Authors: Karen McCombie
“I have to say I’m very disappointed in you, Sarah.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“I really thought you, out of everyone, would be more professional,” Mr Fisher shakes his head and stares hard at me.
It’s funny, isn’t it? Not so long ago I felt terrible for Mr Fisher; I was mortified that he’d been emotionally blackmailed by my lying little sister. And even though he didn’t know anything about that – the helpless sympathy I felt for him (just like I was helplessly sorry for myself) – I can’t help resenting the fact that he’s angry with me now. I just can’t take the way his eyes are boring more guilt into my head. There’s enough guilt and confusion
and unhappiness stuffed in here to last me until I’m an old lady; I don’t need another load of it from my so-called favourite teacher. I turn my head and gaze out of the window, only semi-aware of the ice-tipped grass of the school lawn directly outside.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider? It’s not too late…”
Friday morning at break, just twenty minutes before the minibus takes Mr Fisher and the rest of the band off to the Forestdean Arena to rehearse for the Battle of the Bands competition this afternoon.
I can’t help a wry smile.
“I don’t think the others would be exactly thrilled to see me climb in the front seat with you,” I tell him, and then immediately see I’ve made a mistake – he thinks I’m making light of it all; being petty and flippant, instead of stating a truth. The whole week, my former best friends Angel and Cherish have blanked me entirely (it’s as if it’s easier to hate me than hate Joel, who’s the actual
cause
of Angel’s misery). And Sal and Conor? Thankfully, I haven’t bumped into them once, for which I count my blessings. (Not that it takes too long, since I haven’t got many of
them
at the moment.)
“Please yourself,” Mr Fisher shrugs, gazing down at the floor and signalling that this meeting is over.
I bet he regrets sending for me now. I bet he regrets getting me those brochures for music college, since I’m so juvenile and ungrateful in his eyes.
“Good luck this afternoon,” I mutter as I make my way out of the classroom.
“Thanks, Sarah,” I hear him mumble flatly behind me.
Those music college brochures, they’re still at the bottom of my other bag. I’m going to go home at lunchtime and tear them into tiny pieces. And poor Mum and Dad: they forked out so much money to repair my guitar and I’m never going to play it again. What a waste.
“Sarah!” a voice pants along the crowded corridor. “Wait a minute!”
I flip my head around to look for the source of the voice, one that I don’t recognise straight away.
“I just wanted to ask you something…” Pamela says to me breathlessly, appearing by my side.
A very cute, shy-looking Asian boy with enormous, doll-like eyes is with her.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Is it true you’re not in the school band any more?”
They’re both staring at me intently.
“Yes. I mean,
no,
I’m not in the band any more.”
“It’s got something to do with Megan, hasn’t it?” asks Pamela bluntly.
“Why do you say that?” I frown at her.
“She likes to spoil things. She tried to break up me and Tariq,” she babbles, pointing her thumb in the direction of the boy. “She said she’d gone to ask him out for me, but she didn’t – she told him I didn’t like him any more. We only found out yesterday, when Tariq’s best mate told me what had happened, didn’t we?”
Tariq nods enthusiastically. “She’s just, like, really jealous or something.”
“Or a lying bitch,” Pamela corrects him.
Not so long ago, I’d have snapped at Pamela for saying that, but not any more.
“Yeah, but just because she tried to split up you and…and…”
What weird sense of loyalty was making me automatically stick up for my sister, when I knew I was wasting my time?
“Tariq,” says Tariq helpfully.
“—thanks. Just ‘cause she tried to split you two up doesn’t mean she had anything to do with me quitting the band,” I say warily to Pamela, although I know deep down that somehow it does. It’s just that gullible old me hasn’t figured it out yet.
“But she fancies Conor! She told me weeks ago, when you were first going out with him. If she can try and
come between me and Tariq, then she could try and split you and Conor up too. And when I heard you’d left the band, I thought she must have said or done something, so you guys wouldn’t be together so much.”
“Well, she made sure of
that
all right,” I mumble in shock. “I’m sorry, Pamela – I’ve got to go, I’m in a hurry…”
A hurry to get out of here before I’m sick.
“Nice to meet you!” Tariq’s voice calls self-consciously after me.
He seems a nice lad – I hope he’s a better friend to Pamela than my sister’s ever been.
