In Sarah's Shadow (10 page)

“Jesus, Sarah! What the hell’s been going on here?!”

That’s what Dad’s going to say the minute he sets eyes on this place. Mum…Mum will probably burst into tears. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been scrubbing and scraping and hoovering and polishing for the last few hours: trying to clean this place up is like trying to mop up a spilt pot of paint with a cotton bud.

I set the alarm for 7am today, even though a) I didn’t get rid of the last of my ‘guests’ till 3.30 this morning and b) I didn’t sleep a wink anyway. But I reluctantly dragged myself downstairs, braced myself for a scene of total carnage and I wasn’t disappointed. It looked like the place had been burgled, trampled by a herd of
rampaging elephants, then used as a squat by every down-and-out junkie and drunk in the neighbourhood. There was mess and trash
everywhere.
It was practically impossible to see the carpet for the empty beer cans and cigarette ends. Some kind of oily, greasy fingermarks were streaked along one wall of the hall. CDs and trampled-on CD covers were strewn all over the living room. The contents of every single kitchen drawer had been pulled out by someone looking
very
hard for something (who knows what). There was sick in the bath, red wine stains on our sand-coloured sofa, broken glasses in the kitchen sink and even a couple snoring in the hall
cupboard,
for God’s sake.

Now…well, now most of the surface mess is gone and I’ve got rid of the couple from the cupboard (never saw them before in my life and I dread to think what they were doing in there before they crashed out). But no matter how much air freshener I spray or how many windows I open, I can’t get rid of this cloying fug of booze and fags. I haven’t got a clue how to get that red wine stain out of the sofa (Mum will know, but asking her isn’t exactly
ideal),
I only just spotted that the birdbath in our tiny front garden has been used as a beer-can bin, I’m completely knackered and I think I’m about to have a panic attack.

Yep…I
am
having a panic attack.

My heart’s thundering faster than a drum’n’bass beat and my legs feel like they’re going to pack up under me. I use the hoover as support and aim myself at the armchair before I make everything ten times more complicated by passing out. It’s bad enough that Mum and Dad are due back any minute now; if they see (and smell) the state of this place
and
spot me zonked out on the floor, it’s safe to say Mum is going to assume that all manner of hideous crimes have been committed while I’ve been home alone (ha!) and that she’s a truly terrible mother – when, of course it’s more a case of
me
being a truly terrible daughter.

Oh, Jesus…

But it’s not just the worry of Mum and Dad’s reaction that’s twisting my head into stress knots, it’s a whole load of other stuff too. Let’s see…which of them do I pick first? How about the fact that Megan is spooking me out, coming out of her room today just long enough to grab a sandwich and blank me ominously? What’s going on in that unfathomable mind of hers? Is she planning on ratting on me to our parents? But what would be the point in that, since the evidence of me screwing up is everywhere you look? I wish I had the courage to hammer on her door and ask her what she
was playing at when she told Conor I was some big flirt, but seeing as I tried to keep the whole party secret from her, I guess I can hardly get on my high horse with her, morally speaking.

Still, that’s just
one
of my head-pounding stresses. Another is Conor, or more particularly
why
he hasn’t phoned to apologise, or even just to talk over why he flipped last night, after one stupid comment from my sister. I keep checking the phone, in case I missed hearing it ring while I hoovered or ferried the ten thousand rubbish bags out to the bin, but there’s been nothing to hear except for a hollow-edged, recorded voice from BT repeatedly telling me “You have no messages”. At one point, I checked my e-mails, in case Conor had left me some long, heartfelt ramble, but no.

There
was
one message for me, from Angel, and what she wrote has given me more stress than all the rest of it put together. She’s on one massive comedown after the party…I can’t imagine the hangover she’s got, but raging nausea and headaches probably seem immaterial next to the dread she’s woken up with today, knowing that she’s just made the biggest mistake
ever.

‘What am I going to do, Sarah? I could be pregnant or anything!’

Oh, Angel…Losing your virginity to a creep who isn’t even worthy of kissing the ground you walk on is bad enough. But the fact that you didn’t even use contraception…

I feel like killing myself – I’m not kidding.’

God, what do you say to that? I can’t handle this…it’s too much like a repeat of what happened with Megan last year, and those sensations are so scary that all I want to do is run away. But I don’t – Angel’s my friend and I have to help somehow, even if I can’t quite figure out the right words to make a difference. I wrote back to her straight after I got her message; some throw-away line about not panicking and another telling her that I’d be in touch later, once I’d faced my parents. And in the mean time, I did what Angel specifically asked me
not
to…

‘Please, please, please, I beg you, don’t tell anyone else about this
–
not even Cherish. I couldn’t stand the shame.’

But what could I do? I
had
to let her in on Angel’s terrible secret – I didn’t see that I had a choice, if I was going to be in any way helpful. I just thought Cherish might be more…I don’t know…
measured
than me, come up with something that might just make a difference. Her older sister Lilah is cool; I even thought that Cherish might subtly ask her how you go about
finding clinics open on a Sunday, so we could pass that info on to Angel.

