No, there’s only one thing for it: I think I’ll just stay in my room for the rest of my life, with the blind firmly down.
t’s Sunday afternoon. It’s been a week now, but I’m not feeling any better. If anything, I feel worse. I hate my life. I hate my nose. I hate my dad for not caring more. I hate Rich too, except I love him. And I hate myself for that. I can’t face doing anything: I haven’t washed my hair; I’m wearing my pyjamas; I can’t even be bothered to put make-up on to disguise my nose, which makes me hate it even more. I hate EVERYONE and EVERYTHING. Especially MYSELF. I wrote that on a piece of paper earlier and it made me feel better for a minute or two, until I hated those stupid words and my horrible, slanted handwriting, and tore the paper into little pieces.
I’m lazing around on my bed now, wondering whether I should climb back in and have a doze, when the doorbell rings. I ignore it. I don’t want to see anybody, not even my friends. That’s why I haven’t been out since I came home from school on Friday and why I’ve been ignoring their texts. I’ve even logged out of instant messaging and signed off Facebook. They’ll only go on at me about how Rich was a waste of space and how I’m better off without him, and how I’ll start to feel happier soon because ‘time heals all wounds’, and all the other clichés. I don’t want to hear it. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to feel sorry for myself if I want to?
The doorbell rings again. Longer, this time. It’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses. There seem to be an awful lot of them in Camden, and they’re very persistent. They must think it’s an area where people need extra saving.
‘Go away,’ I say under my breath. ‘Leave me alone.’ But the doorbell doesn’t listen. I tut. I can hear the hum of the vacuum cleaner from the living room. ‘Mum, will you get the door,’ I mutter, aware that she won’t hear me. I can’t even be bothered to raise my voice. Communicating is too much effort.
Mum must have stopped vacuuming because I hear muffled voices and then the buzz of the intercom.
‘Sky, will you get out here!’ she shouts. She sounds annoyed. ‘It’s for you. It’s your friends.’ The vacuuming begins again.
I ignore her. I’m going to ignore them too. If they come into my room I’m going to pretend they don’t exist. Because I don’t exist.
My bedroom door bursts open. No knock. How rude. I turn over and face the wall.
Rosie clambers onto my bed beside me. ‘Get up, Sky!’
I ignore her, which is hard, as she’s bellowing in my ear.
‘Come on, this is getting silly now. We’re worried about you.’
I shrug. Did someone say something?
‘We’re not going anywhere, Sky,’ says Vix. I can sense that she’s standing at the end of the bed. ‘So you might as well give up now.’
I ignore her too.
‘Do you think she’s alive?’ asks Rosie. ‘She’s very quiet. And still. For Sky.’
‘Hard to say,’ says Vix. ‘I think she’s sulking. Still, there’s only one way to find out.’
I hear them giggle, conspiratorially. Then Rosie counts softly, ‘One, two, three,’ and suddenly there are hands upon me, all over me, digging into my ribs, under my arms, poking my belly and the underside of my chin, even brushing the soles of my feet. I squirm and twist but I can’t escape the tickling hands. They’re everywhere, all at once. They’re torturing me! I’m trying not to squeal but it’s unbearable . . . I can’t keep it in any more . . . ‘Noooooooo! Aieeee! Hooooo! Heeeeee!’ Now I’m laughing, in spite of myself, breathing so hard that I’m becoming light-headed. ‘Arghhh! Eeeee! Ohhhh!’ I think I’m going to die if they tickle me any more. Has anybody ever died from being tickled? ‘Owwww! Ergggg! Oooo!’
They’ve stopped. Oh, the relief. I lie still, catching my breath, waiting for my pulse to slow down. Weirdly, I feel better than I have in days, calmer and more relaxed, although I’m not ready to let anyone else know that. I turn my face to the wall again.
‘I think she’s definitely alive,’ says Rosie. ‘She made a noise. It didn’t sound like a decomposing body to me. She wriggled a lot. And she feels warm too.’
Vix giggles. ‘It was a weird noise, though. It sounded more like a creature than a girl. A cat? What do you think, Rosie?’
‘Hmm, maybe we should check to make sure.’
