“Such as shouting at a teacher or saying something upsetting to your mother ...”
Quark hears a strange sound like a distant tinkling deep within his mind. He realises it’s Daisy laughing. He can almost hear a smile in her voice as she continues, “and what you say to people can make them like you … or not. Make them feel better, or worse. You can help them understand how you feel or help them feel more comfortable when they’re with you.”
“This is confusing!” He realises this could be useful for his plans of advancement. “How does it work?”
He felt Daisy laugh again. It was strangely comfortable to be with her this way. And interesting to be educated by her. Too comfortable! He shakes it off and focuses on the big picture. “Your head is full of chaos, Daisy Jacobs.”
“Then you should have invaded a grown up, rather than a teenager.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am pleased I selected you for the first human becoming. It is fortunate for me.”
“How can that be if I am so difficult and confusing for you?”
“Because you have taught me what it is to be alive. I have become many, many times. I do not know how many because the process washes away the memory of each being. There have been countless forms and creatures and beings, but in them I existed for the briefest moment. Just an ephemeral snapshot … and then gone. From the whole population of each place, I have a slightly more detailed picture, but even that is blurred and distorted. And I am in those beings, I am not actually them — in the way I am you. I am there for a purpose. To become. They are … fuel.”
“Like the food my parents’ cook for you.”
Looking in the mirror, he sees her words bring an amused, yet almost sheepish curl to her mouth. But if Daisy sees this, she makes no comment. For once she does not make a dig about him being a psycho-killer. “True.” He looks away from the mirror, feeling weirdly embarrassed, ashamed, almost. “So before now, I never learned what it was to be.”
He pauses again. He’s still looking away, so he doesn’t see that Daisy’s eyes are as pale as a grey-green ice flow. “You are a frustrating and perplexing girl”, he mutters, his voice a barely audible whisper.
“I’m interested in a lot of things and I like to dig into subjects and find out all I can about them. And I love life. I love being alive.”
“Yes, you are alive.”
“Well, I am for the moment, for as long as you’ll let me live.”
Despite the troubling subject, Quark’s intrigued by this conversation. He’s gaining a greater understanding of humanity; a situation that will help him become a more complete teenager — and as a by-product, bring about the demise of the entire human race.
A premonition of sadness almost overwhelms him, a sense of unease at the step he’s now taking. The sentiment is as brief as the glimpses he’d had into the lives of those beings he had helped become. But it’s discomforting. His connection with Daisy clouds his judgement. In the end, no matter what he feels, the reality is simple: only one being can occupy this body.
He finds comfort in knowing he’s finally on the verge of success. Against impossible odds, Daisy has delayed her inevitable downfall. But she doesn’t know what’s in store for her. This will change her. This will break her …
Chapter 45
PINK!
I feel so self-conscious! So uncomfortable, so not me — I mean, I know I am very much not me right now, but this … this is extreme. This is hardcore. I feel as though I have an enormous flashing neon sign on my head saying ‘look at me’ (‘Please Don’t Look At Me!’). Over-eating was bad; detention was awful; insulting my dear mother and upsetting my best friend — they were ghastly. But this … this is going too far. This is —
Well, this is pink.
That’s right: pink!
Need I say more? Can you imagine what I look like clad from head to (near enough) toe in inglorious technicolour pink? And even worse, I’m not wearing pink sitting alone in the dark in my bedroom with the curtains closed. I’m not in the kitchen where Dad and Luke could do nothing but stare at me, utterly lost for words and barely able to find their gaping mouths with their cereal spoons as they goggled at my sheer pink-ness. No, being at home and pink was one thing, but this is uncompromisingly, shout-it-from-the-rooftops pink. This is Mainline Pink. This is me, the teenager formally known as Daisy Jacobs, walking down the High Street, bold as brass and ten times as pink, on a Saturday afternoon to meet up with my friends.
