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  “No,” said Rebecca and she got up and coolly walked away.

  I got up. Or I tried to get up. My dress had soaked up so much of the manky water that I could hardly move.

  “Wait! Rebecca!”

  Oh, Crapolla, I wish I didn’t have to wring what felt like ten buckets of water from my dress before I could chase after her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said after I had madly dashed to catch up.

  “That was not cool,” said Rebecca. “That made me look ultra-uncool.”

  “But I thought you were against cool. You’re supposed to be the alternative chick. The anti-cool.”

  “What are those guys going to think, the next time they see me? Will they still be as enthusiastic?” Rebecca considered this with her finger pressed against her bottom lip.

  “Seriously? Wouldn’t it be great if that whole incident did turn them off forever? We wouldn’t have to battle them again. Hurray!”

  “Amy, I need them to love me. Then I can act coolly detached and say I wish I wasn’t so beautiful and be able to reject them on my own terms,” moaned Rebecca. “You don’t get it, Amy, because you’re not like me.”

  “Oh.” I am sure my eyebrows had gone so far up my face they’d slipped to the back of my head. “But we fell into that stupid water feature together. If it was a scene out of a movie, it would be kinda funny, don’tcha think?”

  “If you fell into the water, Amy, that would be funny – it’s something a sidekick does. It’s not something that happens to the main character.”

  I realised I was still holding onto the crappy locket. I don’t know why, but I hurriedly put it around my neck before I tried to fluster myself back into friendship with Rebecca.

  That was the first mistake I made. Not the trying to get back with Rebecca thing – that proved to be a mistake much later. What I shouldn’t have done was put on that necklace.

  I learned a few things that day.

  One: if I hadn’t scared bloody Michael Limawan and his two Lord of the Rings super geeks away, they would have told me that Frodo would tell you never put on a cursed piece of jewellery.

  Two: there was a reason why that necklace mysteriously appeared on Rebecca and not me. Because it was intended for her. Rebecca was supposed to be the star of this story, not me. In the correct circumstances I would have been regulated to the sidekick status Rebecca said belonged to me, and I would have been happy with that. I’m cool with the stereotype.

  Three: most importantly, I wish my mum had told me something like this: “Amy, do not pick up old lockets and put them around your neck, even if you are distracted and not thinking straight because you’d just been attacked by three Jason Donovans and your best friend was on the verge of possibly breaking up with you forever. You don’t put on an old locket, because it might just have a ghost inside.”

  Chapter 2

  Don’t you just love the styling of Middlemoore Senior High? All the fencing – I’m not entirely sure if it’s for keeping danger out or for keeping students in. The school appears at first glance to have more demountables than actual buildings. At least the demountables are air-conditioned, which is more than can be said for the rest of the school.

  I watched the groups of girls talk to one another. Their Eighties get-ups were mainly derivative variations of bubble-hemmed dresses and tiered ra-ra skirts. They flicked their scrunchie-adorned side ponytails.

  I walked past a guy hanging around the shady bit of the playground and was pleased to see from the big black hair, white pancake face and red lipstick that he was dressed up as Robert Smith from The Cure.

  “Nice costume, man,” I shouted out to him. After all, fancy dress day was supposed to break down barriers and get students to interact in a fun-filled supportive environment. That’s what the school told the parent committee when they lodged a complaint against Nineties theme day. Who would have thought so many girls would choose to come as schoolgirl Britney Spears?

  “What costume?” A look of confusion spread across the boy’s face. “Is today supposed to be fancy dress day?”

  I quickly hurried to the girls toilets.

  I had dried my wig and was drying my dress, centimetre by excruciating centimetre, when Nancy Soo walked in.

  “Just reminding you that the ball is this Monday. And as it’s my turn to collect – cough up,” she said tersely, and stuck her tin out.

  Introducing Nancy “Fancy Pants” Soo. Top student. Plays the piano and the clarinet. Stereotypically good at Maths. Would probably get into Pharmacy at uni next year. Exactly the sort my Chinese mum would love to have as a daughter. Me? Until recently, I had thought an algorithm was a type of dance move.