Not that Cherish has got back to me. Where the hell is she? She wasn’t in when I phoned earlier and she hasn’t sent a reply to my e-mail either. I feel so,
so
lonely and overwhelmed right now. I wish I had some human contact, someone to talk everything over with and tell me it’ll be all right instead of expecting me to just cope, as always. I wish I had the sort of sister I could confide in, instead of one I have to tiptoe around and avoid upsetting. I wish—

“Jesus, Sarah! What the hell’s been going on here?!”

“Um, hi, Dad; hi, Mum,” I smile wanly at my parents as they stand in the living room doorway and survey the debris…

I hold my breath: those are Mum’s footsteps coming up the stairs, and I’m pretty sure I hear the clink of cups and plates. Is she bringing me something? I feel my eyes prickle with tears of relief; there’s nothing I’d like more than for her to come tap-tapping on my bedroom door, beaming that sweet smile of hers in my direction and making me feel like all is forgiven.

I hear the tap – but it’s not on my door. She’s talking to Megan in the boxroom. Meg’s in there doing her
homework, I guess; I heard the whirr of the printer earlier when I came upstairs. Maybe Mum will come in here next, so I better stop looking so wimpy and wet-eyed and cheer up for her.

And I wait…

…and I wait…

…and I wait…

…until I finally let my expectant smile slip away as I listen to the steady thud-thud of Mum’s footsteps retreating downstairs.

What a day. After my birthday (“Unhappy 16th, Sarah!”) last year, this must be the second scummiest day of my life.

My heart shattered with every disappointed statement from my parents.

“Sarah, how
could
you?”

“We’ve
always
trusted you!”

“Where’s your sense of responsibility?”

“You of
all
people! I’d never have
dreamt…
!”

“Why did you go behind our backs?”

“Do you have
so
little respect for us?”

“We should have
known
not to go away!”

“You could have put yourself in real danger, with all that drink and drugs around!”

“You’re the eldest – what kind of signal does this
send to Megan? Poor Megan…she’s only just getting back on track!”

Poor Megan…I didn’t bother telling them she hadn’t stayed the night at Pamela’s – it would just have made things worse. Her turning up at home, mixing with a wild kind of crowd, that would have been my fault too. Yet another black mark on my now totally charred track record. I feebly tried to explain that Cherish and Angel had persuaded me to have more friends around, and that it had all got out of hand, but even as the words were leaving my lips I knew it sounded pathetic, as if I was trying to shove the blame on to someone else.

“Oh, Sarah…” Mum had muttered sadly as she and Dad stared at me with such desolate looks of disappointment that I felt like I’d just broken the news to them that I was a serial killer or something.

After that, the three of us worked silently through the rest of the day, trying to fix up the house to as near normal as it was ever likely to get.

And then I escaped up here, letting another mealtime slip by unnoticed. No one came up to tell me tea was ready, even though the smell of something hot wafted up the stairs an hour or so ago. The phone hasn’t rung; neither Conor nor Cherish seem to be in any hurry to contact me. And my own mother can’t even bear to bring
me a coffee while she takes one to my sister. I feel totally isolated, sucked into some vacuum of misery that I’ve got no way of climbing out of.

But then, I’m not the only one,
I think to myself, feeling a hot rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.
What I’m going through doesn’t compare with Angel’s problems…

“Are you going to be on that computer long?” I ask Megan as I hover in the doorway of the boxroom. “There’s something I’ve forgotten to do.”

I need to get back in touch with Angel. I still don’t have anything constructive to say, no magical suggestions that’ll make everything better, but maybe it would just help if she feels I’m out there – in cyberspace at least – for her.

“I’m finished now,” says Meg, hurriedly gathering up her pile of papers beside an untouched cup of coffee and plate of biscuits.

I’m not really in the mood to stare at my sister, but even just the quickest glance at her tells me she’s feeling guilty; just something about the way she’s rushing out of here without a sulk or strop, and the way she won’t meet my gaze.

“Thanks,” I say as we pass by in the doorway.

Good grief, she even has the decency to pull the door closed behind her. She
must
be feeling guilty…

Settling down in front of the screen, I take a deep breath to clear my head – ready to try and figure out what comforting pearls of wisdom I can chuck Angel’s way – when a waft of milk chocolate digestive reminds my stomach of what it’s been missing.

The first bite is great; the second bite is better; the third one nearly chokes me…I’ve just spotted something: my e-mail to Cherish, open on screen behind a bunch of other files. I’d closed it – I
always
close my mail, but Megan can never resist nosing at what I’ve been sent and what I’m sending.
This
time she hasn’t even been clever about it. She hasn’t put it away after she devoured this particular piece of gossip. So,
that’s
what Meg’s guilty look was all about; nothing to do with the bizarre fib she’d told Conor.

