by Jean Ure
Lots of people that hadn’t been selected said they wouldn’t have wanted to go, anyway. They said what could possibly be more boring than a stuffy old dinner and dance with teachers and governors and draggy old dignitaries from the Council. I didn’t mind them saying that cos it was what I would most likely have said in their position. You have to put a brave face on things and strictly speaking they were right, I mean there were going to be teachers and governors and draggy old dignitaries.
But there would also be reporters and photographers, and pictures in the paper and the school magazine, not to mention, as Hattie said, the honour and glory!
Christopher Pitts, who is this huge troublemaker who would never be selected to go anywhere, unless it was in chains, actually had the nerve to suggest I should invite him as my partner. He grinned this gappy grin at me (someone had recently knocked out one of his front teeth) and said, “Go on, I dare you! Why not?”
I said, “Apart from the fact that you’d probably start chucking bread rolls at people or puking all over the place, I happen to already have a partner.”
Christopher said, “Oh? Who’s that, then?”
I told him it was nobody he knew. “But it’s someone who won’t embarrass me!” He seemed to find that amusing, for some reason. I relayed the conversation to Hattie, thinking she would agree with me that Chris Pitts was gross (though he’s quite good looking, unfortunately) but Hattie just sighed and said, “I’m wondering whether I really want to come.”
I said, “What?”
“I’m not sure,” said Hattie, “I really want to come.”
“Why not? What are you talking about? Of course you want to come!”
“But who can I ask to partner me?”
It came out almost in a wail. Hattie hardly ever wails. I do! I do it all the time. But Hattie is not a drama queen, and she is not as a rule self-pitying. Trying to cheer her up, I said, “You could always ask Christopher!”
“He wouldn’t want to go with me,” said Hattie.
“Well, he wants to go with someone!”
“No, he doesn’t. He wants to go with you.”
“You could ask him.”
“No!”
“What about Weed?” I said. “He’d go with you!”
Like, Weed would go with anyone. Weed’s not fussy. He can’t afford to be. The minute I’d said it, I could have bitten my tongue out. I felt so ashamed! Hattie had turned scarlet.
“Weed’s OK!” I said, quickly. “He’s not nearly as geeky as he looks. He’s not really geeky at all. You shouldn’t judge people by appearances. I mean … he’s actually quite a nice boy! He’s far nicer than Chris. Chris is just a thug, but Weed – well, what I mean is, I wouldn’t mind going with him. If I hadn’t already asked Matt. And I know he likes you!”
Hattie let me burble myself to a standstill. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “There’s no rush, it’s not happening till half term.”
“But you will come,” I said. “Promise me you’ll come!”
“I’ll think about it,” said Hattie.
“Yes,” I said, “and I’ll think, too … I’ll think of someone you can ask to go with you!”
I meant to think, I really did, but there were just so many other thoughts swarming about in my brain that the problem of Hattie got crowded out. Life was just too exciting! I’d been selected for Founder’s Day, Matt was coming with me, and on Saturday we were raising money for the tsunami victims – and having our beauty contest. And Matt was coming to that, as well! I’d asked him, and he’d said that he would; him and Simon. I was so looking forward to it all! But you just never know when fate is going to strike you down.
This has been the worst day in the entire history of my life. When I woke up this morning I found my face had gone all bloated and ugly, I mean like REALLY ugly, like totally grotesque. Like something out of a nightmare. I nearly died. I am not exaggerating! I couldn’t bear to look at myself. It was so bad I had to miss out on the fundraiser. I am just totally GUTTED. I’d been looking forward to it for such ages! Why did it have to happen NOW???
I am living in terror in case it happens again. What is so frightening is that I don’t know why it happened in the first place. Mum says it’s an allergy, but to what? SHE says to make-up, but I haven’t used any make-up. Not for days! Mum only says that cos it’s the easiest thing to pick on. It’s all part of having a go at me. Part of her “you’re too obsessed with the way you look” thing.
But I am not obsessed! It’s perfectly normal for someone to care about the way they look. Mum might have got old and past it, but I am still young, and I think she should remember that.
