summary: you'll always come dancing back to each other in the end.
pairings/ships: mainly jamber friendship/enemies/romance; ghosts of many, many ships
setting: au, as in no sibuna/mystery/cups/masks. most of the things that have occurred in the show will happen here, such as the ball at the end of season one, the ping pong tournament, and so on, but a year earlier.
ratings & warnings: very highly on the t ladder for drugs & alcohol, cursing, eventually heavily implied smut
songs: old money by lana del rey, bloodstream by ed sheeran, samson by regina spektor, keep breathing by ingrid michaelson, rubber ring by the smiths
notes: this has been a plot bunny inspired by certain things. (if we're friends, you can probably tell what they are.) switches between second-person perspectives: odd numbers are always jerome, even numbers amber. also, i actually have a multi-chapter planned out so yay!
please leave a review, or a fave - any indication you've read this! whether you liked it or not - i just want this to be read.
i.
"But I don't want to go, Daddy!"
You're on the eighth stair from the bottom when you see her. Amber hair. Overpriced coat. Absolutely hysterical.
(You forget that you're eight and not eighteen.)
Your eyes linger on her little frame as her father scoops her up into his arms and wraps his arm around her, hushing and whispering and saying that's she's going to be alright and that he'll come back soon to visit, okay?
Oceans turn to permafrost. You know he's lying.
But you don't know whether to tell her, because she's squealing and her eyes slowly flutter shut. You can hear her chorus of 'I love you's, faint as they are. Bile rises as patience overflows; the sight is too cute for the likes of you.
Maybe it was because you've never had your own soppy farewell, and you're thankful.
(Your mother dropped off five-year-old you with this sorry-not-sorry look in her eyes, and every time you flicker on that vision you feel like setting fire to yourself.)
When her father's gone, the blonde sits on the floor and hugs her knees to her chest. A figment of what Trudy calls pity stirs in your chest. You feel some odd need to comfort her and tell her that maybe he will come to visit during Christmas or Easter.
But you don't, because you don't tell lies.
(One day, you'll discover that you're awfully good at telling them.)
You sit next to her because it was a good thing to do and for some reason you feel like you're starting to care. She seems nice: a little chubby if you had to be frank, but not mean. School starts in a week and you could use some company now. Even the bad kind.
Her eyes meet yours, and she tries to flash a smile in your direction. You smile back. She extends her hand for you to shake, but you're almost too distracted by her tear-stained face and her slanted eyes to. When you shake hands, you introduce yourself. "Jerome."
She attempts another smile, and this one is real. "Amber."
You laugh; how fitting.
ii.
"Jerome, you idiot!"
At ten, you can say you've met the worst guy in any given history, legend or folklore. It was a miracle that you make it through the day without murdering him, because he makes it a duty to mix things up 'by accident' or insult you. He also yells that you have cooties though you're sure they're not even real.
The one time you kick him in the groin, you're stuck in Victor's office for several hours as that raven of his stared back at you. (What was its problem, anyway?) Either way, you make sure that you don't get caught next time you whack him in any sensitive area.
Tonight, you're working together on the Smoothie Project Mrs. Murray assigned you at school. Because you're the only two in Eos House that happened to be in the same year group and it happened to be too far from any of the other houses for a visit to be possible, you get paired up with him like you do for any other project.
Most people - yourself included - would think you've made an Amber Millington Guide to Dealing With Jerome Clarke, but you haven't because he's just so impossible to deal with.
"What have I done this time?"
You whack him lightly on the shoulder, "You've mucked up our choice of fruit for tomorrow!"
"Well, I'm sorry if I heard avocado instead of banana."
He rubs at that spot where you hit him, and you almost smirk victoriously but settle for an eye-roll instead. "They don't even sound that similar!"
"They do when they come out of a cootiemouth, Millington."
