‘Of course he is,’ said Mum, ‘but we’re OK without him, aren’t we? Us girls together!’
I nodded. ‘Sure. I guess.’ As always, I felt strange thinking about Dad. I hate him and I love him and I miss him and I don’t miss him, all at the same time. It’s so confusing.
Mum peered at me again, and I couldn’t tell if she was calculating how much I resembled Dad or whether she was just concerned about me. ‘I know you miss him sometimes, Sky. But you’re better off without him. We all are.’
‘Yeah. Probably.’ I grinned broadly, a fake grin. ‘But I shouldn’t moan – at least he gave me something,’ I joked, ‘even if it was his great, big, beaky nose. Cheers, Dad.’
Nobody laughed.
‘Another slice of cake, girls?’ said Auntie Julie, to break the tension. ‘This spelt cake really is good.’
I managed to get through the rest of the tea somehow, making small talk with my aunties about how I was doing at school and what GCSEs I’d chosen, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad, and how unfair it was that I was the one to look like him, when he made all of us so unhappy. The minute my aunties left the flat, I went into my bedroom, shut the door tight and fished around under my bed until I found my old photo albums. Then I leafed through them, hunting for pictures of my dad. I don’t have many, I realised with sadness: just a few old snaps of him holding me as a baby, and some from one Christmas when I was six or seven. And there were also a couple of photographs of him with Mum when they first met, pictures she was planning to throw out when she was really upset once, and that I rescued. She doesn’t know I have them.
I studied the photos, taking each one out and holding it up to my face in the mirror, so that I could compare my features with Dad’s. There was no getting away from it: Mum was right – I do have Dad’s nose. His is almost exactly the same shape as mine – slightly more crooked, perhaps (I think I remember him telling me that he broke it in an accident, when he was a kid) and on a larger scale, like the rest of him. But I’ve got the Carter Conk, all right. Funny, I used to want to take Dad’s name, to be Sky Carter, rather than Sky Smith, but Mum wouldn’t have it.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Grass, pushing open my bedroom door and making me jump. She never remembers to knock, probably because she got so used to sharing a room with me when we were younger. She came in, uninvited, and sat herself down beside me on the bed.
‘Nothing,’ I said, clumsily trying to hide the photos under my duvet.
Too late. She’d seen them. ‘Are you looking at old pictures?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Of what?’
‘Nothing much. Just stuff from when I was a kid.’
‘Are you looking at photos of Dad?’ She squashed up closer to me.
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Can I have a look?’ She sounded very curious. ‘I don’t really remember him at all. I can’t see him in my head.’ She’s only eleven now; she was tiny when he left.
‘I guess,’ I said, handing over a photo of me sitting on Dad’s lap. ‘Don’t you remember how he used to sing to us?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really.’ She picked up one of the photos and pulled a face. ‘Was he good?’
‘Yes, really good. He played in bands. He could play loads of instruments – the guitar, the harmonica, the piano . . .’
‘Ocean says he wasn’t a nice guy. She hates him.’
‘Ocean just thinks whatever Mum says she should think,’ I told her. ‘He wasn’t all bad. He was funny and he used to love playing silly games with us. I remember that he’d let us ride around the living room on his back, like he was a horse. And he’d make up stupid songs that rhymed for us.’
She smiled at me. ‘Do you think we’ll ever see him again?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
I didn’t tell Grass this, but I also clearly remember the last conversation I had with Dad. It was the day before he left for good.
‘I’m going away for a while,’ he told me. ‘On the road.’
‘Will you be back soon?’
‘Probably,’ he lied. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Will you bring me a present when you come home?’
‘Of course I will, Sky-blue. It’s a promise.’
Six years later, I’m still waiting.
oday is back to school day. Already. The summer holidays are never long enough. At the start, six weeks seems like forever – days and days of doing whatever you like (if you don’t get carted off to Goa against your will, that is), waking up late, seeing your friends – and then, all of a sudden, it’s time to go back to school again. Worse, just two days in, it feels like you’ve never been away.