I sense their hands coming closer again. Please, no! I leap up, pushing them away from me. It’s a reflex action – I’m still trying to pretend they’re not there. I won’t make eye contact with either of them.
Rosie sighs. ‘So, are you going to talk to us now? Because if you don’t we’re going to tickle you until you speak to us, or really do die. Your choice.’
‘Hrmph.’ It’s all I can manage. I can’t endure any more tickling, but speaking actual words would be giving in. ‘Pum.’
‘That’s a start,’ says Vix. At last.’ She sits down beside me on my bed. ‘OK, this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to get you some clothes. You’re going to put them on. No arguments.’
I pout. Rosie has already walked over to my wardrobe and is now rifling through my clothes. She returns with my favourite pair of skinny jeans and a newish, sparkly blue top I was saving for a night out. Arguing is futile. I put on the clothes without saying a word. The jeans feel looser than last time I wore them; I guess I must have lost some weight. I haven’t even felt like eating chocolate. I sit down on the bed again. Being dressed properly makes me feel better too, although again I don’t admit it.
Vix has my hairbrush in her hand. ‘You’ve got such gorgeous hair, Sky,’ she says, ‘even if it could do with a serious wash. Lucky we brought supplies. Rosie?’
Rosie hands her a bottle of dry shampoo, which she shakes over my scalp. It makes me cough. Then Vix brushes my hair, gently. The sensation is comforting and reminds me of being a little kid. Mum used to do it every night, a hundred strokes. ‘Right, now we’re going to do your make-up.’
They don’t bring me a mirror until they’ve finished. They’ve done a good job, although the result is a little more natural than I’d choose. I look healthier, less puffy-eyed, more like me. But they haven’t shaded my nose, or put enough powder on it. It shines out at me, beacon-like. Instinctively, I move my hand to cover it.
Vix notices. ‘You don’t need all that crappy dark stuff on your nose, Sky. You look beautiful without it. Trust me. Trust us.’
I nod, resigned.
Vix takes her phone out of her handbag. ‘I’m just going to take a quick snap, OK?’
I nod again, and make an effort at a smile. It’s more a grimace. The flash fires.
‘OK,’ says Rosie. She hands me my bag. ‘Have you got your keys?’
I shake my head.
‘Get them. We’re going out now.’
I must look anxious because she puts her hand on my shoulder, reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry not far. Just to my house. OK?’
I really don’t want to go out. I REALLY don’t want to go out. From somewhere, buried deep inside me, I find my voice. It cracks from lack of use. ‘N-o. P-lease. I don’t want to.’
‘Hey!’ Rosie laughs. ‘It speaks!’
I pout again.
‘Sorry, Sky,’ says Vix, ‘but you don’t have a choice.’ She takes one of my arms and Rosie takes the other. They drag me up from the bed and lead me to my door.
‘I’ll be really bad company,’ I protest, pulling back. ‘I appreciate you coming round and showing that you care, and I promise I’ll text you later and we can meet up soon, but I don’t feel like going out now. Just let me be alone.’
‘We’re not listening,’ says Vix, ‘and there’s no point shouting for your mum. She’s in on it too.’
Rosie lets go of me for a second to open my bedroom door. I try to wriggle away. ‘You got her?’ she asks Vix, who nods. ‘Right, let’s go.’
I really don’t like this. I even feel a little bit scared, although Rosie and Vix are my best friends and I know they’d never do anything to hurt me. ‘What are you doing? Wha
t’s going to happen?’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ says Rosie, ‘but we’re staging an intervention!’ It sounds like she’s copying a line in a film. If I weren’t so miserable and my arms weren’t being tugged out of their sockets I might even laugh.
‘A what?’
‘An intervention. It’s what they do to get celebrities to go to rehab when they don’t want to.’
‘But I’m not a celebrity. And I don’t need rehab.’
‘Yeah, that’s what they all say,’ says Rosie, dismissively. ‘If anybody needs this, you do. So stop arguing. Either you come with us voluntarily, or we’ll have to kidnap you.’
‘Or torture you again.’ Vix raises her eyebrow provocatively.
No! Anything but the tickling . . . ‘OK, OK, I give in.’
‘Trust us,’ says Vix. ‘We only want to help.’
