In Sarah's Shadow (7 page)

The ear-splitting wolf whistle practically makes me jump out of my skin.

“Hey, gorgeous, got a smile for us today?”

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m grinning at the builders, the very same builders who I’ve been studiously blanking for the last two weeks that they’ve been working on the empty house across the road from ours.

Those guys make me dread leaving the house every morning, having to run the gauntlet of all the whistling and catcalls. It’s usually OK when I’m coming home from school ‘cause it’s winter and dark early so they’re usually safely long gone. Not this evening though – this lot must have been working indoors, where chilly January winds
won’t whistle down their horrible builders’ bum cleavages…

“Just ignore them, dear,” old Mrs Harrison on the corner told me one morning when she saw me hurrying past her house with yelps of “Go on, show us your knickers, love!” ringing in my ears. Easy for Mrs Harrison to say; probably the last time anyone did that to
her
was sixty years ago. But then again, all the little kids round here love to buy into the idea that she’s a witch: maybe I should ask her to do a spell to shut those creeps up. Or at least turn them into faintly attractive members of the human race, instead of the beer-bellied, mono-eyebrowed, loud-mouthed oiks that this lot are.

“Oooh – look at that, lads! We got a bit of a smile there!
Very
nice!”

Damn. Didn’t really mean to waste any of my chirpy mood on them, but then again I’m practically bursting with my good news and I guess a little happiness slipped out without me meaning it to.

Hugging my fluffy coat around me, I turn gratefully into our path and see the cosy lights of the living room beckon. I can’t wait to tell Mum and Dad; they’ll be so excited for me. Specially Dad, since he used to be in a band himself in his younger days (yeah – like a couple of centuries ago!). Mum will be pleased because she
just loves to hear good news, specially after the rocky time we’ve all had over the last few months.

Thinking that, I slow right down, feeling a heaviness sink on to my shoulders. Oh, please don’t let Meg be in one of her moods…

“Hi!” I smile at everyone as I walk into the living room.

I’m glad I thought about Megan two seconds ago on the front step; it gave me a chance to take a deep breath and turn down my level of excitement. Being too bouncy seems to have a really bad effect on my sister; the happier any of us are, then this weird, inverse thing happens and she gets bluer and bluer right in front of our eyes.

“Hey, Sweetpea, what’s with you?” Dad beams at me, sensing something’s up, no matter how calm I’m pretending to be. “You look pleased with yourself!”

“Put your legs down, Pumpkin!” Mum orders Megan. “Let your sister sit down!”

Uh-oh – a glower from Megan. Better tread carefully.

“Nah, it’s all right, Mum!” I smile and go to perch myself on the edge of her armchair.

“Don’t be silly!” Mum smiles, putting a firm hand on the small of my back and propelling me towards the sofa and Megan. “Look – there’s plenty of room over there!”

You know, I think Mum likes to try and push us
together – physically, if she can’t manage emotionally – just in case Megan ever feels like opening up and talking to me.
That’ll
be the day. I think there’s more chance of Megan spilling the secrets of her troubled soul to the workmen across the street than talking to me.

I hover for a second as Megan makes a big drama of dragging her legs off the sofa, with a theatrical sigh. Her trainers have left a fine trail of dust and dirt on the sand-coloured sofa, I notice. Do I wipe that away before I sit down? Better not – she’ll just take offence or something.

Honestly, the phrase walking on eggshells could have been invented for our family, and the way we have to act around Meg. She’s always been touchy – even as a baby she’d yell if you looked at her the wrong way. And poor Mum and Dad: Christmas practically gave them ulcers. If Meg ever thought I’d ended up with a better present then her, then it would be day-long tears and tantrums. One year she went hysterical ‘cause my brand-new Barbie was prettier than
her
brand-new Barbie – er, aren’t they all exactly the same, with maybe different coloured plastic hair?

We’ve always made allowances for her (“she’s just a delicate child,” Nana used to say) but lately it’s got a lot more stressful. Ever since—

“Come on then, Sarah! What’s put that smile on your face?” Dad interrupts my thoughts, over the top of the sports pages of his newspaper.

Here goes.

