In Sarah's Shadow (6 page)

Suddenly, she gets to her feet, letting her guitar fall to the stage floor with an agonised twang of strings.

“Fine. Believe what you want to believe,” she says in a shaky voice. “I quit.”

“Oh,
great!”
Mr Fisher’s voice booms down angrily in the darkness from the lighting gantry, as Sarah vanishes behind the black-out curtains backstage. “And what are we supposed to do
now?”

What I’m going to do now is fumble for a seat in the gloom – I feel oddly light-headed and weak after witnessing that little scenario.

I’m catching my breath, trying to get the shivers to
subside when I see Conor staring down into the darkness, searching for something or someone.

As his eyes settle on me, holding my gaze for an endless few seconds, few moments, few minutes, hours, days, weeks, whatever, I forget to breathe and get the shivers back twice as bad…

“Oooh-ooooh-ooh-ah-ooh, babeeeeeeeee!”

An under-ten football tournament – that was the last thing the Forestdean Arena hosted. And this afternoon – in an hour to be precise – it’s the turn of the Battle of the Bands competition. It’s already mobbed in here and that’s before the audience has been shipped in from the various schools taking part: band members,
friends
of band members, harassed competition organisers, stressed music teachers…they’re all milling around the auditorium and the two temporary stages as singers take turns warbling through their songs while lighting and sound engineers twiddle knobs and buttons and shout frantically into headset mikes.

While the organised mayhem swirls by, I’ve parked myself on a plastic seat at the edge of Stage 2. Now that my lot have already sound-checked, this is a great spot for people-watching, and the people I’m currently watching are the lace-collared goth band from Market Hall School (called Velvet Death, for God’s sake). They’re distracting themselves from approaching stage fright by scowling menacingly at the wannabe R&B girl group from St Thomas’s (Caramel), who are warming up their vocals on Stage 1. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I think it’s going to take a flame-thrower pointed at those girls for that to happen – their ‘harmonies’ are enough to make your ears bleed.

Speaking of flame-throwers, I could do with one now, to heat me up. This gaff is the size of an aircraft hangar and about as cosy. And then, if I wasn’t cold enough already, I hear something that makes me freeze.

“Listen – it’s like I
told
you, Mr Fisher! She can do it!”

“Now, come on; you don’t know that, Conor.”

“But I do – I’ve
heard
her. She sings along all the time, backstage,
and
she sounds as if she could harmonise just as well as Sarah. Actually, close your eyes and it could be Sarah singing!”

Instinctively, I throw the hood of my fleece over my
head and huddle down into its cosiness. But I’m not just doing this to keep warm; I’m trying to make myself disappear. If I try and move away, it’ll be obvious to Mr Fisher and Conor – who must be standing practically behind me – that I’m here, within listening distance of their conversation. So I reckon it’s better if I just stay put and try to think myself invisible.

“I don’t know, Conor…”

“Look,
you
know and I know that it just doesn’t sound strong enough with only Cherish and Angel doing backing vocals. We definitely need that third voice!”

“But it’s a lot to ask of her. And it’s all a bit last-minute.”

As I listen in hard, I absent-mindedly doodle circles round the names Geeta, Neil and Omar on the sheet of paper on my clipboard. I flick my eyes up from the scrawl and see if I can actually see Geeta and the others: yep, over at the back of Stage 2, there they are, the so-called ‘artists’ working maniacally on the backdrop that they were meant to have finished weeks ago. The reason they’re suddenly working so feverishly on it is that they decided at the last minute to add the band name on, since one had finally been chosen. Working on changes this late is kind of mad, if you ask me. But then they’d spotted the backdrop Dunmore School’s entry had come up with – the name Seeker done out in tiny
sparkles of light on a sheet of dense, black cloth – and panicked, I think.

“So what if it’s last-minute? If it means the difference between standing a chance in this competition or not, then what’s the problem?” Conor is arguing. “Anyway, it’s our turn for a run-through in five minutes’ time. We get her to rehearse with us then and if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. And if it does, well…”

“But how will Cherish and Angel feel?” Mr Fisher continues finding problems with Conor’s suggestion.