My next diary entry was the last one I made for a while. All it said was, If this goes on, then there will be no point in living. I might as well kill myself.
I don’t think I really, seriously meant it – although maybe I did, which is rather frightening. But it truly was like the end of the world. How could I ever face anyone again?
How it started: I’d gone to bed on Friday evening feeling all happy and buzzy. I’d washed my hair ready for the beauty contest, and I’d cleaned my face so carefully, doing all the right things, like they tell you in the magazines; and then when I woke up on Saturday morning … I couldn’t believe it! I looked in the mirror and I just nearly died. My eyes were all swollen like footballs. I let out this piercing screech and went hurtling down the stairs shrieking, “Mu-u-u-m!” Mum shot out of the kitchen going, “What is it? What is it?”
“My eyes!” I bawled. “Look at my eyes!”
Mum looked. “Oh, dear, yes, they are a bit puffy, aren’t they?” she said.
A bit??? Dad came rushing in at that point, wanting to know what all the noise was about.
“It’s all right,” said Mum. “Just a minor crisis.”
By now I was practically in hysterics. I screamed at Mum that it wasn’t minor. “I’m supposed to be going in for a beauty contest! How can I even show myself?”
Dad took a look and said, “She’s right, she can’t go in for any beauty contest in that state.”
Dad’s reaction only made me even more hysterical. Mum told me to calm down.
“It’s nowhere near as bad as you make out. Eat your breakfast, then go upstairs and lie down for an hour and you’ll probably find you’re back to normal.”
“But what can be causing it?” said Dad.
“Anything,” said Mum. “She’s obviously like me; she’s got sensitive skin.” Mum said it was the price we paid for being redheads. She tried to make me eat something but I couldn’t; I just wanted to get upstairs, in a darkened room, and go to sleep, so that I could wake up and be my usual self. Mum gave me some cotton wool pads soaked in witch hazel to put on my eyes. I wanted to use a proper soothing lotion, but Mum told me sharply to “Forget all that proprietary stuff! It’s just junk. Witch hazel’s far better for you. Now lie down and try to relax.”
I did try, but it wasn’t easy. Every few minutes I kept touching at my eyes, checking whether they were still puffy and then getting in a panic cos I’d think they were getting worse, which meant grabbing a mirror and switching on the bedside lamp to inspect myself. Mum came in at half-past eleven and said, “Well, how’s it going? Let me have a look … oh, that’s much better! It hardly even notices.”
But it still did notice. I sobbed that I couldn’t go in for a beauty contest with eyes that were all wrinkled and red. Dad agreed with me. I pleaded with Mum to ring Hattie and tell her I’d got the flu. Mum said, “Oh, now, come on, Scarlett! That’s a bit over the top. You can still go, just miss out on the beauty bit.”
I shouted, “I’m not going anywhere like this!”
Dad said he could understand how I felt. He told Mum that she would have been just the same when she was my age and Mum had to admit that he was probably right.
“I was pretty vain in those days, wasn’t I?”
“You had a lot to be vain about,” said Dad. “It’s almost worse for a pretty
girl to lose her looks than a plain one. Not that she has lost her looks,” he added hastily, before I could set off screaming again. “It’s nowhere near as bad as it was.”
“But will you please, please tell Hattie I’ve got the flu?” I begged. I didn’t want people knowing the state I was in. I especially didn’t want Matt knowing. Lying in bed with a high temperature might be thought at least a little bit romantic, but having eyes embedded in elephant skin was just gross.
By six o’clock, when Hattie rang back to see how I was, the elephant skin had virtually disappeared. Even I had to peer at myself in the magnifying side of Dad’s shaving mirror to see the last lingering traces of it, which meant I’d stopped worrying about how I was ever going to be able to go out again without dark glasses and instead was full of bitter frustration at having missed the fundraiser.
“It’s so annoying,” I said. “I want to hear all about it! Was Matt there?”