"You did not just - " You raise your arm, but then decided against hitting him. Trudy had an uncanny instinct for stumbling into one of your little spats. You always get in trouble, even if he started it. Placing your hand on your lap, you grin at him. "You know what? Fine. If our smoothie tastes horrible tomorrow, it'll be all" - you jab his shoulder - "your" - his forehead - "fault." Your index finger lands on his chest. "And if you make the batter for the salt dolls horrible, I'm telling on you."
"Whatever."
Hands trembling, you try to swallow down that helpless, flightless feeling. You're putting your heart and soul into these projects because you've haven't found your calling yet (not school, not ballet, not anything) because just maybe, maybe food what you're meant for. It's certainly helped you through the worst and you hope it pays back what it owes you.
As predicted, he screws everything up spectacularly the next day. Your salt dolls end up mangy (though the dough did taste nice) and your smoothie tastes like horse barf.
You lock the door to your room that night, and you don't even have the courage to cry.
iii.
You're drafting, and she's trying to write.
If trying amounts to doodling on the side of an unfinished plan, that is.
"Can you not?" you hiss. She raises an eyebrow from her sheet of paper, but continues with her drawing. The screech of marker pen against paper pierces you too sharply in your eardrums.
You toss her one of your glares, and she shrugs her shoulders. God, you need new ammo. "Alright. What's up, Millington?"
"I'm bored."
Child, you chide.
(You keep forgetting you're one too.)
"Okay. What am I supposed to do?"
"Tell me what you're writing about for Literacy."
Frowning, you shake your head no. "The whole point of an autobiography is for it to be personal, so why should I tell you anything?"
"Because I'm sure that as much as I want to shove your sorry butt in the cellar, I know you better than Miss Spice."
You sigh. "Fine. Which chapter do you want?"
"All of them," she beams.
"Chapter, Amber. Singular, not plural."
You kind of hate the way her smile never fades even when her hopes are crushed. "Well I want to hear all of them. Since you're being so whiny, then you pick a chapter that's not so personal, but one worth telling."
Exhaling, you flip to the second chapter. "So, my favourite candy's the Curly Wurly - "
She pulls a face, and you can't help laughing at it. "Sounds gross."
"It's literally fifty percent sugar, so you can say it is." You gasp, eyes widening as you realise something; no one has ever called the greatest confection of all time anything so degrading. "Wait, you've never had a Curly Wurly before?"
"No."
"But they're everywhere!"
"Daddy says I shouldn't eat sweets, and he hardly ever gets them for me."
You frown, hoping that you wouldn't regret this but knowing that you would. Dipping a hand into your schoolbag, rummaging through dingy textbooks and silly homework assignments to find that stray packet you've been saving for emergencies.
When she gets it, the first thing she does is not tear the opening apart like an overexcited toddler, but stare blankly at the lettering. Her fingers run over the neon red and the indigo and the deep shade of green you'd always associate with witches' cauldrons. (You don't know why - you just do.) You beckon her to tear the packaging open, and she does with her dainty fingers.
Her expression turns sour as she sights the head of the chocolate braid. "Gross!" she exclaims, "you said it's fifty percent sugar!"
"It is."
"Then why is it chocolate? I thought sugar's meant to be sparkly."
You sigh. She unravels the rest of the package, and she shrieks. "Do you expect me to eat it all?"
Rolling your eyes, you gently split it in the middle. "How thick are you, Amber? Of course not." You plop the entire piece in your mouth, while hers gapes open. Through muffled chewing, you say,"Eat it before it melts and your fingers get sticky."
She shoves the entire thing in her mouth, and tries to chew her way through it all, and though her teeth were hard at work you can see her eyebrows - which were constantly creased - relax a little.
Swallowing, she gives you a grin. "It tastes wonderful!"
iv.
Everything changed that summer.
You get braces. You pass (no, ace) your SATs. Your dad thanks you for not being a hopeless case like your older sister.
When you go back to school, you sigh in relief because you don't have to share with Lola anymore. You're going to get a new roommate, in a new house, far away from Scumbag Clarke. At least you know enough about your new house to know that Trudy's coming with you, because everyone else's cooking seems like a bummer compared to hers.
