I could film me going out to the shops? Just do a chilled, chatty vlog. Bryan is coming back from band practice soon, so I could film us making dinner, perhaps him and Jerry could play some music at the end.
Flipping open my viewfinder, I squint at the screen. The only issue is my face. Usually I film with natural-looking make-up, but the lack of sleep means my skin is a mess of red blotches, veins and under-eye bags. Ugh.
I pull open my desk drawer, which is almost stuffed to breaking point with unopened products, and pluck make-up out at random. This drawer is nothing compared to our bedroom, spare room or study, which are all rammed full of unopened packages. My management team gives most products I get sent to charity, yet I still get huge postal-sack deliveries every few days that they have picked out for me.
Sometimes it makes me feel a bit sick to think of how much make-up I own. With a sigh, I pump a blob of foundation on to the back of my hand and peer into the viewfinder.
An hour later, I’m smiling at the camera, my clear cheeks shimmering with subtle pink highlighter – eyes dusted with gold eyeshadow, framed by sweeping dark lashes.
‘Hello-o, everyone! How is your day going? I can’t get over what a beautiful day it is . . .’ I smile, panning the camera to the sky. ‘It just makes me so happy. I can’t wait to get outside!’
CHAPTER 6
Melissa
There’s a faint buzz of electricity and a thick, musky smell in the air. The back of my neck is prickling with sweat as I crouch over the screen. It’s last period, and I’ve just left art class to try to get one of the age-old computers in IT to print out this female body I’m sketching.
The whole screen freezes.
Ugh, this is so typical. The monitor is huge and boxy and this dirty cream colour, which probably hasn’t been used on computers since the noughties.
I click on the print button. Nothing. Click exit. Nothing.
I tap my foot and look back to the art room – there’s noise and chatter filling the hallway. Part of me thinks about going back inside and pretending to sketch for the rest of the lesson, but I don’t want to do my picture any more. It looks terrible – I can’t get the ribcage right. I wanted to make her look thin and pretty, but instead her back is way too shallow, her breasts are too big, and her waist juts in sharply. She looks like she hasn’t eaten for a month. I don’t know why she doesn’t look good.
I think about tonight, and my pulse quickens with excitement.
What am I going to wear? Chloe said I could borrow something of hers, and her clothes are amazing. On Instagram she has pictures of her in jumpsuits, pinafores, denim skirts and cute dungaree shorts.
I wonder what she’ll let me borrow . . . ?
This time when I click on the internet icon, the computer actually starts doing something. It makes a whirring noise like it’s coughing, and then Google pops up. Looking over my shoulder, I sign into Instagram and scroll down my newsfeed.
In one photo, LilyLoves is snuggled asleep against Bryan’s shoulder and he’s raising his eyebrow at the camera. Adorable. I click like immediately and scroll through a few other bloggers, until my eye catches an incredible photo of this Victoria’s Secret model.
She’s wearing a plunging short black dress, cinched in at the waist. The photo is of her mirror reflection with the phone obscuring her face. Even faceless she looks stunning. Her body is perfect. I wish, wish, wish I looked like that.
I zoom in. It’s weird – she has the same shoulder-length brown hair and pale skin as me, but on her, everything shimmers and glows. She’s like me, but a better version. The sort of person I wish I could be.
God, imagine what my life would be like if I looked like that.
Hmm. Her hair is pretty much the same length as mine. And you can’t see her face at all. I wonder . . .
In a couple of age-long clicks, I screenshot the picture and start uploading it to my blog. My heart is racing as I glance round the corridor, but there’s no one here – they’re all busy in class.
‘Loving my new LBD!’ I type out, my fingers shaking slightly.
As I add in all the fashion hashtags, my eyes flick to the hallway. Should I really be doing this? Would anyone even know? She has quite a few followers, but this photo only has 50,000 likes.
No, of course they wouldn’t. What are the chances of someone following her Instagram and my blog? She’s not particularly well known. And I only have fifty-three followers. Anyway, I’m on a diet, aren’t I? This is just like my thinspiration. A target. Once I’ve lost a stone, I’ll probably actually look like this. And I can get a dress like that and replace it with an actual picture of me.