  I stared at Nancy in surprise. She appeared to be covered in rubbish. If she wanted to dress up as a pile of rubbish for Eighties day, she could have asked to fall into that dirty wishing fountain instead of me.

  “Nancy, no offence, but what are you supposed to be?”

  Nancy put her free hand defensively on her hip.

  “I’m dressed as the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. God! Everyone thinks the Eighties was all fun and games, but does anyone think about the fall of the Berlin Wall? The space shuttle Challenger disaster? The important, revolutionary and serious stuff that happened during that decade? No.”

  I wasn’t sure whether it was being part of the debating team, the Asian minority or the Avril Lavigne fan club that made her so angry all the time. I dropped my two-dollar coin into her tin without hesitation.

  “What is that on your head? Is that a three-eyed cat?”

  “You see this?” Nancy pointed to the photocopy cut-out. “In Chernobyl, kittens were born with three eyes! And no eyelids. Imagine their short and agonising lives.”

  “Um, Nancy, this is a very interesting discussion and everything, but you haven’t you seen Rebecca, by any chance, have you?”

  “Is that you, Amy, underneath that ridiculous blond wig? Why are you dressed as something from the Middle Ages?”

  It’s Princess Buttercup, Nancy Pants! I wanted to shout, but instead I said, “Yup, it’s me. Ha-ha, fooled you, didn’t I? Made you talk to me.”

  “Why are you still staring at me like that?” snapped Nancy. “Just because I didn’t come in oversized power suits and giant hair, or as Kylie Minogue.”

  “So you have seen Rebecca.”

  “No! Why would I care about her? She doesn’t even make a blip on my radar.” Nancy flashed me a sulky look.

  “What is the problem you have with us?” I asked. While we’re being honest.

  Nancy looked at me seriously from behind her thick-framed glasses. “I don’t have a problem with you personally. After all, our mothers know each other.”

  “Right, that should make us best friends.”

  “I’m just saying that if you ever want to hang around us, you know you can. We’re a minority group; we should stick together.”

  Nancy disappeared into one of the cubicles. I stood in front of the metal trough and stared in the mirror, fiddling with the mystery locket around my neck.

  “No thanks,” I said to my reflection. “I’ve already got friends … well, a friend …”

  Me and Rebecca made our own minority group. We were the unpopular girls. Actually, Rebecca was popular with every single male at school, so maybe that left just me.

  The toilet flushed and Nancy came out, elaborate costume and all. I don’t know how on earth she managed all that without the help of a personal assistant.

  “Anyway,” said Nancy, soaping her hands. “I’ve got a newspaper meeting. I can’t believe I have to cover today’s dress-up dross, instead of dedicating my time to worthwhile pieces. Today’s generation is just so throwaway. Bugs me no end.”

  Nancy dried her hands on a paper towel and chucked it into the bin. “By the way, Amy, being the investigative reporter I am, I may have seen Rebecca headed towards the English block.” She grabbed the money tin and marched back out the door. “See ya.”

  I stuck my
tongue out behind her back. Nancy can deny she belongs to this throwaway generation, but I needed more than two hands to count how many pairs of fashion frames Nancy owned, not including all the ones I’ve seen her wear once and then never again. And I wished she would see the irony of calling everyone a throwaway generation when she was dressed as a pile of rubbish.

  My fingers closed onto the catch of the locket. I tried to pry it open with a fingernail. The locket appeared stuck. I dug my nail in a little deeper.

  “Ouch!”

  I almost snapped my nail off. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked on it.

  After I had numbed the pain, I took the chain off from around my neck. I examined it carefully for the first time. Yup. It was still a piece of crap.

  I’m not sure what I found more surprising: the fact that it hadn’t rusted in that water, or that anyone would have the bad taste to own it. A lightweight piece of cheap silver metal, shaped like a heart, with a gaudy-looking rainbow motif on the front. It wouldn’t look out of place during today’s Eighties dress up.

  I tried to pry it open again. The two halves were stuck, like they had been superglued together. I didn’t know why I was so determined to see what was inside. Wasn’t I planning to chuck it?