What’s weird is that, even though the holidays go in a flash, people do seem to change over those six weeks. Maybe it’s the fresh air or the sunshine, but everyone seems to come back taller. People – boys especially – who came up to your shoulders in the summer term are suddenly the same height as you.
I measured myself when I got up this morning. Over the summer I’ve grown a total of four centimetres: two in height and two in nose length. To be fair, the amount my nose has grown is just a guess; I’ve never measured it before today. But it must be at least twice as long as it was in July. My beak is now a whopping five and a half centimetres from the middle of my eyebrows, where it starts, to the tip, where it – finally – ends. Then I Googled nose length and discovered that for an average European woman, like me, it should be just five point one centimetres. If that’s not bad enough, I’m an overachiever in the protrusion stakes too. The average nose sticks out by two point two centimetres; mine is two point three. And we’re not even mentioning the bent bit. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever wanted to be average at anything. Less is definitely more, when it comes to your nose.
I put the tape measure in my schoolbag, so I could measure Rosie and Vix’s noses later this afternoon, when we meet. And then, in desperation, I Googled ways to make your nose look smaller. The page I found told me that if I wanted to make my nose look shorter, I should apply my regular foundation all over my face, and then put one shade darker underneath, where my nostrils meet. But I don’t have two shades of foundation, just some organic, vegan, tinted moisturiser that Mum bought me for Christmas. I snuck into Ocean’s room and ‘borrowed’ some of hers, painting it on over the top of my base. It looked ridiculous, like I’d accidentally stuck my nose in a cup of hot chocolate and forgotten to wipe it off. I had to wash my face and start all over again. On my second attempt, I used Ocean’s bronzer instead, which looked slightly better. Then, as instructed, I defined my eyes with eyeliner to make them look bigger and detract attention away from my nose. I also tried another tip from the article: parting my hair on the side, instead of in the centre. Believe me, that doesn’t work when you’ve got a bob, and a fringe. I made such a mess of my hair that I had to wet it down and blow dry it again. All of which made me late for school. Which wasn’t a good way to start the year.
And, frankly, the day has gone downhill from there. I couldn’t find my new classroom, got into trouble for being late and had to take a desk right at the front, under the teacher’s nose and miles away from Rich. He didn’t save me a place next to him, like I hoped he would. Instead, he positioned himself in the back corner, next to Luke. I still haven’t had a chance to talk to him about yesterday. I tried last night, but he didn’t come online and, when I texted him Goodnight, he replied See you tomorrow, without even putting a kiss. At breaktime, he played football with his mates.
Now I’m trying to find the GCSE drama room, and I’m lost again.
‘Hey, Sky, come over here.’
Here we go, I think. The invitation is from Ella North and it spells trouble. Ella isn’t my friend. She’s one of those weasly girls who does anything she can find to make herself look more attractive/popular and less boring/stupid. Bitchiness is her MO. She travels around with a coven of girls who are even more weasly than she is and therefor
e too scared to stand up to her. It’s times like these that I wish Rosie and Vix went to the same school as me. When you’ve got a mum like mine, and a slightly weird name to boot, people like to pick on you. Or try to. It never used to bother me; I’m not your typical victim – I’ve got tons of friends and a boyfriend, which is more than the bullies have. Usually, I give as good as I get and they soon grow tired and move on to someone else. But I’m not feeling very confident today, what with my worries about my ever-expanding nose and about Rich, and I just want to be left in peace.
‘I’m in a hurry,’ I say. ‘Got somewhere to be.’
‘Next period doesn’t start for five minutes.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘Rude, or what?’ says Ella, turning to her coven. They all cackle together. ‘I only wanted to ask if you had a good summer.’
I offer her my fakest smile. ‘It was lovely, thanks. You?’
‘Oh yes, mine was fabulous. So have you been on holiday?’
‘Yeah, to Goa.’
She smirks. ‘Thought so. Must have been really sunny there.’
‘Duh, it’s Goa. It’s near the equator. Of course it was sunny.’
