By third period, PE, it’s still raining.
The rain makes me think of Noah and our afternoon cooped up in my shed. This weekend, it’ll be three whole weeks since our game of chess. It feels like longer. We’ve been texting loads still, but it’s still not the same as speaking in person.
‘Dodgeball in the sports hall,’ Ms Bello announces to widespread groans.
I join in. Dodgeball is the worst.
I change quickly, my back to the rest of the changing room, pulling my bottle green hoodie on over the top of my white Aertex top so no one will see my wrists.
‘Aren’t you going to be boiling?’ Tanvi asks.
The windowless sports hall is well known for being the stuffiest, sweatiest, smelliest room in the entire school.
‘I’m quite cold actually,’ I say, feigning a shiver.
Tanvi’s face sags with concern. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I echo.
‘Come on, ladies!’ Ms Bello says, clapping her hands together. ‘I haven’t got all day. Jewellery off, hair up please. Tanvi, what exactly are you doing?’
Tanvi has so far removed only her blazer, jumper and one shoe.
‘Folding my clothes, miss.’
‘Admirable, Tanvi, you clearly have a future in highend retail. But for now, I need you to prioritize speed over aesthetics. In other words, can you get a move on please?’
‘Sorry, miss,’ Tanvi says, vaguely speeding up her movements.
Ms Bello turns to me. ‘Hair up, please,’ she says. ‘You know the rules.’
‘I don’t have a bobble, miss.’
‘I have a spare!’ Tanvi says, peeling a hairband off her wrist and waving it round her head like she’s won it in a raffle.
Of course you do.
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling tightly and tying my hair into the loosest ponytail I can get away with.
Five minutes later, I’m standing with my back against the wall of the sports hall, waiting for the rest of my classmates, including Tanvi, to finish getting changed and join me. The painted brickwork feels nice and cool against my itchy legs.
Wait a second, since when were my legs itchy?
I peer down at the backs of my legs as discreetly as I can. The backs of both knees are red and blotchy, just like my wrists.
My heartbeat begins to quicken. This is the work of no mosquito.
Tanvi bounds into the sports hall, her laces undone, her too-large PE skirt sitting low on her hips. ‘You OK?’ she asks, coming to an abrupt stop in front of me. ‘You look worried.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, not quite meeting her eye,
Ms Bello strides into the centre of the room, the whistle she wears on a rainbow-coloured cord round her neck dangling from her lips. She blows it once and motions for everyone to gather around.
Tanvi can’t help herself, skipping to the front. I peel myself away from the wall but remain at the back of the group. Ms Bello is midway through a lecture on ‘aggressive throwing’ when I hear whispering behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Sienna Blake, Cassie Harris and Paige Wilkinson are looking at the back of my legs. A thick bead of sweat makes its way down my back, pooling at the waistband of my skirt.
‘What’s wrong with your legs?’ Sienna asks. ‘You got leprosy or something?’
‘It’d better not be contagious,’ Paige chimes in with a theatrical shudder.
‘Guys,’ Cassie says. ‘Don’t be such bitches.’
Ms Bello blows her whistle, making me jump. ‘Do we have a problem here, girls?’ she asks. ‘Because I could really do without the chat right now.’
‘Yes,’ I blurt. ‘I’m not feeling very well.’
Ms Bello rolls her eyes. ‘Another one bites the dust, eh? Fine. Go take a seat on the bench. I’ll with be with you in a minute.’
Ignoring Sienna and Paige’s continued whispers, I make my way round the edge of the sports hall and slide onto the wooden PE bench by the fire exit door along with the usual skivers – Lena Lomas who is always on her period and hasn’t been sighted in PE kit since Year Seven, and Becca DeSilva, who is currently snivelling into a grotty length of toilet roll.
Across the sports hall, Tanvi, still waiting to be chosen for a team, jumps up and down, waving to attract my attention.
‘You OK?’ she mouths.
I mime another shiver and feel like the hammiest actress that ever lived. Tanvi pouts in sympathy. A few seconds later, Georgia Purnell picks her for her team.
‘OK, so what’s the deal here?’ Ms Bello asks once the game is underway. ‘You seemed fine back in the changing room.’