Hattie said yes, he was. “I told him you’d got the flu. You’re obviously feeling loads better. Are you sure it’s the flu? Lots of people say they’ve got flu when really all they’ve got is a cold. Colds are quite different! Flu can be serious. If you’d actually got the flu you’d still be feeling ghastly.”
I said, “I am still feeling ghastly and if you don’t stop wittering and get on with things I’ll start feeling even more ghastly!”
“Oh. All right,” said Hattie. “What do you want to know?”
“Who won the beauty contest?”
Hattie said, “Give you three guesses!”
I didn’t need three guesses. Glumly I said, ‘Tanya?”
Without me, who else was there? In spite of what I’d said to Dad, about Tanya probably winning, I’d secretly believed that it would be me. It wasn’t vanity! Well, maybe it was vanity that I’d so desperately wanted it to be me and maybe it was vanity that I was now so jealous of Tanya, but I didn’t see how it could be vanity to know that I was pretty. Dad had been telling me that I was almost ever since I could remember.
“Did you vote for her?” I said.
“I didn’t vote for anyone,” said Hattie. “I decided in the end it was a bit demeaning … like Best in Show for dogs.” She added that she thought that was demeaning, as well, but I wasn’t particularly interested just then in Hattie and her dotty opinions. I sometimes think that she and Mum would make a good pair. It’s odd, because Hattie’s mum is quite normal.
“I wonder who Matt voted for?” I said.
“Haven’t the faintest idea,” said Hattie. “Why not ask him when he rings you?”
Eagerly I said, “Is he going to?”
“So he says. Said he’d give you a call tomorrow to see how you were.”
Well! That cheered me up hugely. By the time I went to bed I was feeling almost happy again, especially as my eyes were practically back to normal. I cleaned my face even more carefully than I had the previous night and went to bed to dream of Matt and what he might be going to suggest that we do. Cos obviously he wasn’t ringing just to have a chat; boys never ring just to have chats. He was ringing to ask me out. I was sure of it!
And then I woke next morning and my eyes were swollen worse than ever.
It was the beginning of the nightmare. As I look back, it all seems to merge into one block of horror. These are just a few of the things that I remember.
Lying in bed, on Sunday afternoon, with the curtains closed and witch hazel pads over my eyes. There’s a knock at the door, and Mum comes in.
“Scarlett?” she says. “Your flash young man has called. Do you want to come down?”
“Come down?” I tear off the witch hazel pads and stare at Mum in horror. “You mean he’s actually here?”
“Dropped by on the off chance. Are you going to come and speak to him?”
Is Mum mad? Does she really think I’m going to show myself to Matt in this state?
“Come on,” she says, “be brave! You can put my sunglasses on.”
“No!” Why would I be wearing sunglasses when I was supposed to have the flu? ‘Tell him I’m ill! Tell him to phone me!”
“Oh, all right,” says Mum.
The minute she’s gone I leap out of bed and race to the door. By opening it just a crack I can hear Mum, down in the hall, talking to Matt.
“ … some kind of allergy. Her face is a bit swollen. It’s not as bad as she makes out, but you know Scarlett … won’t be seen dead unless she’s blemish-free and perfect.”
How could she? How could she? I hurl myself back on to my bed and scream silently into the pillow. When I accuse Mum, later, of betraying me, she says she’s sorry, she’d forgotten it was the flu.
“Just stop overreacting,” she says. “I know it’s not very nice, but it’s not as if it’s life-threatening. If you’d just stop looking at yourself in the mirror every five minutes, you might find it went away.”
I sob and say that she obviously thinks I’m some kind of neurotic.
“I think you’ll turn yourself into one,” says Mum, “if you don’t relax a bit.”
I yell that I am relaxing. “I’m lying here with these stupid bits of cotton wool soaked in stupid witch hazel and they’re not doing the least bit of good!”
To which all Mum can think to say in reply is, “In that case, why don’t you come downstairs and join us for tea? You can always put the glasses on,” she says, “if you’d rather Dad didn’t see you.”