“They want to win this thing as much as we do! Come on, Mr Fisher – let’s find her and ask her!”

“She might say no, Conor.”

Wrong, Mr Fisher; she might say yes.

God, am I acting really deluded here? It
is
me they’re talking about, isn’t it? I can’t stand it any more, and spotting that the millions of members of the hip-hop band from Kendale School are just about to strut by, I swiftly stand up and duck behind them, using them as cover to walk
just
far enough away from Mr Fisher and Conor to pull my hood down, turn back and casually join them without either of them sussing that I’d been anywhere within earshot.

“Megan! Just the girl we wanted to see!” Mr Fisher beams at me.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it…

How? Call me deluded (again), but I did another spell last night.

I know…I’m not really supposed to seriously believe in that stuff, am I? But this particular spell, I got it in my head to do it after the sort of
uncomfortable
few days I’d just had, what with Pamela now going icy cool on me at school, and Sarah giving me the silent, dead-eyed glare at home. It was a spell for confidence – ie, having some – and, I’m not kidding, after I did all the staring at the candlelight and spell recitation stuff, I could hardly
sleep
last night for this weird ball of excitement burning in my chest. Something good, something
amazing,
was going to happen today, for sure. I just hadn’t known what it was until I’d overheard Conor and Mr Fisher just now.

“Megan, Conor and I have a big favour to ask of you…”

If Cherish and Angel had still been talking to Sarah, I guess their reaction towards me rehearsing with them would have been as frosty as if I’d landed on an iceberg wearing a bikini.

Instead, they’d just looked confused at this last-minute audition Mr Fisher had announced, which made the whole thing marginally less terrifying for me. (Only
just.) I found that the only way to play it was not to look at the two girls; to stare straight out at the darkened hall, milling with rival bands and technicians, and do what I’d been doing in the privacy of my own room up till now,
and
backstage within Conor’s hearing, even though I hadn’t realised it.

“Good, good,” Mr Fisher had nodded matter-of-factly, once we’d run through the song.

(Suddenly, my mouth felt cotton-wool dry with nerves. How had I just managed to sing?)

“See? I
told
you it would work!” I heard Conor shout triumphantly across the monitors at Mr Fisher, before turning and giving me a beaming smile and a big thumbs-up.

“That…that sounded great. I mean, together; we all sounded great,” I suddenly heard Angel’s voice say.

My God, she was talking to
me.

“Yeah, it really did,” I saw Cherish nod enthusiastically at Angel, then at me.

Wow – this felt like my own version of a fairytale: Cinderella makes friends with the not-at-all-ugly sisters…

And three-quarters of an hour later, this Cinderella is about to see if the fairytale is about to come crashing
down around her ears. I mean, this is real now, this is it. I should be shaking, but weirdly, I’m not. I keep my eyes on Conor’s back as he leads the way on to the stage, and find myself wondering what the strange, overwhelming roaring sound is. Then I realise it’s the crowd from our school, cheering us on. Will Pamela be out there, do you think? She hadn’t made up her mind to put her name down, last time I spoke to her, and since she hadn’t been doing much speaking to me at all lately, I haven’t a clue if her face will be out there, staring back in the darkness at us. I tell you, if sheer jealousy is what her stupid moods are all about, then seeing me standing on stage with Angel and Cherish and everyone is
really
going to do her head in…

For a split second, before I take my place at the mike, I see Salman settle himself behind the drum kit, the huge, spray-painted art backdrop behind that. Geeta and everyone might as well not have bothered spraying the name on (Near Miss, Mr Fisher had decided, after the band nearly broke up when Sarah walked out on them); it’s impossible to read against the rest of the graffitied words and designs up there.

“Are you OK?” Angel squeezes my hand as we group around the back-up mike with Cherish.

A breathless “uh-huh” is all I manage to whisper back.

