In Sarah's Shadow

by Karen McCombie

  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.

  Chapter 2

  Good times, bad vibes

  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 he
ard 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.

  Chapter 3

  Twitterings and warnings

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to scare you. I haven’t scared you, have I?”

  I’d be a lot less scared if Mrs Harrison would stop gripping my arm quite so tightly in her amazingly strong, wiry hand.

  “It’s just that it’s a bit hard to take in,” I try to say tactfully.

  It’s just that this whole thing sounds like a complete load of rubbish. Like the deluded rantings of someone going ever so gently but firmly senile.

  I mean, none of what this mad old dear has just said can be true, because a) Megan might not be the easiest person to live with, but there’s no way she “means harm” – or whatever sinister way Mrs Harrison put it – to me or anyone else; and b) Meg’s always been spooked by this woman – she never got over the kind of wariness that all the local kids feel about Mrs Harrison – and therefore she would never, ever
set foot inside her house for a tarot reading, like Mrs Harrison claimed happened yesterday.

  Uh-uh, no way…

  “I know you’re only young—”

  Oh, God, please don’t patronise me! I think to myself, keeping what I hope is a polite, tolerant smile on my face as Mrs Harrison drivels on. (Mum’s always drummed it into me to be nice to the neighbours at all times, but it’s proving to be a bit of a struggle right now.)

  “—and it’s very hard to understand concepts like the spiritual world—”

  It’s very hard to understand Mrs Harrison, full stop. Urgh…if I’d only been able to find my other glove earlier, if I hadn’t faffed about wasting time looking for it, then maybe she wouldn’t have spotted me and dragged me into her house. Maybe I’d be well on the way to rehearsal by now, arriving nice and early in the hope of a bit of time alone with Conor. Although there’s been so much of that this last week that I can hardly complain. One date at the skateboarding show on Sunday (and several snogs after!) and we were officially going out together. The only time I haven’t hung out with him after school this week was Monday, and we met for lunch that day (a baked potato in the precinct and more kisses in lieu of pudding…).

  “—and you have to believe, dear, that I always, always keep my readings confidential,” Mrs Harrison trills on, her funny, peachy face powder clogging in the frowns of her forehead. “But this feeling I had about your sister when I was giving her a reading, this malevolence I felt towards you…the message was so strong, dear, that I knew I just had to tell you to take care. Do you understand? Does that make sense?”

  My blood boils – Megan isn’t malevolent; she’s just troubled, depressed, severely lacking in self-esteem. Wasn’t that the gist of what the doctor told Mum and Dad last year? How dare this woman who doesn’t really know anything about Meg, or about us and what we’ve been through, pass judgement?!