He looks pained. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘but I don’t want your mother to have them.’
‘Course not. Like I said, she doesn’t know I’m here.’
He takes a scrap of paper out of his pocket, and scribbles his number on it with a chewed-up biro. His handwriting is slanted, just like mine. I slide it into the inside pocket of my bag, zipping it tightly to make sure it doesn’t fall out. He doesn’t ask me for my number.
‘Bye, then, Dad,’ I say. I hug him again and take a deep breath, steeling myself for my walk alone up Camden Road, towards my street. As I take my first steps, I turn around to see if he’s watching me, keeping me in his sights until he knows I’m safe. But all I can see is his back disappearing into the Saturday night crowds.
’m home safe. I have so much 2 tell u, I text Rosie and Vix, the minute I climb into bed. I’m expecting to hear instant beeps in reply, because I know they’ll both be dying to hear about what happened with Dad, but there’s only silence. Ten minutes pass. Still silence. How maddening – I really want to talk to them. I want to tell them about Dad and his friends, and having to walk back part of the way alone, and crossing the street to avoid a drunk guy, and how I managed to get away without talking to Mum because she was doing a meditation session with crystals in the living room when I came in. I look at my alarm clock. It’s quarter past midnight; surely they won’t be asleep yet? Maybe they’re still at the party. No. They can’t be. I know for a fact that Rosie’s dad was picking them up at eleven-thirty because Rosie had an argument with her mum about it being embarrassingly early. And Rosie’s mum never backs down.
I call Rich next but he’s not picking up, which is less surprising, given the way things have been lately. Is he annoyed that I didn’t show up at the party? Was he hoping we’d patch things up too? I hope I haven’t messed up my chances. I did text him to let him know that I was meeting my dad, and I half thought he might be interested enough to ask me about it. But no. He just texted back to say, That’s cool, have fun, and nothing more.
I try to read while I’m waiting for someone to contact me, to take my mind off everything, but I’m far too hyper to concentrate. So I call Rosie and Vix, with no success. Then I attempt to sleep, but my eyes won’t stay shut and my heart is going boom, boom, boom in my chest. Instead, I lie flat on my back, staring up into the dark ceiling, going over and over the night in my mind. And, somehow, at some time, I must fall asleep, because when I next turn over to look at my clock it’s ten a.m. and the sun is glaring through the cracks at the sides of my blind.
My phone remains strangely free of text messages from Rosie or Vix. They’re probably not awake yet, I tell myself. But, by midday, when I still haven’t managed to reach them, I begin to worry. I don’t have any evidence, but now it feels like they’re avoiding me. I can’t remember them ever ignoring a message before. Maybe they’re just bored of the whole Dad thing. They have gone out of their way to help me up until now. Have they had enough? I call Rosie, and then Vix, again. Both phones go straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.
When I come out of the shower there is, at last, a brief text message from Rosie, but all it says is: Glad u got home safe. Will call l8r x. Strange. Usually, she and Vix would be texting me frantically to find out exactly what they’ve missed. I text to say I’m up for a chat now, but don’t hear anything back. So I get dressed and kill some time looking at clothes on a website I like, clicking back and forth with no intention of buying anything. By now it’s after one and I’m starting to drive myself crazy with my paranoia. I call my friends one more time. Rosie’s phone is still going to message, but Vix’s rings. And rings. And rings. At last, when I’m certain the call is going to go to voicemail again, she picks up.
‘Vix! I’ve been trying you for ages!’
‘Oh hi, Sky,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘Sorry, I just woke up.’ But she doesn’t sound half asleep. She sounds weird.
‘Oh right. Are you and Rosie OK? Was the party good?’
‘I’m fine. Rosie’s fine. I spoke to her earlier.’
Earlier? I thought she’d literally just woken up. Vix really is a hopeless liar. So my friends have been talking to each other? But not to me. About me, then? Something is definitely going on.
‘Has something happened, Vix? Why didn’t you reply to my texts? Are you upset with me?’
