: Christmas Disco Mania

Despite one or two initial protests at Billie rejoining us at dinner, he was very quickly accepted back into the fold. This was mostly due to Ann. When certain people began complaining when I told them what had happened (that is, John, Adam and Siân), she stepped in and told them to stop being so stupid.

"After all," she reminded them, "It's only Nerys, really, who has any right to be upset with Billie and as she's sorted it out with him I don't see why the rest of you have any reason to complain. Just get on with it."

Siân was the first to concede, on the agreement that we relocated to a different table in the canteen – a bigger one, that is – and he brought all of his mates to sit with us. Well, I say 'all of his mates'. She really just wanted Liam Wace to sit with us.

She delivered this command to Billie in the gap between periods three and four, hunting him down in the MFL corridor. He laughed and agreed, and that dinner, our group increased by about eleven. There wasn't even enough room to seat us all at one table, so Liam and Tyler Haines took matters into their own hands and moved a load of tables and chairs to accommodate everyone. They got a talking to for that, but no one made them move the tables back. This became a daily routine, and things were going okay. I guess.

And then, Christmas disco mania hit.

Every year, our school hires a nightclub in town and we go there for our school Christmas disco. You go by coach, miss half your school day, and are back home by six o'clock. While there, you're forced to listen to crappy, cheesy music that's so loud you can't even hear yourself think, paired with an irritating DJ and lots of Year 7 kids running around playing tag or pretending there's a moshpit on the middle of the dance floor. To top it off, there aren't any comfortable seating areas, the bar only sells really cheap tasting coke and packets of cheese and onion crisps, and for some reason, the nicest place in the whole building is the toilets, and that includes the dodgy cubicle and the faulty hand-driers.

That, in a nutshell, is our annual Christmas disco. In reality, it's a bit shit, but for some reason everyone goes crazy for it, particularly the girls. The reasons for this are simple: firstly, the teachers do a dance every year and that's absolutely hilarious. Secondly, the teachers are very relaxed and they mostly keep to themselves, so you can really mess around without anyone telling you off. Thirdly, most see it as an excuse to lose your inhibitions and throw yourself at the guy you've been worshipping from afar all year. And finally, it is just one massive excuse to get all done up, wearing a dress and a pair of shoes you'll never wear again in your whole life.

I don't mind it. Yes, it can be a bit crap and once you're there you're just counting down the hours until you get back on the coach and go home, but you know, it's just a bit of fun. It might just be me – I'm not really a dancer, so it's usually my job to sit on the rock hard chairs and watch over everyone's bags, cameras and phones while they're all off dancing. The odd pair of shoes is usually left behind too, because someone always wears a ridiculous pair of high heels they just can't actually walk in.

This year, I was planning on going but I wasn't going to make a fuss. I'd done that the year before, because I was all, 'Oh, I'm in Year 9 now, I'm an adult,' and then it was just as crap as it had been the two years previous. So this year, I wasn't holding my breath for having a good time.

The thing was, though, that Gareth made the mistake of leaving the letter informing our parents about the disco, the letter that included the parental permission slip, on the dining room table. I'd got my mum to sign it and so on and so forth as soon as I got it and then I stowed the remaining letter in my room. Gareth, however, did not, and that was how Pascal got a hold of the letter.

I arrived home from school one night, arguing with Gareth over something that had been on the telly the night before, to find Pascal waiting in the living room. Matty was there too, looking apologetic. Pascal was sat on my dad's armchair; Grimm curled up in a ball of fluff on her lap. She was stroking Grimm over and over in a very methodical fashion that made me think of a Bond villain. I immediately felt nervous as I dropped my schoolbag onto the floor and began to drag off my tie, flopping down onto the sofa.

"Um, Pascal, you're holding Grimm too hard," I said, eyeing my sister-in-law-to-be. She was, as well; Grimm looked very uncomfortable. Pascal let my cat go, and then reached into her shirt and pulled Gareth's letter out of her bra. The letter was folded up into a neat square so it would fit.

She unfolded it slowly, glaring daggers at me all the while. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, French accent lost and replaced by a thick Canadian one.

"It's just the school disco," I said weakly, shrinking back in the chair. "Um, we have one every year."

She glared at me witheringly. "I know that," she scowled. "I went to the school myself, Nerys."

I nodded, well aware of this fact. I shot my brother a look, which Matty deliberately avoided. "So, um, what's the problem?"