And with that thought in my mind, just as the end-of-break bell shrills, I push the side door open and run straight out of school.
“All right, love?”
It’s Mrs Harrison, popping out from behind a withered, leafless rose bush with a set of pruning shears in her hand.
“No,” I answer her honestly.
“Here,” she says, quickly stuffing her shears in her pocket and holding her hands out towards me. At first, I don’t understand what she means and then I realise she wants me to give her
my
hands.
I don’t know why, but I do as I’m told.
She turns them palm up, so that the backs are resting on the bristling hedge that borders her garden.
“It’ll be all right in time, sweetheart. But it
will
take some time…then you’ll know real freedom. In the mean time, you’ve got to start looking out for number one. Do you hear me?”
I do, but I don’t know that I understand. Still, with the jumble my head’s in, that isn’t exactly a surprise.
“I don’t mean that you should be selfish,” Mrs Harrison continues, her peach face powder looking an even odder shade now she’s out in daylight. “After all, there’s plenty of people good at
that
without a speck of conscience to bother them – but that’s not you, dear. It’s not often I’ll say this to someone, but you’ve got to stop always trying to please everyone else and start pleasing yourself. It’s the only way you’ll get the happiness you deserve…”
I don’t know why, but suddenly I want to cry. And suddenly the one person I really want to talk to is my mum. I know it’s been hard, that she hasn’t had much time for me ‘cause she’s been so wound up and worried about Megan since last summer (or make that since Megan’s been
born),
but right now I don’t feel too self-sufficient. Right now I need her to feel sorry for me and tell me she’ll make everything all right.
“Thank you – but I’ve got to go,” I whisper and turn on my heel and run down our street.
I can see the living room light’s on – it’s a cold, overcast day and the sky’s colour is more like a wintry four o’clock than the mid-morning brightness it should be. But at least the light being on means Mum’s home, thank goodness.
“Hello? Sweetpea?! What are you doing home, what’s wrong?” she panicks as soon as she sees me hurry through the front door.
How lovely! How I’ve missed being called that stupid nickname this last week. I’m Sweetpea again, not the prodigal daughter. With one simple use of my goofy nickname, it feels like the slate is wiped clean. All is forgiven and I could kiss her.
And then Mum spoils it.
“Is it Megan? Is there something wrong with Megan? It’s Megan, isn’t it? Tell me!”
And then I know I’m wasting my time. Whatever accusation I throw my sister’s way, however I try and explain what she’s said and done against me, Mum will
always
take her side. She’ll bat back everything I tell her with a get-out clause to excuse my sister’s every fault: “You must have taken it the wrong way, Sarah”; “Megan’s been through a lot, remember”; “I know she
can be difficult, but you’ve got to make allowances for her”; “You know what the doctor said – she’s still quite fragile, she needs our support and understanding”; “My God, how can you say things like that, Sarah? Don’t you remember your sister nearly
died?”
Oh, yes, I remember the night it looked like my sister might die. Die of jealousy, because for once, Mum and Dad gave me the full glare of their attention. For one night only, they stopped their habit of always trying to include a reluctant Megan in their every conversation. “Well, sixteen is a very special age, so let’s
make
it special, eh, Sarah?” Dad had smiled when he pushed open the door to the poshest restaurant I’d ever been to. Not too posh to make me a birthday cake though, and I practically started blubbing when the lights went down and the entire place sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me as the waiter weaved towards me with a cake twinkling with candles. Of course, the only one
not
singing was Megan, who grunted about going to the loo the second my surprise appeared out of the kitchen doorway.
One night.
One
measly
night.
Megan couldn’t even let me have that one single, solitary night of feeling special. She
had
to hijack my birthday and turn it into her own drama once we got home.
Thanks, little sis – thanks very much.
“Mum, Megan’s fine. There’s nothing wrong!” I assure my frantic mother, feeling irritated instead of sorry for her for the first time ever. Maybe if Mum hadn’t been such a walkover for Megan all these years, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re all in now. Maybe if she’d listened to Gran’s advice all those years ago…
“Then why are you home at this time, Sarah?”
“It’s the Battle of the Bands today, remember? The whole school got off early so they can go and support them if they want.”
Well,
that
lie tripped easily out of my mouth. Whatever next?
“You know, I still don’t understand why you dropped out of the band,” she frowns at me. “It seems very silly.”