I’m OK, and this whole thing will be OK, I tell myself. I managed not to mess up the harmonies at our rushed, shoehorned-in, extra soundcheck earlier, didn’t I?

“You look great!” Cherish mouths at me, looking pretty great herself, with her amazingly lush black curls glinting with a dusting of gold that she’s also brushed over Angel’s waterfall of hair and my own brown fizz of a hairdo.

Only it isn’t really fizz any more, since Angel and Cherish got to work on me. I couldn’t exactly claim to be the ugly duckling who turned into a beautiful swan, but I think I could pass for an almost cute duckling now, thanks to the hair-preening and make-up and the spare, black, stretch satin top of Angel’s that I’m wearing.

Me, Cherish and Angel…who’d have thought?

Then Salman begins to tap out time on his drumsticks: here we go. I glance quickly at Mr Fisher, poised and ready to play Sarah’s guitar part, and at Conor, who shoots me that look again – the fleeting glance that seems to have a chasm of meaning behind it.

I hadn’t understood it the other night, when he’d stared down at me from the stage after Sarah stormed off. But I do now; crystal clear. Apart from humming along backstage, he’d heard me singing it in my room,
Conor said, the night we’d had the conversation in Sarah’s room, right after she’d more or less banished me to my own bedroom.

Now…now this look is telling me that it’s all right, he has confidence in me.

He needn’t worry – for just about the first time in my life I have confidence in myself and it feels so mind-blowingly, heart-soaringly brilliant that it’s all I can do to stop myself singing before my part actually begins.

No wonder I need a minute alone, to take it all in.

What’s it called again? The stuff that your body releases when you’re happy? Endorphins, that’s right. Well, it’s been so long since I felt this happy that I’m feeling totally dizzy with this endorphin rush. My skin is still prickling with it; I’m so giddy I could giggle out loud.

Me. Second-best Megan.
I
just sang in front of four hundred people.
I
harmonised and did this brilliant little dance routine with two of the coolest girls in school, and I didn’t mess up once. No one booed at me, no one laughed, no one told me I didn’t fit in. It was
my
hand that Cherish held as we bounced down the steps of the stage afterwards, laughing with relief; it was
my
cheek
that Angel kissed when we rushed off-stage, it was
me
who felt the warmth of that bear-hug from Conor…

But you know, for one second when I was singing, my confidence nearly slipped. I’m sure it was my imagination – it was too dark to make out any one person in the audience – but I was almost
positive
I saw Sarah out there, glowering at me, willing me to fail.

Just as quickly as that thought squeezed its way into my head, I told myself she’d never show up here today; never put herself through the humiliation of watching the band play without her. Her precious pride wouldn’t let her.

But here comes someone I really do recognise, for real. Through the small crowd dancing in the middle of this huge, semi-darkened auditorium, I see a familiar figure wending his way carefully towards me, deftly moving from side to side whenever it looks like any of the dancers are about to barge into him.

“Brought you this,” says Conor, handing me one of the two white plastic cups he’s holding.

According to the teachers and the competition organisers, it’s supposed to be a non-alcoholic punch-type thing, but
I
spotted the hip-hop band from Kendale pouring what looked suspiciously like a bottle of vodka into it earlier when the teachers and everyone were still
trying to shoo the audience out to their waiting coaches so the after-show party proper could begin.

One bottle of vodka among this many people; it’s not like it’s exactly going to have that much effect. But then again, most of the members of Caramel are now treating Stage 1 like a giant podium, and by the looks of it, their music teacher’s really having his eyes opened to the delights of butterfly dancing. (Not a pretty sight with the size of bums on a couple of those not particularly fly fly-girls.)

“Thanks,” I smile shyly, now that I’ve used up most of my confidence reserves in the course of one rendition of
Girl from Mars.
Which won us second place, by the way; Velvet Death came first with an ultra-slow, gloom-drenched version of Madonna’s
Like a Virgin.
“The judges liked the irony of it, I guess,” Mr Fisher had shrugged, when the winner was announced. “It’s a total fix,” Salman had muttered darkly. “Did you check out that judge sitting in the middle? Old goth: no doubt about it.”