I stand up, my back to Lena and Becca, and peel back my right sleeve.
‘It’s on the backs of my legs and my neck too,’ I say in a low voice.
‘I think maybe you need to take a trip to see the nurse,’ Ms Bello says, taking a small but unmistakeable step backwards. ‘Go grab your stuff and head straight there.’
‘Now?’ I ask.
‘Now.’
Lunch time is over and afternoon lessons have started by the time Bonnie arrives to pick me up.
‘Where have you parked?’ I ask as we walk through the quiet corridors towards the exit. The rain has stopped but the sky is still grey and ominous.
‘A couple of streets away,’ Bonnie says. ‘The car park was chock-a-block.’
Thank you, universe.
Bonnie is wearing an uncharacteristically modest outfit – jeans, boots, a tight black polo neck and a belted trench coat. The only real giveaway is the bulging handbag hanging over her left arm, the clasp and stitching visibly straining under the weight of its contents.
‘I thought you were about to drop dead from the way that school nurse of yours summoned me to come get you,’ she says, laughing.
My eyes bulge. Trust Bonnie to find this funny.
Away from its usual spot on the driveway, parked alongside all the nice, normal cars with their empty seats and clear views out of their back windscreens, Bonnie’s car looks even worse than usual.
‘Where am I supposed to sit?’ I ask, annoyance bubbling in my belly.
The car is stuffed, newspapers and empty fast food cartons and plastic bottles and random bits of stage costumes, feathers and fans and odd shoes piled so high I can barely see in.
‘Oh,’ Bonnie says, as if registering the mess for the very first time. ‘Hang on a second.’
She opens the passenger door. Stuff comes pouring out onto the pavement. Bonnie tuts cheerfully, humming as she battles to stuff it back in. A man walking his dog passes by, his eyes widening at the sight. He catches my eye and frowns.
This isn’t my fault, I want to yell after him. She’s the one who wants to live like this, not me!
It’s pointless though. As long as I live with Bonnie, we’ll continue to be lumped together as joint offenders.
‘OK, give this a try,’ Bonnie says, straightening up.
She’s moved just about enough stuff about so I can sit in the passenger seat, albeit elevated on top of a stack of ancient magazines, the top of my head brushing the roof, and my knees drawn up under my chin. I feel like a circus clown. I yank the seat belt across my body but the buckle is completely buried. In the end I have to settle for holding it in place so it at least looks like it’s done up.
‘There!’ Bonnie says, starting the engine. ‘Sorted.’
She actually has the nerve to look triumphant.
18
‘Look,’ Bonnie hisses as we sit on plastic chairs in the doctor’s waiting room. She’s peering over the top of an out-of-date copy of House Beautiful.
House bloody Beautiful. I’m tempted to rip it from her hands and hurl it across the room.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Over there,’ Bonnie says, pointing at the staff list on the wall. ‘Dr Ali is a locum.’
‘So? Locums are still doctors.’
‘Hmmmmmm,’ Bonnie says, folding her arms across her chest.
&n
bsp; ‘I’m sure Dr Ali will be fine.’
Bonnie flips the page. ‘We’ll see.’
Dr Ali turns out to be a young woman with a shiny black bob and a kind smile. I like her straightaway.
‘So, what seems to be the problem?’ she asks as we sit down.
I show Dr Ali my wrists. Within about three seconds she makes a diagnosis.
‘Scabies,’ she says.
‘Scabies?’ I repeat. I’ve never heard of it.
‘It’s a contagious skin disease,’ Dr Ali explains. ‘Caused by tiny mites that burrow under the skin, They’re called Sarcoptes scabiei. They feed using their mouths and front legs to penetrate the epidermis to lay their eggs.’
‘How can you tell?’ Bonnie asks.
Dr Ali rubs some ink on my left wrist, then wipes it off. ‘See that?’ she says, her finger tracing the line of ink that remains. ‘That’s a mite tunnel or a burrow. A sure sign of scabies basically.’
A shiver ripples down my spine.
