Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Stan held Mr Squid to his chest. He waved a tentacle goodbye. ‘Hey, Sally.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you really OK? After what happened with the homeless guy?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’ She stood in the doorway, ready to go.

  ‘If you need me, just holler across the lawn.’

  She smiled. Knowing he was thirty metres from her bedroom window was, and always had been, comforting. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘Sweet dreams, Feather.’

  Chapter Three

  Sally Feather was not a morning person. She stayed in bed until the very last minute, desperately trying to think of something to look forward to, a ritual she performed every morning. Some days you need a reason to get out of bed. This morning she had three things: they’d post the Little Shop cast list today; Jennie’s birthday was coming up; there would be more Satanville in six days. When Satanville was on hiatus, sometimes getting out of bed was pretty tough.

  When she could no longer take her mother screaming up the stairs, Sally dragged herself out from underneath the duvet and made her bed, pre-empting wrath. Her room was surely the most immaculate room any seventeen-year-old ever had. She sloped over to her wardrobe and selected some jeans, a T-shirt and a baggy checked shirt to throw over the top of it. She hated clothes that were too clingy, she couldn’t stand the thought of people seeing her body – she was way too skinny. There had been a period in Year Eight when a few of the girls, led by Melody, had started bringing cakes and chocolate bars to school for her to ‘cure her anorexia’. To her shame, she’d eaten some of them publically to prove she wasn’t.

  Before bed the previous night she’d had a bath and her thick hair had dried overnight into wavy ropes all the way down her back. Sitting in front of her mirror, she plaited it into a messy braid and swung it over her back. She added a touch of Vaseline to her lips, but that was it as far as her face was concerned. Where Melanora found the time to do a face full of makeup before school was a mystery to her.

  ‘Sally!’ her mum called for the hundredth time.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll be late!’

  Sally followed the smell of fresh coffee into the kitchen, knowing there’d be breakfast waiting for her. Her mum knew her well enough to know there wouldn’t be enough time for a full breakfast, but there was some toast with homemade lemon curd ready for her to grab and go. In the mornings, she quite liked that her mum was a domestic goddess.

  Sally already had the toast in her mouth when her mum stopped her. She wiped an imaginary mark off Sally’s cheek with a wet thumb. ‘Sally, please don’t forget to go to the sorting office to pick up your father’s new golf shoes.’

  ‘What?’

  She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Sally, we talked about this. I need you to collect them after school.’

  ‘Why can’t you go?’

  ‘Because I have church flower group today on the other side of town. Please don’t argue.’

  Sally sighed. There was so little in her mother’s life that small jobs and errands took on epic proportions. A trip to the post office or a haircut was a full day’s endeavour. ‘OK. Do you have the little card thing?’

  ‘Here.’ Her mum handed her the delivery note. ‘Be careful, though. There’s all sorts of weirdos down by the depot and after what happened yesterday . . .’

  Sally hadn’t thought of that. To get to the depot, she’d have to go to the worst part of town. Her skin crawled as she remembered the amputee and his wild, unblinking eyes, but she shook it off. ‘It’ll be fine, Mum.’

  ‘Good. Go right after school and come straight home before it gets dark.’

  Sally nodded. Heaven forbid a seventeen-year-old go to a post office unaccompanied. ‘I have a free period this afternoon so I’ll be able to leave school early.’

  ‘All right then, dear.’ Her mother kissed her forehead and Sally swept out, toast between her teeth.

  Jennie texted Sally to say she was running late so she and Stan walked to school alone, discussing the previous night’s Satanville in great depth, and whether the cast in real life was as close as they seemed. According to the internet, Mia Meyer who played Taryn was a massive diva on set. Sally didn’t want to believe her heroine was a real-life bitch, and no one ever accuses male actors of being divas.

  When they arrived at SVHS, they headed straight for the library block. The library was a separate building and the only part of the school that hadn’t been demolished as part of a recent upgrade scheme. The rest of SVHS now looked and smelled like a futuristic leisure centre – all glass and needlessly curving walls. The old library was locked at this time of day, but there were a couple of picnic tables outside and this was where their clique congregated before registration.