Silly, that’s me – silly for ever thinking I could count on any support around this place, when all the support Mum and Dad can muster has already been assigned to Megan.
“Like I told you, it was a case of musical differences,” I shrug, letting another little lie float into the air. “Anyway, I’ve got some homework. I’m going to use the time to catch up. ‘Scuse me.”
“Well, even though you’re not involved any more, I hope you still wished Meggie good luck for this afternoon!” Mum’s voice drifts up the stairs after me.
“Mum, she’s not
in
the band,” I reply through gritted teeth, without looking back down at her.
I just want to get to my room and get on with tearing those music college brochures into tiny pieces (and the rest of my room too, the mood I’m in), but before I reach the door, something stops me in my tracks. Megan’s door is slightly ajar…and it looks like she’s got something new on her dresser. I squint; it’s a whole
heap
of new somethings, where normally an old lamp and a pile of her favourite books sit.
I can’t resist peeking, seeing what’s sparking Megan’s interest at the moment, apart from trying to wreck my life, that is.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly isn’t this mini-shrine, with a semi-circle of tea-light candles set around a brooding picture of a girl (isn’t that PJ Harvey?) and a bundle of what – lavender? – tied with twine next to them. There’s a partially burnt piece of paper here too, with snatches of writing still visible.
‘He will be mine, he will be mine, he will be mine…’
And what’s this?
“Witch Way Now?
–
Spells To Make Your Life Special!…”
I read out loud, lifting the book that’s lying open beside all this paraphernalia.
It’s one of those books that everyone went crazy over
last year – strict parents and moral guardians were up in arms, moaning on about the dangers of encouraging kids to mess with witchcraft, while the teen mags wrote about what harmless fun they were; how they were mostly filled with confidence-boosting advice disguised as something more exotic.
A spell? So is this what Meg’s been up to? I flip the book around in my hand and read the heading: ‘The It Should Have Been Me! Love Spell’. What’s this in aid of? Is she hoping Conor’s going to fall for her today? Has she been praying to the dark powers of PJ Harvey that Conor will pull the clipboard out of her hands and kiss her madly?!
“Good luck…” I mumble sarcastically, chucking the book back down on the table and hurrying away from Meg’s room, and away from this creepy little hocus-pocus set-up.
But, God, I wish I knew a spell that would stop my heart tearing open every time I let a thought of that boy into my head.
“Here…you want this? It’s got vodka in it!” the boy asks, sidling up to me as I sit on a bench high up at the back of the darkened seating area of the arena. He’s holding out a white plastic cup.
Good grief, I’ve just been hit on by a twelve-year-old boy. He’s from that hip-hop band; the ones who should have won the competition. They were miles better than the goth band and…and whatever it was that my ex-fellow band members had finally decided to call themselves.
“No thanks,” I shake my head at the cup, and turn my gaze away from him and back to everyone dancing down below. I hope he gets the message and leaves me alone.
Yeah,
right.
“I don’t remember seeing you around. Were you in one of the bands?” Hip-hop boy quizzes me.
“No, I just came to watch.”
And torture myself.
“Well, you missed the coach back to your school then,” he informs me of something I already know. “Everyone else left ages ago.”
I don’t say anything, I’m too busy musing about what Megan’s up to. I watched her walk away from the rest of the band a few minutes ago and perch herself on the lip of Stage 2. She’s doing a lot of hair flicking and gazing around soulfully, like she’s waiting for someone to notice her. Then he did – Conor and her have been whispering together, heads practically touching, for the last few minutes. What could they be talking about it? Meg’s starring role, stepping into my shoes?
“Sure I can’t tempt you?” asks Hip-Hop boy, wafting the drink under my nose.
The old me would have been nice to him, indulged him. He’d have mistaken my friendliness for interest and I’d have been stuck with him for an hour while he tried to get me drunk and score points with his twelve-year-old mates for snogging an older girl. But it’s like Mrs Harrison said, I’ve got to think of myself more.
“Sorry,” I shrug and stand up now that I’ve seen enough.
More
than enough. “Got to go – got stuff to do.”
“What, stuff that’s more interesting than hanging out with me?” Hip-hop boy grins cheekily. He’s got some nerve, I’ll give him that. He should try working that charm on girls his own age; he’d blow them away.