Just tell them straight – no garbled babbling; nothing that could make Megan feel as if I’m flaunting anything in her face. Yeah, like I
would.
I’d do anything to protect my kid sister or to help her in any way, only I don’t know how to. And if I did, I don’t think she’d appreciate it one little bit.

“Well,” I begin, shaking my coat off my shoulders now I realise that Mum’s got the central heating pumping at Sahara desert temperatures, as usual.

“Oh, don’t crush your new coat, darling!” Mum frowns at me. “Pumpkin – go and hang it up for your sister!”

God, I wish Mum wouldn’t do that! She’s always having these little whispered conversations with me and Dad about how fragile Megan’s self-confidence is, how careful we have to be not to dent it. Then blam! – she’s right in there with some dumb, thoughtless comment. I can feel Megan bristle beside me at Mum’s order.

“No, it’s fine! I’ll hang it up in a minute myself!” I say cheerfully, but a sharp tug pulls the coat from my arms and Megan pads grumpily out of the room with it.

“Mum!” I mouth at her. “You shouldn’t do that!”

Mum frowns, knowing she’s goofed, and shoots a worried look at Dad, who shrugs sadly.

“Stop fussing, Angela!” Dad says out loud, trying hard to sound jovial, in the vague hope that the lightheartedness will transmit itself to Megan (no chance). “Let the girl talk!”

He gives me a wide-eyed nod. We’re in this little conspiracy together, the three of us, trying hard to pretend for Megan’s sake (and our own?) that everything is just hunky-dory.

“Well…” I begin, shooting a look outside to the hall, where Megan has disappeared with my coat. “Do you remember me mentioning the Battle of the Bands competition? The one I was in two minds about auditioning for?”

“Of course, yes!” Mum nods. “Was that where you were tonight? I thought you’d just gone round to Cherish’s or Angel’s.”

“No – we all dared each other to go to the audition after school.”

Me, Cherish and Angel – we do everything together. Even auditioning when we’re all really scared of making fools of ourselves.

Only we didn’t – make fools of ourselves, I mean. Not one bit.

“And what did that involve?” asks Dad, folding his paper away.

“Mr Fisher got us all to sing acapella for a couple of minutes – we got to choose whatever we wanted, so the three of us asked to do it together and we sang that old All Saints’ song
Never Ever.”

“Ooh, lovely!” Mum nods encouragingly, although I don’t think she really knows the song.

“Then Mr Fisher – my music teacher, remember? – he says, ‘What about playing me a bit of guitar, Sarah?’ and I nearly died. I mean, I haven’t been learning all that long, so I never thought about trying out for that part in the band. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer and just handed me a guitar and…and I just played a bit of this and a bit of that and he said, ‘OK!’”

“OK what, exactly?” Mum asks, trying to understand what I’m saying.

“Well, Mr Fisher just said, ‘I want you, Sarah!’”

God,
that was funny. I couldn’t
look
at Angel and Cherish when he came out with that particular statement – I knew they’d be doubled up with the giggles. ‘I
want
you, Sarah!’: it was like some terrible line out of a torrid romance novel. Still, I knew what he meant. He meant I was
in.
Half-an-hour before, I hadn’t even been sure I was going to try out for the audition and now I wasn’t just a backing singer, I was lead guitarist too.

Wow…

But I can’t let out how ‘wow’ I feel inside – Megan has just walked back in and settled herself down on the arm of Mum’s chair, rather than come and join me again on the sofa. She makes me feel like I’m contagious or something. I’m infected with the happiness bug, to which she is, of course, allergic…

“So, Mr Fisher chose you, out of
how
many people, Sarah?” Mum asks, wrapping an arm around Megan’s waist, just to reassure her how special she is too.

“Well, there were about thirty people at the auditions today, and I think he saw more people yesterday, but I’m not sure exactly,” I shrug as casually as I can. “But today he finally decided on which five to pick for the band line-up.”

“And when is the actual Battle of the Bands competition happening?” Dad asks, shooting the tiniest of glances over towards Mum and Megan now, just to try and gauge the mood.

“A few weeks,” I reply vaguely, since Megan’s dull, dark gaze is making my happiness screw itself up into a tiny, tight ball that means precisely nothing.

