by Juno Dawson
‘Who do you think it’ll be?’ Lois says excitedly.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Could be anyone, I suppose.’
Oh, who am I kidding? It’ll be Lucy and Tyler. Of course it will.
It always is.
Chapter Three
Dr Ken Hong’s surgery is in a handsome, ivy-covered, red-brick townhouse on the outskirts of the city centre. My dad works for a company that makes braces and retainers (I suppose someone has to) so we get private health care. Not that it’s done my face any good.
I’m in the waiting area, leafing through the same issue of Vogue that was here at my last appointment six months ago. This shouldn’t be allowed: seeing all those flawless models, even though I know they’ve been airbrushed to within an inch of their lives, isn’t making me feel any better about waiting to see a dermatologist.
‘Avery Morgan?’ The receptionist calls my name. ‘Dr Hong is ready now.’
‘Be polite, please …’ Mum breathes in my ear as we enter the office. It’s a strange mix of old and new – the room itself is like something from Downton Abbey, but the equipment is like something from Star Trek.
‘Hello there, Avery! Come in and take a seat. How are we?’
They are fine, I am disfigured.
‘I’m OK.’
‘Any change? Let’s have a look, shall we?’ He steers me to the surgical table thing and I hop on. He shines a blinding lamp in my face and, with latex gloves, pokes and prods my skin. It hurts. I have some big, sore boils on my neck and back too, so he takes a look at them as well. ‘And you’re still using the face wash?’
‘Yes.’ I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying it’s snake oil.
He makes a non-committal ‘hmmm’ noise, and leaves me to get dressed. I join him and Mum at his big mahogany desk. Dr Hong smiles kindly. I’ve been seeing him for two years now. He’s practically family.
‘Mrs Morgan, Avery. I know we’ve discussed this before, but by far the most effective way forward would be for us to discuss medication.’
My heart floats up into my throat like a balloon.
‘No.’ Mum pops it. ‘I’m not having my daughter put at risk. Just no.’
Dr Hong splays his hands like he’s surrendering. ‘There may be no other alternatives,’ he says, looking at his case notes. ‘We’ve tried various methods … diet … hormones … antibiotics … but it’s quite clear that Avery has chronic acne vulgaris and it isn’t going to go away by itself. I quite understand why you might have misgivings about Truisoclear – but what if there was something else?’
I look to Mum expectantly, waiting for her response.
‘What do you mean?’ she says finally.
‘I’ve been invited to find participants to take part in a clinical trial for a new medication …’
‘A clinical trial? No way!’ Mum says. ‘Avery isn’t a guinea pig!’
‘Mum …’ I say, my heart fluttering. New medication? What? The hopeful cortex of my brain suddenly engages.
Dr Hong chuckles. ‘No, of course she isn’t. Believe me, I’m always sceptical when someone announces a new wonder-drug too, but I’ve just got back from a conference in San Francisco, and I have to admit that I’m cautiously optimistic about this one.’ He hands us both some materials. The brochures are glossy and pastel-coloured. SEBAVECTUM is emblazoned on the front of each one. ‘As you can see, the drug is branded as ‘Sebavectum’. It’s a retinoid compound not unlike Truisoclear, but it has more in common with good old vitamin A, which, of course, you already have in your body. But the vitamin has been paired with a different active ingredient that, in the early trials, doesn’t seem to have any of the side-effects often found with the other drugs.’
I’ve heard promises like this before. The doctor hands them out like lollies at the end of each appointment.
The antibiotics will work. They didn’t.
The hormone pills will work. They didn’t.
Even so, my eyes tear-up. I can’t help it. Hope: it’s still there, underneath all the spots and oiliness. Truisoclear without the side-effects … It’s almost too good to be true.
‘Mum? Please?’
‘No side-effects?’
Dr Hong shrugs. ‘All drugs have some side-effects. You’d expect some dryness of the skin – after all, that’s what the medication is meant to be doing – but so far, nothing serious has been reported.’
‘How far along are the trials?’
