The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  I know what true beauty is. I’ve grown up with it all my life and … well, that Simon guy must have been on drugs or something. Or else I look like the most gullible idiot in history.

  When we get home to our flat in South London, Ava goes straight to our room to put her flute away and makes some noises about studying for exams. I’m about to follow — I have exams, too — but the man who is genetically responsible for my freakiness calls to me from his bedroom, where he’s at work on his computer. He leaps up as soon as I come in, with a worried expression under his bushy unibrow.

  On Dad, the height and the hair and the gangly limbs just about work. He looks like a mad professor — which is what he would have become if his university hadn’t suddenly sacked half the history department last summer in a fit of cost-cutting. To be more accurate, he looks like a mad professor crossed with an eager collie. He has so much pent-up energy. He used to get rid of some of it by bounding around the lecture hall, inspiring his students with the delights of the English Civil War. Now he spends most of his time at home, writing a novel about Cavaliers and Roundheads, or working on job applications. I’m pretty sure the energy will turn into actual electricity if he doesn’t do something soon. Maybe we’ll be able to use him to power the apartment.

  His worried look makes me nervous. My father is not a man to be left alone in a place with electrical equipment, or indeed any equipment. It’s why I like to “help” him with stuff. Otherwise, somebody usually gets hurt.

  “How are you, love?” he asks innocently.

  “Fine.” I hold my breath. “What happened?”

  He scuffs a toe on the carpet. I sniff for smoke. The air smells clean enough. Nothing’s blown up this time, then. That’s good.

  “So … is there a problem?”

  “Ah. Well, I thought I’d help your mother with the laundry while she was working today. Your sister’s sheets were soaking this morning. That’s the second time this week. She’s not hiding a Jacuzzi in there, is she?”

  “She said she was sweaty. Oh, and her neck’s a bit swollen.”

  “Anyway,” Dad sighs, looking guilty again, “I got a bit distracted and twiddled a few knobs I probably shouldn’t have.”

  This sounds bad. Really bad.

  “Is something broken?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He’s still scuffing the floor with his toe.

  “Do you want to show me?”

  He nods. Like a guilty toddler, he leads me through the flat to the scene of the crime, which turns out to be the bathroom, where the washing machine lives. Placed over the bathtub is a clothes rack where various bits of laundry are hanging out to dry. So far, so good. Except I don’t recognize some of the things. They look vaguely familiar, but small, like dolls’ clothes.

  “Sorry, love.”

  I look closer. Oh.

  Two of the little things are my school skirts. At least they were.

  “The prewash got a bit hot. Shrinkage problem. Didn’t quite realize in time.”

  I look at Dad. He grins bravely. “They’ll be OK, won’t they? I mean, you’re stick thin. You’re a string bean, you are. Anyway, Ava’ll probably let you borrow one of hers.”

  Yeah, Dad. And then Rihanna will call and ask to sing a duet. My father may be an expert on the English Civil War, but he’s pretty rubbish at the history of his own family. Does he not remember that four years ago I went through a phase of being inspired by Ava’s outfits and she forbade me from dressing like her, or borrowing any of her stuff, EVER AGAIN? She’s recently made an exception for iTunes, but school uniform? I don’t think so.

  We stand in front of the clothes rack for a moment, not saying anything. We’re both thinking that before Dad lost his job this wouldn’t have been much of a problem. We’d have gone to Marks & Spencer and got some new skirts. But we can’t do that anymore. Dad’s overqualified for most of the jobs he goes for. We don’t know how long his severance package will have to last, so every penny counts. It’s why Ava and I don’t have allowances anymore. He feels so bad about it that I can’t really say anything, so I don’t.

  All the same, he senses my hesitation about approaching Ava.

  “Tell you what, I’ll ask her for you, if you like.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  But he can’t — at least, not straightaway. When we finally track her down in the living room, she’s asleep with her head on a pile of untouched practice tests.