So I put the glasses on and they’re the cheap kind that make everything just like totally pitch black, so I have to keep lifting them up to find out where things are. Mum says maybe she should make me a veil, out of curtain netting. I immediately burst into tears and have to be comforted by Dad, who reprovingly tells Mum that “This is no joking matter!” Mum agrees that it isn’t, but says I am grossly overplaying it and nobody who didn’t actually know me would ever realise there was anything wrong. Dad says that is not the point.
“There is something wrong and she’s naturally upset. If she’s like this tomorrow, she’ll have to see the doctor.”
That’s my second memory: seeing the doctor. Cos when I wake up on Monday morning I’m, like, right back to square one, huge great puffballs where my eyes are supposed to be. You can hardly even see my eyes, they’re so swollen. I scream hysterically at Mum that no way am I going in to school to be laughed at. Dad says there’s no question of my going in to school.
“You’re going straight to the doctor!”
Well, you can’t go straight to the doctor (not unless you’re dying, and maybe not even then) cos you have to make an appointment, and the first free slot is days away. It’s not until Dad’s angrily snatched the telephone from Mum and bellowed into it that the dragon woman who guards the entrance to the cave grudgingly says I can come along at six o’clock that evening. So I spend another day lying on my bed, and by the time I finally get to the surgery with Mum my eyes have, like, subsided a bit, only now the elephant skin is back. It looks like the skin of some ancient old crone.
The doctor is a complete idiot. He says, “Hello, it’s Scarlett, isn’t it? And what’s wrong with Scarlett this fine day?”
I say, “This” and whip off my glasses.
He looks at me and says, “So what’s the problem? You look very pretty!”
I scream that my eyes are all puffed up.
He says, “Are they?” and peers a bit closer.
I screech that of course they are! “You don’t think they’re normally like this, do you?”
He says apologetically that they might be; how should he know? He’s never seen me before. Mum then steps in to explain that the swelling’s gone down a bit since this morning, but it was quite bad.
“We think it’s probably some kind of allergy … all the muck she puts on her face.”
I roar at her that I haven’t got muck on my face. “I don’t put muck on my face! Do you see any muck on my face? I haven’t got anything on my face!”
Mum says, “Well, not right at this moment, m
aybe. But some of that stuff … you never know what it’s got in it.”
The doctor agrees with Mum. He says you can’t be too careful. “Especially if you have that type of skin.” He says what Mum said about being a redhead. He says, “I’m afraid beauty sometimes comes at a price.” He tells me to take antihistamine tablets and on no account to put anything whatsoever on my face.
“Just let it breathe for a while.”
“An excellent idea,” says Mum.
She’s always been anti make-up. But I haven’t used any! We sit round the table that evening, me and Mum and Dad, trying to work out what else I could be allergic to, like my pillow, or house dust, or cheese, or – almost anything. Mum still says the most likely culprit is something I’ve put on myself. There isn’t any point in arguing with her; she gets these ideas. Nothing will change them.
Hattie rings later, wanting to know how I am. I glumly inform her that I’ve got an allergy. She says, “Oh, horrible! Poor you,” and goes on to tell me how much money we made at the fundraiser. I know it’s very wrong of me, but just at this moment I don’t care two straws about the fundraiser. I don’t even care about the tsunami victims. All those poor people who died, or lost their loved ones. I just care about me and my face!
Later on, the phone rings again. This time it’s Matt, also wanting to know how I am. “Are you going to be presentable in time for the Founder’s Day thing?”
I squawk in protest at him, down the phone. “God, I should hope so!”
Founder’s Day isn’t for another three weeks. I can’t still be in this state in three weeks!
But I can. This is just the start of the nightmare. Next day when I wake up I grab the mirror and this thing, this loathsome, hideous, unspeakable thing, leers back at me, like some kind of deformed monstrosity out of a horror movie. Overnight, my entire face has swollen up. I just scream, and scream, and scream. Mum comes running, and so does Dad. Now even Mum can’t say that I’m over-reacting. Dad is almost as panic-stricken as I am; he wants to rush me straight down to the A & E department. It’s Mum – as always -who keeps her head. She says this is proof positive I’m allergic to something.