The girls split up to read, two went as ones and two stayed as sisters. They jumped into books they found open and wheedled their way into books that were closed.
In her silky fresh book Jackie lay looking up at the frontispiece, body horizontal and a fingertip reach below the title. Sometimes she stretched out a white-socked foot and touched the author’s name with her toe.
Inside the thriller’s hard back cover Beyo ended up tight against the writer’s face, his moustache tickling her nose as he squashed his extra chins hidden. She turned her face to the side and frowned.
Grace and Kirsty were the lucky ones. They dived in, deep into the story, flipped and flirted with mermaids and seahorses, with sharks and sea shepherds, bubbling and blowing and shaking long hair.
The four of them met later, the wet girls giggling and panting and winking and sighing, Jackie stiff and Beyo not smiling. Next time, they all promised, next time, they would read one book together and not leave damp footprints on the story’s last pages.