  She’s still asleep when Mum comes in from work hours later, looking as glamorous as anyone can in a green nylon polo shirt and matching trousers — which, given my mum, is surprisingly glamorous. Imagine a middle-aged Elizabeth Taylor in a green nylon pantsuit.

  Mum’s the one keeping us going at the moment. It was her idea to move out of Rose Cottage, our pretty, old home in Richmond, so we could rent it out, and find somewhere smaller. She got a job at a local superstore, as well as doing occasional translating work, which is what she’s qualified for. And she still cooks all our meals, like she used to. I think this might be because she doesn’t want Dad to break the oven.

  “Suppertime soon,” she says, holding up a bag of fresh vegetables she picked up on the way home. “Can you set the table, Ted? Get Ava to help you. Goodness.”

  She gently wakes Ava, who looks surprised to have drifted off.

  “Oh, hi, Mum. I’ll do this later,” Ava says, yawning and looking at her blank tests. “I’m just going to Louise’s. She wants to hear all about Carnaby Street.”

  “No, you’re not,” Mum says firmly. “Suppertime is sacred, as you well know.”

  “But I can grab something at Louise’s.”

  “A packet of crisps and raw cookie dough doesn’t count as ‘something,’” Mum insists.

  Ava looks sulky. They have this argument several times a week. Ava claims that Mum’s stunting her social skills; Mum says if she misses a decent meal it will stunt her growth. I leave them to it. Mum learned French by working in a restaurant in Lyon when she was young. I wouldn’t miss one of her meals if you paid me.

  I only wish there was more of a table to set. After we rented our cottage out, we moved into this flat above a travel shop, on a main road in Putney, two bus rides away from school. No garden. Only two bedrooms, so Ava and I have to share. (She cried.) Green walls. Brown furniture. Tiny kitchen, which is why I’m setting out the knives and forks on a small folding table that we’ve squeezed into the back of the living room.

  At least it’s beside a window. There’s a tree — an ash — in the messy, built-up yard between us and the house behind. Every day I look for signs of leaf growth and changing color. I miss the open spaces of Richmond Park so much it hurts. It’s May, so the ash tree’s feathery leaves are fully formed and starting to flutter in the gentle evening breeze. Tonight, I don’t draw the curtains, so I can keep watching it as the daylight fades.

  They join me, one by one: Mum with a dish of ratatouille, Dad bearing a massive salad bowl, and my sister, bearing a grudge.

  “I’m fine, Mum, honest. Why shouldn’t I go out later?”

  “You had your head on the table when I got in. I think you need an early night.”

  “It was a refreshing nap. I’m OK now.”

  “Well, I worry about you.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “Anyway,” Dad breaks in hurriedly, “tell us about busking this morning. How did it go?”

  “Not as well as we hoped,” Ava sighs. “Ted got approached by a scammer with a camera, did she tell you? You can stop staring at yourself by the way, T.”

  I look around guiltily. OK, so I was checking my reflection in the window. I happened to be thinking about what Simon the scammer said, and I wanted to see if anything had changed, but no. There’s still a blonde caterpillar where my eyebrows should be, and my hair still looks as though a half-finished bird’s nest has accidentally landed on my head. My face is as moonlike as ever, with wide-apart eyes and almost-invisible blonde lashes. Back when I was ele
ven, Dean Daniels said I reminded him of E.T. That was before my growth spurt. Then he started calling me Friday, short for Freaky Friday, which is short for plain Freak. Class comedian, that’s Dean. And I’m his favorite source of material.

  “No,” Dad says. “We were talking about … other things. What’s a scammer?”

  Ava rolls her eyes and tells him the story about Holly and the five hundred pounds. He looks horrified.

  “They’re really convincing, these people.” Ava shrugs. “They advertise in local papers, too, and on the internet. They say you look totally stunning and you just need to pay for some photos or training or whatever. They charge you a fortune for it, then — bam!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing happens.”

  “That’s ‘bam’?” I ask. Nothing happens doesn’t sound very “bam” to me.

  “They run off with your money and don’t get you any work. Google ‘modeling scams.’ There’s millions of them.”