  The hierarchy was very simple. A-Listers like Melody, Eleanor and Keira, along with their uniformly hot boyfriends, sat on the cafeteria steps. Hot jocks were allowed to join them, but ugly jocks (such as the plain-Janes on the lacrosse team) hung out by the tennis courts. Band and choir members mostly loitered in the courtyard by the fountain, stoners behind the toilets. That just left their little area for waifs and strays – they weren’t some inspirational band of misfit outsiders, however, they were just disparate individuals who tolerated each other because there’s safety in numbers.

  Sally was aware that, although SVHS was a daily nightmare, she didn’t get nearly as much grief as some of her periphery friends. She was lucky in that a lot of the A-Listers didn’t know she existed. Poor Grace Doulton with her acne, or overweight Dora Petrowski, or effeminate Joshua Parnell – they really got it bad.

  Sally and Stan sat with a few of their lesson friends on the benches. Stan had devised the term ‘lesson friend’ as someone who you sit with for social protection purposes, but make no plans to see outside of school. As Sally didn’t have Jennie or Stan in all of her classes, these B-List friends were important to her.

  ‘What’s your day like?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Pretty sucky. Double maths first.’

  ‘But I’ll see you third period, right?’

  ‘Yeah. You can carry on your story.’ In the margins of her French notepad, Stan was writing some Satanville fanfic. It was actually pretty good – another little thing to look forward to, another breadcrumb to lead her through the day.

  Stan was about to reply when they saw Jennie and Kyle hurrying across the lawn towards the library. Sometimes Kyle hung out with them, sometimes he loitered by the fountain. He carried his guitar on his back, dyed jet black hair blowing over his face. Sally swallowed back a bitter taste as he approached. He really did think he was the reincarnated spirit of Kurt Cobain and it made her sick.

  He and Jennie were clearly having some sort of spat. He wasn’t so much holding her hand as dragging her across the grass. Out of earshot, Kyle whispered something in Jennie’s ear before releasing her from his grasp. After a pause they walked the rest of the way side by side. Jennie nodded at whatever it was he was saying before smiling broadly and almost skipping the rest of the way to the table, as if he’d commanded her to cheer up. ‘Hey, guys!’

  Sparkle, Jennie, sparkle.

  Stan frowned. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine!’ Jenny said with a rictus grin.

  Sally decided not to let it drop. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine.’ Kyle answered on her behalf. ‘Right, babe?’

  ‘Right.’ Jennie fiddled with the hem of her nautical baby-doll dress. ‘I made us late. Kyle was supposed to drop some sheet music off but —’

  ‘It’s no biggy.’ Kyle wrapped an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’ll do it at break.’ He looked directly at Stan. ‘You know what girls are like. She was getting all stressed out and I was, like, dude, chill.’

  ‘Right,’ Stan said, apparently uncomfortable at being dragged into it.

  ‘We made the bell, so it’s all fine.’ Jennie smiled but her shoulders were rigi
d. Sally longed to know exactly what words he’d whispered in her ear. Standard Jennie and Kyle: they were tactile and smiley but a weird vibe seemed to follow them around.

  Jennie looked right at her. ‘Hey, Sal, did you see the cast list yet?’

  ‘What? No. Is it up already?’

  ‘According to Becca it is. She ran off to see if her name was on the list a minute ago.’

  Sally sprang off the bench, her palms suddenly sweaty. ‘Oh, OK. I guess I should go check, then.’

  ‘Want us to come with you?’ Stan asked, swinging his rucksack onto his shoulder.

  ‘No.’ Sally nudged at some gravel with her Converse-clad toe. ‘I won’t be on the list. I might as well get it over with. I kinda hope I’m not on it. I only auditioned to keep Mum off my back.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll see you at registration.’ Sally took off across the lawn and under the archway that led into the courtyard by the fountain. The cast list would be pinned to the arts noticeboard, which was why the musical kids all hung out by the fountain – it was their hub of information regarding rehearsal times and practice rooms.