And before you say it, I know what you’re thinking. Does it really matter what Quark does when he is wandering about living my life; when he is being me? Get a sense of perspective, right? That’s what you think. I’m still alive and (sort of) okay. Yes, I inhabit what is effectively a tiny box that’s smaller than a USB flash drive, but, hey — I’m not dead yet, yeah? But I take this as the ultimate sign of my sheer helplessness. My inability to do anything very much at all to influence what happens in my life. My inability to be even a smidgen less pink. So as Quark sashays me down the street, I pretend I can’t see through my eyes, and try to avoid the glances, looks and open stares as most of the population of Braedon get their Saturday afternoon entertainment from this alien version of my true self.
I am wearing a candy floss pink baggy T-shirt, a hot-pink blazer from Mum’s wardrobe, which I (read Quark) did not ask permission to borrow (and for which I may never forgive either Mum or Quark), a champagne pink micro mini skirt that is so blush that I am (almost) more embarrassed about its brevity than its sheer pink-ness, and rose-pink sparkly tights. The only saving grace is that black Converse high-top pumps complete my outfit, but that sop to normality is more than offset by my flamingo-pink, spangly Alice band. Even my fingernails are pink!
The blazer is Mum’s fault; the pumps are mine. My godmother bought the T-shirt for me; she clearly felt guilty at ignoring me for so long and over-compensated with this beautifully cut designer item which Quark rescued from the back of my wardrobe where it’s been ever since she bought it, on account of its overpowering, all-encompassing, sunglasses-inducing pinkness. Where everything else came from and how and why Quark obtained them, he refuses to tell me. If I wasn’t in a not-speaking-to-him huff, I’d tell him exactly what I think of him. And I wouldn’t use the special swear words that Amy and I created either!
And, yes, I know we all care too much about what other people think of us. So what if Quark makes me dress in pink and wear too much makeup — I forgot to say that Dad could have plastered the spare room with what Quark smeared all over my face; it makes a clown’s stage makeup look understated! It was scary seeing this happen at the mirror: my usually cosmetic-free face becoming doll-like with blusher, baby-pink lipstick, mascara and eye-liner pancaked across my features like the shoutiest of advertising hoardings.
Does it matter if Quark makes ‘me’ talk to the wrong people? Or if he, say, suddenly makes me swear like a sailor on shore leave? Does it really matter if I get detention? And fail a perfectly trivial Maths test? Or walk down the High Street looking like Barbie’s mortified little sister?
Does it? Yes, it flamin’ does!
When I’m not in school, I wear the earth colours that suit my complexion. That’s me. That’s who I am. I love being a girl. I’m thrilled to be a girl. I’m proud to be a girl. But I am not and never will be a girly girl. Even if the skirt I’m wearing was a decent knee-length, rather than a totally indecent barely-there belt, I’d still hate it, because outside of school and my Aunt Julia’s wedding when I had to be a bridesmaid (in peach, not pink!) I do not wear dresses. I wear jeans, or dungaree shorts, or leggings, or jeggings. I’ll wear a long smock top with leggings or tights. But not skirts. Not dresses.
So, yes, it matters.
Pink matters.
And suddenly it’s obvious: to get out of this I have to go out. I have to leave my room. I must get out of this cage I’ve seen as a castle and get back to being me. Truly,
100% me: Daisy Jacobs. And Daisy Jacobs is not and never will be pink!
Because did I mention? I HATE PINK!
Chapter 46
BLACKBOARD JUNGLE
Quark is pleased. His ploy had been worth it just for the expression on Amy Porter’s face on seeing ‘Daisy’, a vision in pink, flouncing towards her. But the thoughts voiced by Daisy herself, which he’d pretended to ignore, proved he was on the right track. He even caught a glimpse — just the barest peek, but a sighting nonetheless — into Daisy’s previously impregnable citadel, with its crappy little TV. It was literally like a door left ajar with light leaking out into a normally dark area of her brain. She’d briefly left herself wide open and if Quark himself hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, he’d have taken full advantage of her mistake.
All it had taken was for Daisy to be completely out of her comfort zone. Quark can’t believe he hasn’t tried something so simple before!
