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“Keep it on,” she says. “You’ll need it.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Out.”
    “You’ll be fine,” Stella says. “You look old. At least twenty.” But my heart still pounds when we walk into the pub.
    “Just look bored,” she instructs. “And hold these. Put them on the bar.” She hands me her Marlboro Reds.
    I do as I’m told. I fumble, though, dropping the packet on the floor. Cigarettes roll across the tiles. But the barman doesn’t miss a beat when I ask for a vodka and tonic. A thrill surges through me. I’m drunk before it even touches my lips.
    “Over there,” Stella says, nodding to the corner.
    We sit down in a booth, away from the stares and leers of the men with their pints and
Racing Times.
    “Hardly Soho, is it?” she says. “But it’ll do.”
    “Yeah,” I say. Like I’d know. I take a gulp of vodka. It stings my throat, but then quinine sweetness takes over.
    Stella picks up her cigarettes. Pulls one out and lights it. “So, million-dollar question.” She pauses, punctuating her sentence with a purposeful drag. “Would you rather be deaf or blind?”
    “Um. I don’t know.” And I’m thinking,
What would Stella say?
I pick one. “Deaf?”
    Bingo.
    “Me too.” She exhales, the smoke curling toward me. I breathe it in, wondering if it will make me feel different. High.
    She cocks her head. “Want to know why?”
    I nod.
    “I could still see to do my makeup. Deaf people always dress better than blind ones.” I start. Something I once thought, then hated myself for. And she knows it. She meets my eyes. A look of recognition. Of power.
    Then it’s gone. She smiles. “And I’d never have to listen to bloody Radio 2 again. Jesus, what is with Tom and that station?”
    I smile. “I know. Awful, isn’t it?”
    She laughs. “Your turn.”
    I take another mouthful of vodka. Let the heat run down my throat and into my stomach, into my blood. “OK,” I say, playing her at her own game. “Midget or giant?”
    Four hours later, I stagger down the steps of the bus, my legs heavy, my uniform in a ball in my bag. Ed is there, in the shelter, waiting to go God knows where. Where is there to go around here, anyway?
    For a second he doesn’t recognize me. I am a stranger. Then he sees who it is inside the disguise. “Jude? Where’d you get that?” He is looking at my dress, cut low over my breasts.
    Self-consciousness seeps back into my veins, cold and sobering. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
    “No . . . I do. It’s just . . . different.”
    I am relieved. Grasping at approval. Though Stella wouldn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.
    “Where’ve you been?” he asks.
    “Cornish Arms. End of exams thing.” Like it’s nothing.
    But Ed knows better. “Who with?”
    “With whom,” I retort. Then quieter, “No one you’d know,” I lie.
    “Have you been drinking?”
    “Yeah. So? You drink.” He does. They all do. Up on the Point. Beer and cider and stuff. But not vodka. Not Ed.
    “I’m eighteen.”
    “What, and I’m a baby?”
    “No. It’s just that I’m not used to you . . . like this.” He is silent for a while. I can hear the blood rushing to my head. I feel dizzy.
    “You look good, though,” he concludes.
    I feel my stomach turning. “Got to go.” I stumble out of the bus shelter and up the street, drawing in deep lungfuls of air to stop the vomit rising. Can’t be sick with air in your lungs. One of Alfie’s facts. I make it back to the post office, thanking God it’s early closing. Dad and Alfie are in the kitchen, door shut. I run up the stairs to the bathroom and stick my head under the tap, the cold water running down my cheeks in rivulets. I gulp it down. Got to sober up.
    An hour later, I’m sitting at the table, pushing frozen fish pie and tinned sweet corn around my plate. Dad is watching me. Wondering if I’ve got an eating disorder, probably. Another anorexic casualty from Duchy.
    “Guess what?” says Alfie.
    “What?” I