‘Not to worry though,’ Dr Ali continues. ‘Scabies may be unpleasant but it’s very easily treated. A special cream called permethrin usually does the trick.’ She turns round in her swivel chair and begins to tap away at her computer keyboard.
‘How did I get it?’ I ask.
‘It’s hard to pinpoint for sure,’ Dr Ali says, continuing to type. ‘But most commonly it’s passed from human to human, via some sort of skin-to-skin contact, usually a family member or romantic partner. The contact has to be prolonged, though – we’re talking fifteen to twenty minutes skin-to-skin.’
I glance at Bonnie, who is rifling determinedly through her handbag. As usual, it’s overflowing with pointless things – broken pens, a long defunct phone charger, endless used tissues, a Chapstick with the lid missing, an empty Smints box, a crumpled Happy Easter card with a grinning bunny rabbit on the front.
‘Have you been itchy?’ I ask.
Bonnie’s head snaps up. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’
‘I was just wondering who I could have got this from.’
‘Does it matter?’ Bonnie says. ‘You heard what the doctor said; the cream will sort it out.’
I try to think of the last time I had any sort of prolonged skin-to-skin contact with anyone. Even with Bonnie.
Then I remember.
That night in front of The Sound of Music.
But that was over a month ago.
‘The incubation period can last up to eight weeks,’ Dr Ali continues as if reading my mind. ‘So, it’s possible you were infected quite some time ago.’
Bingo.
‘Show me your wrists,’ I say, turning to Bonnie.
‘What?’
‘Roll up your sleeves and show me your wrists.’
‘What for?’
‘I just want to see.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Bonnie says, panic flickering in her eyes. ‘Look, we’re wasting the nice doctor’s time.’
‘Not at all,’ Dr Ali says. ‘Perhaps it is worth me having a look. I was actually about to say, we recommend that anyone the infected person may have come into close contact with has the treatment too, even if they’re not displaying any symptoms, just as a precaution.’ She wheels her chair over to Bonnie. ‘If you wouldn’t mind letting me take a look, Mrs Snow,’ she says, gesturing at Bonnie’s wrists. ‘Just to confirm either way.’
Bonnie opens her mouth, then closes it again before reluctantly shrugging out of her coat and rolling up the left sleeve of her jumper.
The spots on Bonnie’s wrists are fainter than mine but they’re undoubtedly the same thing.
‘Mystery solved,’ Dr Ali says. ‘How long have you had these, Mrs Snow?’
‘Oh God, I don’t know,’ Bonnie says irritably, yanking her sleeve back down. ‘Not long. I’ve barely noticed them.’
As if, I think.
As. If.
‘What?’ Bonnie says, clocking the fury on my face. ‘I just assumed it was eczema!’
‘There doesn’t appear to be anything about eczema in your notes,’ Dr Ali says, squinting at her computer screen.
‘Well, there should be,’ Bonnie says indignantly.
More lies. Miraculously, Bonnie’s health has always been oddly robust.
‘Without treatment, the mites can survive on the body for up to two months,’ Dr Ali explains.
‘But how did Bonnie – I mean, my mum – get them in the first place?’ I ask.
I can’t leave it here. I need to get to the bottom of this.
‘It’s hard to say for sure,’ Dr Ali says.
‘Like, could a dirty house be to blame?’ I ask, my face reddening to match my wrists.
That gets Bonnie’s attention. I can feel her eyes on me, sharp and alert, like a rabbit emerging from its burrow.
‘A dirty house?’ Dr Ali repeats, her brow furrowing a little.
‘I mean, just for example,’ I add quickly.
‘Well, it’s entirely possible,’ Dr Ali says slowly, her eyes flicking from me to Bonnie. ‘It’s certainly a lot easier for mites to breed in a less hygienic environment.’
There’s a pause.
‘Is there any particular reason you ask, Rosie?’ she asks gently. Her brown eyes are feather-soft, gentle and full of concern. With a glimmer of something else. Suspicion.
I catch it just in time.
‘No, nothing like that, just a bit curious,’ I say quickly, desperate to throw her off the scent.
It doesn’t work. Dr Ali’s frown is deepening.