The shadow of Anubis House swallows you whole, and you know that you're going to love it here.
(You couldn't be more right.)
v.
Mara Jaffray is an enigma you want to decode.
Alfie Lewis is your new best friend.
Amber Millington is still your housemate, and for some reason you're okay with that.
vi.
It was early December the next time you found yourself alone with him. You tell yourself that it is completely and utterly accidental, and that these things don't just happen.
(You'll learn later on that they do.)
A chill grazes your skin as you found yourself perched on the top of the school playground, both of you facing this puddle that was no larger than your thumb. Standing in the pedestal of said puddle is a frog. Or a toad.
Silence grips you, marks you with this itching desire to say something even though there was nothing to be said. You, like everyone else in this house, are a victim of his pranks which have only gotten worse since he became friends with that Lewis kid. Really, you should be scolding him and calling him those godawful names Patricia does and whacking him on the shoulder like the good old days.
But you don't.
Jerome shoots you a look. "I never knew you liked frogs."
Frowning, you gestured towards the green amphibian. It didn't move. "That's because I don't."
He nods in this particular way and you're not sure if he's analysing in his usual ice-cold manner or if he's just taking it in as an Amber Fun Fact like most people would. You're sure it's the former; Jerome Clarke with his butter-coloured hair and his steely, cobalt gaze did not belong in the category of normal. "I see," he finally says, tone neutral.
That's when he scares you.
Quiet settles, and it's not uncomfortable or awkward like the first. There is nothing but the occasional gust of wind, or your sighs or his thoughts swirling around in yours.
"Do you think we should name it?" you ask. "Well, I have a name, but it's not very creative."
"A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet."
"What?"
"Never mind. So what's the name?"
"Froggy."
He laughs. You flinch, because you're not sure if he's making fun of you or the name or something. Earth and sky collide as his eyes slowly meet yours, because they reminded you of the Spanish skies that you've spent hours looking out at, but never living under. Your eyes? Well, Daddy called it the colour of dirt once.
You step down, rushing back to the house. Mara would be looking for you any moment, and you knew how iffy she gets when she can't get her homework done.
vii.
There was a party at Hathor House and you didn't want to go.
You really didn't, and that didn't bother you. What bothered you was the suspecting glares that maybe you had a grudge against someone there. (The only one you know is some kid called Giles.) To some people it was inconceivable that on some nights, Jerome Clarke preferred to sit down in the living room and read a book rather than mess up some poor kid's party.
Alfie went, but only because Fabian and Mick goaded him to.
The only face that perturbed your solitude was Amber's, but you weren't the least bit surprised. You heard her sobbing in the girls' bathroom the day after the last party she went to. She looked like she wanted to murder you when you spotted her (well, she always looked like she wanted to put you six feet under, but this was more intense than usual).
She sits on what you and Alfie have penned the loveseat: Patricia and Mick sat there all the time, and everyone knows they've got a thing going on with each other, even Fabian. (That might be because he and Mick are roommates; the boy's oblivious to romance.) You take your head out of Alex Rider's adventures for a moment, addressing her presence with a raised brow.
"Bored, Millington?"
Avoiding your gaze, she shrugs her shoulders.
"You should've gone to the party, you know. It would've been a nice way to make amends."
That earned you a look. "I don't make fancy origami animals, Jerome."
You raise your brows. "Amends means to make up with someone," you explains smoothly. "Say, if you and Mara had a fight over, say, Mick Campbell, to make amends would be to apologise to her. Say sorry and make up and maybe make some daisy chains along the way - "
" - Mara and I do not make daisy chains, or fight over Mick," she asserts.
"I'm surprised you haven't, considering the both of you like him."
Her face whitens, because never has she ever considered Mick as a boyfriend. He's just that kid who served the older football players their drinks, sorted their shin pads and spent unreasonable hours in the gym so he could be like them. You don't know much about the blonde in front of you, but you know pushover probably wasn't in her criteria of boyfriend material.