  It was still a bit too early for first period. As I walked out of the toilet, trying to smooth the flyways in my wig, I thought about heading towards the English block and looking for Rebecca.

  She’d probably prefer it if I left her alone to get her alt-chick cool back.

  I turned a sharp corner, almost knocking over this girl, or maybe boy – seriously, I really couldn’t tell – dressed as Boy George.

  Apparently, I was on a determined journey to the manual arts building. As I passed the grassed quadrangle in the middle of the school, I could see Nancy from the corner of my eye, talking to Valerie Wang and Florence Kwong, AKA Nancy’s Minority Group. Or my Major Pain in the Arse, depending on which side you stood.

  I wondered what they were gossiping about now. Which Chinese girl couldn’t do Maths or play the piano? (Surprise – I think it’s me.) Which of them was going to ask Victor Zhang to the ball? The article about Mum in the local Asian paper, which by the way is completely out of context and untrue?

  Valerie was dressed as Eighties Madonna, in a black lace dress with a crucifix, and Florence was Cyndi Lauper with an orange mullet and tutu. I hoped Nancy was giving them a telling off for daring to come as throwaway pop stars.

  I had never been inside the manual arts building before. It’s creepy. Just like the rest of the school. Redbrick, double-storey, with a massive stairwell on the outside and the door that read “Metalwork” tucked underneath like some sort of man-only dungeon.

  I pushed the half-open door and stuck my head inside.

  Oh, great. I could see Michael Limawan. He had shed the ridiculous yellow mullet and was now strutting around in just a tux. He didn’t seem to care that his outfit now made no sense whatsoever.

  “So you’re supposed to be a waiter … no, hang on … a groom,” said Peter Cooper, who had put so much dedication into his Michael Jackson costume that he even had a toy chimpanzee slung around his neck.

  “Excuse me,” I said. I walked in without being invited. The handful of students, all male, stared at me like they’d never seen a girl enter the room before.

  I walked up to the tool-covered bench and stood there, staring.

  “Can I help you?” asked Michael as he came to stand next to me.

  “Nope.” I ran my hand across the various screwdrivers.

  “Look, you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll …”

  “Perfect. Three millimetre slotted head.” I held the little jewellers’ screwdriver up to his face and smiled.

  I walked over to one of the workbenches and helped myself to a chair. I took the necklace from around my neck and placed the locket down flat.

  “Whatcha got there, Amy?” said Michael, approaching me again.

  “It’s ‘Amy’ now, is it? I thought my name was ‘the Bexter’s Groupie’.”

  “Don’t be like that, Amy. I don’t know what came over us. Your friend just has that effect on all the males. She’s like some sort of siren.”

  “A what?”

  “You know. One of those mythical maidens that cause men to go wild and throw themselves off their ships to their watery deaths.”

  I accepted Michael’s attempt at an apology. He only seemed to turn into a wolf when his pack was around. I didn’t mind him when he was alone.

  I carefully inserted the screwdriver, like I had seen Mum do, into the edge of the locket. I levered it gently. I could see the boys on the opposite side of the room staring at me. But I knew if Rebecca was here they wouldn’t be looking at me.

  “Is that the only reason why you’re dressed as Jason Donovan?” I said to Michael. “Because you knew she’d be Kylie Minogue? How did you know, anyway?”

  “We have our means,” replied Michael. “Oops. Too much information?”

  He looked at me for confirmation, but I just worked on trying to open the locket.

  “That girl sure has something. When she comes into the room, I swear she walks in slow motion and a wind machine blows her hair back, just like in a bad Eighties movie. Ahhh, the things I do for her. Otherwise I would’ve come as my little-boy Eighties dream: a stormtrooper.” Michael sighed wistfully.

  “Huh.” I said and I shook my head. But I smiled. “Shit. Why won’t this open?”

  I knew if I tried to pry it open any harder, the metal was going to bend. Or in the case of this flimsy thing – the fake silver-plating was going to crack and flake off.

  “Can I see?” asked Michael.

