Then I spot it: Conor’s face – freeze-framed in shock – in the crowded living room, just beyond an unaware (uncaring?) Sarah and her new love interest.
“Oh, Conor…you picked the wrong sister,” I whisper under my breath, knowing that he’ll never hear those words come from my mouth, and sadly, would never believe them if he did…
Chapter 7
A secret shared…
“Here, brought you a coffee, Pumpkin. And a couple of biscuits,” Mum beams at me as she backs into the boxroom with a tray. (Dad likes to call this the study. Pretentious or what? OK, so it’s got a desk and a computer in it, but considering the rest of the small space is taken up with golf clubs, boxes that are full of stuff no one can remember and assorted furniture that’s migrated from other rooms, I’d definitely just call it a bog-standard boxroom.)
“Thanks, Mum,” I smile back, moving my homework over a little to make space for the tray.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile since her and Dad got back late this afternoon and saw the state of the place. It didn’t matter how much Shake’n’Vac Sarah threw down in front of the hoover, or how much air freshener she wafted around, it was impossible to really hide the stench of beer-soaked carpets or get rid of the haze of smoke that was clinging to everything (and still is). It’s funny, isn’t it? How parties can look vaguely glamorous when there’s crowds and noise and low lights, I mean. But under the cold, accusing glare of a hundred watt bulb, once there’s nothing left to see but five black bin liners-worth of disgusting fag ends and beer-can detritus to clear up, it’s got all the glamour and allure of a multi-storey car park.
Since half nine last night, when I saw Conor grab his coat and storm out, I’ve spent most of the time in my room. As soon as I saw him slam the front door, that was it for me; the idea of escaping to my own little haven (complete with a chair jamming the door shut) was infinitely better then hanging around with all the drunken drongos cluttering up my house, now that the one decent person had left. Today, I slept late, since the music and noise and thoughts of what exactly had gone on between Conor and Sarah kept me tossing and turning till the early hours. When I did finally pad my way downstairs and saw what a disaster zone the place had turned into overnight, well, it’s safe to say I made up my mind that Sarah could count me out on the great cover-up front (actually, she didn’t dare ask), so I left her and the hoover to it and holed up in my room with a tuna sandwich and a couple of Cokes. Then, when my traumatised parents were going ballistic at her during the last few hours, I made sure I stayed well and truly hidden in my room. I’m not some vindictive ghoul; I didn’t need to hear them tearing into her. I was happy enough just revelling in the good sister role for once in my life. And while my mum and dad still seemed to assume I’d stuck to the plan and stayed over at Pamela’s, I wasn’t about to set them straight.
“It hasn’t upset you, all this nonsense with Sarah today, has it?” Mum gazes down at me, crinkling her neatly plucked eyebrows in concern.
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m just glad that nobody did anything to my room, that’s all.”
“I know, I know…” Mum pats me on the shoulder. “Well, Sarah has been a very silly girl for letting it happen. I suppose she was led astray by Cherish and Angel – she said they were the ones who persuaded her to have the stupid party in the first place…”
I don’t mean to have any particular expression on my face, but Mum spots it straight away.
“I know…I know I shouldn’t make excuses for her, Megan,” Mum bites her lip, chastised by my look, a cynical, disbelieving “Oh, yeah?!” if it conveyed what I was thinking.deep-down “So…you won’t be working too late on your homework, will you, Meg?”
“Just got a bit more to do,” I tell her, tapping on the scribbled papers by my side.
“Good for you. But when you finish, why don’t you come down and join your dad and me? When Harry Met Sally is coming on soon…”
Wow. I feel like the Chosen One. (Sarah, the usual Chosen One, is currently squirrelled away in her room, licking her wounds.) Just like my tarot cards said, things are changing, and fast.
“By the way, I forgot to tell you,” says Mum, halfway out the door then peeking back round it again. “When we got back this afternoon, old Mrs Harrison was sweeping her path and called me over. She said you’d helped her last week – lifting a cupboard or something?”
“Bookshelves,” I correct her.