‘So, what happens now?’ I continue stammering a little. ‘You were talking about a cream?’
‘I’ll give you a prescription,’ Dr Ali says, the frown not leaving her face. ‘You should also wash all your bed linen, nightwear and towels on at least fifty degrees. If you’re unable to wash certain items, place them in a plastic bag for at least seventy-two hours. That ought to kill off the scabies mites. I would advise giving your entire house a good vacuum too. Just in case.’
But how do you vacuum floors you can’t even see? My eyes brim with tears of frustration.
‘Are you all right, Rosie?’ Dr Ali asks.
I blink the tears back. I need to pull myself together. And fast. The last thing I need is Dr Ali making a well-meaning report to Social Services because I got emotional and slipped up.
‘It’s just a bit, um, overwhelming,’ I improvise. ‘All the instructions …’
‘Would you like me to write them down?’ Dr Ali asks gently, glancing at Bonnie who has stopped paying attention and is fiddling with her phone.
‘No, no, it’s fine. Vacuum, wash everything on fifty, put everything else in a plastic bag for seventy-two hours.’
‘Perfect,’ Dr Ali says.
‘Er, what about school?’ I ask. Dr Ali’s form is now blurry through the watery film covering my eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
‘Are sure you’re OK, Rosie?’ she asks, her head tilting to one side.
Bonnie’s fingernails stop tapping at her phone.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just a bit upset about the scabies, you know …’
Dr Ali smiles sympathetically. ‘Not to worry. I know it’s not nice, but we’ve got you covered, and providing you start the treatment tonight, you’ll be all good to go back to school on Monday. I have to warn you though; the itching may last for up to two weeks.’
She prints off two prescriptions and hands them to Bonnie.
‘Is that it?’ Bonnie asks, stuffing them in her coat pocket.
‘That’s everything,’ Dr Ali says. ‘Unless there’s anything else you’d like to talk about?’ She’s looking at me as she says this.
‘No, thank you,’ Bonnie replies, stalking out the room. ‘Come on, Ro.’
I stand up.
‘Rosie?’ Dr Ali asks softly. ‘What about you? Is there anything else we haven’t covered?’
I swallow.
‘Anything at all?’ she adds.
For a moment, I imagine telli
ng Dr Ali absolutely everything – letting all the hurt and frustration and anger pour out of me along with the tears I’m currently fighting to keep from falling. As I stand there, my mouth full of cotton wool, I feel a bit like I’m teetering on the top of a tall building, the wind in my hair, as I look down at the roaring traffic below.
To jump or not to jump.
‘Rosie?’ Dr Ali prompts.
Her interruption snaps me back to reality. What on earth was I thinking?
‘No, that’s everything, thank you,’ I say. I pick up my backpack and walk slowly after Bonnie.
I don’t say anything until we’re in the car.
‘How long?’ I demand.
Bonnie doesn’t answer, turning on the engine and flicking on the radio, flooding the car with ‘Waterloo’ by ABBA. I turn it off again.
‘How long, Bonnie?’ I repeat.
‘How long what?’ Bonnie asks, lighting a cigarette, filling the car with smoke.
‘How long have you had it?’ I ask, wafting the air.
‘Not long.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bonnie!’
‘You heard what the doctor said – it’s easy enough to get rid of.’
‘But I shouldn’t have got it in the first place!’
‘Stop getting at me! I’m not a child.’
‘And I’m not an adult! I shouldn’t have to be dealing with this … rubbish.’
Because that’s what most of my life is. In every sense of the word.
‘People saw, Bonnie,’ I say, my voice trembling.
‘What people? When?’
‘Girls in my PE lesson.’ My skin prickles with shame as I picture the disgust on Sienna and Paige’s faces, and the pity on Cassie’s. I can’t decide which felt worse.
Bonnie sighs and shakes her head. ‘You know what your problem is, Ro?’ she says. ‘You worry about what people think far too much.’
‘Well, one of us has to give a toss about something other than themselves!’ I snap.
‘I didn’t know it was contagious! You’re acting like I gave it to you on purpose!’
‘That’s not the point and you know it.’
Bonnie lets out an impatient sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Ro. OK?’
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