Form Chapter 37: The Debrief – Who got what, or how, or whom, why that Easter.
Late Afternoon, Saturday, April 29, 1978
Kizzy’s Bedroom
The corkboard above Kizzy’s desk was pricked with coloured pins and lengths of string, but the centrepiece was missing.
“No,” Kizzy muttered. “No, no, no—he’s bloody taken it.”
Momo joined her. “Taken what?”
“The Form Photo. It was here. Our Easter Project.”
She half-heartedly scanned the room, knowing full well she hadn’t touched it. Robbie must have taken it.
“Gone.”
She turned, exasperated. “He took it with him. Probably tucked it into that stupid satchel, thinking it’s some kind of addendum to his diary.”
“You’ve lost me. Form Photo?” Momo asked.
Kizzy had to explain. Their Form Photo, Upper Vthb, from the previous September. The one with Miss Rowbotham, half the girls missing, and the random German exchange student in the back row.
Momo remembered it but still didn’t grasp its significance.
“Robbie and some posh school friend of his fell out on the first day of the holidays. I thought one of my friends—Jane, Julie-Anne, even AJ—might suit him better. Lovely, right?”
“Picked?” Momo asked.
“It was a bit of fun. We let fate decide who he’d give some attention to. He’d throw a dart. That girl became the target. ‘Love interest’ might be too strong. Some were non-starters—Miss Rowbothay. Ruth was accounted for. You were barred. Me, too. I’m his sister. You’ve known him forever.”
She sighed. “We don’t have the Form Photo. But we do have the diary. And our memories.”
“Come on.”
They crept into Robbie’s room like spies. Curtains are still drawn. A teacup ring on the bedside table. Bed half-made. The scent was part cheap aftershave, part damp sketchbook—clean laundry, folded and untouched.
Typical.
Kizzy opened the bottom drawer of the bedside table.
His first five-year diary.
Green spine. Cracked leather. Margins overwritten. She held it like a crime scene artefact.
“Bingo.”
Momo raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to read it?”
“He left it behind. That’s consent by omission.”
They sat cross-legged on the floor. The book thudded between them.
Page one: January 1, 1975.
Kizzy skipped ahead.
“We’ll go girl by girl, day by day,” she said. “Everything’s dated. We’ll cross-reference with what we know. Conversations. Locations. The photo.”
“Even Miss Rowbotham, dead centre,” Momo added.
“Exactly. I’ve lived with that picture for a month. I know every sideways glance and hairband.”
Momo tapped a date. “Here—Wednesday, March 29. Disco. Dart One: Cece.”
Kizzy nodded. “Failure.”
Thursday 30th—People’s Theatre. Nothing romantic. He bought deodorant.”
“That tells us everything,” Kizzy muttered.
They turned pages. Kizzy took notes. Momo began assigning nicknames India – and Mirage.
Julie-Anne – Dead End.
Tracey – Rogue Element.
“He went kiss to kiss to kiss,” Momo said. “Like a dog weaving lamp-posts.”
“And yet,” Kizzy replied, “he thinks he’s in love.”
“With Cece.”
“For now.”
She flipped to the final entry before the bus.
“Friday, April 28—he writes: ‘I want to step away from the Traceys and Helens. Cece matters.’
Momo reread it. “That’s when he believed it. But belief isn’t truth.”
Kizzy closed the diary gently.
“We don’t need the Form Photo anymore,” she said. “We are the Form Photo.”
Momo gave a slow, sharp nod. “Let’s pin it to the wall. Girl by girl. Case by case.”
Kizzy flipped back. “Friday, April 28 again—‘Cece gave me the scarf. It smells of her. I think this is it. This is real. We kissed in the snug. No one interrupted.”
Momo smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Kizzy snorted. “Your girl? You haven’t read what came before.”
She flicked back further.
“Wednesday, April 19—he sketched her. Called it ‘a revelation in russet.’ Compared her to a Modigliani.”
Momo blushed. “She is like a Modigliani. Long neck. Sorrowful eyes.”
Kizzy kept going.
“Monday, April 17—her dog, her kitchen, her silence. He was obsessed.”
Momo nodded. “But it wasn’t just physical.”
Kizzy raised an eyebrow. “‘ought new deodorant. Switched to Brut.’”They both laughed.
“Sunday, April 16—Donna. ‘Stayed at her pub. Talked all night. Slept beside her. Different kind of intimacy.’ That’s one day before Cece’s dog.”
Momo frowned. “So—pub sleepover to posh-house envy?”
“Exactly.”
“And this—Monday, April 10. Tennis with Diana and Cece. ‘Cece beat me at doubles. Her laugh was like a dare.’
“So she was already in his head.”
Kizzy nodded. “April 3. Cinema with Fenella.”
“Okay. Focus. When was Cece first darted?”
“March 29. Rugby club disco. Dart No. 1. She ducked.”
“Did he write that?”
“Verbatim. ‘Went in for the kiss. She dipped under it like a matador.’”
omo laughed.
“But—April 8. ‘I saw her at the disco again. She avoided me, but Helen said she was watching.’”
“always watching.”
“Then the kiss. Friday, April 21. ‘Furry rug. Her jumper was pale blue. She didn’t want to stop.”
Momo smiled. “She told me she felt different. Like maybe something real had started.”
“Would’ve been lovely. If not for Tracey.”
“What?”
Kizzy didn’t answer. She turned to April 25.
“Tracey. Garage kiss. Nearly seduced him. After Cece.”
April 26—“‘racey again. In my head all day. Wore the green top. Said I owed her.’”April 27—“Final Tracey. Or maybe not.’
April 28—Cece. Snug. Scarf. Kiss.
April 29—the bus.
Momo sat back. “He was still tangled up in Tracey.”
“And Fen. And Helen. And India. Even Julie-Anne gets a paragraph.”
Silence.
“He thinks this is love,” Momo said. “But he’s just crashing his way toward it.”
Kizzy folded the diary shut. “Cece’s about to find out. And it’s going to hurt.”
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