‘They’re done. It’s about to go to market in the States. These trials are just for European standards. Avery would be a perfect candidate. She’s stopped growing, and she’s unlikely to get pregnant –’
‘Too right she is,’ Mum chips in.
It’s my turn to interrupt. ‘It’s not one of those trials where I’d be given a placebo, is it?’
That would be worse than no pills at all. I don’t think I could get through another car-wreck of disappointment intact.
‘Not on this occasion, no. That stage of testing is finished.’
I look at the girl on the front of the brochure, laughing gormlessly at a bottle of mineral water. Great skin though.
‘Mum? Can I?’
She inhales deeply. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Avery, I mean …’
‘Mum, please. He said there’s no side effects; what have we got to lose?’
She squeezes my hand tight. ‘You, Avery! I have you to lose.’
‘Please …’ I start to cry. Stupid weak tear ducts. ‘I can’t go on like this, Mum. I just can’t. Please …’
Yeah, I’m begging. What of it?
Dr Hong hands me a tissue and I bury my face in it. I often find that once I start, I’ve unclogged a dam and I can’t stop. Now I can’t breathe for tears, and where there are tears there is snot.
‘OK,’ Mum says, although I hardly hear her. ‘But I’m not promising anything before I speak to your dad.’
‘Really?’ Dad is a soft-touch: if Mum’s on-board, it’s in the bag. ‘You mean it?’ I dry my eyes.
‘I promise we’ll talk about it.’ She looks Dr Hong firmly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to want a second opinion, and I want to do some research of my own as well.’
‘Completely understandable. Take as much time as you need.’
There’s a ‘before-and-after’ photo of a patient in the brochure – a guy about my age with perhaps even worse acne than mine in his ‘before’ picture. In the ‘after’ picture though, his skin is California-gold and blemish free.
‘It really works?’ I ask.
‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes,’ Dr Hong says. ‘I can even send you videos. In the medical profession, we don’t use words like “miracle cure”, because it’s not a miracle. It’s simply good, old-fashioned science.’
I look again at the before-and-after guy.
I need this drug in my life.
As soon as we’ve had dinner, which tonight was KFC (it’s a post-dermatologist cheer-me-up ritual) I head over to Lois’s. Lois lives in a much nicer house than mine, opposite the park. There’s a high wall running around the house, and the pond in her back garden is big enough to have ducks living in it. The only downside is that she also only lives three houses away from Scarlett Drake. You can smell the evil wafting over from her garden.
In her bedroom (which is considerably larger than even my Mum’s), I bounce up and down on Lois’s bed while she reads the brochure from the clinic.
‘Oh my god, Ave, this is amazing! Do you think they’ll let you?’
I flop down onto my bum and roll to the edge of the bed.
‘I think so. I forced Mum to go round to Dad’s tonight. I said I’d go on hunger strike if she didn’t, which would have been hard because of, hello, Zinger Tower Burger.’
Lois laughs. ‘Oh, I really hope they let you. If it works like it says it works, you’d see results in two weeks! How amazing would that be?’
I grimace. ‘I was such a hot mess. I cried like a baby. I think she’ll cave.’
I lie back and look up at the ceiling.
Lois closes the brochure and lies alongside me. ‘Good! You deserve this, Avery, you’ve suffered long enough. It’s just a shame there’s not a pill for my arm, really.’
I suddenly feel like a total moron for bleating on about my wonder-cure.
‘Lois … that’s not what I meant … I … we shouldn’t have to change for anyone … it’s just … my skin is … so …’
She turns to me and smiles. ‘That’s not what I meant either! I’m excited for you! You’re already beautiful because of your radiant inner specialness, but if this is something you need, then I got your back, bae. I’m your ride-or-die!’
I will NOT cry again. I blink back the tears.
‘I really do. I need these pills.’
I close my eyes and make a wish – no, more than a wish, a prayer. If Mum lets me do this, I’ll do anything. I engrave a promise onto the universe. I’ll be better, I’ll be the best I can be.