“Bookshelves then. You know, that was really, really kind of you, Megan. Why didn’t you tell us about it?”
I shrug and feel myself blushing slightly at her words. But how can I answer her truthfully? How can I tell her that the reason I kept quiet was because I can never normally get a word in edgeways when we’re all together, since the conversation (and the world) revolves around Sarah?
“Well, your dad and I are very proud, Pumpkin.”
For once, I don’t hate being called Pumpkin; I’m too stunned at the compliments I’m hearing. I’m also glad when I see Mum retreat from the doorway and shut the door behind her, before she can see the grateful tears that are trembling, on the verge of tumbling, from my eyes.
I have to do something fast to take my mind off this. Blindly, I turn back to the screen and hesitantly doub-leclick on what I think is my homework essay. Instead, what flashes up is something completely different. I don’t know how I managed it, but I’ve just opened up an e-mail – and an e-mail to Sarah from her friend Angel. It’s dated today, 2.27pm to be precise; I spot that just as I’m about to close the file and try again. And then my finger stalls, hovering over the mouse, not quite connecting my finger with the clicker, not quite doing what I thought I’d do. This is awful…it’s private…I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t stop myself.
Omigod, I can’t believe I got that drunk last night. I feel such a fool, Sarah – a total, complete idiot. Yeah, you were right when you asked if I’d done it with Joel last night. I’m sorry if I got angry with you
and tried to deny it – I was just off my face. And off my head for – oh, I can’t even believe it happened – losing my virginity to that big-headed creep!
I feel dizzy as I read, and then realise I’m so stunned I’ve forgotten to breath. I take a deep gasp of air and carry on where I left off, even though I feel swamped in guilt, like I’m scanning through someone’s diary.
And he is a creep. You know how dumb I am? Before he shot off, without even saying goodbye, I asked him if it meant we were going out now. And he just laughed in my face! Can you believe it?! But what am I going to do, Sarah? I could be pregnant or anything! I know you can get the morning-after pill, but this is Sunday, for God’s sake. Don’t suppose they do a morning-after-the-morning-after pill, do they? Uhhhh…I know I sound like I’m joking around about it, but I’m not. I’m desperate, I’ve got tears streaming down my face as I write this. I feel like killing myself – I’m not kidding. I feel like going up to the bridge over the bypass and chucking myself off in front of the first lorry I see.
What am I going to do?
Please write back, babes (don’t phone me – I can’t talk about this with my family kicking around, obviously).
And please, please, please, I beg you, don’t tell anyone else about this – not even Cherish. I couldn’t stand the shame.
Angel xxx
My head and my heart are pounding. Poor Angel – last night I was disgusted by her, and today I feel as sorry as I did for Conor when I saw Sarah doing her flirt routine. Maybe Sarah should go out with this Joel guy. He sounds as despicable as her…
You know, I should exit this stuff, but I’m too far in now – I really need to know what advice Sarah ended up giving Angel (my mind boggles). I open up the Sent box and see an e-mail from Sarah, sent earlier today. But it’s not directed to Angel – the name coming up is Cherish. My stomach in my mouth, I double-click, and find myself staring at Angel’s cut-and-copied cry for help.
“The bitch!” I mumble, hardly abl
e to believe that my sister could be that callous. What’s the deal with her? Was it just too good a piece of gossip to keep to herself, like Angel begged her to do? Is Sarah getting off on the fact that Angel’s messed up so badly?
Suddenly, I jerk in shock – that’s Sarah’s door clicking open. Hurriedly, fingers shaking, I quit the e-mails.
“Oh.”
That’s Sarah, peering around the door and staring at me with zilch expression on her face. Her eyes are red, though – looks like she’s been crying. Wonder if that’s because of the humiliation of getting a bollocking from Mum and Dad, or about whatever went on between her and Conor last night? Who cares? She deserves to be miserable.
“What?” I say, hoping my voice isn’t as wobbly as I feel right now.
“Are you going to be on the computer long?” she asks me flatly. “There’s something I’ve forgotten to do.”