  Reluctantly I held it up by the chain. He took it from me.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it. No; more accurately, it found Rebecca. Kind of.”

  “Hmmm.” Michael turned it around in his hand. He tried opening it himself, but of course it was stuck fast.

  “You know, from my experience of watching movies with a fantastical, supernatural element–”

  I groaned audibly.

  “Hear me out, Amy. As I was saying, based on my extensive movie viewing, I’ve actually stockpiled rules in case I need to use them in real life. For example, in the case of a zombie apocalypse, if you find yourself barred inside a shopping centre – stay there. Do not in any circumstance try to escape to an island you think has no zombies. And if you find a vampire at your window, under no circumstances say ‘come in’, because you are effectively giving them permission to enter and eat you.”

  “Can I have the locket back?”

  Michael was starting to sound like a geek-boy version of Mum.

  “If you find a magic locket and can’t get it to open, it’s because it can only be opened by the true owner.”

  Michael put the chain back around my neck for me. Then he patted me on the wig.

  “Now, Miss Buttercup, do you think maybe my advice deserves a small payment? Like you put in a good word for me with The Bexter.”

  “See you.” I rolled my eyes and headed for the door.

  My head was turning with Michael’s words. Okay, let’s just say this was an enchanted locket that only Rebecca could open. Fine. Then what?

  “Hey, Amy,” said Eighties Michael Jackson.

  “What, Pete?”

  “I’m trying to organise a breakdancing contest out on the basketball court during lunch. I thought maybe you might like to come and watch.”

  I normally never go to those group things, you know, the boys-showing-off-and-girls-fluttering-their-eyelashes-thing, but the Eighties spin on things sounded kinda cool. And I was the only girl in the room. I should soak it up.

  “Really? Thanks for asking me. I’d love–”

  “Just make sure you bring your friend, okay?”

  Oh. That sure put a downer on things.

  “Yeah … well, maybe I’m too busy after all. Forgot I have some last-minute
revisions for an assignment.” I laughed unconvincingly. “Bye.”

  First period was about to begin. All I had to do was hold onto the locket, find Rebecca during recess and give it back to her. Maybe Michael was right: Rebecca was the only one who could open it. Then she could cut out some emo boy from a music magazine and stick his face inside. God knows I had no use for it. End of story. We all live happily ever after.

  I don’t know why, but I was still fiddling with the stupid thing. Rebecca had said she didn’t want it and it suddenly made me realise how much I wanted it instead. Even though it was a cheap, worthless thing. Maybe I should spare myself the existential pain of having both my mother and Michael Limawan’s superstitions haunting my brain and just bin it.

  I turned it over and looked at the rainbow on the front. Did they have eating disorders, teen suicide and mean girls back in the 1980s?

  Of course they did, I told myself. It’s the nostalgia old people have that makes them see the past with rose-coloured glasses. When I have grandchildren, I’ll probably look back and think this was the best day of my life.

  First period: Economics. Boy, it dragged. I sat up the back and wondered whether Ollie the owl conformed to the rules of aggregate supply and demand or whether Mum was manipulating the market.

  Second period: Accounting. I couldn’t account for why I had chosen these subjects; I didn’t even know what I wanted to do after high school. It was weird, but it seemed like I didn’t know who I was. I know that everyone feels that way sometimes, but for me, it was like that all the time.

  I sat by the motivational poster that read: “Aim well. More often than not, those who succeed believe they can.” I wondered whether I should have apologised to Michael Limawan for getting him so good in the forehead with the cassingle.

  Recess: Rebecca wasn’t at our usual meeting spot. Somehow I was kinda relieved. I ate a cheesymite scroll and drank a strawberry milk by myself against the cyclone-fencing boundary. I scrunched up my nose watching Victor Zhang ponce around on the basketball court.

  Third period: English. As usual, the class demonstrated that it couldn’t even speak the language properly, let alone hope to do well enough in the upcoming exams to get to uni. Fourth period: Maths. What’s with all the triangles? The only triangles I’ve ever witnessed out there in the playground were love triangles. Why, oh, why did I select the advanced class?