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Rach’s and my shoulders, rubbing her chin on Rach’s collar, whining about stubble rash but I’m watching someone else.
    Miss Mint’s in the middle of us all; her hair’s down and blowing but you only notice how it frames her eyes. Her coat’s trapped in her bag strap but you only see how the leather’s the exact brown of the stage front. She’s holding a programme and watching, watching, and she looks, basically, like Gwyneth in Shakespeare in Love . It’s not full. We must be the only school in the country that’s doing Twelfth Night , Mum reckons. Anyway, I’m glad we have space ‘cos Olly’s just farted.
    It’s just gone three o’clock ‘cos I hear Big Ben strike and the next thing is the sky breaks and I’m blind.
    Then it’s like Tao’s talking loudly. Like he did when I rubbed his tummy and he’d squirm on his back, especially if he had fleas. The thunder rumbles, grumbles and goes. The actors don’t even pause.
    But we’re all getting sopping now. Fat, froggy drops drenching heads and shoulders; the type of rain Dad says they get in Sri Lanka and he should know. The lightning and the thunder mean business.
    “Shit,” screeches Erin, whose hair goes mental in the wet.
    “Shit,” echoes Joe Brannigan, who fancies her, covering it with his parka.
    It’s the biggest storm I’ve ever known and it’s not stopping. Everyone crushes together squealing ‘cos there’s no shelter unless you’ve got seats or you’re on stage. They don’t let you bring umbrellas. Only Jenny Sargent and her geek friends brought Macs and they’re wet all the way through.
    Cold hijacks my fingers and my scarf’s a good thing to wrap them in though it means my neck gets wet. Josh hugs me, which is damp but nice in the end, then Erin and Rach latch on so we’re a massive warm crab and it feels a bit better but I wish we could be dry.
    Mr Morlis stomps over and gives us a thumbs-up, trousers all stuck. He seems excited and I think weather’s more his thing than words.
    Then the rain starts to stop.
    It’s stopping.

    Stopped.
    Bodies unfurl like ferns all around the yard.
    I look up. The clouds are strange: I’ve never seen them like that before.
    And somehow I’m still the audience. Maybe ‘cos Miss Mint, although she’s hoiked Courtney off the floor and hasn’t done her coat up properly so it flaps like wet, black, felt wings, is too. We’re both watching Cesario in Act III say to Olivia “I am not what I am,” and as the words hit my ears, Josh squeezes my waist and I look at Miss Mint at the exact same moment she looks at me and then my fingers feel cold and I look down and my scarf’s not there.
    And also it just so happens I’m nowhere near Josh now. He’s ten metres away, with my friends.
    Where I was.
    Making sure it’s not like I fainted or anything, I take my pulse and then I do.
    ‘Cos I’m wearing Miss Mint’s bangles.
    * * *

Chapter 7: Monday afternoon. Mammatus
    Using Mr Morlis’ sodden thigh as a ladder, I struggle through pale faces and stand.
    “Miss Mint, what’s wrong?” His voice is more urgent than normal and he’s looking straight at me, hands on my shoulders. I don’t know, do I? I don’t know but something is most seriously, definitely, wronger than wrong.
    Courtney looks like a bundle of washing just out of the machine. Her nose drips as she clutches my arm.
    “Miss, can I get you a cup of tea? Does it hurt?” She’s so proud she’s a First Aider.
    What the hell do I say? My nails are amazing and I love the feel of my feet in Miss Mint’s boots but they’re Miss Mint’s boots and I’m seriously freaked out. Where’s Miss Mint? I mean, where’s ... me?
    I’m over there.
    Looking at me.
    Lisi Reynolds or someone who looks like her stares at me and at last I know where I am: I’m in those eyes; in that expression. She looks like she’s going to be sick.
    “No thanks, Courtney.”
    My voice is exactly like Miss Mint’s.
    Courtney looks pissed off.
    The girl