Kizzy’s First Form Photo Party Thursday, 16th December 1976
Kizzy crashed into Robbie’s room without knocking. He could have been asleep, reading, or in his underpants. It wouldn’t have mattered—she’d have come in anyway.
To the outside world, they were twins—born the same year, same school, same house. But Kizzy had arrived as a foster kid when she was six, and simply stayed. Not even the neighbours asked questions anymore.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, fizzing like an unpopped bottle of Cresta.
Robbie loved her most when she was like this. Not tired. Not flat. Not curled up in her dressing gown after another long appointment. This version of Kizzy had a project. Which meant—for now—she wasn’t dying.
Robbie didn’t believe in fate, but if the universe gave you a girl like Kizzy and told you to take care of her, you bloody well did. That was the deal.
“Come and take a look,” she said, already halfway down the hall.
She pointed to the new Form Photo of Upper 3, Class B, Eastfield Girls, tacked to her bedroom wall. The girls were lined up in three rows, blurry and solemn, as if someone had told them this was a mugshot for adulthood.
“These girls fancy you,” Kizzy said.
“I’m sure they’re just being polite,” Robbie offered, squinting.
“Mum said I could have a drinks party before Christmas. I’m inviting Helen, Imogen, Sharon, and Fenella. You get to meet them all in one go. It’ll be like casting. For your love life.”
Robbie tilted his head. “I feel like a farm animal.”
“You are a farm animal. A prize bull. But delicate. Don’t worry, I’m vetting everyone.”
She pointed to Helen, standing centre-back in the photo, her eyebrows like brushstrokes in charcoal.
“She’ll be head girl one day. From Gateshead. So she counts as exotic.”
Robbie looked at the image. Raven-haired. Regal. The sort of girl who probably already read The Times.
“Imogen’s a giggler,” Kizzy continued. “New girl. Wicked sense of humour. Reminds me of me before…”
She stopped.
“Before what?”
“Before I was told I only had two years to live.”
Silence. Robbie should have apologised, but he didn’t. They both knew how to out-silence each other. When they were eight, she used to huff off the roundabout and sit on the slide until the spinning stopped. It always did, eventually.
He said softly, “Who else have you got lined up? I’m sure they’re all corkers.”
Kizzy picked up the thread. “Sharon. Dances like she’s in Pan’s People. Got shouted at by Mrs Quinn for dancing in the corridor.”
“Is that not allowed?”
“Not pirouettes. Not sensual ones.”
Robbie grinned.
“And Fenella,” Kizzy added. “She’s older than me but dresses like it’s 1940. A bit mumsy. I imagine she’ll be fourteen forever, then turn thirty-five overnight.”
“What sort of party is this again?”
“A drinks party. Like grown-ups do. But with nibbles and Twister.”
“I thought those were mutually exclusive.”
“Also, it’s Project: Fix Robbie Up. The girls all know about you. The boys I invited are deliberately awful, to make you shine.”
Kizzy’s Diary (16 Dec): Today, I begin matchmaking Robbie. He thinks I invited a mix of guests. Lies. The boys are duds. The girls are interested. They just don’t know who they’re competing with: me.
Kizzy went to find Robbie in his room. He was dressed in a tweed jacket from school. Army combats. Black brogues. Tie. V-neck. Earring. That was new.
She sniffed. There was something of the dog basket about him.
“You look like a geography teacher crossed with a squaddie.” She said, ‘Try again. ’ She returned ten minutes later. He’d made an effort. Sort of.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” she asked, scanning him head to toe.
Paisley shirt—open collar. Waistcoat. No tie. Corduroy trousers, freshly pressed. Chelsea boots with a shine that looked almost unnatural.
“The jacket?” he asked, holding up the tweed.
“Not.”
“Too school?”
“Too undead geography master.”
He tossed it onto the bed.
“And the earring?”
“That stays. It’s edgy.”
“It’s not you. Not yet.”
“It’s commitment.”
Kizzy removed the earring. Robbie let her. She dabbed away the blood.
Then she paused on the way out, one hand on the doorframe. “You look… presentable. Just about.”
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not. I’m orchestrating.”
Then she led him downstairs to the sitting room where four girls perched on chairs, and four boys sat like mislabelled tins.
Robbie limped theatrically. Kizzy pulled him aside.
“You wreck this, and I will never speak to you again.”
“What’s wrong with my leg? Hereditary defect.”
She stomped on his foot.
“Walk properly.”
Introductions followed. Robbie made a scene with each one.
To Helen, donned broken glasses and peered at her like a Victorian professor.
To Sharon: did a Les Dawson pout. To Fenella, bowed. Imogen giggled.
“He’s lovely,” Kizzy muttered, exasperated. “Honestly.”
Then came Murder in the Dark. Robbie was the murderer. He picked off boys first: easy, scented with Brut and teenage despair. Then the girls. Sharon first. He paused, heart racing, as his fingers brushed bare skin. Warmth. Breath. Belly button.
She fake-collapsed with a dramatic sigh.
Helen screamed. Lamp over.
Finally, Kizzy.
He approached her quietly. Something in him didn’t want to kill her, even in a game. But when his hand reached for hers, she fell dead without a word.
He whispered, “Can I kiss you now?”
“I’m dead. Not edible.”
More nervous giggles.
Later, in the kitchen, Kizzy let him have it.
“You’re sabotaging. You were supposed to flirt with them, not me.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“Fine is not fine, Robbie. Fine is wallpaper. And I’m not fine.”
She kissed him.
It was delicate. Soft. Like testing fairy lights.
Not hungry. Not horny. Just human.
He kissed her back.
It should have felt like the start. But they both knew: it was an ending.
Two of the boys left early. Nothing for them, they felt. So Robbie called a few mates. Aidan showed up with music. George returned with crisps. The house filled again. Robbie danced with all the girls. Even Aidan. But the slow ones he saved for Kizzy. She let him. She even enjoyed it. But it didn’t change her resolve.
In the final game, Sardines—Kizzy sent Imogen after Robbie. He hid in the wardrobe. Imogen squeezed in close. Warm, breathy. Sweet.
“Why did Kizzy invite you?” Robbie whispered.
“She said you fancied me.”
“She said that to everyone.”
The wardrobe tipped. Screams. Laughter. Shouting.
Pinned under bodies, Robbie imagined a crash. Metal. Blood. He reached for Imogen, felt her crying. Held her like a dad at a playground.
And somewhere above the chaos, Kizzy watched it all. Her party. Her plan. Her Robbie. Her future fading into someone else’s arms.
Kizzy’s Diary (Late): Robbie kissed me. I let him. And it made me feel like I was melting into him. But if I become part of him, he dies when I die. So I won’t let it happen again. I can’t be the reason he never loves anyone else. He needs to live. That’s the plan.
Even if it kills me.
Leave a Reply