“Who else is in the band with you? Did Cherish and Angel get picked?” Mum says next.

Then I spot what Megan’s up to: scratching at her scars. She’s not even doing it subtly – her scrabbling nails are millimetres from Mum’s eyes. You know, I’d do
anything to make things OK for Megan, but this really pisses me off. Whenever I’ve got anything to say, whenever Mum and Dad turn their attention to me for five seconds, Megan starts with the scratching, and always within Mum’s eyeline.

What a coincidence.
Not.

“Yeah…Cherish and Angel got picked too – they’re doing backing vocals with me,” I try to say conversationally, averting my eyes from what Megan’s doing. “And there’s this guy Conor who’s going to play bass and sing too, and a lad called Salman who’s going to be on drums. I
kind
of know both of them, but just to say hi to.”

Conor and Salman…they’re really cute.
Really
cute. I mean, before this audition, I used to stare at them (hey, make that
drool
at them) from afar, but close up, they’re even cooler and funnier and nicer than I dared to think.

“And so what happens now?” Dad smiles a fake smile. I know he’s desperate to make it seem like the real thing, but months and
years
of trying too hard for Megan’s sake gives his enthusiasm a hollow ring.

“Well,” I try to respond brightly, “we’ll have to get together with Mr Fisher and work out what song we want to play, then it’ll be a case of loads of rehearsals up until
the competition!”

“Megan, don’t do that!”

My heart sinks to somewhere around carpet level. Mum’s spotted Megan’s scratch-scratch routine finally.

“I’ve got homework,” Megan mumbles in reply and disappears from the room in a cloud of gloom.

“Megan…!”

“Leave her!” Dad hisses at Mum.

“But maybe I should go to her!” Mum protests, her eyes filling with helpless tears.

“You know what Dr Glass said – we’ve got to give her time on her own, to work things out,” Dad whispers to her.

“Let her stew in her own juice,” I remember Granny saying one time, when a six-year-old Megan flipped out over some slight or another (she wasn’t soft on Megan, not like Nana). I wish Granny was still alive. Maybe her down-to-earth views aren’t too PC these days, but then again, maybe she could help us understand this human hurricane called Megan in our midst that
little
bit better…

For almost an hour we stare – the three of us – at a succession of stupid soaps and sitcoms on the telly, trying to drown out our collective misery at Megan’s withdrawal by losing ourselves in a world of people with fictional problems.

Finally, when I feel my face ache with fake smiles, I
decide to call it a day.

“Better go do some practice then!” I laugh, and my parents give me their well-rehearsed laugh back.

With every step of the stairs, ever closer to my room, and Megan’s too, I hear the dramatic dirge of PJ Harvey pound out. I used to like her, but Megan’s obsession has made me come to associate everything she sings with misery. All I want to do is get into my own sweet room, close the door and play around on my long-neglected acoustic guitar for an hour or two; get my fingers fired up for what’s to come.

How pathetic is this; to sink with my back against the door down on to my haunches, glad of this special little space that’s all my own. Over there is my daisy-splattered duvet cover; a haze of pretty blue, gauzy curtain drapes over my window; my hi-fi and CD collection stand underneath the most beautiful print of Monet’s ‘Lilies’ that makes me sigh with happiness every time I look at it, and then there’s my precious guitar, standing in the corner…

Only it’s not. It’s lying flat on the floor, its strings facing towards the ceiling, something oddly out of place with it.

And then I see what it is: the neck; it’s twisted and splintered. Oh my God…it’s my fault. I propped it up against my desk, without even bothering to put it back in
its case. My guitar wilted from neglect, shattering its frail neck as it fell.

A couple of hours ago, this had felt like a truly special day – a day with a midwinter rainbow hovering around – and now it feels like a disaster zone.

Hey, welcome to what it’s like to be a member of the no-fun Collins family.

As Conor bends slightly forward to fasten the clips on his guitar case, a chink of silver falls forward, swinging away from the taut skin of his neck. From it dangles a tiny, round something.

“What’s that? A Saint Christopher?” I ask, reaching out and delicately holding the engraved disk before I realise what I’m doing.

