22. Goldie #3
The balcony railing is less sturdy than I’m expecting, but I make it across without an issue.
The roof is made up of slats and terra-cotta tiles, and it’s not super high, but I still feel a sense of vertigo.
It levels out in front of the balcony, a rectangle long enough for us all to sit on, which accommodates the windows below.
It’s only slightly slippery. The others follow close behind, whispering and giggling.
When I finally sit down, I’m surprised to find my legs shaking slightly.
The view isn’t anything spectacular. Rows of houses, a grassy field, then warehouses in the distance.
But above is the night sky, some stars peeking through, the moon a watchful companion.
I take a deep breath, and the air is fresher up here, even though I think that must be my mind playing tricks, because we’re hardly miles above the ground, probably only forty feet.
I don’t care. I breathe in and out, and soon enough the five of us are sitting in a row, and the cider cans and the vodka bottle come out again, and we’re all drinking, and a serene calmness envelopes me.
“You know, if it hadn’t been for school getting canceled, there’s no way we’d be doing this,” I say. “In some ways . . . I’m glad.”
“If school hadn’t been canceled, there’s no way we would have done any of what we did.
” Cuckoo hugs her knees into her chest, staring straight ahead.
“I would never have been able to do that without you guys. Hugo Fletcher. He’s dead because of us.
And I . . .” Her shoulders start to shake. “Thank you.”
“We’d do anything for each other,” Wren says.
Cuckoo is crying. I’ve never seen Cuckoo cry, not even when she tells us about her mum. Not even when Hugo Fletcher lay dead between us.
“Happy tears,” she says, and I believe her. “I just wish Dad and Carly and Dean could know. I won’t tell them!” she adds, to our alarmed faces. “I just wish they could.”
“He deserved what he got,” Wren says, a surprising viciousness in her tone that I’ve never heard before.
“He deserved what he got,” Starling repeats, like a chant.
He deserved what he got, he deserved what he got, he deserved what he got.
If that makes us bad, so be it.
“How could we not stay in touch?” Crow says. “Look at the secrets we share.”
“Come on, everyone drink to that bastard being in the dirt,” I say. “You can sleep easy knowing the world is a better place without him.”
Cuckoo’s eyes shine. “Exactly.”
We all drink, but Crow glugs hers down for ages, wiping her mouth with embarrassment when she sees us all staring.
“Alright, drinking isn’t half bad,” Crow admits.
“Check out Crow!” Cuckoo says. “She’ll be down the pub before we know it!”
“God, no.”
“Admit you’re turning to the dark side!”
“I think we’re already there.” I lift up my can of cider.
“Whatever we want to do, we can bloody well do it. We’re not going to let anything stop us.
Wren goes to Japan. I go to London. Crow is off to Durham, Starling is off to Exeter.
Cuckoo is—” Cuckoo is what, exactly? I have to scramble to think of something, and in this brief pause, Cuckoo exhales, a puff of laughter.
“Cuckoo is going to get a fantastic job and will probably be the manager by next year and will be kept busy going all around the world visiting us! And she’s going to be so successful she’ll be the one to buy Bishop’s House!
So, a toast to us, and fuck everyone else.
Nothing is going to stop us from achieving what we want. ”
Everyone raises their ciders. It’s not classy, we’re not clinking champagne glasses in an expensive bar, we’re on top of the roof of an abandoned house in the middle of the night with a six-pack of cider that cost less than a tenner, but God, it’s brilliant.
“To Shakespeare’s Bitches,” I declare. “May we conquer the world and have a good time doing it and stay friends forever.”
“To Shakespeare’s Bitches! To being a journalist!” Starling shouts.
Crow joins in too. “To being an author!”
“To living in Japan!” Wren says.
“To being a supermodel!” I yell.
“To being friends forever,” Cuckoo says.
On a whim, instead of taking a sip, I down my entire can.
It is sweet and sour all at once but glides easily down my throat, and everyone begins chanting my name and cheering me on, and when I’ve finished and let out a huge burp, they all squeal and call me disgusting and brilliant, and I feel entirely electric.
The alcohol has made my stomach warm, and I take another swig of vodka to finish off, and all at once that burning feeling makes me even more alive.
A current runs up and down my arms, and before I know it, I’m dancing across the roof, singing at the top of my voice.
“Goldie!” Crow chastises. “Be careful!”
“Come on!” I reply. “Join me!”
And then we’re all doing it. Cuckoo and Wren join hands and spin each other, Starling downs her drink too and skips along the roof, Crow lets loose and starts singing.
We all inevitably begin belting our favorite songs full-force, and none of us are going to be winning any singing contests anytime soon.
But our drunken, happy screeches might as well be opera with how much they fill me with joy.
Here we all are, and nothing is scary anymore.
Yes—this is the happiest I’ve ever been.