In Sarah's Shadow (9 page)

“Hey – I heard your little sister gave Conor a real eyeful on Saturday night!” says a voice in my ear. “Any chance of inviting me round next time she’s doing her strip show?”

I tuck my folder under my arm and let fly with my elbow without missing a beat. That deft dig in the ribs soon sorts Salman out, and I keep straight on walking, eyes front.

“Oof!” he gasps, though I’m sure he’s putting it on. I didn’t do it
that
hard. “What was that for?! I didn’t mean anything by it, Sarah!”

“Oh yeah? So why did you make it sound like a seedy
Carry On
movie then?” I ask him, not slowing
down as I stomp along the corridor towards my drama class. It’s still five minutes to go before the end-of-lunchtime bell rings, but Mrs Hennessey asked us all to get there early so we can see the whole of the modern version of
Macbeth
she’s got on tape for us.

Sal pants as he tries to keep up with my pace now that I’ve winded him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says, sounding properly apologetic now. “Conor just made a bit of a joke about it this morning, when we were talking about what we got up to at the weekend. I told him the high point of Saturday night for me was chucking spaghetti hoops at
Blind Date
on the telly, and he said his Saturday night was a whole lot more surreal, thanks to your sister practically flashing her bits at—”

“Stop right there, unless you want to lose your front teeth!” I tell him, only partially fooling around.

“Aw, come on! It’s like I told you! He was just making a joke of it!” Sal protests.

“He
better
have made it sound like a joke!” I mutter, a tumble of emotions suddenly crowding my head. Yeah, me and Conor had joked about Megan’s peep-show routine on Saturday night, on the way to the movies (“Honest, Sarah, I didn’t know where to look! I spent most of the conversation talking to the top of her head, I was so
embarrassed!”), but now…he hadn’t been boasting to Sal, had he? And Megan,
yes
I’d been mad at her for wafting around on my bedroom floor like a
Playboy
centrefold (and she
knew
I was mad, from the speed she grabbed her towel and scurried out past me), but however much she pisses me off – there, I’ve said it – this big sister protective thing I feel for her kicks in. It’s like,
I’m
allowed to feel frustrated or irritated by the way she is and the things she does, but no one
else
better try that stuff in my hearing. For God’s sake, I’ve never even moaned about her to Angel and Cherish, no matter how unbearable it’s been at home, and they’re my best friends.

And right now, well, Salman’s a laugh, but I’ve heard the way he talks about girls sometimes and he’s not going to get away with being disrespectful about my sister like that. I was even relieved on Saturday when I put it to Conor that Megan maybe had a bit of a crush on him, and he tried to stick up for her: “She’s only young, remember, Sarah. She’s probably a lot more embarrassed about it now than we are. And she’s all right, really; she’s a sweet kid.”

A sweet kid: I’ve never heard anyone describe Megan as that before. It’s certainly not what my gran would have called her. Unlike Nana, she never minced her words when it came to Meg. “You should watch that one,” I
heard her tell Mum in the kitchen one day, when Megan had had a strop about me getting nicer school shoes or something. “She’s a selfish little madam and no mistake.” Mum had gone crazy at Gran for that; it really made them fall out. I think Mum’s always regretted that they never were properly close afterwards, specially since Gran died a couple of years ago.

Salman now sprints ahead of me along the bustling corridor, then turns and jogs backwards, a huge, cheeky grin on his face. “Aw, Sarah – don’t go all huffy on me for saying something stupid!” he begs me, holding his hands up in prayer position.

I don’t tell him he’s just about to slam into a whole posse of Year 7 girls and can’t hide a smile of satisfaction as he bashes into them, sending them flying like tenpins and tripping over his own feet as he tries to keep his balance.

“Let me carry your books for you at least, just to make up for being a tactless dork!” he jokes, collapsing on to his knees in front of me as the Year 7s dust themselves down and throw him filthy looks (though secretly, I think they kind of
enjoyed
being slammed into by such a hunky. sixth-former).

I stop dead, about to snap out some funny line back, when my eyes are drawn to the left, to the rows of
industrial grey lockers. At the end of the nearest aisle to me I see a hunched, crying figure. I can only see a pair of shaking shoulders and a face lost in a pile of tissues, but I know straight away that it’s Megan’s buddy Pamela.

“Catch you later, Sal…” I mumble, leaving him crouched down and confused, with a corridor of giggling girls and sniggering boys now wondering what he’s up to.

And Pamela; well she could be doing an impression of me after the drama with my lenses on Saturday night, her eyes are so red and puffy.