Chapter Four
Exactly one week later, I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror. I pop my first Sebavectum out of the blister pack. It’s a tiny powder-pink pill. It’s funny how something so small can feel so huge. This is momentous. So much expectation in one little pill – you’d think it’d weigh more.
Dad, as expected, said he’d support whatever Mum decided. Mum then sat me down and warned me that if I so much as felt drowsy, she’d stop the trial, and, reluctantly, I agreed to her terms. Dr Hong himself was only too happy to enrol me on the program.
So, bottoms up!
I throw the pill to the back of my mouth and take a big gulp of water.
Done.
And now all I can do is wait. I look at my reflection and scrape my hair off my face. I don’t know what I’m expecting – perhaps some sort of instantaneous reaction where my diseased skin peels off like a satsuma to reveal a flawless complexion beneath.
Shame, that’d be cool. But kinda gross.
I can’t imagine my life without the spots. I’ve never seen my teenage face without them. Well, now’s not the time to get nostalgic. These little parasites have lived on me for long enough. Sayonara, ladies!
I flick out the light.
The next morning, when my alarm goes off, I’ve never jumped out of bed faster – even on Christmas Day. I run to the bathroom and tug the light on, ready to see if there’s been an overnight miracle.
There hasn’t.
I knew there wouldn’t be really, but it’s still a bit of an anticlimax.
I have to keep a diary as part of the trial. It’s an official form thing that Dr Hong gave me. I figure if I fill it in each morning before breakfast, I won’t forget.
DAY 1: No change. No side-effects.
I go to school. It’s the same as every other day except Mrs Garner is off sick, so instead of PE we get to hang out and draw pictures in one of the science labs. No one complains.
DAY 2: No change.
DAY 3: No change, and in RE CJ asks me, ‘Why don’t you just wash your face more often?’ Ah, that old chestnut. On the plus side, it’s the last day before half-term.
DAY 4: I don’t know if I’d call it a change, but my lips are super-dry. It’s nothing a little Vaseline won’t fix, but it’s the first sign that change is afoot. Come on, Sebavectum, do your worst.
My skin is still horrific. It’s a Saturday, so Dad takes me to see the new Marvel film and we have pizza afterwards. Yes, despite everything, pizza is still delicious to me. We have a half-and-half Hawaiian/Meat Feast.
DAYS 5, 6, 7: Lips still a little sore. Sounds a bit hideous, but skin feels drier, less oily somehow.
I take a selfie and I’m decidedly less shiny than normal. Some of the older spots are peeling a bit. I can’t decide if I’m imagining it, but my face feels less painful too. Fingers crossed.
DAY 8: I’m not imagining it. Today, for the first time, I can see a real difference. My skin looks loads less red and far less angry. Sebavectum is supposed to prevent new spots and claims to speed up the healing of old ones too. It’s taken over a week, but I think we’re getting somewhere.
Lois has gone to Cornwall with her parents but this is so exciting I give her a call to tell her.
DAYS 9, 10: Skin is now quite dry, so I moisturise as directed. When I touch it, my skin doesn’t hurt any more. Even this is reason enough to have a marching-band parade down the high street. It’s still not perfect, but it’s SO MUCH BETTER.
DAYS 11, 12: It’s Sunday and tomorrow we go back to school. Back in front of the mirror after my bath, I pull my hair into a knot on top of my head. I can hardly believe it. For the first time in three years I have more face than spots. I look human. Sure, there are still gentle, salmon-pink marks, but my skin is smoother, clearer, whiter than I can remember it being in forever. My face is healing.
I cry. I sit down cross-legged on the bath mat and have a lovely little cry.
Chapter Five
‘I can’t believe it!’ Lois says as we walk to school through the park. ‘I can’t believe how much it’s improved in a week!’
‘A week and a half, but who’s counting?’
For the first time in living memory, I’ve tied my hair back into a messy Katniss/Queen Elsa plait. There hasn’t exactly been an inspirational makeover moment, but it feels good to not have to hide my face. Right now, my skin – although not perfect yet – doesn’t look that much worse than anyone else’s. It sounds stupid, but looking up – not staring down at the pavement – makes it a whole new journey into school. I see blossom swirling down from the trees like confetti, red-faced joggers with swishy ponytails, and dog-walkers struggling with bundles of pugs and French bulldogs.
