Wonderland Read Online Free PDF Page A

do. “It’s just . . . you know. He’s my mate. And, anyway, he’s leaving in a few months. Going to study law at King’s College.”
    “Great, another corporate fat cat in a pinstripe. Just what the world needs.”
    “No. Ed’s not like that. . . . He’s going to do good stuff.” And he is. Going to change the world, he says. From the inside.
    “Whatever. So, million-dollar question. Who’d you rather? Fat Ed or that bloke who sits outside the launderette all day?”
    “What, Mental Nigel?”
    “Whatever. Is that his name?”
    “Yeah . . . Well, not the mental bit. No, not him. He’s totally weird. Ugh.”
    “So, Fat Ed, then.”
    “No . . . oh, I guess. Christ, Stella. This game is stupid.”
    “No, it’s not. You want to do Fat Ed. Deal with it. Come on, my turn.”
    I don’t argue with her. Not because she’s right. But because she will win. “OK. Mental Nigel or Mr. Applegate?”
    “Easy. Mr. Applegate.”
    “Gross. Why?”
    “He’s rich. I could blackmail him not to tell Emily. Or his wife.”
    “You are sick.”
    Stella smiles. “I hope so.”
    Alfie shouts up the stairs. “Dad says tea in five minutes.”
    “’Kay . . .” I turn to Stella. “Sorry.”
    She shrugs. “Got to fly, anyway. Want to go shopping tomorrow?”
    I shake my head. “School. I’ve got this drama rehearsal thing. The exam’s next week.”
    “You’ll totally pass. You were always into that acting stuff.”
    And then I tell her. Because then there will be no going back. Because she will make it happen. “I’m applying to the Lab. You know, in London? For September. I mean, I haven’t sent the letter yet. And then I might not even get an audition. But —”
    “You’re leaving? What does Tom have to say about that?”
    She means Dad.
    “He doesn’t know. Not yet.” He’ll lose it. Thinks I’m too young. Thinks I’m trying to be like her. “But I’m sixteen,” I say, convincing myself more than Stella. “And it’s not like I’ll be living in some crack den. I can stay at Gran’s.” I can do this. “Anyway, I have to get out of this place, or I’ll end up stuck here like Mrs. Hickman, stacking shelves till I’m sixty.”
    And it sounds good, like that. Like I mean it. Not like I’m terrified. Not like I know that there are only three places left this year, only open to special cases. The ones who live abroad. Or were ill. Or were so scared they missed the audition in March. Not like this is Last-Chance Saloon.
    “So why haven’t you posted it?” Stella says. “The application.”
    “I don’t know.” And right then I don’t. Don’t know why I doubted myself. Because this is what Stella does. Makes me strong.
    “Give it here.” She sits up.
    “What?”
    “The application form. Give it to me. I’m going to send it.”
    And I do. I dig deep into my drawer, under the bits of paper that record who I am, who I was, the school reports and drawings and cards, until I feel it, the letter, crackling with promise. She takes it. Puts it down the front of her dress.
    “Safest place,” she says.
    Then someone shouts up the stairs again. “Jude. How many times? Dinner!” Not Alfie this time. Dad.
    “OK!” I shout. And, under my breath, “For God’s sake.”
    “Time for tea, children,” says Stella as she unwraps another stick of gum.
    We walk down the stairs to the door. I look at her, chewing, sunglasses on, scuffed toes kicking an invisible stone, and wish I looked like that. Bored. Above it.
    “See you after school?” I say.
    “Not if I see you first.” She smiles and walks off. The letter down inside her ball gown. My possibility against her heart.
    “Ha, ha,” I drawl. But part of me is scared she means it. And I don’t want her to go. Not when I’ve just gotten her back.

SHE COMES the next day. I’m at school, sitting under the oak tree on the field. Eating cold chicken, left over from last night. As far away from Emily Applegate and the Plastics — from