  “You didn’t pay anything, did you?” Mum asks, hand on her mouth.

  “No, of course not.”

  “And they picked on Ted?” Dad says, astonished.

  Thanks, Dad.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Mum says to me with a reassuring pat on the arm. “We’d never have let you go through with it. No way is any daughter of ours getting into the clutches of the modeling industry, is she, Stephen?”

  “What?” Dad asks with a start. He was miles away, staring from me to Ava and back — from freak to fabulous — and frowning in confusion.

  “I said,” Mum repeats, “we’d never have let her go through with it. It’s all drugs and anorexia, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm, you’re right,” Dad says, still not listening. “Mandy, love, have you noticed Ava’s neck? I’ve been comparing it to Ted’s just now. That’s a real lump there.”

  “My glands are up,” Ava grumbles, touching her neck gingerly. “It’s been like this for ages. Oh, it’s bigger now, though.”

  “Goodness, you’re right,” Mum says, peering closely. Then she puts her fork down, looking grim. “No school tomorrow morning, Ava Trout. I’m taking you back to the doctor’s.”

  “But, Mu-um, I’ve got volleyball tomorrow morning!”

  “Tough. You’ll have to miss it. It’s only one practice — I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  “If you don’t need it, can I please borrow your skirt?” I ask quickly.

  Ava raises one eyebrow, to remind me of our many conversations on the subject. That would be a “no,” then.

  I wait for Dad to back me up, but he’s forgotten already. His brain’s still elsewhere.

  Mum catches me glaring at him. She doesn’t know about the laundry, so she assumes I’m cross with him for being so surprised that it was me who got scammed, not Ava.

  “Never forget, darling,” she says, “you have your own inner beauty. You’ll always be lovely to me.”

  “Thanks, Mum. Great.”

  I was just about OK before, but when your own mother starts talking about your “inner beauty” you know you’re officially doomed.

  Two weeks later, I’m modeling handbags in Paris.

  SO not. Obviously. On Monday, I’m in choir practice in the assembly hall. My singing is about as impressive as my tambourine playing, but my best friend, Daisy, kindly drowns me out most of the time with her P!nk-esque go-for-it vocals. Besides, we’ve got a new Head of Music called Mr. Anderson, who bounces around in front of us like a ball in a lottery machine and makes us do hip-hop versions of Haydn and Mozart — or, as today, One Direction as arranged by Debussy. It’s usually great.

  As always, Daisy and I stand at the back so we can chat in between the singing bits.

  “So, did you bring it?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The card, of course.”

  I told her about it on the phone yesterday. I still can’t quite understand what happened.

  “No. It wasn’t in my pocket when I checked. I think I’ve lost it.”

  I think back to the pale blue logo with the jagged line. I’ve searched everywhere for it but it’s gone.

  “But he could be back in Carnaby Street this minute, taking advantage of some poor girl. You’ve no idea what some people would do to be a model.”

  “No. What?”

  “Well, stuff. Letting people talk them into bad situations.”

  She furrows her angry brow. Daisy does a lot of angry brow furrowing. When she was born, I’m guessing her parents were picturing a little bundle of natural goodness, with curly blonde locks and a sunshine smile to go with her name. What they got was a mop of black hair, an obsession with classic indie rock, and an easily aroused sense of grievance. Venus Flytrap would suit her better. I always think of daisies as black and spiky now.

  “My mum said last night that a friend of hers had a daughter who got scammed. There was supposed to be this big audition for a tropical juice commercial. You had to go to this hotel room in your bikini. She went along and there were lots of girls in the room, milling about, and this guy was taking photos of them. Turned out, though, nobody knew who he was. There was no commercial. He was just some guy who liked looking at girls in bikinis.”

  “Ew! That’s disgusting.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, this guy only asked my age,” I say. “I don’t think that’s illegal.”

  “It should be,” she grumbles. “Going up to strangers in the street and taking photos.”

  “He had this really nice Polaroid camera. Sort of retro. I’d love to have seen how it spat out the —”

  The room has gone strangely quiet. Mr. Anderson is staring angrily in our direction.

