January 2005 

They were sitting in the Wimpy, weighing up the merits of Suede and The Tears, when Amelia’s eyes went wide with horror.  “Natalie,” she said, through gritted teeth, “Please tell me that girl’s trousers don’t say what I think they say.”

Natalie turned around.  There was only a short wall sealing off the Wimpy from the rest of the shopping centre, so it was easy to look around at passers-by as you ate.  And walking past New Look, absorbed in her phone, was a girl with the word “JUICY” embroidered, in gold, on her arse.

“I’m afraid so,” Natalie told Amelia.

Abbie Chamberlain and Daisy Sparrow (sitting next to Natalie and Amelia respectively), craned their necks to try and see the JUICY girl, but she’d disappeared into one of the nearby shops.  Amelia made a hissing, spitting sound, like a cat coughing up a hairball.  “God!  What is it with young people these days?  I mean, do they seriously think that looks good?”

Abbie laughed.  “Amelia, you’re not even eighteen ‘til next month.  You’re ‘young people these days.’”

Natalie tried to work out whether the JUICY girl had been their age or younger.  She hoped younger.  If you got to the age of eighteen and still thought dressing like that was a good idea, there was probably no hope for you.

Amelia shook her head.  She was wearing a white shirt that looked like something a jockey might wear, and her hair (the kind of brown that made Natalie think of cinnamon sticks) was so perfectly brushed that it looked like a solid mass, with every strand moving in unison.  She was easily the most stylish of the four of them.  “The more I see of this world, the more I understand why David lives like he does.”

Natalie nodded.  A few months ago, David had moved out of his and Amelia’s parents’ house, and bought a little place, not much more than a cabin, in the woodland on the edge of town.  He said it was so he didn’t have to deal with people, but luckily, “people” didn’t include Amelia, Natalie and the others, so they were up there all the time.  If you wanted somewhere to drink and listen to music where no-one would bother you, David’s cabin was the place.

Daisy was still craning her neck.  The JUICY girl was long gone, but Daisy was a natural optimist.  “It’s irresponsible!” she announced to the rest of the table, a decibel or two louder than she really should have.

“What is?” asked Abbie.

“Going round with something like that written on your clothes.  You might as well just get ‘up for it’ tattooed on your arm.”

Abbie grinned, resting her chin on her hand.  “It could just mean she really likes orange juice.”

Daisy didn’t acknowledge this.  “I think it’s very irresponsible,” she said, still looking over her shoulder, “especially considering that syphilis is on the rise.”

And something about that- maybe the strangeness of the situation, maybe Daisy’s outraged voice, maybe the thought of the trousers giving the girl syphilis on their own, by magic- made the other three dissolve into giggles, slowly collapsing onto the table as they tried to regain control.

(To Be Continued)