‘No, course not.’ Her voice sounds shaky and nervous. ‘I didn’t get the ones from last night until I woke up. So how was your dad? Do you like him? Did you go on somewhere else with him?’
I realise that all my excitement about meeting Dad has dissipated. ‘I’ll tell you about Dad later. But I know there’s something you aren’t telling me. Your voice sounds weird. I’m getting really worried now!’
She pauses. ‘OK. There is something . . . I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, though. I’m coming round now. OK?’
‘OK . . .’
She hangs up. I’m feeling really freaked out now. What has she got to tell me that she can’t tell me over the phone? We’re supposed to be meeting later, anyway. What can’t wait till then?
It only takes a few minutes to walk from Vix’s house to my flat but today it seems an eternity. I pace my bedroom while I wait, a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s like queuing in line for an exam when you haven’t done any revision and know you’re going to fail. It’s clear that whatever she’s going to tell me can’t be good news.
When the doorbell rings, I sweep across the hall to the intercom, buzzing Vix in, without checking that it’s her. I grab her at the top of the stairs. ‘What is it Vix? Please tell me. Has something happened? Have I done something to upset you and Rosie? Are you annoyed with me?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ She motions to my bedroom, and I nod, leading her inside. When the door is shut she beckons me to sit down beside her on the bed, and takes a deep breath. ‘It’s Rich,’ she says.
‘Rich? Is he OK? Is he hurt? I tried to call him earlier too, but his phone was switched off. Has he had an accident?’
‘No, no, nothing like that either. I don’t even know how to say this. Oh God. Um.’ She swallows hard. ‘OK, I’m just going to come out with it. Rich snogged someone else at the party last night. I’m really sorry, hon. I know it must be a big shock.’
I let out a huge snort of a giggle. I don’t know why; nothing is funny. Quite the opposite. But the giggle bursts out of me spontaneously, like a hiccough. Sometimes, when something really bad happens, like now, I laugh. It happened when Mum told me my grandma had died. It’s totally inappropriate and really quite embarrassing, but it’s also completely beyond my control.
Vix doesn’t know how to handle it. There I am, laughing hysterically, when she expected me to burst into tears, or be angry, or disbelieving. She puts her arms around my back and hugs me until I stop laughing. Then I start to sob. She hugs me harder.
I feel totally numb now. ‘Who was it? I need to know.’
‘Just some girl,’ says Vix, softly. ‘You don’t know her. It doesn’t really matter who it was.’
‘It does to me. Just tell me. Please.’
Vix takes a deep breath. I don’t know why she’s so reticent; I’m going to find out anyway. I’m sure the news will have spread round school by Monday morning. Oh God, I’m going to have to face Rich in school. ‘It’s not a friend, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
I suppose that’s something. I couldn’t bear the double betrayal. ‘Someone from my class at school?’
‘No, she goes to my school,’ says Vix. ‘She’s nobody, really. I’m not even sure you’ve met her. It’s not important. The fact is, Rich is a cheating skank and you’re better off without him.’
‘I need to know her name. I don’t know why. I just need to be able to picture her.’
Vix shrugs. ‘It was Donna. Donna Rice.’
‘OK, thanks.’ What a stupid thing to say. It’s not OK. It’s far from OK. Now I know exactly why Vix didn’t want to t
ell me. Not because of who Donna is, or because of anything she’s done. (I’ve only met her a couple of times, and she seemed all right. Quite sweet, really.) It’s because she is physically the opposite of me. She’s blonde and short and cute and, worst of all, she has the tiniest little snub nose. A nose that won’t get in the way of kissing. An image of Rich and Donna snogging passionately, just like he used to do with me, seeps into my mind and, no matter how hard I try, I can’t push it away.
‘Are you all right, Sky? You’ve gone very quiet.’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. But my voice falters, so it’s clear that I’m not.
‘You’re much prettier than her. And so much nicer, and more intelligent, and funnier too. Rich is an idiot.’
‘How can you say I’m prettier?’
‘Because it’s true. Her nose is like a pig’s snout. Her whole face is mushy and flat. I wouldn’t want to look like her in a million years.’
