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Zusatztext “A fun! fast-paced! and ultimately moving read that explores the nuances of friendship between young women.” Informationen zum Autor Non Pratt is the author of the acclaimed Trouble and Remix . After graduating from Trinity College Cambridge, she became a book editor at Usborne, working on the bestselling Sticker Dolly Dressing and Things to Make and Do series. She lives in London with her husband and small(ish) child and writes full time. Find her on Twitter @NonPratt. Klappentext "First published in 2015 in Great Britain by Walker Books Ltd."--Title page verso.Remix CHAPTER 1 HOLIDAY KAZ It’s not unusual to wake up to at least two or three messages sent by my best friend during the hours that normal people use for sleeping—today there are fourteen. Should I bother taking rain boots with me? Sent at 12:23 a.m., which is technically the day that we’re leaving for the festival. I’m not surprised—Ruby isn’t so much last minute as last nanosecond. Decided against rain boots. They make you sweaty. Sweat foot vs trench foot. Not that I’m hoping for trench foot. I just googled it. Gross. She’s embellished this with a particularly helpful (disturbing) picture of a rotting foot. Can’t find my good bra. The purple one that fastens at the front and makes me look like I’ve got something inside. Did I leave it at your house the other night? Bra was in the laundry and smells of beer (???) now in the washing machine. Going to make a playlist for the journey while I wait for it to finish. Requests? Sans helpful input from you, this playlist is 80% Gold’ntone. At this rate it’ll be longer than their set on Saturday. (SATURDAY!!!) Got distracted from making the playlist by tumblring Wexler pics. Here’s the best. Adam Wexler, lead singer of Gold’ntone, smolders from my phone as he pulls up the collar of an expensive-looking jacket. (It’s a distinct improvement on the diseased foot.) His teeth bite down on his bottom lip as if he’s suppressing a smile. I only have to speculate about what he’s thinking for my breath to accelerate and my cheeks to burn. Are your eyes totally having sex with that picture? Because mine are. (Just my eyes.) OVERSHARE KLAXON. (Joking—I really am just looking at it with my eyes.) God. You’re so boring when you’re asleep. Needless to say, the call I make goes straight to voicemail. “Ruby here. Your call is very important to me, so please leave a message. Unless you are Stuart-cheating-shitbag-Garside, in which case, fuck right off.” My name might not be Stuart Garside, but I decline to leave a message anyway since she never checks them. I write one instead. My eyes thank you for the Wexler wake-up sex—it *almost* makes up for the fact that you’ll have neglected to put any Little John songs on that playlist. (Please rectify.) Also, you seem confused about the smell of your bra. Maybe this photo will help. Taken last week, it’s of Ruby, standing on the dance floor, arms wide, head thrown back, mouth open in an all-consuming laugh as an anonymous pair of arms showers her with a bottle of beer as if it’s champagne. Time to actually get out of bed. The bathroom shows evidence of my sister—saturated bathmat, towels on the floor, and a drugstore worth of products surrounding the sink. She’s used all the hot water too. “Why do you smell like my new body oil?” Naomi asks when I come back after my shower. She is sitting in the middle of my bed, flipping through one of my magazines from which she’s already ripped a pile of discount vouchers. “Why are you in my room? Don’t you have kittens to skin or dreams to crush? Some packing to finish?” “It’s f...