"I - I - " She stammers, and you smirk. "I - I don't have a crush on Mick, Jerome."
"You're blushing, Millington. Come on, don't lie to me."
"I'm not! I really don't consider Mick as boyfriend material!"
"Then why on earth are you acting so defensive about it?"
"Because if I don't you'll think I like him."
"But you do, don't you?"
"Yes, as a - "
"Ha! There it is!"
Her fingers ball into fists, and you can finally see her fuming. You have the audacity to look scared, and suddenly you are. Instead of punching you until you're black and blue, she just stares at you until the tide comes and spills over her face and onto the ground below.
"I - I hate you, Jerome! You're a screwed up bastard that knows n - nothing!" She stares at you, shaking her head and burying her head in her hands. "S - Someone sh - should teach you a les - son a - about - "
She doesn't finish, because the front door opens to reveal Patricia, Mara and Joy. They see her sobbing, and like the good friends they are, they rush to her side. Mara wraps an arm around her, so does Joy, and Patricia sends you nothing but a death glare. Even with their comforting lies spiraling her body, you can hear her shrieks deep into the night and past the witching hour. Not even Victor's threats could send her to sleep.
You end up being ostracised for the rest of the month by everyone - even Alfie - and you can't lie your way out of not caring.
viii.
You fall asleep that night - and every night since - thinking of his golden hair and his ocean eyes, his laughter and his swords, and you know you're fucked.
(It's the first of many times you use that word.)
ix.
You remember the amount of grief you put your mother into that summer; your uniform lasted one year as opposed to two, some of your things went mysteriously missing and your voice keeps cracking for some reason.
Your parents call it puberty; you call it hell.
Going back to school that autumn, the brown leaves reek of death and everyone seemed like hyperactive five-year-olds. Anubis House feels like a godforsaken curse on your shoulder and you want to move out and live on your own in the school corridor.
(This is what Mara would refer to as teenage angst.)
Waltzing into Anubis House with some intention of raining into everyone else's parades, you don't even manage to offend someone with your presence before you spot her.
At least, you think it's her.
Her hair isn't the dirty blonde you've learned and loved; it's shiny enough to blind a car in the dead of night. She's also lost a significant amount of puppy fat, but you're glad that some still stick to her cheeks because she wouldn't be her if it didn't. Bemused, you swear there's more pink on her than there is in the rest of the world combined.
"Amber?" you croak, and you're sure growing up has nothing to do with it.
She turns to face you after managing to enjoy an easygoing chat. Her eyes rest on yours, and when she would usually jerk them away, she did not this time. In fact, if it wasn't for her newly-whitened smile you'd say that she was silently interrogating you.
"Jerome!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around you. (Okay, since when was Amber this touchy-feely?) You do the same to her, even if somewhat reluctantly. "How are you?"
You reply monosyllabically to all the questions she threw at you, partly scared of the response you'll get from her. Yes, she seemed a little annoyed, but nothing more. It didn't take long for her to get bored with you, and she sashays up into her room, Mara and Mick and Joy a little bewildered but more than amazed by this new woman that had taken tiny, timid Amber hostage in her cellar and replaced her with this.
Alfie didn't make you feel any better. "You've got to admit, Jerome, she's smokin' hot."
"Save it for the rest, will you?" you utter bitterly, slowly watching the girl you've hated since you were eight slowly become the Amber Millington, most popular girl in Key Stage Three.
x.
One of your new favourite things was vampire movies, TV shows, the works. As long as they contained bloodsucking beauties (ie. Edward Cullen), you were so up for it.
You had been in Patricia and Joy's room watching Twilight when the door creaks open. Both you and Joy scream like banshees, and that made Patricia scrunch her face and bury it in a pillow. You glower at the intruder, who was leaning against the door. Joy pauses the movie and huddles next to the redhead.