She’s lying. ‘I would,’ I say. ‘I’d kill to look like her.’
Now I know. I was never Rich’s type. He’s just like all the other boys. Nobody wants a girl with ‘character’ or ‘interesting’ features. They want blonde, cute, sweet-looking cliché girls. Everything he said was a lie. I was always second best, a consolation prize. As soon as he had the opportunity to get off with a girl who was more his type, he took it. Maybe I shouldn’t just fix my nose. Maybe I should sort out my hair too, grow it longer, get some highlights done, buy some new make-up.
‘It’ll be all right, Sky, I promise. I know you’re upset now but you’ll be so much better off without him. I’ll go and get Rosie and we can do something together this afternoon, to cheer you up.’ She hugs me again. ‘Go to the market if you like, or out for tea, or just stay in and watch a film. Whatever you like.’
I’m not listening. I’m too distracted. ‘I need to talk to Rich.’
She sighs. ‘Is that a good idea, hon?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, ‘but I’ve got to do it.’
‘Want me to stay while you do it?’
‘I think I want to be on my own.’
‘OK,’ she says, giving me one last hug and getting up from my bed. ‘Call me later. Promise?’
I nod. ‘I promise.’
I wait until I hear the front door shut and then I start to cry again. What should have been one of the best weekends of my life is turning out to be the worst.
I decide not to call Rich, after all. I’m not sure what to say and I don’t want him to guess that I’ve been crying or, even worse, to make me blub down the phone to him. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t pick up. I text instead.
I know, is all I say.
He doesn’t respond immediately. I lie on my bed staring at my phone, willing it to beep. Surely, after six months together, he’s not going to pretend I don’t exist.
Sorry, he texts back. Nothing else. Is that it?
I think u owe me more than that. Can I come round 2 c u?
Another few minutes. Is it such a hard question to answer? Or is he enjoying torturing me?
Finally . . . Bad idea.
I knew he wouldn’t want to see me. I’m annoyed but, to my surprise, it also comes as a relief. Can we talk online?
OK. I’ll message u.
Yeah, right. It’ll be next Christmas, if I know Rich. Now. OK?
Another pause. OK.
I leap off my bed and propel myself over to my computer, logging into my instant messaging service as quickly as I can, so he can’t make some excuse about not finding me and giving up. It takes a moment for his name to appear. RichieB01. I’ve seen it on my screen so often over the past six months. I wonder if I ever will again.
Hello, I type.
RichieB01: Hi. How r u?
Like he cares. I’m not going to waste time making small talk or making him feel better.
Me: How could you do that to me?
RichieB01: Here we go. Look, Sky, I’m sorry u found out like that. I didn’t plan it. But it’s not like we were together any more.
Me: What?!!!! Are you serious????!!!!
RichieB01: We were over.
Me: No we weren’t. We haven’t split up. I think I might remember if we had.
RichieB01: Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t actually say you’re dumped, but after that night in the restaurant . . . well, I kind of thought you realised it was finished.
Me: No, I didn’t. I kept trying to sort it out. Remember?
RichieB01: No. Anyway, now you know.
Me: You don’t have to be so mean. I thought you loved me.
I’m aware I sound all clingy and pathetic and girly, exactly what he hates most, but I can’t help it.
RichieB01: Get over it, Sky. We’re too young to be serious. And it hasn’t been fun for ages.
Me: So u never loved me?
RichieB01: I dunno. Maybe. Anyway, we’re better as friends.
I don’t want to be his friend. I want to be his girlfriend.
Me: I guess.
RichieB01: So we’re cool then?
Me: Yeah.
I’ve never felt less cool in my life. So, I might as well ask him . . . I mean, I’ve got nothing to lose, have I?
Me: Why did you have to pick Donna, of all people?
RichieB01: What do you mean?
Me: Why did you have to kiss someone like her?
RichieB01: Like her? What do you mean?
Me: You know – cute, blonde . . . with a small nose?
RichieB01: LMAO!!!!!!!! Is that why you’re upset? Jesus, Sky, you need some serious help.