God, how forward am I? OK, so we’ve been having a real laugh together during rehearsals – all five of us – but getting so close, so touchy-feely with Conor, is kind of overstepping the mark. Or maybe it just feels like that because I like him so much…

Am I blushing? I hope not, I hope not, I hope not.

“No,” he replies, straightening up and reaching for the chain, just as I gingerly let go. “It’s St Sebastian. St Sebastian of Aparicio, to be precise.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” I tell him. “I know St Christopher and St Francis of Assisi, but that’s about it.”

“Ooh, there’re a lot of patron saints out there,” Conor grins. “More than three thousand. And my gran is personally acquainted with all of them.”

“Is she very religious?”

“Oh my God, yeah. And she’d shoot me if she heard me blaspheming like that,” he jokes, making me relax again. “Her flat in Ireland, it’s like a shrine to…well,
shrines.”

“Wow…” I nod. “Is it a valuable collection?”

“Is it hell! It’s all plastic! Plastic Madonna wall clocks; plastic Last Supper pictures with waterfall effects in the background; plastic baby Jesuses in glowing, neon cribs…Can you imagine the warehouse of the factory that makes that stuff? It must be like a cross between Heaven and Disneyland!”

He’s got me giggling…but that probably has something to do with the nerves I feel whenever we’re alone together, like now. Since they don’t have any gear to pack away, Cherish and Angel zoomed off with a quick bye (and a knowing wink from Cherish, cheeky
cow!) a few minutes ago. Salman’s back in the rehearsal room, chatting to Mr Fisher. Me and Conor are out here by the equipment cupboard, which Conor has now disappeared into, stashing the bass guitar safely away.

“But go on – you never told me; who’s St Sebastian?” I ask him, leaning on the door frame and watching him wrestle a bit of space among the jam of musical equipment. “What does he do exactly?”

“Patron saint of safe driving,” mutters Conor, pausing to shoot a look over his shoulder.

Now I don’t know whether to believe him or not.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Wrong,” he laughs and stands upright, mission accomplished, bass stashed. “My gran sent me this chain the minute she heard I was taking driving lessons. Here, do you want me to pack your stuff away for you?”

He’s pointing to the black guitar case and small amp on the floor next to me.

“No, it’s all right – Mr Fisher’s OK’d it for me to take this home to practise on. I still feel a little sticky with that middle eight part.”

For the rehearsal and performance, I’ll be using the school’s electric guitar. I’d planned to fool around at home on my acoustic, but since that’s currently in guitar hospital, it’s lucky that Mr Fisher is fine about me taking
school property off the premises. Apart from helping me learn my part better, it’s also going to give me pretty impressive arm muscles, hiking
that
lot back and forth.

Conor’s obviously thinking along similar lines, the way he’s frowning at the gear.

“I just can’t believe there’s a patron saint of safe driving!” I hear myself twittering, getting a buzz from being so close to Conor and desperate for the conversation not to fizzle out.

“There’s a patron saint of practically everything!” He grins his gorgeous grin at me. “Saint Isidore of Seville: she’s the patron saint of the Internet and computers in general. Gran sent me a whole lot of bumph about her when my parents bought me my i-Mac. I tried praying to her when the thing kept crashing, but it didn’t work. Still had to send it away to get fixed.”

I should get Conor to ask his gran if there’s a patron saint for stressed-out families, but I don’t want to put a damper on a good time by bringing up the touchy topic of my sister.

“You know, my favourite patron saint
has
to be Guy of Andelecht,” he continues, locking up the cupboard.

“Oh, yeah? And what does
he
do?” I ask, taking the opportunity, as Conor turns away from me, to ogle his very nice bum in his cute, faded brown cords.

“Patron saint of sheds,” he laughs, spinning around to face me so quickly that he nearly catches me drooling at him like one of the workmen that hassle me every morning. “When Dad ordered a new shed for the garden, my gran was straight on the case, sending blessings from Saint Guy.”

“God bless this shed and all who sail in her…” I feebly joke, but Conor seems to think that’s funny.

