You sit on the swing, your feet crumple at the ankle on the red asphalt. The cider is warm. Someone thinks it’s funny to yank the chain and the sticky cider swills down your chin onto your new Hollister top. “Eejit,” you screech and jump up, but the culprit has faded into the intoxicated darkness. The bottle is jostled from your hands. Your budding breasts, bolstered by silicone pads, vibrate. You extract your phone. The screen lights up the face of your bessie. Her lashes like the hairy spiders Dad scoops from the bath.
Hurry, X-factor’s started, Mumxox.
“Is it Lewis?” She grabs for your Blackberry.
“It’s no-one,” you reply. Your jewel encrusted thumbnail stabs delete.
Pigs! Someone shouts. Run!