‘I don’t need help,’ I mutter, under my breath. Vix and Rosie exchange ‘she’s deluded’ glances. They think I can’t see, but I can, and it niggles me.
I let them lead me down the stairs and out of the front door. We walk up the street, arm in arm, silently. I look straight ahead, feeling sulky and irritated. Halfway along, I contemplate making a run for it, and then think better of that idea. Whatever it is they have planned, I might as well get it over with.
‘Here we are,’ says Rosie, as we reach her house. Anyone would think I’d never been here before. She loosens her grip so she can fiddle with the keys and open the front door. Once we’re inside, she and Vix take me straight upstairs. They pause on the landing, outside Rosie’s bedroom door. ‘Right, Sky. Close your eyes and walk slowly into my bedroom. I’ll tell you when you can open them.’
‘O . . . K . . .’
‘No peeking.’
‘I said OK!’
Vix takes my hand and leads me into the room. I hear the door being shut gently behind me.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ says Rosie.
I’m not sure I want to. I open one eye, then the other and blink hard. The room comes into focus. Laid out before me on Rosie’s bedroom floor are dozens of printed A4 sheets, all lined up from one wall to the other. As I walk closer I can see that the sheets have images on them, then that they are all portrait photographs of a girl with dark hair. I bend down to pick one up. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
Rosie snorts. ‘It’s you, silly!’
‘No it isn’t.’ I study the picture. It’s me, but not me. My face, but not my face. I really don’t recognise myself. The girl doesn’t look like my dad or my mum or anybody else I know. If this girl turned up at a family reunion, they wouldn’t let her in. She looks weird, bland, like a doll or an identifit photo. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘This is you after your nose job,’ says Vix. ‘We sent your pics to a virtual plastic surgery website. It shows you what you’d look like if your features were changed.’
‘It’s the same software that the FBI uses,’ Rosie interrupts. ‘Like in CSI. Like when they’re trying to find kids who’ve gone missing years ago, or criminals who’ve had plastic surgery to evade justice. We just had to send in a pic of you and tell them what you wanted done, and then they doctored your photo so you could see what you’d look like after the operation.’ She smiles at me. ‘So what do you think of your new nose?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure.’ I concentrate on the picture again. My new nose is straighter, smaller, more refined, but it seems to throw all my other features off balance. It changes my whole face. My cheeks look fatter, my eyes less expressive, my mouth too big somehow. My face no longer has any character.
‘You look weird, don’t you?’ Rosie says. She bends down and picks up some more pictures, handing each one to me in turn. ‘We did tons of variations – gave you lots of different noses.’
‘I don’t like any of them,’ I admit, ‘but maybe it’s because they’re just pictures. Real surgery would be different.’
‘No it wouldn’t,’ says Vix. ‘Surgeons use this program. It’s realistic. Sky, can’t you see that you’re really pretty without anything changed? Much prettier, in fact.’
She shows me the photo she took on her phone earlier, then hands me another sheet, with a photo on it that I do recognise. It must be the original picture that they sent in to the website. I don’t look pretty in it, but at least I look like me again. And, though I can’t say it out loud, I do prefer my face the way it’s meant to be. Maybe it isn’t possible for me to get rid of my nose and still look like ‘me’. That’s not something I’d considered before.
Vix is waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she picks up some more sheets and giggles to herself. ‘Sorry, but we wanted to have a bit of fun too. Look: this is you with new nose and new eyebrows. We got you Botoxed!’
I stare at it, open mouthed. ‘Oh God, I look like Mr Spock out of Star Trek.’
‘Ha! You’re actually making that expression right now.’ Vix laughs.
‘Want to see what you’d look like with cheek implants and a chin implant?’ asks Rosie. ‘Oh, and with Angelina Jolie’s lips?’ She hands over a bundle of sheets.
‘Oh my God! I look like the elephant woman! Frankenstein’s monster! It’s hideous.’
‘Yeah,’ says Rosie. ‘Oh, and we had you aged as well. Want to know what you’ll look like at seventy?’
‘I’m not sure that I do . . .’