I give him a little wave and a smile for his trouble and veer along the aisle towards the stairs. Actually, I spun that boy a line there. The only ‘stuff’ I’ve got to do is get myself out of here without being spotted by anyone I know.
Of course, that wasn’t my initial plan, oh no. I didn’t mean to sneak in here and play spy unnoticed. The reason I changed my mind and came along here to the Battle of the Bands competition was because I
wanted
to see Angel and Cherish, and even Conor, if I could face it. I know how that sounds – like I’m a glutton for punishment, but honest, it’s not that way at all. After I’d tried to talk to Mum earlier, after I’d seen all that surreal, spook stuff in Megan’s room, after I’d spread out all the music college brochures on my bed and stared at them, deciding which one to tear up first, it suddenly sank in – what Mrs Harrison had been saying to me, I mean.
So I decided to get along here this afternoon, not to watch the band do their thing without me, but to catch
my friends afterwards and confront them. Instead of cowering away in confusion – being sweet, non-confrontational Sarah as usual – I decided I wanted to have it out with them: ask Angel why she prefers to be mad at me instead of Joel; ask Cherish if our friendship means so little that she feels she can flip out at me without giving me the chance to defend myself; ask Conor why he chooses to listen and believe Megan over me. So what if I didn’t much like their answers, I just needed to know, for
me.
Well, that was the plan, till all my new-found confidence seeped away the second I saw Megan – glammed up and smirking – step up to the mike between my not-so-best-friends…
I sat rigid and stunned after that, even once all the rest of the audience had cheered or booed the winners, depending on their allegiance, and filed their way out. I didn’t go and find the others, didn’t have it out with them, didn’t make it up with anyone like I’d half-hoped. Instead, I’d just sat and sat, watching my sister ingratiate herself with my old crowd, until she’d pulled her little-girl-lost routine and lured Conor to her.
The exit door’s in sight now, a beam of neon light shining harshly in the corridor beyond, guiding me out of this dark and suddenly claustrophobic hall. I’m almost
there; just need to squeeze my way past these girls here…and the DJ decks that have been set up there, and…
Oh.
He must have been asking the DJ for a request. Now he’s turning away, en route back to
her,
but he stops dead when he sees me, looking about as glad to set eyes on me as he would be if I was Jack the Ripper and Cruella De Vil rolled into one. Why do I get the feeling that I’m the bad guy here?
“Hello, Conor,” I say as boldly as I can.
I haven’t done anything wrong, just remember that…
“Hello, Sarah,” he replies dryly.
Piss off, Sarah, is what I think he really means.
“The band sounded good,” I tell him, hoping I sound gracious and grown-up.
“Yeah, Megan did really well,” he says pointedly. “Everyone thought so.”
Tell him about all her lies,
a defensive voice whispers in my head.
Tell him about her deliberately wrecking your stuff; tell him what she’s done to her own best friend; tell him what you’ve just realised
–
that Megan’s not sad and troubled, that she’s selfish and manipulative; tell him that the whole of your childhood – your life – has been messed up by this miserable
shadow of gloom that Megan casts over your whole family…
But as I stare into his hooded eyes, I know that it would be like trying to tell Mum what was going on and expecting to be believed. Just like our parents, Megan’s got Conor – and my friends too, by the look of it – wrapped around her little finger. Maybe she’s got a real talent for it, this ability to reel people in, or maybe she’s just a bit of a witch after all, in more ways than one.
“See you, Sarah,” he mutters flatly and moves off.
“See you…” I mutter after him, feeling that familiar and unwelcome tear at my heart.
With a shudder, I pull my coat close around me and hurry out of the gloom of the hall and into the retina-frazzling brightness of the corridor.
Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back,
I tell myself, sure that the sight of Megan and Conor together will hurt more than I can stand.
“Sarah?”
A familiar, friendly voice.
I turn quickly to locate it, like I’m searching for a life-raft to save myself sinking into a tide of misery.
“Are you OK?” asks Mr Fisher, taking hold of my elbow just before my shaking legs give way.
“Yeah…I just felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden,” I lie,
letting Mr Fisher lead me over to a couple of plastic chairs in the corridor.
“Do you want me to get one of the St John’s Ambulance people to take a look at you?” he asks, his face full of concern as he sits down next to me.
“No!” I shake my head, desperate to avoid any fuss. “I just realised I haven’t eaten today – stupid me! It’s probably just that…”
Mr Fisher stares hard at me as if he’s not sure if he entirely believes what I’m telling him.