What? Send copies of Angel’s e-mail to everyone else in your address book for a laugh? I think, but don’t say.
“I’m finished now,” I shrug, getting to my feet and scrabbling my papers up from the side of my untouched tray of coffee and biscuits.
I breathe myself flat, slithering paper-thin past Sarah without touching her. She’s been a two-timing cow where Conor’s concerned and a treacherous one to Angel. Underneath all that fake niceness, she’s just callous, there’s no other word for it. And you know, it brings it all back to me, the way she walked out of the room that day; that day last summer when I got back from the hospital. She didn’t even have the decency to ask how I was. Oh, yes, I don’t want to be within spitting distance of Sarah. Though right now, that’s exactly what I’d like to do to her.
Chapter 8
On the Angel trail
Um…I’m not a musician, but from where I’m standing, it sounds to me like Salman is drumming along to a totally different track to the one the others are thrashing through. Conor’s bass-playing doesn’t sound quite right either, and on closer inspection, I see that one of the thick, metal strings on his guitar has snapped and is flapping wildly around, in danger of taking an eye out. Sarah and Cherish: their backing vocals aren’t up to much, partly I think because Cherish seems to be trying to out-harmonise Sarah and partly because Angel is…well, Angel isn’t around.
Finally, the band’s version of Girl from Mars – which the original band would be hard pushed to recognise from that performance – grinds to a halt, with Salman managing to finish a few seconds ahead of anyone else. Oops.
A drumstick, chucked in anger by Sal, skitters along the wooden floor of the stage and slaps Cherish on the ankle. I watch her turn and glower at Salman, but that’s nothing new. This Tuesday night’s rehearsal has been a ramshackle mess of bad performances and bad vibes since the start.
“And we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’,” I can just make out Salman muttering blackly.
“What did you say?” Cherish storms over towards him. “Do you want to say something, Sal?! ‘Cause if you do, there’s no point mumbling, like a pissed-off, six-year-old kid!”
“I said,” Salman roars, extra loud, “we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’! Right?!”
“You got a better idea then?” Cherish challenges him. “‘Cause we’ve been through lists and lists of stupid names for the band and all you can do is moan about them. Not once, not once, have I heard you come up with anything constructive!”
“You’re just on your high horse ‘cause I said no to calling ourselves after you, Miss I-want-to-be-a-star!!”
“Listen, I did not suggest ‘Cherish’ as a band name – Sarah did! So don’t you dare start yelling at me about that!”
Sarah, I notice, isn’t even looking at them; she’s hauling her guitar off and heading over towards an amp at the side of the stage.
“I’m not the only one who doesn’t want a poxy, girly name for the band!” Salman barks at Cherish. “Ask him! Ask Conor! You don’t want to go out in front of all these other schools with a name like ‘Angelic’ or ‘Cherish’, do you? We’ll get laughed off stage!”
“I don’t care,” Conor shrugs.
“Well, you should care!” Cherish rounds on him now. “What’s the point in entering this damn thing if you’re the lead singer and you don’t even care?!”
“That’s what I’m asking myself!” Conor snaps back at her, dropping down on to his knees and furiously twisting the machine-heads holding his broken string in place.
Then suddenly they’re all silent, the storm that whisked up so quickly between them now abating to stony sulks.
“For God’s sake!” I hear a weary sigh close beside me.
Ben is losing it. That’s Mr Fisher to you – and me. I just get a certain thrill using his name in my head, since I spotted it in his Filofax when he was flicking through it next to me during one rehearsal. I know it’s crazy, but it’s always somehow strangely surprising when you find out that a teacher has a first name.
“Er…anything I can help with?” I ask tentatively, as Ben leans forward in his chair, sticking his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands agitatedly over his head.
I’m not sure whether to sit down next to him in the row (too matey?) or keep standing (more professional?). In the end, I compromise and perch my bum on the back of the row of seats in front, with my back to the stage and the non-speaking band.