There were two things for him to consider here; first — why had wearing pink caused Daisy such an emotional kerfuffle? Was she really so averse to pink? Or had the drip, drip of Quark’s control of, and interference in her life broken through her stubborn resistance?
Second — why had he been slow to react to the opening that could have ended this once and for all? In every previous existence, such openings happened swiftly and were the beginning of a whole cascade of becomings. But this time he’d hesitated, almost as though he hadn’t wanted to end this particular existence …
In any case, his own distraction caused him to miss an open goal. So his human journey continues, for a short time at least. And Daisy’s life still hangs by a precarious thread. But soon there’ll be another chance. And this time there’ll be no more vacillating, no more debates.
He’s pressing ahead with the end of teenage-lite as he enters the blackboard jungle of Scuttleford Secondary. He senses it as he walks down the corridor. He’s like a spaceship in a science fiction film that has a fuzzy protective shield around it. He’s keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length. And until he’s ready to turn every last one of them into space dust, that’s the way he likes it.
From talking to Daisy and from living an approximation of her life, he knows that although she was never Miss Popular, she wasn’t unpopular. Now though, even more than the pink-stravaganza on Saturday, it’s like gravity affects what Daisy calls Post-Quark Daisy differently. (Given what’s currently inside Daisy’s body, who knows, perhaps it does!) It’s as though Quark’s own version of gravity repels rather than attracts. Lots of people who used to nod to and talk to Daisy, look the other way or pretend to be busy when PQD passes by.
Overnight Quark has turned Daisy into a minor league bad girl, emitting a loud and clear signal not to mess with her or push her around. Rules are now for other people. Reason is a thing of the past. And Daisy’s trashed reputation has by no means reached rock bottom.
Even Mrs Griffin, passing Daisy’s classroom a while later, thins her lips and gives a sad shake of her head as she hears the cacophony from within. It’s the suffocatingly intense racket only a covey of teenagers can make. And the loudest voice is one that only a few short weeks before she wouldn’t have dreamt of hearing in such circumstances.
The class is studying the history of slavery. Their teacher has just read aloud a statement from a person struggling against repression — “They can take everything from you, but they can’t take your mind”. Mrs Griffin hears Daisy scoff at that. “Ooooh — the space creature is coming to eat your brain!” And, standing at the door, she sees Daisy lurching from her chair, arms curved above her shoulders in classic monster pose.
Mrs Griffin feels forced to step into the room to intervene. “Miss Jacobs, if you have quite recovered your equilibrium …? A little more self-control, please.” Remarkably, Mrs Griffin’s voice is steady and calm, as if absolutely nothing at all untoward is happening, and it seems to have exactly the same effect on PQD as it has had on a whole generation of children at Scuttleford Secondary School. The head teacher waits for a moment in silence and then the wind seemingly vanishes from Quark’s sails and Mrs G sees Daisy return quietly to her seat.
She looks cooly at Daisy Jacobs, her head tilted, one eyebrow quirked and just the faintest smile on her lips. “So, are you yourself again now, Miss Jacobs?”
“Yes, Mrs Griffin,” says Quark, levelly. Inside, Quark hears Daisy scream, “No, Mrs Griffin!” He adds, before he can stop himself, “… and no.” And it’s like something inside him shifts as a plug disconnected. Suddenly his bolshiness drains away, leaving behind a smirk like the Cheshire Cat’s. For now he’s done enough.
“It is so hard being a teenager!” says Quark later as his class gather their belongings before heading home.
“It is,” Ellie Watson replies. “I think the hardest thing is dealing with other teenagers.” She pauses and looks frankly at Daisy, before adding, “being criticised.”
“Being ridiculed,” Quark replies quickly.
There’s a silence that’s definitely awkward on one side, as each regards the other frankly. Finally, both nod as if in acknowledgement of past deeds.
“It is confusing when things change all the time,” Quark says with unusual frankness. “I feel like the ground is constantly shifting beneath me.” He grins, “I don’t even know my own mind anymore.”