“Pamela? What’s up?” I ask gingerly. Has something happened to Megan? Those two are always together…

“I hate her. And she’s
not
staying at my house next weekend, I can tell you
that
for nothing.”

Uh-oh. Dad and me just spent the whole day yesterday persuading Mum to take up Auntie Kelly’s invitation for my parents to go and stay with them next weekend (I think Auntie Kelly is as aware as me and Dad that Mum’s in dire need of a break). Mum kept protesting that she couldn’t leave Megan alone in the house, even with me to look after her, but Dad put paid to that one by phoning Pamela’s parents and asking if they’d mind having Megan over to stay. Of course, they
were cool about it; Megan and Pamela regularly do sleepovers. Except Pamela is sitting here now, telling me it’s not going to happen.

“You can’t
hate
Megan! She’s your best friend!” I tell her as I lean companionably against the locker next to her.

“Yeah? Well, why’d she chuck a bunch of books at me?”

I’m about to say something joky, when I blink at the sticking plaster on her forehead and the yellowing circle of a bruise that’s ringing it.

“It must have been an accident! What happened?”

“We were in the cupboard in Miss Jamal’s class, helping tidy it up,” Pamela sniffs, rummaging around in her pocket for another tissue.

“Here,” I tell her, digging out an opened packet of Handy Andies from my bag. “Go on…”

“Well, she was talking to me about being nearly naked in front of—”

She stops, suddenly realising who she’s talking to.

“It’s OK. I know what you’re trying to say,” I shrug.

Pamela doesn’t look too convinced, so I give her a little smile of encouragement. Oops – being nice to her makes her instantly turn on the waterworks, but at least she carries on talking.

“I think she thought I wasn’t –
hic!
– listening to her or she’s jealous ‘cause this boy Tariq likes me, and next thing, she’s chucked this pile of books down on my head!” Pamela sobs.

I don’t want to be this way, but suddenly, I can all too easily picture that dark, angry glower coming into Megan’s eyes. It’s not too hard to imagine her silently lifting the books and taking aim…God, that’s awful of me, isn’t it?

“It definitely
had
to be a mistake,” I say hurriedly, as much to convince myself as Pamela. “What did you do when it happened? Did Megan take you to the school nurse?”

There’s a loud parp as Megan blows her nose.

“No,” she continues after a second. “Mr Fisher and Miss Jamal – they came to see what had happened.”

“Mr Fisher was there?” I ask, surprised to hear his name in connection with the English department. It’s funny, but I guess I feel kind of territorial about him; he’s just so funny and nice and human, unlike most of the other teachers at our school. He’s the sort of person I think I could easily have a crush on, if he was about ten years younger, of course (ie, before he started losing his hair!).

Pamela doesn’t answer my question – she just stares
hard at me as if she’s making her mind up whether to say something or not.

“What?” I ask her gently. “Please tell me!”

“Megan tells lies. But it’s like she makes herself believe they’re true. She does that
all
the time. Did you know that?”

I frown at Pamela. What is she on about?

“She does it
all
the time,” Pamela repeats. “Like she copied my geography homework last week, and when Mr Buckthorne accused her of it, she burst into tears. And all the way home, she kept saying it wasn’t fair, he was just picking on her and she’d worked so hard. As if I hadn’t sat there watching while she wrote down all my answers.”

A cold, hard knot tightens in my stomach.

“And last month?” Pamela continues, unstoppable now. “She was moaning about blowing all her allowance on this Wonderbra that she was never going to wear. Well, she didn’t blow her allowance on it – I was right beside her when she nicked it out of the shop.”

Oh my God…

All those times over the years when things have gone missing and got broken at home; all those times when the finger of suspicion’s pointed at Megan and she’s cried till her eyes were bloodshot and sworn on her life
that she’s not guilty. Does this all tie into what Pamela’s telling me now?

“And then it’s like this thing with Mr Fisher…”

“So what about Mr Fisher?” I ask her in a tense whisper.

“We both heard what he said to Miss Jamal – he was telling her how he needed to get help organising the band rehearsals and stuff,” Pamela shrugs.

“And?”

“And then I forgot about it, ‘cause we were both in the cupboard talking; me and Megan, I mean,” Pamela sniffles. “Then after she threw the books down at me, Mr Fisher and Miss Jamal came running in to see what was wrong.”

“And?’
I say again, desperate for Pamela to get to the point.

“Well, so Mr Fisher was helping Megan tidy the mess in the cupboard, and Miss Jamal made me sit down at a desk just outside, while she went to see if the school nurse was on duty, so she could get her to check me for concussion or something. And that’s when I heard what Megan said to Mr Fisher…” Pamela mumbles, her eyes fixed on mine.