"Why the glare, Ambs?" he probes, smirking in your direction. You stand up from your place and cross your arms. "You do know our History poster is due tomorrow, right?"
You frown. "Can't you do it?"
"No, because it's our poster. That means you're going to have to help."
The Terrible Twins pass you a look of sympathy, and you leave the room with Jerome. Skipping down the stairs and turning the right to his room, you sigh as he places an empty sheet of A3 paper down in front of you.
"Do you know anything about Greek Mythology?" he questions, passing you a sheet of paper.
You nod, and this was one of the little truths no one expects of you. Ever since you half-read that Percy Jackson book in Year Six, you knew loads and loads and loads about the Ancient Greeks. You couldn't boast to having an eidetic memory, but you liked the book so much you happened to remember a large chunk of it.
Jerome passes you a pen and paper, and you slowly begin to write it down. Zuz is the Father of Gods and...
"What's Zuz?" he asks, staring at the sentence.
"The guy with the lightning bolts," you reply, grinning. "He's usually referred in mythology to as the Father of Gods and Men."
"That's not how you spell it," he counters.
"Zuz!" you exclaim, "can't you hear the z at the end?"
"It's an s, Amber. Believe me."
"How would you know?"
He taps at his computer, his fingers tracing his mouse pad and smirking when he saw something on the screen. "Because I found it!"
Turning the laptop screen for you, he shoves his stupid, strangely cute - the moment you consider that, your face turns sour - victory grin in your face. Shaking your head, you admit involuntary defeat. "Okay, fine, it's Zeus. Z. E. U. S. But if you're so smart, why don't you do it on your own? I can go back upstairs and watch my fantabulous movie with - "
"No!" he blurted, and the fact that is managed to shatter my eardrums shocked the both of you, more him than you from the looks of it.
"Why?" you ask, realising that you're going to leave yourself at sixes and sevens. "Can't you get Fabian to do it like you usually do?"
He seems almost deflated that you asked. "Mrs. Andrews knows the difference between my handwriting and his. She threatened to suspend me if he did any of my homework again."
Nodding, you're still perplexed. "And I come into this... how?"
"It's still our project," he picks up a pen, "and I'll do all the writing and you can do the... the glittery bits."
Alfie doesn't have the heart to tell you the next morning that you fell asleep next to one another, because when you wake up Jerome's already gone.
xi.
The next year, Mick stopped being a complete straw man and became an official part of the football team. He isn't a renowned player - just a reserve - but that makes him just as cool as Amber, and that made them fit to come to the parties the older years had.
You sneak behind them one night, their hands intertwined and wearing matching blues and greens. To most people, this was a no-brainer: same peach skin, same platinum blonde hair and one clueless footballer paired with the Queen of Fancy Dressing would obviously lead to Amber picking out his clothes for him, because she was - cue the irony - a good sport.
You've never seen her so helpful before.
(But you're forgetting the fact that she kind of, pretty much hates you.)
To your shock, there is no bouncer checking if your name against a list of guests; there are more people in there than you can remember seeing in school. There are people snogging other people - something tells you they barely know each other - and Sixth Formers are hiding in the bushes lighting fags and laughing about nothing in particular.
Come to think of it, do they even contain nicotine?
You've heard of worse, and you're wondering how this is happening in your backyard. Then you remember that your housemates are here and they could be in complete and utter -
Close to another set of bushes, Amber and Mick laugh with a bunch of people you know are Year Tens. They have glasses in their hands both containing liquids that remind you of cider. Amber laughs, throwing her head back, and Mick wraps an arm around her waist. "Careful, Ambs," he whispers, taking a sip of the stuff, "this shit is pretty strong."
"Is it?" she questions, and she takes a sip. "Oooh, it feels like fire. There's fire in my body, Mick!" She laughs, leaning into him and placing her head on his shoulder. "That was... that was nice." Jerking back up, she finishes her shot and slams it into someone else's hand. They don't seem to be withering in pain, like normal people usually would. Perhaps they couldn't feel it. "There! I finished off your bloody Johnny Walker's. Now can we have some Mary Jane?"