I don’t know whether Velvet Death won because they made the judges laugh, or whether the middle judge liked their lacy shirts, and I don’t much care. All I know is that I got through something amazing today and I’m so proud I’m buzzing.

“So, Megan, what are you doing over here, all by yourself?” Conor asks, setting himself down beside me on the edge of Stage 2. “Angel was worried about you.”

He has to bend close to speak to me, to be heard above the music belting out of the huge speakers. I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek and instant prickles at the back of my neck.

It’s been an amazing couple of weeks,
I whisper in my mind as my eyes run over Conor’s face, memorising every eyelash, every smile line.
So many things have changed – I won’t be the same again. Don’t expect anything more…

“Just wanted to get away on my own for a bit; take everything in,” I shrug, taking a sip of my drink and trying not to wince at the initial sugary sweetness of it or the bitter alcohol kick behind that.

“I see,” Conor smiles at me, nodding and looking suddenly shyer than I’ve seen him look. For a second, we both glance away from each other, both staring down into our non-alcoholic vodka cocktails.

Say something…
the voice in my head bullies me.
Just ‘cause I said you couldn’t expect anything else, doesn’t mean you should mess things up by going all goofy and silent on Conor.

Spurred on, I’m just about to force myself to talk –
about the Caramel girls and their eye-popping hip-grinding, about the hip-hop guys’ addition to the punch, about
anything
– when Conor gets in there before me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I shrug.

Will you go out with me?

Will you run off to Mauritius with me and we’ll get married under a dripping bower of bougainvillea? Or in Las Vegas with a singing Elvis as a witness if you like that idea better?

Will you have my babies? If we have a boy, we’ll call him Kurt, after Kurt Cobain out of Nirvana; if it’s a girl, Polly, in honour of the mighty rock chanteuse PJ (Polly Jean) Harvey, of course…

But I’m running ahead of myself, by about ten years, or ten
lifetimes.
The poor guy probably just wants to know the time…

Tentatively, Conor moves one hand from the worn corduroy of his jeaned thigh. For a moment, I think he’s aiming to try and gently prise one of my hands away from the cup I’m clenching, and I can hardly breathe. But then his searching fingers stop at my wrist, slowly lifting the silky black material of my borrowed top away from my skin.

“I noticed the scars before, but I didn’t like to ask…”

Gulp.

Where do I start? From the moment I realised that my big sister made me feel like shit? Do we really want to trudge back to my childhood of being made to feel second-best, second-rate, second-class? Or will I just cut to the chase and tell him about the night last summer when I’d had enough?

“It was Sarah’s birthday,” I lean close into Conor and begin to tell him. I have to be close for this private confession; up till now, only my family know the full story of what happened – everyone else, including Pamela, has an idea that once upon a time I tried to kill myself, but know better than to ask about it.

I feel him nod imperceptibly, his fair hair very slightly brushing my lips.

“My mum and dad – they took us out to this fancy restaurant, but I might as well not have bothered to go, they spent so much time talking to Sarah, hardly even noticing I was there. They hadn’t
done
anything for
my
birthday a couple of months before that…”

I’m not touching him (I wish!) but I can feel his whole body tense up as I talk.

“Anyway, all through the meal, I’m feeling more and more down and my parents don’t seem to notice they’re treating me like I’m Cinderella or something, but why should they? That’s the way it always is. But I know
Sarah gets what’s going through my mind, ‘cause every time my parents start praising her or whatever, she waits till they’re looking the other way before she gives me these snidey little glances.”

That felt like a shiver from Conor – but maybe the cold in the auditorium is seeping into his bones.

“So we get home and I just decided I’d had enough and went to my room. But Sarah hadn’t had enough – she barges in, wafting the big cheque she’s got off of Mum and Dad in my face, taped inside this card that says ‘To our No. 1 daughter’. She really liked pointing that out to me.”