"The problem," Pascal said dramatically, "Is that the disco is a month away and oh my god you haven't even got an outfit ready yet!"

I didn't answer, instead preferring to pull my sweater over my head and fold it neatly. "I do, actually," I responded finally. I should have figured that this would involve clothes.

"What? What are you wearing?" Pascal leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Nerys."

"I was just going to wear this black skirt and that purple flowery top you gave me, and those black heels I bought a few months back," I mumbled, picking imaginary fluff off my sweater.

"That, that is just not acceptable." Pascal's voice was quiet and deadly. "This is the Christmas party –"

"I know that, and it's a crap party. Not worth spending about a hundred quid on, which is what most of my friends have done."

Pascal looked at me reproachfully. "What about Billie?"

I rolled my eyes, and kicked off my shoes. Matty's whole body had tensed at Pascal's words.

"What about him?" I yawned, and covered it up with my hand.

"If you want to win him back then you have to show him what he's missing," Pascal informed me, nodding quite a lot.

"I don't want to win him back," I retorted, rolling my eyes. "Billie and me are friends. Frieeeennndddsss," I added, stretching out the word to emphasise the fact that we were mates and nothing more.

"Huh," Pascal said disbelievingly. "Well, that doesn't matter. You still need a proper outfit, so we shall go shopping this weekend and buy you something nice. I will help you choose."

I trusted her. Regardless of the bad fashion choices Pascal makes for herself, she's actually pretty good at choosing clothes for other people. It's one of life's big questions, really, but it's the truth. But still, I didn't really want to go shopping with her; trust me, Pascal turns into a bit of a dragon when it comes to shopping. Your legs will be about to drop off by the time you get home and your feet are so sore you can't really move for the next few weeks or so.

So, rather than agreeing, I shook my head. "You're all right," I told her. "I'm fine with what I was planning to wear."

She glared, and screwed Gareth's letter up into a ball and chucked it at me. It missed me, hitting the wall behind me landing on the floor. If it were possible, her eyes narrowed even more as she rose from her seat, pointing a finger at me. "We shall go shopping," she declared. "Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming out of the house, you are getting a new outfit Nerys Powell." And she flounced out of the living room. It was all very dramatic, and would have been even more so if she hadn't tripped over Grimm on her way out and fallen flat on her face.

But that was how I found myself trailing behind her in Llynmawr Mall that weekend. I felt bleary-eyed and tired and my feet were already protesting and we'd only walked ten metres away from her Mini.

"So you need a dress, that is the main object of our mission today," Pascal said, ticking things off on her hand as she spoke, "And then shoes, and finally accessories, such as jewellery and maybe some special tights if your dress requires them. How would you feel about going au naturel?"

"Huh?" I frowned at her.

"Bare legs," she explained patiently, swinging her bag up onto her shoulder.

"Um, I'm okay with that, I guess. My legs are a little freckly."

"Billie will not mind," Pascal said confidently, and I resisted the urge to push her over.

"I really couldn't care less if he minded or not," I informed her. "Honestly." As I dawdled along in her wake, I absently wondered whether or not Antal had decided to go to the disco too. Really, really, really hoping that he had, I suddenly felt very enthusiastic about this shopping trip.

So firstly, we went looking for a dress. Pascal dragged me into the more expensive shops, where she waded through all the racks of brightly coloured clothing and threw anything that looked like a dress at me. More than once, I had to put one back because it was either the wrong size or just disgusting.

In every shop, she forced me into the changing rooms and then made me parade around in the dress I was trying on, and she asked other people's opinions on the dresses. At first, I felt mortified, but then I just got used to it.

None of the dresses satisfied Pascal, and none of the dresses satisfied me either. What made it worse for me that was most of the dresses were designed for women of a more petite build. After what had to have been the hundredth dress that wouldn't fit over my thighs or boobs, I stomped out of the changing room cubicle and announced to Pascal that unless she found me a dress in the next shop I was hijacking her car and driving myself home.

"You don't understand," she sighed heavily as she handed the armful of dresses back to the shop assistant. "Choosing an outfit takes time and effort. You need to be patient."

"And you need to realise that I'm on the large end of a size twelve," I growled, "And I can't buy stuff from the petite section of Topshop. Seriously. That last dress? It wouldn't even fit over my thighs."

She stared at me. "You probably weren't meant to step into the dress?" she suggested, rolling her eyes. I heard her mutter under her breath, "imbécile..."

"Well, it wouldn't fit over my boobs either," I responded, folding my arms over said chest.