“What did she say?” I push her, feeling my heart pound, but not knowing why.

“She told him she was your sister. He sounded all interested, y’know, like ‘Wow, Really?’ And then she starts saying this other stuff, about how you’re always going on at home about how brilliant he is.”

Pamela’s watery eyes are still locked on to mine, so I know there’s more to come than this innocent-sounding piece of information.

“Then Megan started coming out with all this stuff about how your parents are really freaked out – they think there’s something not quite right about how friendly Mr Fisher is towards, well,
you.”

I can’t respond – I’m too taken aback.

“Mr Fisher starts going on about how that’s rubbish and everything’s OK, when Megan tells him that your parents are thinking of banning you from the band and everything, ‘cause they’re worried about him and you. Mr Fisher starts to sound all annoyed, but then Megan says she thinks it’ll be all right with your parents if
she’s
at rehearsals too, like a secret chaperone.”

“What?!” I hear myself whisper, the words choking in my throat.

“I heard him kind of stammering and stuff, and then saying OK, but that’s when Miss Jamal came back in the room and got Megan to take me down to the nurse.”

I still can’t speak – my head is throbbing too hard.

“So Megan ended up sitting and waiting with me in the nurse’s office, like she hadn’t done anything, like it wasn’t her fault I was there in the first place. And she starts telling me this other version of what happened – how Mr Fisher asked her to help him with the band, just like that, out of the blue and everything. She didn’t know I’d heard every word. But even if I told her, it wouldn’t bother her – she’d just tell me I’d got it wrong. It’s just her believing her own lies again, see?”

I nod, not sure I’m capable of much else right now.

“It’s not true about you and him, is it?” Pamela asks me bluntly and I wordlessly shake my head.

“I
knew
it wasn’t. You go out with that Conor guy and he’s really cute. And Mr Fisher’s a nice bloke – he wouldn’t do stuff like that.”

And my mum and dad had never lost one minute’s sleep over me and Mr Fisher either, I was damn sure.

“See,
that’s
why I hate her. She was my best friend, but she’s done lots of horrible things to me and I always let her off. But not
this
time,” says Pamela, gently fingering the bump on her forehead. “She’s a bitch and she’s a bully and she’s a
liar.”

The memory comes into my head again, of that conversation I almost stumbled in on in the kitchen, all
those years ago, between Mum and Gran: “You’ve got to watch that one,” Gran said.

“Listen, Pamela…” I finally find my voice. “What do you mean exactly? Megan is going to be involved in the band?”

I
know
that’s what she’s saying – I just need to hear it again, to make sure I’m not dreaming. Having a nightmare, more like…

“Uh-huh.” She blinks her wet-fringed eyes at me. “I think he got scared: Mr Fisher, I mean.”

I stare at her incredulously, practically dizzy with dread.

As Pamela stares back at me, the bell trills violently right above us, and all I can do is mumble “Thanks. You take care,” at Pamela before moving off in stunned slow motion towards the drama class.

What was it Conor called Megan that time?

Oh, yeah –
sweet.

Sweet as a snake and twice as slippery…

I did a bad thing – in a good cause. Does that make it OK, I wonder?

What I
didn’t
do was tell my parents what Pamela had said, partly because I don’t think they can handle any more bad news right now, and partly because a small part of me doesn’t entirely trust what my sister’s ex-best mate told me last Monday. I’ve always found Pamela pretty nice, but she’s also a bit dim. Can I really rely on what one girl – who’s definitely a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, bless her – has to tell me? Can the sister who I’ve known and lived with for the whole of our lives actually be so calculating?

OK, so Pamela was right, inasmuch as Megan has
turned up at rehearsals this week, clipboard in hand at Mr Fisher’s right hand, but did it really happen like Pamela said it did? Or was she just mad at the indignity of my sister dropping the books on her head and wanted to get her own back in some strange, twisted way?

Anyway, that brings me back to my bad thing: however much it put Pamela in a bad position, I encouraged Dad to phone up her parents and double-check it was still OK for Megan to stay with them this weekend. I’m sorry if I was helping back Pamela into an uncomfortable corner, but I was thinking purely of Mum. She’s been looking so pale and strained this last week, as if all the trauma of the last few months is coming crashing down on her, sinking her spirit. She’s got to have a break (I tell you, it was brilliant to see her and Dad set off for the station this morning), and if it meant stepping on Pamela’s toes and feelings to make that happen, then that’s the way it has to be…

There’s another reason I feel bad, of course.

“I’ve invited Seb, and his mates Bola and John. That’s OK, isn’t it?” Cherish asks blithely, in our five-minute break before the next run-through this Saturday afternoon.