For a second, Ben says nothing and I find myself agitatedly drumming my fingernails on the clipboard and notes that go everywhere with me these days, and stare down at the top of his head, where, I notice, there is a large, hairless, pink patch. Ah…so that’s why he goes for the to-the-bone crop. It’s not a fashion statement, it’s to hide his failing follicles. How funny. And how sad that Sarah can have a bit of a crush on someone going bald! God, the girl’s got no taste. She had Conor on a plate, but she prefers drooling over old guys and flirting with strangers at parties while the cutest, coolest guy slips right through her fingers. And speaking of Sarah and the boy she let slip away, since the start of rehearsal they have been doing a whole lot of ignoring each other, which adds that extra edge of tension up there on stage.
“Well, Megan, let’s see,” says Ben wryly, straightening up and looking me square in the eye. “If you happen to know a quick cure for flu so Alex is able to do the lights on Friday; if you can put a rocket under the art department and get them to deliver the backdrop they’ve been promising for the last two weeks; if you can work out how to get this lot to play properly and stop arguing for five minutes and decide on a name so I can phone it through to the Battle of the Bands organisers in time for them to put it on the damn programme, then that would make my life a lot easier. Oh, and Angel seems to have gone AWOL for the last twenty minutes, so if you can locate her too, that would be rather nice.”
He’s frustrated, but he’s funny, I’ll give him that. Wish more of the teachers at Bakerfield were like that, instead of having sense-of-humour bypasses.
“Listen, B—Mr Fisher,” I begin, nearly slipping into that danger zone of thinking of him as a friend rather than a teacher. “Give me Alex’s number and I’ll phone him at home and see how he’s doing. And tomorrow at school, I’ll track down the art lot and find out what’s going on. I can’t do anything about the way the band are playing, but about the name – why don’t you just choose it, since they can’t make up their minds? And Angel…I’m on to it. I’ll go and hunt for her right now, if you like.”
“I like!” Ben laughs. “Megan, you’re a marvel! How could I have got through all this without you?”
He can’t see, but my nails are digging deep into the palms of my hands as I clench them, trying hard not to tremble at the thrill of the compliment. A girl could get dizzy with all this; it’s been total niceness overkill at home too, with Mum and Dad dishing the smiles and compliments in my direction every time I lift a finger and even when I don’t. I tell you, Sarah should mess up more often – it makes my life so much more fun.
“Better get on the Angel trail then!�
�� I smile shyly at Ben and shuffle off.
Briefly, I gaze at the stage and the four people on it who are resolutely not talking to each other. Conor has his head down, busily fixing the string on his bass. Salman is sitting brooding, arms folded, behind his kit, looking like he’d cheerfully chuck his other drumstick at the next person who opens their mouth (Cherish better keep her big trap shut). Speaking of Cherish, she’s examining her nails and Sarah is slumped on the amp now, both hands clutching the neck of her guitar, as if she was holding on to it to save herself from drowning.
Honestly, this lot will have to get it together or they might as well forget about Friday. And whatever I feel about Sarah, call me selfish, but I don’t want anything to mess up their chances at the competition – I’ve never been involved in anything this exciting, and I don’t want it to be over before it’s begun. Please…
I should star in the next Lethal Weapon movie, thanks to my amazing detective skills.
OK, it wasn’t that hard to work out where an upset girl would go, and when I didn’t find Angel in the backstage loos, I headed straight for the main girls’ toilets in the corridor outside the school hall.
And it wasn’t as if I had to follow the racking sounds of sobs to a lone cubicle, where Angel was hunched inside, inconsolable; nothing like that dramatic. It was just a case of finding Angel here, leaning on a pearly-white sink, staring miserably at her reflection in the mirror.
What was she searching for? Any tell-tale, outward signs that would give away what she did on Saturday night?
“Bog off,” she says wearily, staring at me in the mirror.
She has her long, straight mane of dark hair tied back off her face tonight, pulled into a stern, single plait that trails limply down her back. It might not be her usual catwalk model/sex kitten style but she still looks amazing, specially now the sheets of hair aren’t hiding her feline eyes and cheekbones.
In Sarah's Shadow Page 5