Me: No I don’t. You said you didn’t care about my nose, but you did, didn’t you? Be honest.
There’s a long pause and I wonder if he’s gone offline.
RichieB01: I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Goodbye, Sky. See you around.
And that is the end of it. He vanishes from the screen, leaving nothing but a greyed-out version of his name.
That’s it, then, I think. No more me and Rich. Deep in my heart I probably did know it was over on our anniversary night, but I guess I was too scared to think about it.
I cry again, until my head aches, and then, when I’ve calmed down a little, I go on to my Facebook profile and change my status to single. I know I shouldn’t check but I can’t stop myself. Rich has already deleted me from his friends list. He’s probably scared that I might write nasty messages on his wall. Or, maybe somebody else has put up pictures from the party and tagged him and Donna. I feel sick. I’ll have to face him at school tomorrow and despite what he’s said about being friends he’ll probably blank me, which will be horrible. Thank God Donna doesn’t go to my school, so I won’t have to see them together.
I know I’m not going to get Rich back. But I also know that if I’m ever going to find a boyfriend who loves me, I need to get rid of my nose. I can’t wait a minute longer.
don’t think I’ve ever felt so down. Every morning, when I wake up, I feel OK for about three short seconds, until I remember again that Rich has dumped me and that I’m going to have to face him across the classroom at school. He’s blanking me, just as I predicted he would, acting like he can’t see me when I pass him in the corridor, treating me like a stranger – and, worse, one with some horrible, infectious disease – pretending the six months we shared never happened. Yesterday, I’m sure I caught him laughing about me with his mates, drawing pictures of girls with big noses and passing them around. I pretended I hadn’t noticed, then went to the toilets to cry. But crying only makes me feel worse – it makes my eyes look small and puffy and my nose bigger and shinier and redder. I am ugly. I am hideous.
Mum is worried about me, because I’m crying all the time and hardly eating anything, but not worried enough to let me have a day off school. She says I need to be brave and strong and stop caring what other people think. She also says that now Rich has revealed his true colours, I should be thankful I’m not with him any more. According to her, I deserve better. But she would sa
y that. She never liked him.
I’m finding it hard to talk to her, or to Ocean or Grass, even to be around them, especially when they’re being sweet to me. Grass made me cupcakes the other day, to try to cheer me up and make me eat something, but that just made me cry more. It feels like my big secret – meeting Dad – is wedging itself between us, pushing me apart from them. I want to tell Mum I’ve found him and talked to him, I really do, and once or twice the words have been on the tip of my tongue, but I know she’ll be hurt and angry and that she won’t understand. And so every time she hugs me, I feel guilty and two-faced, and push her away.
I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot. I tried to call him yesterday, just for a chat, but he didn’t pick up his phone. He can’t have known it was me, he doesn’t have my number. The call went to voicemail, one of those generic prerecorded messages that could belong to anyone. I didn’t leave a message. I didn’t know what to say. A tiny part of me even wondered if he’d given me the right number, or just made one up. He wouldn’t have done that, would he? I guess I’ll just have to wait until I see him at his next gig.
I do know what would make me feel heaps better about everything: a new nose. At lunchtime today, I rang the clinic and asked if I could schedule my operation, but they wanted a payment up front. I’ve been saving my allowance (not buying drinks and muffins after school helps) but at this rate it’s going to take me until I’m a hundred and fifty before I’ve saved enough. I’ve tried getting a part-time job – I asked at Dot’s Music Shop – with no luck. Nobody wants to employ a fourteen year old. It’s so unfair: I’m not even old enough to buy a lottery ticket. My only option is a loan. From someone, somewhere. Maybe Dad will know where I can get one.
And if that doesn’t work? Rob a bank? Sit outside the NatWest on Camden High Street with the homeless people and beg? Change my religion so I have to wear a burkha, which covers my whole face? Maybe I should just cut my nose off myself. Then they’d have to give me an operation to repair it. Who am I kidding? I tried waxing my legs once, with some strips from Boots, and it hurt so much I had to stop in the middle.
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