  “Oi! You there! The boy at the back. Stop talking and pay attention.”

  Everyone looks around. There isn’t a boy at the back, just Daisy and me.

  “Yes, you,” he goes on. “The tall one next to the girl with the spiky hair.”

  A snicker goes around the group as people start to catch on, and the temperature of my face goes up by about five degrees.

  “D’you mean Ted?” someone calls out.

  Mr. Anderson nods. “Thank you. Yes, you, Ted. The boy at the back. You haven’t been paying attention for the last five minutes. Will you come down, please?”

  This isn’t fair on so many levels. Daisy was doing most of the talking, for a start. I try to do as he says, but I can’t move. My body’s numb. My face must be so bright by now that you could use it as a homing beacon. I always thought Mr. Anderson liked me. I thought he was pleasantly surprised by my reggae interpretation of “Ave Maria.” I had no idea he didn’t even know I was female.

  Daisy nudges me. Her eyes are completely round. “Sorry,” she mouths. Then she glances down at my legs and looks sympathetic. Oh, no … I’d forgotten about that.

  Somehow, Dad managed to shrink my skirt vertically, but not horizontally. On my waist it’s still fine, but the length is different. Very, very different. Length is not a good way of describing it. Short-th might be better. Because this skirt is super-mini. So short that if I tuck my shirt in, it pokes out at the bottom.

  “You’ll be fine,” Daisy says, unconvincingly.

  I glare at her. Then back at my legs.

  “I’m waiting,” sighs Mr. Anderson, tapping his foot.

  Gradually some sensation returns to my limbs. Feeling like a human glowstick, I make my way down through the tiers of snickering singers. Then I walk across the assembly hall stage until I’m close to Mr. Anderson, beside the grand piano. I stand there, swaying slightly. The only thing keeping me going is the fact that suddenly he’s more embarrassed than me.

  “It’s understandable,” says a voice from the front row. It’s Dean Daniels, naturally. The class comedian and wannabe X Factor star. “She’s got no boobs. Boy’s name. Easy mistake to make, sir. But she’s definitely a girl — you can tell from the color of her knickers.”

  What? I look down in a panic. What color panties did I put on? How
can he see them? Is the skirt that short? I yank it down as far as it will go, and half the choir erupts into laughter.

  Oh, fabulous. Thanks, Dean. This is turning into such a perfect day.

  “Er, I see,” Mr. Anderson mumbles gruffly. “That’s enough from you, Dean. Sorry about that, er, Ted, is it?”

  “Short for Edwina,” I whisper.

  “Right. Edwina. Well, don’t do it again … the talking, that is … Back to your place now. Um, where were we, everybody?”

  “Admiring Friday’s knickers,” says a voice from the second row as I go past, not quite loud enough for Mr. Anderson to hear, but easily loud enough to make Dean grin.

  Cally Harvest, sitting smugly in her cloud of poufy hair and signature perfume — Radiance by Britney Spears. I can smell it from here. I’m pretty sure it will always remind me of this moment. And make me want to be sick.

  Cally smirks at Dean. I avoid everyone’s eyes as I dodge my way back up to my place at the back, wondering who, in an ideal world, I would take my revenge on first: Cally, Dad, Dean, or Daisy.

  Daisy looks suitably apologetic when I sit back down beside her, eyes stinging. She even hands me her sweater so I can put it over my legs. I can’t bear to see them right now. They look pretty silly at the best of times — bits of spaghetti hanging down where my thighs should be — but at this moment their endless, bony paleness is more than I can take.

  Mr. Anderson holds up his hands.

  “‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ everybody. From the top.”

  The others stand to sing, while I sit where I am and regret ever coming to school today.

  How come in my head I’m Ted Trout — decent ex-gymnast, friendly, artistic, a loyal supporter of the Woodland Trust — whereas in public I’m “the boy at the back”? Or Freaky Friday? Or, as of now, “the girl with the knickers”?