‘Do you think people will say stuff?’ Lois asks, almost giddy.
‘I doubt anyone will even notice, to be honest.’
But they do.
As ever, we head for the picnic tables outside the science block. Right away, Viola compliments my hair while Jessica Wright says, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Avery, but your skin is looking really good.’ A couple of the other people from the maths and science crew agree.
I just smile and say, ‘Thank you,’ although I’m beaming inside.
At morning break, Christian Dudley, a guy who hangs out with us, stops me at the water fountain.
‘Hi, Avery.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I know this is like, totally none of my business, but are you using Truisoclear for your skin? It’s just that I think I’m going to try it too. Is it OK?’
I don’t really need the whole school knowing I’m on meds, but Christian’s forehead acne is pretty bad, and I did make a pledge to the universe to be nicer … ‘Actually, no. I’m on a drug trial for something new called Sebavectum. My doctor gave it to me.’
‘Oh yeah, I think I’ve read about it online. Looks like it’s working …?’
‘Yeah, seems to be.’
‘Cool! Thanks, Avery.’
Of course this was a huge mistake. By lunchtime, Lois told me she’d been informed by Carrie Holley that I was on a miracle-cure drug trial. Word travels fast.
‘God, how bored must people be if they’re talking about my skin? Didn’t anyone get murdered, or worse – knocked-up – over the holidays?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Lois assures me. ‘People have eyes! I doubt anyone would have thought your skin just changed like it was the immaculate complexion or something!’
I laugh but I’m bugged. ‘They might have. People do just grow out of it.’
‘Well, maybe now you can be a role model for other kids with bad skin.’
I hadn’t thought of that. ‘This is true.’
Next period is maths, which I hate because Lois is in the set higher than me and so I have to sit without her. Instead I sit with Viola on the front row nearest the door and wait for Mr Parker to arrive. Everyone knows he chain-smokes up to three cigarettes before a lesson, so he’s always late.
I’m reading my book, a well-loved cop
y of Bonjour Tristesse, when I realise there’s a shadow looming over me. It’s Lucy Manning.
‘Hi, Avery! Everyone’s talking about your skin!’
‘Um … OK.’
‘No, not like that! Everyone’s saying how much better is it.’ She smiles warmly and I can’t help but smile back. ‘You look amazing! You must be so thrilled.’
‘Er, yeah, I guess it’s better.’
‘You really deserve this, Avery.’
I swear the room temperature drops about twelve degrees as Scarlett and Naima sweep into the room and stand alongside Lucy. Lucy’s eyes dip as if she’s been caught talking to someone she shouldn’t.
‘Oh, wow, so it’s true.’ Scarlett scrutinises my face.
I say nothing. My tongue goes on strike.
With a manicured hand, Scarlett actually reaches out and tilts my chin upwards.
‘Good cheekbones, babes,’ she says. ‘Who knew?’
And then she smiles a perfect smile. I want to tell her to let go of my face. I want to tell her I hate her. I want to tell her there’s no little pink pill to clear up her tar-black soul.
But on the other hand, Scarlett Drake thinks I have nice cheekbones, and coming from her that means more than it would from any other girl in the school.
I feel pretty.
I smile back.
Chapter Six
The next couple of weeks fly by. I spring out of bed as my alarm happily chimes, and every morning my skin seems just that little bit smoother and clearer. A pleasing side-effect of the drugs is that my hair has become newsreader-huge – I don’t know if the meds are drying it out or something, but it’s never looked thicker or shinier.
At school, people are falling over themselves to find out about Sebavectum. I guess, as the epicentre of acne at Brecken Heath, I didn’t really see that anyone else had spots, but apparently plenty of people do, and they all want to know where I got the medication from.
A group of Year 9 girls gather around me. ‘Seriously,’ I say, relishing their adoring glances, ‘after the first week, I’d already started seeing results. You should get your parents to talk to Dr Hong.’