“It’s not just the ground that’s shifting!” Ellie holds her arms out wide, shakes her head and looks down at her own body. “Nope, it sure isn’t!”
Quark stares at her, frankly. “You are beautiful, Ellie. And you have a most attractive body.”
Ellie flushes and puts her hand to her mouth as if trying to hold back a laugh. “Thanks … I think.”
Quark thinks he is handling this rather well, but realises (for once) that he may have misspoken.
“I did not mean —”
“Oh, bless you — you’re blushing! Wait — you’re not …”
“I am not what?”
Ellie’s eyes twinkle with mischief. She’s headstrong, clever and maybe just a little sharp-tongued, and she’s always held herself apart from Daisy. She’s seen Daisy as the competition, but even before Daisy’s bump on the head, she’d found herself softening towards her; and there was a wildness in her now that intrigued Ellie, but which she felt impinged just a little on her own territory. But it surprises her to find that she’s once more enjoying a conversation with Daisy. “It’s hard knowing you get things wrong sometimes.” She pauses and then adds, with a giggle, “especially when you’re equally certain you’re always right!”
“I know — and us teenagers always think we are geniuses.”
“Sometimes I think you are a genius!”
“What?!”
“I wish I could be like you.”
“Me?! But Daisy’s al— I mean, I have always wanted to be like you!”
“Why would you want that?”
“Because you are clever and funny; beautiful and popular. And you look like a real girl — with all those curves and great hair and perfect make-up.”
Ellie looks frankly at Daisy, as if considering whether to be truly honest with this girl. She finally sighs and shakes her head ruefully. “I wear make-up because I’m insecure, Daisy.”
“Why would you be insecure? You’re gorgeous!”
“I feel like I’m running to catch up all the time, you know? And sometimes, along the way, being a little mean to others to take the attention away from how I’m feeling.”
“That is why you use name-calling?”
“Mmm.” Ellie nods and purses her lips, letting out a barely audible, “sorry.”
“Me too.”
“We do say mean things to each other, don’t we?” Ellie speaks with warmth and a hint of regret.
Quark examines Daisy’s memory, trawling for an example of a hurt that Ellie had caused Daisy. He finds one: “‘Hold still Daisy, I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.’�
��
Ellie grimaces and shakes her head, sadly. “Yes, but then there was — ‘Too bad the closest you'll ever come to a brainstorm is a light drizzle.’”
“Dais— I said that?”
Ellie nods, “yes. And — ‘There's two things I really hate about Ellie: her face!’”
“Really?”
“And — ‘I would never enter into a battle of wits with an unarmed person.’”
“I think Daisy Jacobs gives as good as she gets!”
“You sure do! I can’t really compete; I know some of what I say is … well, a bit hurtful and insulting; it’s just simple name-calling, really. But what you say is actually often so funny.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah!” Ellie shakes her head, ruefully, “or at least it would be it wasn’t aimed at me!”
“I sound quite nasty.”
“Nah. It’s legit, some of it at least. Anyway, I guess I usually start it.”
“I am pleased we had this conversation, Ellie Watson.”
“Me too … Daisy Jacobs. I wish we talked like this more often.”
“Me also. You are not quite as bad as people say.” Being an awkward teenage rebel is definitely not going quite as Quark expected, but he is still capable of Quarkiness.
“Thanks a lot! Quite a compliment. So … no more ‘Icky’?”
“No. I promise.”
Quark could not understand what was going on: for him this was practically charming. His mood during the day had been so up and down, veering between extremes of happy and sad, naughty and — he genuinely couldn’t help himself — almost actually nice. The mood swings were becoming extreme!
Ellie spoke again. “We’ll cut the misery in our lives — at least a bit! — if we’re suddenly nice to each other. And everyone’ll be freaked by us suddenly being friends!” She pauses and looks down. “Maybe we’ll both feel less isolated too.”
Daisy Jacobs Saves the World Page 19