Rosie ignores me. ‘Here you go.’ She hands me another picture and, there, in front of me, is an old crone, with wrinkles, eye bags and saggy jowls. I look like my grandma . . . in about twenty years.
‘I don’t look seventy, I look about a thousand! I thought you guys were supposed to be making me feel better, not worse.’
‘Sorry, hon,’ says Vix. ‘We couldn’t resist. They said you won’t look quite that bad if you keep out of the sun, and if you don’t smoke or drink. Anyway, listen, why don’t you take the pictures home with you and have a think about them?’
‘What, keep them in a drawer so that I never age?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘OK . . .’ I sigh. ‘But you do know that I still hate my nose, right? It’s not going to be that easy to make me change my mind.’
‘Course not,’ says Vix. ‘And we know you’re still down about Rich and everything. Just think about it, OK?’
I nod. ‘I promise. Can I go home now?’
‘Not if you’re going to get all depressed again,’ says Rosie. ‘Only if you promise to switch your phone back on, log back into Facebook and agree to meet us for coffee after school tomorrow.’
‘Maybe,’ I say.
Rosie steps in front of me, to block my escape. She shakes her head.
‘OK, OK, I promise.’ I place my hand on the door handle, before she can change her mind. ‘I do love you guys, you know that?’
Vix smiles. ‘Yeah, we do. You don’t have to thank us.’
I laugh. ‘I wasn’t going to.’
I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear Rosie coming after me. I quicken my pace, worried that she’s going to try to kidnap me again.
‘Hey,’ she calls out, ‘don’t forget your photos . . .’
he Blues Kitchen is on the corner of Camden High Street and Delancey Street, halfway between Camden Town and Mornington Crescent tube stations. It’s bigger and brighter than the Dublin Castle – more a theme venue and restaurant than a pub – with a bourbon bar, pictures of blues stars on the walls and a menu of barbecue ribs and buffalo wings. I haven’t brought Vix and Rosie this time, even though Dad invited them. They’d only have got bored again, and I’d have felt bad if I wanted to leave them to talk to Dad alone. Saying that, we probably wouldn’t even have got in. When I arrived I had to tell the bouncer I was ‘with’ the band, and he only let me in because Sarah happened to be coming in at the same time, and vouched for me.
I’ve told Mum that I’ve gone round to Rosie’s house and that I’ll be home by eleven-thirty. Rosie really is seeing Laurie tonight. Vix is staying with a frie
nd and has been warned not to ring me on the home phone. I’m not too happy about the indelible ink stain on the top of my hand, which was stamped on me to prove I’d paid to come in. Somehow, I’ll have to scrub it off before Mum notices. I hate having to make all these complicated arrangements, hate telling all these lies, but I don’t have a choice, do I? And, compared to the biggest lie of all – the fact that I’m seeing Dad – they’re nothing.
The River Runners are on the small stage at the back now, playing almost exactly the same set as last time. I look around me and see many faces that are beginning to become familiar. The dark-haired girl is here again, swaying in time to the music, mouthing the words. She seems to know nearly all the songs off by heart. I wonder how long she’s been going out with Dad. She’s probably just like the woman he left Mum for: young, good-looking, with no children or responsibilities. I’m sure he’ll dump her too, soon enough. I’m going to ask him about her tonight.
I’m feeling much better than I was even just a few days ago, missing Rich less (as I dislike him more), spending time with my friends, feeling like myself. I wouldn’t say I’ve fully got my appetite back, but chocolate tastes good again. Even my nose is featuring less prominently in my thoughts (although, unfortunately, not on my face). Every night, I take the pictures Rosie and Vix gave me out of my bedside drawer and study them. At first I did it to try to get used to my new face, so that I’d be prepared for how I’d look after the operation, but that didn’t really work. Rosie and Vix have been keeping up their campaign. They did some more internet research and found several scary web forums about Dr Sierra, with former patients saying he’d butchered them and that they were suing. Rosie made me swear that even if I do decide to have a nose job one day, (‘which you DON’T need’) I will find someone else to do it. I said that they don’t have to worry: until I can afford to pay for surgery, there’s nothing I can do about my nose, except live with it. And breathe through it. And blow it, too, occasionally. Vix says the fact I can make jokes about it again is a very good sign.