starting to disappear for some reason.”
Alex shrugs slightly and goes back to his cereal. I sip my coffee, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on my shoulders. This terraced area was pretty in the evening, with the fairy lights twinkling above our heads, but it’s equally picturesque in the daylight. Our table is close to the edge of the patio, and looks out over the infinity pool, then out to sea. I watch contentedly as a little white sailboat comes into view and starts making its way towards the harbor at Los Cristianos, just along the coast.
It’s perfect. And I’m determined not to let Alex Fox spoil my enjoyment of it with his stupid sarcastic comments.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, almost as if he’s determined to prove me wrong. “Does that smile on your face mean you have another date planned with Whatshisface?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I tell him through a mouthful of donut. “But no. He did say we should do it again, though, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”
I’m not sure about this at all, as it happens. In fact, I’m not even sure Iwantto see Jamie again. But that’s not something I’m ready to admit even tomyself, let alone to Alex, so I leave it at that.
“Right,” says Alex, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “And are you planning to tell him he’s number one on your list of New Year’s resolutions?”
“No,” I say shortly, feeling my good mood dissipate even further. “No, I’m not. I don’t think it’s relevant.”