“Listen, Sarah,” he says after a couple of seconds’ silence, “I’m glad you’re here – I just wanted to say sorry for coming down so hard on you this morning. I’ve just…well, I’ve just had a bit of extra pressure going on at the moment, but I was wrong to take it out on you.”
Extra pressure? Could he be talking about Megan’s not-so-subtle attempts at blackmail, just to get involved with the band?
“And I really rate you, Sarah – your talent I mean,” Mr Fisher clarified hurriedly, “so I guess I was disappointed that you weren’t going to be performing today.”
I think Mr Fisher is expecting some kind of response, but something has just occurred to me: it’s only been a couple of hours since my music teacher lost his temper with me, but here he is now, apologising and
obviously giving me the chance to say my piece, if I want to. Conor, who was supposed to be my boyfriend, has never done that, never once in the last week let me explain or heard my side of the story, whether it was the business of my so-called ‘flirting’ with Seb at the party or the stuff about me supposedly betraying Angel’s confidence. How much could I have meant to him if it’s so easy for him to believe the worst of me? And how can I care about someone who doesn’t care about me? And, of course, the same goes for Cherish and Angel. Oh yes, if there’s one thing I’ve learned lately – after years of trying to look out for Megan – it’s that it’s a total waste of your love and your life to care for people who throw it all back in your face.
All of a sudden – at that realisation – I feel a warm wave of relief slip over me. It’s like all the unhappiness and disappointment I’ve been feeling, along with Conor’s hold over my heart, is all ebbing away.
“Anyway, I just found out something pretty exciting,” I hear Mr Fisher say. “At least I hope
you’ll
think it’s exciting, Sarah.”
“Oh, yes? What is it?” I ask him, managing my first smile in days.
“The organisers of the Battle of the Bands – they’ve just told me they’re organising another competition next
term, for solo performers this time. But it’s going to be much higher profile, with regional winners going to a schools final in London at the end of the year. They’re talking about some great prizes – even bursaries for music schools. I really think you should go for it, Sarah. You’re one of the most naturally talented students I’ve ever taught.”
Mr Fisher’s words hang tantalisingly in the air and I feel goosebumps prickle over every particle of my skin.
“Hey, you still look a little white,” he frowns, mistaking my stunned silence for a sign of illness. “There’s a cafe upstairs – why don’t we go up there and get you some water and something to eat? And we can chat more about this competition…”
“OK,” I nod, letting him help me to my feet.
We can chat about the competition for sure, and maybe we should chat about something else too: the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about what my parents think of him and me, considering that any weird ‘him and me’ concerns on their part were only ever a figment of my sister’s vivid and vindictive imagination. After all, maybe I’ve always protected her in the past, but I don’t owe Megan any loyalty any more; she’s made sure of that. The only person I need to be loyal to is myself – isn’t that more or less what Mrs Harrison advised me?
“Feeling all right?” Mr Fisher checks with me as we begin to walk towards the stairwell leading up to the cafe,
I
am
all right,
more
than all right now that Mr Fisher’s helped me glimpse a future that doesn’t involve being emotionally manipulated by my little sister, or let down by people I thought I could count on (Conor, Angel, Cherish…I’m talking about you). But strangely, I can’t help myself; I can’t resist turning quickly for one last look back into the hall…and see them straight away – Megan and Conor – slow-dancing to some fast song I vaguely recognise and don’t much like.
Maybe it’s one of those psychic, sisterly things, but Megan chooses that second to glance over Conor’s shoulder, and instantly her eyes smile at me, and the fingers of one hand raise off his neck just long enough to give me a small, victorious wave…
If she’s hoping that upsets me, then she’s wrong – I watch her and feel nothing but a wonderful, soul-preserving numbness. Once upon a time – up till a few minutes ago, in fact – everything in my world, in my life, was affected by Megan and her moods, but I’m not going to let that happen any more. I’ve got better things to do; starting now, I’m going to look forward to my bright, shiny future, maybe one that involves a music college in a couple of years time. Yep, I like the sound of that – a
college far, far away from here, from my past and from Megan. (Better dig those brochures out of the bin when I get home.)
It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to come quick enough, but I’ll get there.
Wish me luck. Better still, wish me patience – I think I’m going to need it…