‘Well, you got a hell of a tan.’
‘No I didn’t,’ I say, lifting up my arm and pushing my sleeve back. Barely even a watch mark. I’m less than half a shade darker than I usually am because Mum insisted that we smother ourselves in hideous natural sunscreen made from zinc. It made me look like a Goth. ‘Not really.’
Ella peers at me, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Then why is your nose, like, bright orange?’
I contest that. My nose, like the rest of my face, is now almost certainly bright red with embarrassment. Of all the things she could pick on, why did she have to choose my nose? ‘No it isn’t,’ I say, unconvincingly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I’m mortified.
Ella reaches into her bag and pulls out a powder compact. ‘Yes it is,’ she says, smirking, as she clicks it open. ‘Look.’ She pushes the mirror in front of my face. She’s right: over the course of the morning Ocean’s bronzing powder has combined with the oils in my skin and transformed to the colour of orangeade. Orangeade now mixed with humiliation. Instead of making my nose look smaller, as I intended, my efforts have made it look twice as obvious. ‘Not a good look, Sky, is it, eh? Unless you were going for the “I’ve been Tangoed” look.’
‘I must have rubbed something on it by accident,’ I say feebly. ‘I’ll go and wash it off.’
‘Good idea,’ she says. She sounds smug, victorious. ‘See you later, Sky.’
I force myself to smile, to make it seem that I’m not bothered. ‘Sure.’ I turn and walk away as fast as I can, so she can’t see that my eyes are brimming with tears.
By the time the final bell rings, I have never, ever been so desperate to see my best friends. I’ve arranged to meet Vix and Rosie at Starbucks, which is right on the canal by Camden Lock. Now that summer is over, there won’t be many more evenings when we can sit outside in the sunshine after school and watch the colourful people of Camden pass by.
‘I’ve had a horrible day,’ I say, as we queue for our drinks. ‘Please tell me something nice to cheer me up.’
‘What’s up, Sky?’ Vix rubs my arm, affectionately. ‘Are you still worrying about what Rich said yesterday?’
‘Yeah, that and the fact I had the worst start to the year that you can imagine.’
We sit and I tell them about my bronzing powder disaster, and Ella North, and the fact that Rich hardly said two words to me all day.
‘I know just the thing,’ says Rosie. ‘Remember what I mentioned before, Vix? The thing that Sky would kill to do. Have we got time?’
Vix glances at her phone. ‘I reckon so. If we walk fast.’ She gets up from her chair, grabbing her half-finished frappuccino and jacket. ‘Come on, Sky.’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Not telling you,’ says Rosie, pulling my chair out from behind me, so I have to get up too. ‘It’s a surprise. Promise you’ll like it though.’
Vix takes one of my arms and Rosie the other, then they lead me a little way up Camden High Street. We cross the road and turn into Hawley Crescent.
‘Are we going to the MTV studios?’ I ask, excited now.
‘We sure are,’ says Rosie, ‘and hopefully, we’re going to see someone who should make you feel a whole lot better.’
‘Cool! Who is it?’
‘Not telling you! I can’t believe you don’t know about it already, though. Guess!’
I rack my brains. Rosie likes pop music and guitar bands, while I’m more into R&B and urban music. ‘I don’t have a clue. It can’t be Fieldstar, because they’re away on tour . . . Beyoncé?’
‘No, much better than that. Well, in your opinion, anyway.’
We’ve joined a large crowd, which has gathered outside the studios. I search their faces for clues. They don’t look like indie kids, or emos. Most of them are around my age, and some of them are really dressed up, like they’re going out for the night. I wish I wasn’t in my school uniform. Just as I’m about to say, ‘I give up’, there’s a roar from the crowd and someone emerges from the MTV building, surrounded by minders. Rosie shoves me forward and, stumbling, I somehow find myself right at the front of the crowd, staring straight up into the gorgeous features of Bizzie Trip.
‘Oh my God!’
I guess I’ve been so preoccupied with my worries that the news that one of my favourite R&B stars will be up the road – in person – has completely passed me by. I’ve been playing his new album nonstop on my iPod for the past month. I know all the words by heart. Especially the rude ones.