Good grief, how glad am I that I went in for the audition at the last minute? I wouldn’t have the competition to look forward to, I wouldn’t have the rehearsals to look forward to, I wouldn’t have these snatched, brilliant conversations with Conor to look forward to…

“Listen, hold on and I’ll give the key to Mr Fisher. Then I’ll give you a hand with that stuff.”

My mind’s all aflutter as he pads off along the corridor towards the rehearsal room. What does he mean, he’ll give me a hand? A hand down the stairs? A hand out of the school? He can’t mean all the way home, can he? Can he?

We’ve walked and talked for ages, making the twenty-minute trawl from school to my house stretch out to almost an hour.

At a couple of main junctions, manic Saturday afternoon traffic thunders by, but I hardly notice it. I’m so wrapped up in Conor that it’s as if I’m watching it all at a distance, with the volume turned right down. Conor’s been doing most of the talking, telling me about Salman and how they’ve been mates since primary school, but I’ve chipped in about my history with Cherish and Angel, how I got to be friends with them in Year 7 when they were being picked on by this racist pig Wayne Stevens (expelled for carrying a knife into school in Year 8). Conor talked about his hero, Jean-Jacques Burnel, the bass player from ’70s punk band The Stranglers – he got into him through his dad, who’s a big fan. He laughed when I said there’s no way my dad and
me
share musical tastes; maybe I’m a bit of a rock chick but I run screaming from the room when Dad sticks on any of his ancient heavy metal albums from the dim, dark past.

“There’s a photo of my dad on the bookshelf,” I giggle at the thought of it. “It’s of him when he was in his own heavy metal band – he’s got this terrible beard that’s waxed at the very end for some reason, and long hair practically down to his waist!”

“I’d love to see that!” Conor smirks.

We’re turning into my street and I can see old Mrs
Harrison at her window. She gives me a wave and a really enthusiastic smile. I’ve never had a proper conversation with her over the years – just exchanged hellos and waves and comments about rude builders – but she always seems so sweet, so positive.

Maybe that beaming smile of hers is what gives me the confidence to be a bit forward, for the second time today.

“That’s my house over there. Do you…um, want to come in for a coffee? I mean, I could show you that photo of my dad, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, that’d be great!” Conor replies, straight away, no hesitation.

Despite chattering all the way here, I’m suddenly so stunned and shy that I can’t think of one single, solitary word to say.

Luckily, Conor can.

“Hey, listen – I just thought of something…”

Uh-oh. This isn’t the get-out clause, is it? This isn’t the part when he invents an errand he’s got to run for his mum, or paint he’s got to watch dry just to backtrack out of my invitation for coffee, is it?

“…my friend Nat’s in this skateboarding competition tomorrow afternoon, down at the leisure centre. It could be a laugh. Do you fancy coming with me?”

I think I say yes – I
must
have said yes – because he’s smiling and saying “Good”. But I’ve just been zapped into this weird bubble of bliss where I feel totally disconnected from everything around me, including my brain and my senses.

After that, I
must
have opened the front door, because I’m now hovering in the hall, my feet about five centimetres off the floor.

Conor has just asked me out on a date and I am so happy I can hardly wait till later to tell Cherish and Angel—

“Oh…”

I hadn’t expected Megan to be home – she’s usually still out somewhere with her mate Pamela at this time on a Saturday afternoon.

But there she is, facing me full-on in the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, giving me a ferocious stare like she’s daring me to take one more step into the kitchen. I think I remember a documentary recently showing lionesses doing something similar to protect their territory.

Then I’m aware of myself waffling, introducing Conor to my fabulously friendly sister (not) and her shy little friend. I think Megan grunts some form of hello at him, while Pamela does what Pamela does best: giggles and turns prawn-pink.

I hear Conor say a hearty hello, oblivious to the drop in temperature. We’ve come from the brisk and chilly outdoors into something sub-zero, thanks to Megan’s icy glare.

Only right now, it’s not as icy as it was only a few short seconds ago; her eyes are flitting between Conor and me and then back at Conor again with an unreadable expression in them. What
is
that look? Is it irritation? Confusion? Curiosity?

Oh,
I
don’t know – Megan’s too hard to figure out at the best of times. But what I
do
know is there’s something about it that’s sending a shiver all the way down my spine and straight back up again.