The girl’s standing looking at me. A huge bag’s hanging from her hand. Another slung over her shoulder.
“You sure you’re okay? Di didn’t mean it. You know what she’s like.”
Mean what?
Who’s Di?
I keep my head down.
“Your mum will take care of you,” the girl said.
Wrong on two counts. My mum won’t get home till after seven. Taking care of me isn’t on her list. She’s out looking after other people’s kids.
The deprived ones.
I’ve been in some mad states. Specially recently. But this is seriously scary. Even wish Mum was here. That’s a first. She’d have a heart attack if she knew.
“Mm,” I say. Playing for time. Sickness better now I’m outside. Must be some kind of bad dream. One of those when you’re half awake. Ten in the morning and it feels really real. I’ll tell Kyle about it. Where is Kyle? Maybe I am dead.
“I’ll take you to the gate, then I’ll get off to mine – come on!” the girl says. Nothing to do but follow. She drops my bag at the gate. There was never a gate there before. Looks solid enough. Pick up the bag. Look for the latch.
She stares at me. Frowns. “I’ll do it, Marilyn, you’re in such a state.”
That name again. Remember doing my Marilyn Monroe look. To the guy across the road. When was that? Five minutes ago? Five years ago? The girl opens the gate. Leads me round to the side door.
“I won’t stop. Your mum will sort you out. See you later alligator.”
She smiles like she’s said something clever, or funny. Seems to expect me to say something back.
Now she’s off. I watch her walk away. Can you miss someone you don’t know? Who doesn’t know your name? Who’s from a different planet?
I do miss her, whoever she is.
The door opens. This woman comes out wearing a nylon apron with frills all over it. Flour on her hands. False smile on her face. Thin eyebrows. Thin lips, tight. Hair all puffy, like an old biddy from the shampoo and set brigade. But she looks about my mum’s age.
“Hello love, I’m making some jam tarts. Want to put the jam in for me, you like doing that? Or maybe you’re too old now.”
I’m standing there. Mouth wide open. Can see the shelves in the kitchen. Rows of saucepans and glass bowls. Nothing like our kitchen. Mum’s booked a builder. To strip out the old units and put in new ones. This kitchen looks like some retro mock-up. In a museum.
“I’m not feeling too good,” I manage to say. I pick up the bag. Carry it in. Can’t think what else to do. I don’t seem to be a ghost. She can hear me. Unless she’s dead too.
She puts her hand on my forehead. I can feel her hand. It’s cool, real.
“Have you got a temperature? You are a bit hot.”
A bit hot? A thousand degrees. Stupid. I smile. Try to. I feel like crying.
“You go and have a lie-down in your bedroom. You can do your homework later. I’ve got no time for this. Your father’s putting up the cupboards and there’s so much to do.”
I’m about to tell her I don’t need her to let me off the homework. I’m not doing anything now. And she can keep out of my life. For ever. But maybe that’s not such a good idea. I swallow instead.
I head through the house, staring at everything. So totally different from our place where Mum gets stuff from Argos. Instead of this junk shop. Seriously, it’s retro heaven here. I run up the stairs. Faded narrow carpet down the middle. I head for what I hope is my room.
The door looks the same. I open it. Like walking into a time warp. It seems to be a girl’s bedroom. Not mine. Flowery wallpaper for a start. Narrow bed. Thin rug on the floor. All these weird pictures on the walls. Elvis Presley. Hey, and Marilyn Monroe, black and white. A poster. The Misfits. Cool. What is this girl like? Where is she? Who is she? Does she look so like me that her own mum doesn’t realise I’m not her? But then I look down at myself. I don’t look like me.
I look for a mirror. There’s a tiny one on the table. I can only see one bit at a time.
I take a breath before I look.
Gasp.
It’s somebody else.
I’m somebody else.
This isn’t me. The haircut’s crap, the face is – crap, unless you count all the bits being there in the right places.
Spots.