  There was already a crowd at the noticeboard, kids climbing over each other to get a clear view of the list. A couple of girls came away from the huddle obviously disappointed. ‘We’re not even in the chorus? How does that make sense?’ said one distraught girl that Sally remembered from the auditions. She’d been tone deaf, so it wasn’t a massive surprise.

  From the centre of the scrum, she heard a high-pitched voice cry, ‘Who on earth’s Sally Feather? Which one was she?’

  ‘You know, that one with the . . . plait thing,’ someone else replied.

  The crowd parted to let Melody, Eleanor and Keira out of the centre. Melody threw her a glance so hate-filled that it almost knocked Sally off her feet.

  There’s no way . . .

  Sally slipped in through a gap and fought her way to the board. The list was printed on a piece of acid green paper, no doubt selected to be the same shade as the man-eating plant from the show.

  Sally’s heart raced as fast as it had at the audition. The main part was Seymour and that had gone to Joshua Parnell. She was delighted for him – effeminate he may be, but the guy could sing circles around anyone else at SVHS. In the not-too-distant future, when he was on Broadway, Sally suspected he’d get the last laugh.

  The next part was Audrey. She could scarcely look. The role had gone to . . . Melody Vine. Oh. Well, that was an anti-climax. What was the filthy look for, then? Sally continued to scan the list past Mr Mushnik, the voice of Audrey II – the plant – and Orin, the evil dentist. Then she saw her name. She’d been cast as Chiffon. Chiffon, Crystal and Ronette were the Motown girl group who narrated the whole play. Thinking logically, although she wouldn’t get a big solo spotlight, she would get to sing more than any other individual character.

  Her hand flew to her chest, her skin suddenly hot and prickly. She’d actually got a part. A really good part – her mum would be thrilled. The elation lasted about a second before a cartoon anvil of panic smashed onto her head. How on earth was she going to get up on stage, most likely in a tight, sequinned dress, and perform song after song? She felt sick. Maybe she could pull out and not tell her mum. Yes . . . tell a white lie, get out of it.

  And then it got that little bit worse. While Ronette was being played by Keira, she saw that Eleanor had only been cast in the chorus. Initially Sally figured that was what Melody’s death glare had been about, but then she saw the very bottom of the list. Seymour had an understudy and so did Audrey.

  AUDREY (UNDERSTUDY) . . . . . . . . . . . . . SALLY FEATHER

  Oh, well that explained it. Sally’s head spun like she’d been punched by an iron fist. This was all a lot to take in. She pushed her way out of the huddle only to find herself face to face with Melody and she did not look pleased – her face was flushed and her lips were pursed like she’d gorged on lemons. ‘Don’t get excited, Sally.’ She sounded as sour as she looked. ‘I’ve never missed a performance in my entire career.’

  The congregation turned to witness their conversation. Who doesn’t love a catfight? Sally’s brain felt like a blob of chewing gum and she struggled to form words. ‘I . . . I don’t want to be Audrey.’

  Melody didn’t look like she was expecting that response. ‘Well . . . good. Because you won’t be.’ She turned and stormed off with a flick of her mane. Sally caught a whiff of whatever fragrance she’d sprayed all over herself that morning; it was vanilla-tinged and sickly.

  Sally waited until Melody was out of sight before breathing again. As much as her mum wanted her to be in the production, Sally wasn’t sure a) it was worth it for two months of rehearsal time with Melody, and b) whether she had the guts to do it. First rehearsal was tomorrow after school. She had until then to pull out.

  By the time she’d spent five minutes psyching herself up in front of the mirror in the girls’ toilets, she only had a second to check in with Mrs Flynn, her form tutor, before she had to race to first period. She arrived at maths even more sweaty and dishevelled than usual. Eyes fixed on the floor, she tried to slip into her seat as inconspicuously as possible, but the rest of the class was already seated and Mr Pollock ready to teach.

  Sally took a space next to Dee, a lesson friend known for her frizzy strawberry blonde hair and face full of freckles. She greeted Sally with a smile. ‘Congrats on the play,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thanks. H-how did you know?’

  ‘I’ll give you one guess.’

