All That Glitters. Holly Smale
think I just passed my first social test.
“All right, my little intrepid puzzlers!” Miss Hammond calls, now covered head to toe in white, like an overexcited golden Labrador puppy. “Are you ready to journey back 5,000 years to a time of mystery and intrigue?”
There’s a chorus of “yeah,” “suppose so,” “whatever,” “I guess,” are we going to be recycling all this tissue because this is kind of environmentally unfriendly?”
(That last one was me.)
“And …” She shakes a tiny tambourine that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. “Go!”
“How far,” Miss Hammond says, looking up and down the line, “can a person run into the woods?”
There’s a short silence while people whisper.
“We don’t know how big the woods are,” India murmurs as our group crowds its heads together. “There must be information missing. That can’t be the whole question.”
I grin at the other two while my brain clicks away happily. This is so much fun already. It’s so intimate. So bonding. I really feel like part of a team.
“I’ve got this one,” I whisper back conspiratorially, and then stick my hand up. “Halfway, miss. Because if you run any further, you’re running back out of them again.”
“Excellent, Harriet Manners! Take three steps forward!”
I high-five Liv and India like BFFs and we move towards our goal. Miss Hammond closes her eyes, shuffles forward with a small embalmed-dead-person groaning sound and taps Robert on the shoulder.
“Ah, man,” he says as he starts wrapping himself up in toilet tissue. “This is utter b—”
“Language, Robert.” Miss Hammond claps her hands. “I am the beginning of the end, and the end of time and space. I am essential to creation, and I surround every place. What am I?”
“God!” Christopher’s group yells.
“Santa Claus!”
“Taylor Swift!”
“Nope!” Miss Hammond says to all three groups. “Sorry! Take a step backwards, guys.”
I wink at my group jubilantly as two more people are reluctantly ingratiated into ancient Egypt.
“You are the letter E, miss,” I say loudly.
“I am indeed, Harriet!” We step forward again. “What loses its head in the morning but gets it back at night?”
My hand goes straight up, with the speed of a question-answering ninja. “A pillow!”
And – riddle by riddle, answer by answer – my group starts racing towards the goal. I know what is so fragile that saying the word breaks it (silence). I know what has many keys but can’t open a door (a piano) and what gets wetter and wetter the more it dries (a towel).
Between us, we even know how many months have twenty-eight days in them. India lowers her head to whisper, although we’re so far ahead by now that there’s no real point.
“All of th—”
“Four!” I shout in excitement. “Twenty-eight days hath September, April, June and November!”
“I’m afraid it’s all of them,” Miss Hammond says gently. “All months have at least twenty-eight days. One step back, team.”
Oops.
But luckily it doesn’t matter if we make a mistake now and then, because nobody can catch up. We’re too far ahead for even the mummies to grab us.
Finally, we get within touching distance of the sock.
Studies have shown that during competitive games, cortisol, prolactin, testosterone and adrenocorticotropic hormone levels increase dramatically. I’m now so rabid with excitement I’m basically floating on a fluffy cloud of my own chemical cocktail.
It’s just my team, Christopher and Raya left.
“What kind of room has no doors or windows?”
My mind starts racing, jittering, turning itself inside out and back again. A prison? No, because how would you get in or out? Maybe a cellar, if a trapdoor in the floor didn’t count as either …
Is it a play on words? A groom, a broom, a …
“A cupboard?” Raya suggests, but I suddenly know. Wham. As if my brain was in the dark and a light’s just been switched on: once you see the answer, you can’t unsee it.
I punch the air.
“I’ve got it!” I yell, and beam triumphantly at Liv and India. “It’s a mush-room, miss!”
Then, with three quick hops, I reach the sock and start automatically doing my happy dance: hands punching the air, knees bent, bottom wiggling.
“We win!” I squeak jubilantly. “We win we win we win! Wooooooooo!!!”
All the standard responses to success, adrenaline and unexpected physical activity.
I knew it. Best. Day. Ever.
This is exactly like Rebecca’s birthday party eleven years ago when I won all the games. We played Pass the Parcel and I explained the rules to anyone who held on to the package for too long, and Musical Chairs where I encouraged anyone who was walking too slowly to hurry up, and Musical Statues when I helpfully pointed out people who were moving and … and …
And nobody wanted to play with me ever again.
Cucumbers consist of ninety-five per cent water. Without warning, it suddenly feels as if I may have become one. Every cell in my body is rapidly turning into liquid.
No. No no no no.
I abruptly stop wiggling my bottom and – with infinite slowness – turn around.
And there it is.
Every single one of my peers is standing in silence: arms folded, faces sullen. Glaring at me with narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. Unimpressed. Outraged. Bored stiff by a game they haven’t participated in.
Precisely the same as when we were five, except they’re considerably bigger now and even angrier because this time they’re covered in broken up bits of toilet roll and they’re not quite sure why.
Oh my God: I’ve done it again.
I was so desperate for my team to win, I didn’t think about anything else. I was trying my hardest, but in doing so I’ve made the entire game about …
Well. Me, I guess.
With a sick lurch, I’m suddenly not so sure I need Alexa to make me unpopular after all.
Oh, who am I even kidding?
Maybe I never actually did.
Swallowing,