I pause, feeling the choke in my throat at the memory of her flaunting that under my nose. I know I should have just told her to get a life, but after years of stuff like this, I suddenly…well, I guess I suddenly ran out of steam.

“You don’t know what it’s been like for years and years in my family, Conor…it’s as if it all –I dunno. It’s as if it all crowded in on me that one night.”

I’m not sure if I can go on. But then I’ve come this far, and to be honest, with every sentence my long swallowed secret starts choking me that little bit less…

“What happened?” Conor asks softly.

“I waited till I thought they were all in bed, all asleep.
Then I went down to the kitchen and got a knife – I got a knife out of the drawer…”

I can’t do it – I can’t go on. I can’t tell him about Mum finding me; about her trying desperately to bind my bleeding wrists with tea towels while she screamed for Dad to get us to the hospital; about seeing Sarah standing there on the stairs when the ambulance arrived, smiling her Sweetpea smile of total innocence…

“Megan,” I hear Conor’s voice somewhere above me and feel the electricity as his arm wraps around me.

But all too soon his comforting warmth is gone.

“Give me a couple of minutes. I promise, just two minutes. I’ll be right back.”

Oh yeah?
I think to myself, feeling that beautifully warm arm peel itself away from me, knowing I’ve frightened him off. God, how could I have landed all that on Conor and expected him to handle it? How can I expect him to understand a lifetime’s worth of drip-drip torture adding up and adding up to one night of sheer, black, bottomless madness? He thinks I’m a freak now – some mad, overemotional girl who flipped out over nothing. Please, please,
please,
why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut and my wrists covered…?

It’s the end of the world…It’s the end of the world…It’s the end of the world…It’s the end of the world…
I
whisper over and over again inside the private world of my whirling mind. It seems like that’s a snatch of some forgotten lyric, but I can’t remember – it’s just how I feel right at this moment; the moment when I could forget all the fairy stories of spells and good fortune coming my way and realise that all I have to look forward to is a lifetime of luck, of the bad luck variety…

And then as the rocking I’m doing seems to be comforting me in some deep, dark way, a two-note guitar riff shoots insulin up my spinal cord.

Thank you, PJ Harvey; thank you, whoever’s acting as DJ here: the irrepressible strains of PJ’s
Good Fortune
blast out of the speakers, sending my heartache – and every hip-hop and R&B fan – shooting far away for one glorious, soul-enriching moment.

“Dance?” comes his voice, like the best dream I’ve ever had. The soundtrack to my life; the most gorgeous, glorious, good guy I’ve ever met sweeps me off my feet to the most gorgeous, glorious, feel-good rock track that’s ever been recorded. “I requested this for you. I heard you playing it in your room a couple of times. You’re really into her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I whisper to him, half-laughing, half-dying with relief that he’s come back to me, and let myself drift weightless to my feet and into his arms.

Moving in slow, sensuous, on-the-spot circles among the other dancers, resting my head against Conor’s strong, wiry chest, feeling the pressure of the chain around his neck on my temple, I know it can’t get better than this.

Change…

Oh, yes it can.

Change…

Everyone’s allowed to dream, aren’t they?

Change…

A hand strokes the back of my neck while another holds me close around my waist. I’ve never felt this cared for, this loved. Oh, God, how can I even say that? I hardly know this boy. I hardly…

Too late. He’s tilting my head up towards him; and now somehow his soft lips are on mine, a lifetime’s sadness wiped out in one simple, skin-tingling kiss. I could melt away, slip softly between the floorboards like molten wax, but I won’t. I want every cell in my body to remember this moment; the first moment in fourteen years-worth of memories when I felt like I mattered to someone.

A switch has just flipped in my head; I know, without spells or candles or tarot or PJ Harvey, that something had changed in my life tonight and there’s no going back. I never have to live in anyone’s shadow again.

Fingers crossed.

And currently, five of my fingers are crossing themselves around five of Conor’s. That can only mean
double
good luck, can’t it? And I think I might just deserve double helpings. Right?

So, wish me luck, if just this once…