Mary what? Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to walk out of the bush and feign tripping on nothing in particular. This garners some of Amber's attention, and when she sees you she squeals.
"Jeroooome! What are you doing out here?" she laughs, offering a hand. You take it - completely dismissing her question - but in turn she falls to the ground, her legs splayed out. Though she's almost cackling, Mick glares at you. You try not to notice but it's difficult when it's digging into your skull. Gently, you pull her back up so she's standing on both feet, somewhat stable. (Why isn't she trying to put her shoes back on? She never goes anywhere barefoot.) "Someone get him a shot! A shot of anything! He can have a smoke too if he wants."
Your eyes widen and when you see someone rolling up grass, that's when you realise what she's on about.
"Amber," you hiss, "this is a horrible, horrible idea."
"But it's fun!" she counters, and suddenly you notice the way she twirls rapidly in the wind. "Maybe we can both have some you-know-whatsies and we can have sparklers and we can write our names in the middle of the night sky - "
Someone gives you a shot. You stare at it, completely bewildered and completely lost. "Don't look so stupid, Jerome, have a shot!" she exclaims.
"Yeah, mate," Mick concurs, "have a shot. Have as many as you like." He smiles, this time brightly, and you're not sure if he's trying to fuck with you or not. "The night's ours, and the night is young! We have to make your first night out something to remember."
You're not sure how, but the night turns into a whirlwind of images. First, you were taking shots with Mick and a couple of the other guys. At first they tasted like shit, but someone whipped up a couple of cocktails and those tasted much better.
You then had a taste of what Amber called Mary Jane which made you feel really fucking heavy once it began to kick in, but most of the time was spent hearing the words 'For fuck's sake, Jerome, you ain't doing it right.' They did have a point; you were coughing and spluttering for the first couple of smokes. It takes several minutes of calming you down enough to just inhale, breathe, let the stuff simmer in your lungs enough to let it kick in.
When it does, you feel like you're the king of the universe. You search for a table or a garbage bin because you feel like climbing something, but you can't find any, so you just curse and curse until you forget how to speak. Your pupils widen and you start laughing and you're not sure why, but you do. Everything moves so slowly and everything's so blurry and you swear everyone's voices sound different. You and Mick take turns lifting Amber into the air and spinning, spinning her around until she falls on top of you and claps like a child, wanting to go again.
"This is fun!" she giggles, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. "We should do this again some time."
You don't blush, because you're far too confused and you're ninety percent sure that she thought you were Mick. Besides, you do have fun the next time: you just make sure she's not involved.
xii.
"Alfie! Jerome! You cannot just take my Versace perfume for science and not expect me not to worry about it!"
Always one for dramatic entrances, you storm into their room expecting them to stare. You did not expect a one-man audience fiddling with what seems to be a bunch of hair extensions. Blue, shoulder-length hair extensions, by the look of them.
"Where's Alfie?" you ask, folding your arms. There are other, more pertinent questions you want to ask, but you know that you have to start off slow.
"He's not here," he replies solemnly, his eyes skimming over yours. Usually, you welcome such quiet gestures, but you're fuming and you need to take it out on someone. And if you're going to feel any better you're going to need them to react, which he isn't helping with.
"What on earth are you so chipper about?" you deadpan, flopping down next to him on his bed. To your surprise, he doesn't shoo you away or tell you to fuck off. By the way that he was patting the space next to him, he looks like he actually wants to talk to you.
You grin as you shuffle your body next to his.
"Amber, I hope I don't regret this," he sighs, "but how do you subtly, not subtly let someone know you like them?"
Staring at him like a fish, you can't believe he just asked you that question. You have seen him snog a couple of girls in your nights out, and some of the girls - including one very, very high Willow Jenks - have admitted to having large crushes on him. If you weren't dating the biggest girl afficionado in school (Mick, duh), you might say that Jerome would be the hottest guy in school.