“Well, no, it’s not,” I frown at her. “I thought you said there’d only be a few of us? Just us in the band plus a friend each?”

That’s the way Cherish sold this have-a-party-while-your-parents-are-away thing. And it’s how I sold it to my parents – well, minus the extra friends. And the boys. I suppose I just let them believe that I’d be having a girly night in with Cherish and Angel, and they were more than happy with that. If only they’d known Cherish had plans that even I didn’t know the full extent of until right this second.

Thank God Megan will be safely out of the house tonight, unable to tell tales. She’s over talking to Conor, I see with a shudder, trying to look efficient and important with that stupid clipboard of hers. Mr Fisher, I notice, can’t look her in the eye any time she goes near him. Well, I think I know what that’s all about…

“Oh, don’t be such a bore! Isn’t she being a bore, Angel?” Cherish smirks at me, goading me to lighten up.

“Well, as long as it’s just Seb and Bola and John,” I shrug.

Angel and Cherish give each other a look I don’t quite like.

Uh-oh…

There are three things making me feel slightly sick, in the midst of this crammed party, full of people who look like they’re planning on having a truly excellent time.

The first thing is these people who are so intent on having a good time – there are loads of them and I have no idea who most of them are. Cherish has told me not to worry, but that’s easy for
her
to say, since this isn’t her house. Angel hasn’t said anything, since a) she’s been too busy drinking her own body weight in Bacardi Breezers, and b) she’s disappeared somewhere (probably barfing her guts up in the garden judging by the state she was in last time I saw her).

The second thing is Conor. Well, not so much Conor as the way he went funny on me when he saw me talking to Seb earlier. I mean, Seb’s in my year; I’ve known him since primary school and I’m positive – even though he hasn’t told me – that he’s gay.
Everyone
thinks the same, but they don’t say – Seb’s a brilliant laugh and is very cool, so what’s the big deal? But even if Seb was some ultra-hetero macho man with baby-mothers here, there and everywhere, why should it bother Conor? Can’t I talk to another guy without him frowning at me?

And the third thing that’s making me feel sick? It’s just the tiny, inconsequential fact that my sister has just walked through the door.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Pamela’s?” I ask, feeling the blood drain out of my face. What do I say? How do I explain the fifty-something strangers clogging
up our house at this precise moment, drinking, dancing and transforming our dull, ordinary living room into a lookalike club night?

“Listen,” Megan hisses back at me as she tries to hang her coat up on the crowded rack and dumps her overnight bag on the floor, “I think I live here too or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

“But aren’t you supposed to be staying at Pamela’s? Isn’t that what you promised Mum and Dad?” I repeat, feeling sweat breaking out on my forehead. Christ – what’s going to happen? Is she going to tell our parents about this? Give them more grief than they need right now? And why shouldn’t she, since it’s my own fault for letting Cherish and Angel bully me into this…

“Yeah? Well, I remember
you
promising that you’d look after the house while they’re away. So, what if I phone Mum at Auntie Kelly’s right now and tell her you’ve invited most of the school round to ours for a party her and Dad know nothing about?!” Megan snaps at me. “Mind you, I don’t even
need
to tell her you’re having a party – she’ll hear it loud and clear down the phone!”

The feeling that I want to be sick practically overwhelms me. I want to find Conor and bury my face in his chest and hear him tell me it’ll be all right. But I don’t know how it
can
be all right, and I don’t know if I
want to bury my head in the chest of someone who gave me a dirty look all because I was talking to an old friend – who just happens to be male.

“How did you find out about the party, Meg?” I ask her in a wobbly voice.

At first, I don’t think she’s going to answer me, since she’s now stomping off up the stairs, her back to me.

“The name’s Megan,” she snips nastily at me over her shoulder as she continues up the stairs. “I heard about it at rehearsal this afternoon. Conor told me.”

Oh…

Was that what they were busy discussing when I looked over at them earlier today? Why had Conor felt the need to tell her? But then I guess it wasn’t his fault…he didn’t know the hassles and the secrecy behind it all.

“Hey, are you OK, honey-bunny?” a voice calls me from the living room doorway.

And hey, what more proof do you need that Seb is gay? Not only does he wear the best designer clothes I’ve ever seen, have the sharpest haircut from the trendiest salon in town (they’ve asked him to be a model for them, in some black and afro hair contest coming up), but he calls me honey-bunny too.

“I’ve been better. It’s just sister stuff,” I shrug in reply and go to join him.

He’s got a bottle of wine in his hand and pours some into my nearly empty plastic cup.