Bizzie smiles directly at me and, when I hold out my hand towards him, I’m certain he touches my fingers for just a few more milliseconds than he does everyone else’s. I grapple, desperately, with the insides of my school bag to find something for him to sign. All I can find is my GCSE science textbook. It will have to do. He takes it, regards it curiously for a moment, then opens it randomly and scrawls his signature across one of its pages. He just manages to hand it back before he disappears into another section of the crowd.
From now on, for the rest of my life, whenever I remember the formula for copper oxide, I will think of Bizzie Trip.
Feeling light-headed but happy, I find my way back to Rosie and Vix, who are waiting for me at the entrance. ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, hugging each of my friends in turn. ‘I love you two. You’re the best. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Yeah, we know,’ says Rosie, beaming. ‘Hey, you’re not so bad yourself.’
I laugh. And then I realise that, for a few minutes at least, I have almost forgotten about my nose. I say ‘almost’ because, when you’ve got a nose as big as mine, you can never entirely forget about it. Whichever way you look, you can always see it out of the corner of your eye.
’m sitting at my dressing table, carefully applying my make-up for school, when Mum knocks on the door. I can tell it’s her because, as always, she gives it three sharp taps. She won’t let me have a lock on the door – she doesn’t believe we should have any secrets from each other or, even, that being naked is anything to be embarrassed about (cringe). Like most normal people, I don’t agree, so, when she started walking in unannounced, I started putting a chair in front of the handle to block her. Then she started worrying about what I might be getting up to in here. ‘Are you taking drugs, Sky?’ The knocking thing is our compromise.
‘What are you doing?’ she says, when it must be pretty obvious, given that I’ve got a pot of foundation in one hand and a brush in the other. She glances at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you have left for school already? You’re going to be late again.’
I tut, irritated by her nagging. ‘I’ll be quicker if you leave me to it.’
‘Why do you need so much make-up for school? Are you even allowed to wear make-up at school? You know you really should let your skin breathe
.’
Breathe? What is she going on about? I’m hardly planning to put foundation on from head to toe so that I suffocate, like the woman who was painted gold in that old James Bond film. ‘My skin is fine. Don’t go on at me, Mum.’
She shrugs. ‘I’m just worried about you, Sky. Every time I see you these days you’re staring into that mirror. You used to read. You used to make things. You used to care about real issues. Now all you care about is the way you look. What’s happened to you, Sky?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. But her criticism stings. She’s right – I never did used to think much about my looks. Now I’m so preoccupied with my nose – whether it’s shiny, who can see me in profile, if it’s grown – that I barely have time to think about anything else. It’s taking me longer and longer to get ready for school. Not that I’m going to admit that to her. ‘I’ve just grown up and got a mind of my own.’
‘Growing up doesn’t mean you have to become shallow and obsessed with make-up.’
‘I’m not shallow! I do still care about important stuff. Anyway, you care what you look like too,’ I counter. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t spend money on expensive organic sulphate-free shampoo, cruelty-free make-up and fair-trade hemp clothes in rainbow colours!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your appearance,’ she says, ‘but it certainly should not be the only thing you think about.’
‘It’s not! Besides, I wouldn’t have to think about it if I wasn’t so hideous! It’s not my fault I’ve got a deformed nose. I need plastic surgery!’
She tuts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your nose is fine. I think the problem is that you spend too much time looking at unrealistic images in fashion magazines. Those pictures have been airbrushed, you know. Nobody really looks like that.’
Here we go . . . This is one of Mum’s favourite lectures. Everything is The Media’s fault, apparently. It really grates when she says that – does she think I don’t have a mind of my own?
‘That’s rubbish!’ I shout. I’m wound up now. ‘Anyway, you’re the one who’s guilty of airbrushing! You’ve airbrushed Dad out of our lives. I think the reason you don’t want to talk about my nose is because when you look at it, it reminds you of him, and you don’t want to think about him.’