And here he was, asking you about how to deal with a girl.
"If you're going to laugh, Millington, you might as well leave," he says hotly, and though you wish you won't you laugh anyway.
He raises a brow, and then your laughter fades into oblivion. "Okay, fine," you resign, "talk to me."
Laughing, he shakes his head. "You made it pretty clear that you think it's ridiculous that Jerome Manwhore Clarke is asking you for advice, and I'm not setting myself up for even more ridicule. I have to admit that you reacted way better than I expected you to, but worse than Alfie - "
" - you told Alfie before me?"
"He is my best friend."
"A best friend who knows nothing about dating!"
"You're not helping, Ambs."
You sigh, rolling over so that your stomach's facing down. "You want my help, I'm going to have to know a couple of things about this girl."
"Don't play dumb. There's only one girl in school that wears blue hair extensions."
He hands them over to you, and you jerk away because as much as you love your own hair, holding someone else's is gross. You swipe them away from you as they lay in a tangled heap on the mattress, but once that's done you look at him and grin. Of course it's Patricia, you think, because with the exception of you she's the only girl in the house who hasn't considered him romantically yet.
You give him advice, and he follows. And though you can't say you didn't expect the gunfire which happens, it amuses you.
(For all the wrong reasons, of course.)
xiii.
"I'm Nina, and I'm American!"
When Nina comes in Year Ten, you, Alfie and Patricia plot to scare the living wits out of her because hey, she does seem impressionable. Trixie pours water on her, and Nina booby trapped her own room. You lock her up in the attic, she somehow enlists Amber's help to lock all three of you in the cellar. After a while, the fun of the situation begins to wear off as Mick breaks up with Amber to date Mara and the aftermath is much more explosive than Nina versus Patricia.
You're mad, and Amber's mad. You two could fake date - because you're still the two most gorgeous people in Anubis House - to get the ball rolling but every time you try to propose the idea she gives you this look and swiftly glosses you over, Nina on her tail.
You won't admit this verbally to anyone who asks, but you're glad Nina came. You could never get Mara on her own what with Amber lounging in their (former) room half the time, and nothing could separate those two. Now that they were separate entities, she seems a little more devilish, a little more badass, a little more wild: you find this out when you have shots of vodka and lime one Saturday night while Mick was trying out for a scholarship. You now have a decent reason to hate Mick Campbell other than 'he's a total jackass', because you think you have a crush on the girl with the raven curls, the sing-song voice, the wide-eyed curiosity evaded by most.
But one of the best reasons had nothing to do with Mara Jaffray.
When Amber and Nina are paired together for a Literature assignment, you sneak a look out of the corner of your eye every few seconds as Alfie jabbered on about aliens in Roswell. They're talking, as in Amber was, in her own Amberish way, arguing about the conno-whatsits of some sentence or some thought, and Nina was firing arguments right back at her. You never saw that with Amber and Mara; it was mostly one-sided work. With the both of them, they worked like a well-oiled machine, as clichéd as that statement sounds. It also happens to be the only one that fits.
You remember that one time she rambled on to you about how her dad was threatening to cut her allowance because her grades were going down the pan. That must've been a million years ago (even if it was actually only one) because you remember the first time she comes squealing in the kitchen, wrapping poor Nina in her arms and wondering how she manages to get an A star on her coursework. She even agrees to sit next to Alfie for dinner, and soon it became a permanent fixture.
Not only does she appear more intelligent, slightly more interested in classes (because no one can keep their eyes open in Science) and overall a better person, you notice how kind she becomes. She ensures that the two lovebirds - ie. Fabian and Nina - have some alone time when she never let Mara have any, she visits Alfie in the hospital when he has a panic attack, trying not to terrify him as best as she could, and you find her actually listening to Nina's stories. This is not the Amber everyone knows, but you've always known her to be like this and for some reason that makes you proud of her.