  Melody. Word travels fast. Luckily, as far as Sally could ascertain, Melody couldn’t count beyond ten, so Sally was safe in her A-Level maths classes. Sally had always loved maths; solving the problems and looking for the patterns. You could rely on numbers too. However you played with them they always behaved in a predictable way. Numbers were numbers.

  And then something truly weird and entirely magnificent happened. From the next table over, a handsome – like off-the-TV handsome – guy turned to face her. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about Mels. Just give her some time to cool off. And congrats.’ He was Todd Brady and he was Melody’s boyfriend.

  Sally’s first reaction was, Who is he talking to? Her brain cogs turned too late, leaving a vast, cavernous silence after he’d finished speaking. ‘Oh. Erm. Yeah. Thanks.’

  Todd grinned and turned back to face Mr Pollock. Sally’s brain was whirling. On the one hand Todd represented everything she should despise. He was from a rich family in Mulberry Hill, he was genetically blessed in every possible way, he was co-captain of the football team and he dated the worst person on earth. TV shows do not look kindly on his type of character.

  Todd was an OK guy, but his friends were buffoon jocks of the worst order – mean, racist, homophobic bullies who dominated the school, and, as everyone knows, standing back and watching evil happen is its own kind of evil.

  However, as a heterosexual girl with eyes, Sally couldn’t help but wonder what he was like under his shirt. His football shirt gave just enough of a hint as to how sculpted his chest was, and his arms were huge. Alone in bed at night, she often dreamed about what it would be like to lie wrapped up in those arms, his skin on hers. He was an exact mixture of Zeke and Dante – the former’s blue eyes and the latter’s thick chestnut hair.

  God, she loathed herself. She had never told anyone, not even Jennie, how she felt about Todd. He had only ever spoken to her once before: two years ago he had said, ‘Sorry, mate,’ after he’d bumped into her on the top corridor. She remembered every detail of it. It had been so hot.

  This was one for the deathbed. If this information ever leaked, two things would happen. Number one: she’d be a laughing stock for about thirty seconds before number two: Melody ripped her still-beating heart from her chest and ate it publically in the centre of the courtyard.

  ‘Miss Feather?’ It was Mr Pollock. He looked at her expectantly. She’d been so consumed with the idea of resting her head on
Todd Brady’s pecs she’d missed his question.

  ‘Sorry . . . I . . . ?’

  He smirked. ‘I merely require you to confirm your attendance . . .’

  From the back of the classroom, some douche guys snorted laughter.

  ‘Here, Sir,’ Sally muttered. It was going to be a long double maths.

  On her free period, Sally was about to spill into a nap, her head resting on her folded arms on a library table, when she suddenly remembered her errand. ‘Oh God,’ she exclaimed. ‘I have to go into town.’

  ‘What?’ Stan looked up from his French homework. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to go collect my dad’s new golf shoes.’

  Stan grinned. ‘Sounds thrilling! Oh, please say I can come!’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Wait.’ His smile fell. ‘I can’t. I’m meeting Kareem here after school to do our physics assignment.’

  ‘It’s OK, I don’t plan on making it a huge visit.’ She scooped her books into her rucksack. ‘Shall I come over tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said eagerly. Stan was so puppy-like it was hard to imagine him as a seventeen-year-old man, even with his height and square shoulders. She guessed even really big St Bernard puppies are still puppies. To her he’d always be the plump little boy next door who flicked bogeys at her.

  ‘OK, I’ll come round after dinner.’ As she sloped out of the library, she threw a look back over her shoulder, only to catch her friend watching her. ‘What? Have I got something on me?’

  ‘No. No, it’s nothing.’ He seemed to be blushing. Sally shook it off as she left the building. There was no way that Stan could think of her like that. They’d known each other for ever – granted he had once shown her his penis, but they’d been four and he’d asked to see hers in return. Sally couldn’t believe for a second that a guy who had seen her with measles, a guy she had personally infested with head lice, a guy who had seen her in Spongebob pyjamas could possibly find her attractive.

  Who am I kidding? She couldn’t imagine any guy finding her attractive. She suddenly didn’t like this line of thinking and blocked the thoughts out, focusing on the pleasing orange warmth of the afternoon sun on her face. Freedom felt good.