“God – don’t get me started, Sarah. My sisters are great – don’t even mind if I borrow their mousse, but my brother…Jesus! I just know he’s dying to punch me in the face if I give him one good reason to!”

And Seb is off, telling me tales of life at home and about his borderline homophobic brother and cosseting mum and sisters till I’m practically crying with laughter, even if Seb’s situation’s got a tinge of tragedy to it. Maybe that’s why I have have a soft spot for dark, slightly twisted humour so much; laughing at the bad stuff makes it all so much more bearable.

Then something happens that is totally unbearable.

“Can I have a word with you?”

It’s Conor, grabbing me by the elbow and practically transporting me bodily away from Seb, who just shrugs sympathetically in my direction.

“What’s wrong?” I frown at Conor, keeping my voice low so that the snogging couples on the stairs don’t listen in to our conversation.

“She
said
you’d do this.”

“Who said I’d do what?” I frown at Conor again, disorientated after my lovely, feel-good conversation with Seb.

“Megan – she said this afternoon that you love parties, that you’re the flirt queen when it comes to them.”

How the hell would Megan know what I’m like at parties, flirty (which I’m not) or otherwise? What is she trying to pull here? Apart from my boyfriend, of course.

“You told her about tonight?” I reply, just trying to stick to the facts for now.

“So what? You didn’t tell her? I think that’s pretty mean, Sarah. She was really upset. Why didn’t you want her here?”

I can think of nothing to say. What is there to say? What is there to say that doesn’t involve telling Conor everything from A to Z when it comes to Megan, the suicide attempt included? I’m stunned and overwhelmed and don’t know where to begin.

And that’s when he decides to get mad at me, like I’m hiding something from him or silently admitting to some kind of guilt. I don’t know what I expected of this party/not party tonight, but it wasn’t that Conor would walk out on me.

She scares me – that’s why I’m shaking.

Isn’t that pathetic? That your kid sister actually
scares
you? If it wasn’t so late, I’d walk over to Mrs
Harrison’s and demand she helps me with this one, since she claims to know so much. But it
is
late and I don’t have the energy to move away from the kitchen table, never mind leave the house and cross the road to Mrs Harrison’s.

Oh, yes, Megan scares me. It’s like living with an unexploded bomb crossed with a cobra – there’s no telling when or if it’s going to go off, or how that poison in its fangs will affect you. Already, I feel drugged and stupid – thanks to a glass and a half of wine and too much shock to take in. How much more am I supposed to deal with? I think the humiliation of running down the road after Conor tonight is tough enough, specially when my heel snapped and I went skidding on the icy pavement, watching, shivering as my knee began to pour blood through the tear in my new cord jeans.

Around me, beside me, wherever, the party continues to spiral to a noisier, wilder conclusion, but I don’t even feel part of it as I sit here silently with a bag of frozen peas held to my equally frozen knee.

“What are you doing, Sarah?” Angel giggles, wiggling her way towards me after her long-ago disappearing act.

She walked into the kitchen with Joel, I notice, although he’s now standing in the doorway with his mates, looking over in this direction with a smug grin on
his face. He’s whispering something and his mates all do photocopy-perfect replicas of his grin, slapping their clenched fists against his in some well-done, bro gesture of approval.

Suddenly, I realise all too clearly what Angel’s gone and done, and I can’t believe she’d be so stupid. Joel is a bit of a looker, no doubt about it, but he’s got the worst reputation at our school. And if I’m not wildly wrong here, he’s just added my best friend to his list of trophy shags.

“Angel,” I hiss at her, pulling her down on to the seat next to me. She thunks down on the chair and gives a drunken giggle.

“You didn’t…you didn’t just sleep with Joel, did you?”

“Don’t remember doing any sleeping!” Angel jokes, widening her eyes at me and holding one finger to her mouth like she’s about to say “oops!”.

“Angel, for God’s sake!” I sigh at the mess she’s in, in more ways than one. But I don’t see how I can speak practicalities with her when she’s this far gone.

“Oh, lighten up, Sarah!” she snaps at me, seeing my disapproving expression through her alcohol fog. “It’s no big deal, Miss Prissy!”

And with that she’s gone, weaving her wobbly way off somewhere.

Great – my boyfriend and one of my best mates have walked out on me, and my other best friend is too busy playing DJ in the living room to help me get these strangers out of my house.

But every cloud has a silver lining, and mine is the fact that Megan seems to have gone to her room and is staying there. The last thing I need right now is for her to be watching and noting the madness and mayhem going on down here.

Actually, that’s what I’d like to do right now – go to my room and shut the door. Only it’s my party, isn’t it? Even if it doesn’t much feel like it.