I look round for makeup, concealer, anything.
Nothing.
I feel my head. See my hands in the mirror.
This is a total disaster.
I shove the mirror under a book.
Nothing I can do.
How do I get out of here – fast?
But I’m not me.
This is doing my head in.
Stick my head under the pillow on the bed and scream.
It doesn’t help.
I look out of the window. The view’s the same. Across the road. The new guy’s house. But dirty old curtains at the windows. That’s not right.
I shut the door. Sit on the bed. Feeling weak. I want Kyle. Want out of here. I want the miserable life I had an hour ago. I want to scream, louder. Going mental, I know it.
Need those antidepressants the doctor gave me. Something seriously wrong here. My desk’s gone. My wardrobe’s gone. My bed’s gone.
My whole life’s gone.
Marilyn acted as if she was more knocked out by the bump than she felt. That would give her time to work out what was happening.
Nothing ever happened to her. She went to school, worked, went home, worked, avoided her mum, and daydreamed of a free world where what people looked like didn’t matter, and there were no parents, except when you needed money. And where people liked you. And where you could say whatever you wanted.
But something was happening now. The policeman outside knocked on the car window again. The boy sighed and got out. She stayed where she was, listening to them talking, trying to work out what was going on.
The boy gave his details to the policeman. Kyle Murray. The policeman got out a notebook. At least now Marilyn knew his name. Kyle. What sort of name was that? And the address sounded familiar.
He seemed to know her. Was this a brother, friend, cousin, even a boyfriend maybe? He wasn’t old enough to be driving, especially this amazing car. As she sat up slowly, she noticed she had longish black hair. She saw long purple nails on fingers that looked slimmer than she remembered them. She looked down. She was wearing a short black skirt, weird stacked boots with huge heels she’d never be able to walk in, a tight purple blouse and a black jacket. These clothes didn’t come from a Simplicity pattern. They looked like a mixture of space age and Victoriana. And she seemed to have lost a stone.
She felt for her gold cross, the small simple one on a gold chain that her godmother had given her. It was still there. Nothing else was the same. She was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. She sucked the cross, as she had since she was little, and thought. But thinking didn’t seem to help.
Then the talking outside was over, and the policeman came round to her side of the car. He pulled the door open.
“You all right? You’re looking a bit pale, but then you Goths always do. Can’t understand it myself, but there you go.”
Marilyn grasped the first part, and let go of the incomprehensible rest. But Kyle spoke up.
“Not Goths, Emos. If you have to call us something, call us Emos.”
“Okay son, I’m talking to your girlfriend here. You okay?”
Marilyn turned to the policeman. “Yes, I’m fine, no, nothing wrong at all, thank you.”
“Polite, aren’t you? Out you come then, this car’s going nowhere. And your boyfriend, he’s coming with us, down the station.”
Marilyn wanted to protest that this Kyle was not her boyfriend, that she’d never had a boyfriend, she’d never even been kissed, and if she did have a boyfriend he would never look like Kyle.
But he did look more interesting than anyone she’d ever met.
She got out of the c
ar and staggered on the high heels.
“Mind yourself,” said the policeman. “Now what’s your address?”
When she looked blank, Kyle stepped in.
“She’s Holly Newman, 132 Uppingham Road, it’s just up there.”
That was Marilyn’s address, how did he know that?
“It wasn’t her fault. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He seemed to be right.
“I realise that, young man. Now you get off home, Holly.”
Marilyn looked at Kyle, and he nodded. She was beginning to like him, in spite of the hair and the makeup.
“See you later,” he said. “I’ll call you when I can, you’ve got your mobile.”
She didn’t understand what he meant, but she nodded and began staggering up the hill to her house. She didn’t believe she could walk far without breaking her ankle.
And she couldn’t begin to think what she might find when she got there.
I sit on the bed. There’s something hard sticking into my bum. I hunt around. It’s a notebook. I open the cover.