The next time you manage to speak to her is when she tries to become Student Representative when Mara kind of, sort of turns on you, and she beams when you're her campaign manager. Both of you attempt to bake cookies in the kitchen (minus Alfie, because of what happened the last time), and they tasted wonderful even without raspberries. You try and make posters of her as she coordinates her own cheerleading routine with some of the girls in the cheerleading club you don't recall the school having.
"I never knew you could tumble," you remark, watching her practice in the school gymnasium.
"You don't know lots of things about me," she replies, hands on hips. After a well-aimed glare, she resumes her acrobatic moves. God knows what got into you, but you're entranced and you spend the rest of lunch hour staring at her choreography, her sing song voice singing out promises that make no sense.
You laugh, knowing that she was, not for the first time, right.
xiv.
When Amber and Mara finally made up, the storm that had plagued the house for months finally receded. Mara and Mick were finally at peace, and Amfie - as you have dubbed it - finally had a chance. To celebrate the end of the beginning, the both of you decide to have an end of term prom. Most of the preparations went okay.
(Well, there was that whole King Tut debacle which kind of broke your heart, but when you tell Alfie you weren't disappointed that he's the man behind the mask, you meant it.)
Fabian and Nina are Prom King and Queen, of course, and you dance with Alfie for the longest time. He isn't clumsy like Mick, but he isn't completely graceful. Once, you nearly fall but he catches you by your waist and swoops you back up until your face is inches from his. If you're a different kind of girl you'd kiss him there and then, but you also happen to be Amber Millington and you happen to have standards so you giggle in his face and take his hand, taking him with you.
The slow dance portion of the dance is over, and it's time to hit it out with the other groups. You dance with pretty much with everyone from Anubis House - even Mick, though you wish you didn't wear open-toed shoes - and you're kind of surprised at how good Fabian was. You owe it to the clandestine dance regime you forced on Mick; even if Nina didn't seem like the high-maintenance type of girl she doesn't seem to appreciate Fabian's semi-clumsiness when it comes at the worst of times.
Eventually, your dread resurfaces as it is your turn to dance with the infamous Jerome. You hear that he's here with Patricia, which is odd; if he wanted to make Mara jealous he could have taken someone else who he barely knew. At least they looked like they're having a good time, which is the entire point of this event.
"The best friend and the girlfriend, dancing together on Prom Night," he whispers, extending his arm, "Alfie should really be more careful."
"Alfie and I aren't dating," you protest, taking it by its phalanges and twirling beneath it. Exhaling, you remember exactly why you dreaded this small, but apparently inevitable formality.
He arches a brow. "I know you, Millington," he mumbles, intertwining his hand with yours, "you don't just take someone to something as public as a prom and then just not date them."
Your face blanches, and your face darts close to his. "We're not dating," you jeer through grit teeth. "Yet."
The next few minutes pass by in silence, and neither of you dare to switch partners. Fabian tries to approach you, but he jerks away once he saw the stern faces and the vigilant looks you gave one another. The music swamps you in this game of grace and glory: he is the only one in school that matches you spin for spin, hand for hand, warm touch for warm touch. You remember, for some stark, stupid reason, that he took ballet classes as a kid and that accounted for his strange, pleasant poise.
Eventually you can't stand the silence anymore. So you speak.
"Jerome?" you ask, your voice coming out more demure than it should.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think that if you're not such a jackass and I wasn't such a drama queen - "
" - the world'll blow up before that happens - "
" - for fuck's sake, can you let me finish?"
"Fine."
You close your eyes, your hand - which is supposed to be anywhere but here - closing on his. "Right, as I was saying, do you think that if you weren't a jackass and I wasn't a princess, we'd have a chance?"
"Do you want me to be honest?" he questions, and you read him well enough to realise that he is - rare as the incidence is - genuine.
You answer flippantly anyway. "... duh."
He clasps your hands together. "Yes."
As he utters that word, Alfie asks you for the last dance.