I look down at my figure under my baggy school uniform. I mean, she is thinner than me, but I wear this huge jumper every day. How do people even really know what my body looks like? There’s a scraping of chairs behind me, and in a panic I click publish and close down all the tabs. The printer page is working now, but I close that tab down too and push my chair away from the desk, clutching my wonky sketch.
When I step back into the classroom, my phone vibrates with a message. A new comment has been posted already from one of my followers.
I open the blogpost.
OMG that dress, Issa – you are absolutely stunning!
I tuck my phone into my skirt and feel a tingling sweep up the back of my neck.
CHAPTER 7
Lily
As long as I can squeeze in another fifteen minutes of filming, I’ll have enough footage for today. I’ve just about got time – I’ve been asked to dial in to a sponsored conference on Careers of the Future at twelve, and then I’ve got to approve the edits on a batch of media photos. There’s also Siobhan’s posts for my LilyLipstick Instagram account – which need checking – and two Skype meetings with sponsors this afternoon.
I breathe out slowly. I’m probably going to crash asleep on the sofa tonight, so I need to get this footage filmed now. As I rub my neck, my heart rate quickens beneath my fingertips.
‘I’ve had a fantastic day in the sun so far!’ I smile into the lens. ‘It really is warm for this time of year. So, yeah, I’m outside the supermarket, and I’ve just bought some food for tonight. I’m so excited to rustle up some ramen noodles for me and Bryan. I’ve got dried noodles, soy sauce and . . . onion? Onion?! Oh crap. I meant to get garlic!’
I pull open my LilyLoves tote bag, my forehead throbbing. Damn, we really need garlic for this dish. The fridge is completely bare, and I don’t have time to go back. I drop the camera to my side and thump my head with my palm.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
There’s a cool breeze against my shoulders. Something soft flops on to the pavement.
I stop hitting my head. Another whoosh of wind prickles the back of my neck. A bundle of cloth sails past my shoulder and crumples on the small patch of grass by my feet.
What’s going on?
Instinctively my fingers wrap around my camera and point the lens to the direction of the fabric. On closer inspection, it’s clothes – men’s clothes. Strewn across the pavement. Worn T-shirts, battered jackets and even a belt.
I look up, but I can’t see where the clothes have come from. There’s a block of flats to my left, and several of them have their windows open, but I can’t see anyone throwing clothes on to the street.
I prod the edge of a T-shirt with my foot. Should I just leave them here? I shouldn’t film this. It’s none of my business. I should just keep on walking.
One of the T-shirts catches my eye. It’s grey with tiny mouse ears and a lightning bolt logo.
I’ve seen that logo before. Hundreds of times. It’s from Mortal Mouse – this noughties TV show that everyone at school used to be obsessed with. Mortal was this cartoon field mouse who got struck by a lightning bolt, which gave him superpowers. He used to spend each episode trying to save his miniature world from the Big Bad Beastly Dog.
I squint at the logo. Hmm . . . surely some of my followers will be noughtie
s kids and remember Mortal Mouse. This will make a good shot. I click on my camera.
‘Guys, I’ve just found this on the side of the road. Does anyone remember Mortal Mouse and the Big Bad Beastly Dog? Thumbs up on the video if you do.’
I turn the lens round and smile into the viewfinder. In the corner of the screen there’s a face behind my left shoulder, looking right at me.
‘Aaah!’
I leap out of my skin, and the camera goes flying – clattering across the pavement.
There’s a tall, tanned man standing there, reaching for the T-shirts. He looks flustered. The man snatches up the clothes, not looking at me – his brow is furrowed, cheeks flushed.
‘Excuse me,’ he says.
‘Oh, sorry, I . . . I wasn’t trying to take them. I was just filming . . .’ I trail off, realizing how dumb this sounds.
I pick up my camera. He grabs the clothes under one arm, and I step out of his way.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
He glances at me.