“Hands off, private property of Marilyn Bolton, front bedroom, 132 Uppingham Road, Leicester, Leicestershire, England, British Isles, Europe, The World, The Solar System, The Universe.”
How sad is it, reading someone’s journal? I’d hate anyone to read mine. Everything’s in there. My dreams, my life, everything. It’s locked away deep in my hard drive. Nobody could ever find it. Except for the bits I put on my blog.
Normally, I’d never invade someone’s privacy. My sense of ethics is as good as loads of people’s. Better. But in this situation ethics don’t seem to help.
The door bangs open, and a little boy runs in. He’s wearing a shirt and tie – and shorts. Looks crazy to me. Not that I know much about little boys.
He acts like an aeroplane, running round making fighter jet noises. Stops in front of me.
“I’m a plane!”
“So what?”
“I’m a plane, and you’re the enemy. You don’t belong here, you’re an enemy – spy, that’s what you are. You’re a spy from an enemy country, and you don’t belong here.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Blam! Blam blam! You’re dead!”
I keel over like he’s shot me and groan and act like I’m throwing up and bleeding everywhere.
“Yuk! You don’t do that when you’re dead, you just lie down and stay still.”
“Not in my world you don’t. This is how it’s done.”
I go on howling and writhing. Then I slump down, my back to him.
There’s a silence.
I stay still.
He pokes me in the back.
Gently.
I don’t move.
He pokes me again, harder.
Yells.
“Mummy, Marilyn’s dead. I shot her and she’s had a heart attack all over. I didn’t mean to.”
He sounds a bit wobbly, like he believes it. Didn’t know I was such a good actor.
“Mummy!”
I don’t want her to come upstairs. I turn over and lunge for him. He gives a little scream, then runs towards the door. I have to stop him.
“Only joking!”
He stops.
“You stink, Marilyn stupid Bolton. You stink and you smell and you’re like poo.”
He’s out of the door and slams it behind him.
What am I doing? Play-acting with a child from another planet? I can’t believe any of this.
Marilyn Bolton. So that’s who she is, the girl who lives here, the girl who people keep mistaking me for. Where is she? Maybe she’ll come in later – that would be a shock for her, to find me here. But maybe – maybe I’m her now. If any of that makes sense. It doesn’t make sense to me. And I’m here living it.
I look at the last page she’s written, about half way through the book. There’s a crap drawing of a boy’s face. Or it seems to be a boy. A boy with black glasses. She’s written ‘Tony’ underneath it. With a heart.
I feel so bad reading this. Worse because it’s so sad. I look at the page before. It’s a long ramble about her life:
Thursday, and all I’ve got to look forward to is the church social on Saturday, and the vague hope that Tony might notice me. I need to finish making the skirt by then. And church on Sunday. And homework of course, there’s a chemistry test on Monday, and I have to finish the physics for Monday too. I can’t wait to do these A levels and get to university. Another six months before I get out of here, for good. I’ll make a calendar and count off the days. But the biggest thing is, I want a boy to kiss me. Soon. I can’t go on much longer without. I can’t go to university never having been kissed. I’ve tried practicing on my arm, but it’s not the same.
So this girl is the same age as me. Doing A levels. In another world. This room is totally different from mine. It’s freezing cold. The bed has sheets and blankets and a quilt, no duvet. Thin curtains on the windows. Clashing with the flowery walls. Like nobody cared about the style. Then there are the books. Some I know, like classics. Loads of science books. She’s serious about science. The pile of library books. Look like romances.
I flip one open. Hidden Love. There’s a date stamp. 20th March. Overdue. Take another look.
1962.
I look at the others.
All due back on 20th March. 1962.
Marilyn was getting used to the shoes, but she couldn’t think who’d be crazy enough to wear them. She had a pair of sandals for the summer and some lace-ups for winter. That was it, nothing like these. And the skirt got in the way of walking too. She kept pulling it down. It was like a fancy dress costume.
