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too.”
    “Funny guy.” Then, without a goodbye, he’s off, tearing down the driveway, already approaching the speed limit — and he’s only warming up. If everyone drove like my maniac of an uncle, the roads would be awash with blood.
    This isn’t the first time Dervish has left me alone in the house, but it’s the first time he’s left me in total control. Before, the understanding was always that I was simply holding the fort. No parties. This time he’s as good as said the house is mine for the next forty-odd hours, to do whatever I want with it.
    It feels strange. I find myself thinking of everything that could go wrong — broken windows, smashed vases, someone stumbling into Dervish’s study and turning into a frog. I half wish I could cancel. I’ve been to a couple of wild parties with Loch over the past few months and never worried about what we were doing, the mess we were making, what would happen to the kids who lived there when their parents returned. Now that the shoe’s on my foot, I realize what a risky undertaking it is. Maybe I should fake sick and call the whole thing off. The phone rings. Loch. It’s as if he sensed my wavering mood and intervened to sway me back into party mode. “Has Dervish gone?” he asks. “Yes.” “Good. I didn’t want to discuss it at school — too many ears — but what about booze? Yea or nay?” “That might be a bit much,” I mutter. “Things will probably be wild enough if everyone’s sober.” “Yeah, it’ll be wilder if everyone’s drunk,” Loch laughs, “but a lot more fun! I was thinking about all those bottles of wine in the cellar. . . ” “No way,” I snap. “Most are expensive.
Very
expensive.
    Nobody goes near the wine. That’s a golden rule. If anyone breaks it, I’ll kick you all out.”
    “Spoilsport,” Loch grumbles. “Well, what about beer? I could ask one of my older cousins to get us a crate or two.”
    “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    “You’re not wimping out, are you?” he asks suspiciously.
    “Well . . .” I start.
    “Good,” Loch says quickly. “Let’s forget about the booze then. If anybody brings some, great. If not, we’ll manage sober. Fair enough?”
    “Yeah,” I say unhappily. “I guess.”
    “Great. See you in the morning. Oh, and I’ll be bringing Reni, to help carry the bags. Is that OK?”
    “Sure,” I say, spirits lifting, instantly forgetting about my reservations. “That’ll be. . . fine. Yeah. Whatever.”
    A short laugh, then Loch hangs up, leaving me to get on with planning the party.
    Loch, Reni, and I make three runs to the village. Frank and Leon join us on the last run, when we realize we need more hands. It’s brilliant spending so much time with Reni, walking beside her in and out of Carcery Vale, discussing the party, bands, politics. . . whatever she feels like talking about.
    Loch offers to chip in some money for the drinks and food, but I tell him it’s OK. Dervish is rich — there’s a family fortune knocking around, which will one day be mine and Bill-E’s — and he never begrudges me anything. He left a wad of cash for me in his study and told me to use it well.
    Reni does a lot of the organizing. I spent a couple of hours last night drawing up a list of everything we might need, and was more than a little pleased with myself. She took one look at the list this morning, laughed, and tore it up. “Is Jesus coming?” she asked.
    “Uh. . . no,” I replied, astonished.
    “Then forget about the loaves and fishes miracle. What you had on that list wouldn’t last until nine o’clock. Now, grab me a fresh pad and pen — this needs a woman’s touch.”
    Much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Carrying the supplies back from Carcery Vale, it feels like we’ve bought way too much — we could feed the starving millions with all this. But by the time we’ve divided it out into plates and bowls and distributed them around the three main party rooms — two big