There’s a beat of silence. Wait a minute. I recognize that face.
He has stopped picking up the clothes, a crease deepening in the middle of his forehead. There’s a familiar smattering of freckles across his tanned cheeks.
It can’t be.
‘Chris?’ I say.
His mouth falls open, almost comically.
‘Lily?’ he replies.
Oh my God.
‘Chris Walker?’ I say.
His head jerks back.
‘Lily Henshaw?’
I burst out laughing. His face creases into a grin.
As a kid, I went to tiny school tucked away in rural Suffolk, and one of the only other people in my year was Chris Walker – this ginger, scrawny boy. We used to spend every day hunting across the fields for a glimpse of the real Mortal Mouse. Every time something good happened – like discovering an unpicked blackberry bush – we would pretend Mortal Mouse was behind it. Every time something bad happened – like one of us tripping over – we blamed the Big Bad Beastly Dog.
Me and Chris were pretty much inseparable until year two when his parents decided to send him and his older brothers to private school.
I look at him again, bewildered. It sounds stupid, but in my mind Chris was stuck as this six-year-old kid. It didn’t occur to me that he’d actually grow up.
We used to be the same height, but he’s a good foot taller than me now. And his face is . . . different. He has a smattering of stubble across his ruddy cheeks, broken up by two faint laughter lines. And his red hair is much darker – more of an auburn brown. But he still has that same smile. It’s definitely Chris.
‘I can’t believe it’s you! What are you doing here? Why are your T-shirts on the floor?’ I say.
His mouth tightens. ‘It’s just, er . . . nothing.’ He shakes his head. ‘Long story. I’m just on my way back home to our village, actually. What about you – what are you doing here, filming my T-shirts?’
I shift my camera behind my back. ‘It wasn’t your T-shirts. It was the Mortal Mouse logo,’ I mumble.
He raises an eyebrow. I obviously need to explain more.
‘It’s . . . for the internet. I make videos.’
Chris’ face softens into a bemused smile. ‘You make videos for the internet? About Mortal Mouse T-shirts?’ He laughs. ‘Yep. Very weird. You haven’t changed.’
‘Hey, what do you mean?’ I say, punching him lightly.
He smiles.
He was definitely the weird one. I have a flashback to the time he made us be dinosaurs for a week in year one – we made paper masks and roared at everyone who spoke to us. We screamed so much we both ended up off school for a week with sore throats.
I open my mouth to remind him, but his phone starts buzzing. He glances at the name on the screen.
‘I should get this.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course, I’ll let you go.’
I still can’t believe I bumped into Chris Walker. I have to tell Mum.
‘We must catch up someti— Hello.’ He puts the phone to his ear and tries to mime ‘text me’, punching imaginary figures and pointing to himself.
I giggle.
He frowns at his phone. ‘Yep, yep. Yeah, I know.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Well, yeah, I’m heading off now.’
I mouth ‘Facebook?’ to him with a thumbs-up, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed – he’s still scowling at his phone.
After a couple of seconds of dithering, I turn to leave. I’m about to reach the end of the road when a hand lightly touches my shoulder.
Chris is holding out the Mortal Mouse T-shirt for me to take. I shake my head. He insists – smiling and roughly poking it into my side. I take it, frowning, and he gives me a goofy thumbs-up, pointing to the camera and doing imaginary clicks.
Oh, he’s taking the piss.
I start rolling my eyes, but then decide to mimic him. Picking up my camera, I pretend to zoom in on the logo. Click. Click. Click. I do exaggerated shutter movements.
Chris’s whole face is creased up, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
‘Yep, I’ll be back in five,’ he speaks deadpan into the phone.
I wave at him and he holds up a hand above his head, half smiling and shielding his eyes from the sun.
As I turn the corner, the warmth of the sunlight tickles my cheeks. I can’t believe I just saw Chris Walker, in London! I really have to call Mum and tell her.
I smile into the lens and click record.
‘Hey, everyone – when did I last film? Oh yes, that Mortal Mouse T-shirt – so weird! I actually managed to steal it for you guys . . .’