She managed to walk half way up the hill. Then she wondered where to go. It looked a bit like her road, the road she used to roller skate down when she was little. But when she saw the house with her number, she couldn’t believe it. The front garden was gone, tarmacced over. There was only tarmac and gravel, with a plant pot by the front door. Nothing in it.
She clumped up to the front door and rang the bell, before she could think about it too much. No answer. She stuck her hands in the jacket pockets, and found two keys on a key ring. Her hand shaking, she tried one in the lock, and let herself in. Halfway through the door, she realised she was holding her breath.
The breath came out as a cough, and she froze. Nothing happened. She could hear some kind of machine sound in the distance, but there was nobody in the house. The table opposite the front door, with the phone on it, had gone. She took off the huge shoes and left them in the hall, looking like stranded boats. Then she climbed the stairs.
There was a mirror on the landing. Marilyn couldn’t believe what she saw. She knew about the clothes. But now she saw the face. It was covered in pale makeup. The eyes had black shiny eyeliner all round them, and mascara so thick the eyelashes came in clumps. The mouth was a deep red.
Then the hair. It looked like someone had gone at it with the kitchen scissors. Even she knew better than that.
Slowly she brought her hand up to touch the hair and the cheek. And watched a hand do the same in the mirror. There was a glint above her eyebrow. She smoothed her hand along it, and found a thin silver ring pierced into the skin. She pulled it, but it didn’t hurt. She shivered. She knew girls who had their ears pierced. Her mother clicked her tongue and muttered something about being ‘fast’ when she saw them. But she’d never seen anyone with an eyebrow pierced. She didn’t even know it could be done.
She stretched out her hand and touched the mirror. It was there, cold, real. Her fingers left a slight white mark.
She put out her tongue, and the girl in the mirror did too. She stretched her tongue out to touch the tip of her nose, something she liked to do on her own in her room. But this tongue didn’t reach. And then she realised she could see. No glasses, and she could see.
She smiled and the girl smiled. She laughed and the girl laughed, her hair flopping down in front of her right eye. S
he twisted her body and put her hand over her head, like the models in her mother’s magazines. She could see one side of her neck in the mirror. There was a drawing on it – a drawing of a tiny butterfly. Marilyn thought it must be a transfer. She’d put them on her hand when she was about ten. She rubbed her neck. Rubbed it harder. Nothing came off.
It couldn’t be a tattoo. Only sailors had tattoos.
She smiled at the mirror.
She looked good. She looked great – strange, but great.
Marilyn heard a key in the front door, and ran for her bedroom. As she shut the door, she saw there was a bolt on the inside. She slid it closed, then collapsed on the bed, her heart thudding with excitement.
There are steps on the stairs. The woman from the kitchen walks right into my room. Without knocking or anything. I could have been naked. Or asleep. I’ve only just recovered from the little kid.
She takes me in. And the library books all over the bed.
“I was coming up to see how you were feeling, but you’re obviously well enough to read that trash.”
I’m not surprised Marilyn can’t wait to move out. My mum would never talk to me like this. Wouldn’t dare. I’d ring Childline. And she knows it. She practically is Childline. She would be so ashamed if I phoned them. That is a totally excellent threat. Must try it out.
If I ever see her again.
This mum’s got her hands on her hips, and she’s standing there looking at me. Frowning. With the thin eyebrows and the thin lips, it’s like looking at a cartoon, all drawn with straight lines.
“What have you got to say for yourself?”
Not much. Nothing. What can I say? Calculate the distance to the door. She takes a step forward. Blocks my exit.
“I’ve been scrubbing the kitchen floor and cooking since this morning,”
Lucky you. No job, just the house to look after. My mum has to do both. Doesn’t she let me know. But I’m not saying it. Swinging my legs. Looking down at my feet.
“And you’re sitting there reading your stupid romances.”
I want to say I’m researching. For a project. It works with Mum. When I’m looking at some specially gruesome website.
Vintage Page 2