"Well, lets try this one." Pascal shepherded me into a shop which I knew from experience was more towards the cheaper end of the spectrum, and the sort of place Pascal didn't like buying party clothes from. "There has to be something in here," she murmured under her breath, rifling through the racks.

Eventually, she stepped back and stared at me critically. "Blue," she said firmly with a brisk nod of her head, before diving back into her dress search.

She eventually emerged carrying four dresses in varying shades of blue and thrust them at me. "Try them all on," she instructed. "I've decided that blue is your colour, Nerys."

To my surprise, I actually liked one of the dresses. It was a navy blue and had a white pattern on it; it flared out at the hips and fell to just above my knee, and had spaghetti straps and a slightly low neckline. And I actually thought I looked all right in it. No particular places on my body bulged in an odd way, which was good.

Thankfully, Pascal seemed to agree, clapping her hands in a very over-the-top manner. "Il est parfait," she sighed happily.

"Now you need shoes," she declared as we left the store, me swinging the dress in its cream coloured carrier bag.

"What type are you thinking?" I asked suspiciously, following her while she made her way to a shoe store.

"Oh, stiletto heels, probably," she said carelessly, waving a hand. "Probably with a platform. Black."

I came to a halt, glaring at her retreating back. She eventually realised that I was no longer right behind her and doubled back, one eyebrow raised. "Oui?" she said, sounding slightly concerned.

"No stilettos. Or platforms. I can only just walk in those heels I got a few months ago!"

Pascal only chuckled. "You can learn to walk in them," she said, shrugging. She turned away from me, sweeping away as if my protests meant nothing to her. Which they probably didn't.

"I'll fall over," I argued feebly as she pushed me down onto one of the cushioned stools in the store and thrust a pair of heels at me.

"Be quiet and put them on," was her only response, so I decided not to push it any further. It was probably my lack of fight that led to us exiting the stores, my family £70 poorer but now in possession of a pair of leather platform shoes, with T-bar straps and twin ankle buckle fastenings, and with a platform with super slim high heel and a textured finish. That was what the shop assistant said.

I was sure my father would be positively thrilled with my buy.

Pascal was adamant that £70 was a bargain, especially as the shoes were on sale. Personally, I didn't see that as a bargain, but there you go. The shoes were most likely death traps and I'd probably plunge to my death on a flight of stairs at the nightclub, but there you go. When I said this to Pascal, she only said to me in a severe voice, "No pain, no gain." Try telling me that while I lie in a coma, I felt like saying, but I remained silent.

I told my friends about this when I returned to school the following Monday. While Sharon and Elisha were sympathetic, Beth, Siân and Ann didn't really care.

"I think that everyone's shoes are death traps this year," Ann pointed out. "Mine are."

"Mine aren't," Elisha chipped in smugly. "I'm wearing trainers. Comfy but cool."

"They forced me to buy some heels," Sharon confided in me quietly. "Siân and John, that is." They'd gone shopping on Sunday for Siân's outfit, and somehow, John had been roped into joining them.

"You'll look marvellous in them, Sharon," John told her, having overheard. He ruffled her hair and then turned to talk to Adam, leaving a slightly pink-faced Sharon behind. I raised an eyebrow at her, and her blush only deepened. I chuckled.

"Don't tell them," Sharon hissed in my ear, "But my mum took them back and swapped them for a pair of flat shoes."

"I won't," I promised.

"So everyone is just going crazy about the disco this year," Liam said in a bored voice. He eyed Siân. "After the fuss you've been making, Jones, you'd better look good."

"Oh, I will," she replied with a wink in his direction. He only smirked, and the rest of us rolled our eyes.

"We're colour-coordinating," Joe West chipped in, looking up from the book he was reading. "Or something like that."

"What, so you're going to be like...I don't know, the Pink Gang or something stupid like that?" Beth wondered.

"No, we're wearing the same outfit." Liam glared at Joe, who returned his glare with a wide smile. "And it was supposed to be a surprise."

"I'm sure we'll get over the disappointment at finding out before the disco," Ann drawled with a roll of her eyes. Liam's response was to throw his chewing gum at her, which Adam intercepted by swatting at it with his English folder. When Adam hit it, it went into Siân's hair, but she was none the wiser as she was caught up talking to John about something. It was only when Elisha tried to remove it that she realised what had happened and all hell broke loose, with Adam blaming Liam and Liam blaming Adam.

Happy days.