CHAPTER 8
Melissa
I look at the message on my phone and try to stop the anger from bubbling up inside me.
OK
I sent a long, rambling message to Mum earlier saying I was going to watch Suze’s band practice after school, and she sent back two letters: OK. There’s not even a kiss. To be honest, I doubt she’d notice if I didn’t come home at all.
I’ve also texted Suze to ask how practice is going, but I haven’t heard back from her. There’s a twist of guilt in my stomach as I think of her up on stage playing the clarinet without me.
‘Right, girls, the guys are waiting. Let’s go,’ says Chloe.
I blink several times. No. Wait – not yet. My make-up’s not good enough.
I look so much worse than Chloe and Louise. Chloe has styled her hair into these dark waves, which tumble like a fountain of silk across her shoulders. She shrugs a battered denim jacket over her slim shoulders and taps her foot.
Louise, who goes to stand beside her, looks incredible: she’s outlined her eyes so thickly that they look cat-like, and is wearing a short black dress that clings to her minuscule waist.
I glance down at the floral playsuit I’ve borrowed from Chloe. It’s slightly too big on the chest and slightly too tight on the bum, so it gapes at the front and clings to my hips oddly at the bottom.
I bite my lips and squint into the reflection of my phone. Huh. Actually, I don’t look too bad. My eyes look huge, and the highlighter on my cheeks glimmers in the low light.
My phone bleeps with a message from Suze. It’s a screenshot of the Victoria’s Secret model’s photo on my blog with the message: Is this you?
‘What’s that?’ says Louise, glancing over my shoulder.
‘Nothing,’ I say, stuffing my phone into my bag.
I take out a mascara and try to quickly brush on some more.
‘Issa, hurry up,’ says Chloe, shooting a sideways look at Louise.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, screwing the lid shut.
Chloe and Louise link arms. Taking a deep breath, I follow them out of the front door.
***
By the time we reach Playshack, I’ve twisted my plastic faux-topaz ring round my finger so many times that the skin underneath has turned an ugly shade of green.
What will tonight be like? On Lily’s Instagram I
remember seeing this photo of her and Bryan backlit against a graffitied underground bar. It looked so cool – will I get pictures like that?
I imagine Instagrams of me, Chloe and Louise clutching drinks and laughing. But then another photo flashes in my mind: me being sick, make-up streaked down my face. And another of me thrown out of the bar by the bouncer, the others inside with their fake IDs, laughing at me through the window.
‘Rish! Andy!’ shouts Chloe.
We can’t be here already. This isn’t Playshack, is it? The bar everyone at school talks about.
There’s four wonky plastic tables framed by umbrella shades with faded beer logos on them – and the faint smell of sweat in the air. Grouped around every surface are people I recognize from lower sixth in trainers and hoodies. Huh. So much for an Instagrammable backdrop.
On the closest table, a tall ruddy-faced guy with floppy hair and a shorter, dark-haired guy nod at us.
Their eyes travel down my body. I pull the floral material taut across my stomach, trying to stop it gaping round my chest and showing my black bra.
Oh God, I wish I hadn’t worn so much make-up. I bet my foundation has gone cakey around my chin spots. This cheap light is probably making my mascara look really spidery. Where’s a mirror? Would it be weird if I whipped out my phone?
Louise looks at me and smirks.
‘Rishaan, Andy – this is Issa,’ says Chloe.
‘Hey,’ I say in a tiny voice.
The tall one, Andy, glances down at me. His floppy blond hair falls across his face, and he twitches his lips into a half-smile.
I look away, feeling my cheeks warm up.
The shorter dark-haired one, Rishaan, nudges him.
‘They’ve brought another one along to suffer your shit chat,’ he says. ‘What was it you said? The Vatican City is in Saudi Arabia?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Andy, flicking a beer mat between his fingers.
Rishaan glances at me and grins. ‘All right, kids, time to get the drinks in. What do you want?’ he says.
‘Er – I don’t . . . Wine,’ I say, because it’s the first alcoholic drink I can think of.
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