Why is she like this, my sister? Why does she keep her own feelings shut up, her own life like a closed book, yet she loves to delve into other people’s? She thinks I didn’t spot her, but I saw her at rehearsals earlier in the week, nosing through the Filofax Mr Fisher had left lying beside his briefcase.

Still – think positive. At least there’s no way she can use what she’s read about Angel; there’s no way she can twist
that
to her advantage.

Is there?

“You’ve got to watch that one…” Gran had said.

“I think she means you harm…” Mrs Harrison had said.

“Oh God…” I say, and drop my face in my hands.

“OK – take a two-minute breather, people, and then we’ll run through that again. Uh, Sarah…?”

Mr Fisher walks up to the edge of the stage and beckons me to come closer. I pad over and squat down. Did I muck something up there? That’s all I’m good at doing at the moment.

“Listen, I know it’s a while off for you,” says Mr Fisher, rifling through some papers he’s got crammed into a green cardboard folder, “but I thought you might like to look at these…”

“Music colleges…?” I mutter in surprise, balancing my guitar across my knees as I glance at the headed sheets.

I’ve never mentioned doing music courses to Mr Fisher. Or to my parents.
Or
to myself. Primary teaching…that’s more or less what I’ve fixed my mind on. The teacher-training college in town has a great reputation.

“Don’t know if it’s something you’d be interested in doing, Sarah, but I think it’s worth considering – you’ve definitely got the talent for it.”

I feel myself flushing at the compliment. Behind me, I can hear Sal and Cherish arguing about band names, and I’m glad because that means no one else can hear what’s going on. I don’t think Mr Fisher’s given anyone else in the band this info: I feel privileged and shy and very,
very
flattered.

“But they’re all pretty far away,” I suddenly frown, skimming through the pages.

“So? What’s to keep you hanging around here? The world’s your oyster and all that, Sarah!” Mr Fisher grins at me.

What’s to keep me? My family, my friends…Well, I don’t know about my family at the moment. I think my parents will eventually forgive me for what happened; it might just take a decade or two…

Speak of the devil – a member of my family has just walked into the hall right now, an aura of self-importance around Meg now she’s got that stupid clipboard under her arm.

“Um, thanks…” I nod in Mr Fisher’s direction, then stand up quickly and walk over to my bag to stuff the brochures inside.

And then I see Angel, coming from the backstage area with a cup of water in her hand. Now’s my chance.

“Angel!” I whisper, looking back over my shoulder to check that none of the rest of the band can hear me.

God, I hate all this subterfuge. Cherish has to pretend she knows nothing about Angel’s situation, even though we talked about it in depth late on Sunday night, when she finally got back to me. Not that Cherish was much help – all she did was get upset and suggest we pay someone to slash the tyres on Joel’s mountain bike, but I didn’t see how that was going to solve anything.

And today, Tuesday, was the first time I’d managed to get Angel almost alone – she’d stayed off school yesterday and the only way I knew she was OK (ie, she hadn’t chucked herself off the bridge over the bypass) was when I called her house at night and got told by her mum that she had a migraine and was sleeping. Earlier today, I caught a glimpse of her going into her art class – looking pale and gaunt – but never managed to catch up with her between then and the rehearsal after school today.

“Are you all right?” I ask her, aware from her taut, tense face that she’s anything but.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she shakes her head at me and takes a sip of her water.

Great, someone else who doesn’t want to speak to me. Conor has done an excellent job of blanking me since the start of rehearsals today. He seemed to prefer to gaze at every square foot of the stage and auditorium than look anywhere in my direction. I feel like a
leper…

“But, Angel, what’s happening with you? Did you go and see the doctor yesterday?” I whisper anxiously, remembering the remark she’d made about the morning-after pill in her e-mail.

“I just don’t want to talk about it, OK?!” she replies and I can see she might be about to cry.

It’s then that Salman shouts at me to chuck over a new set of sticks to him, and by the time I turn back to Angel, she’s gone. We all wait, and wait some more, presuming she’s gone to the loo, but time stretches on. Or maybe it just feels that way to me because of this void of silent weirdness between me and Conor.

“Hey, folks – let’s just try a run-through without Angel this once, eh?” Mr Fisher suggests, sitting himself down in a row of chairs directly in front of the stage.

I don’t know whether he’s suggested it to her or not, but I see Megan scuttle off to switch off the main
auditorium lights. I suppose it makes sense – this is our last rehearsal before the contest on Friday afternoon and staring out into the darkness does make the whole thing feel more real.

Unfortunately for a dress rehearsal, we are all rubbish.

“He is
so
bugging me,” Cherish whispers, casting a dirty look at Sal as we all clatter uncomfortably to a standstill.

Sal obviously feels the same way about Cher, and in five seconds flat they are having a full-scale row about band names that I couldn’t be more disinterested in if I tried. Too much else is skewed and bizarre at the moment and I don’t care if we end up calling ourselves Hopeless.

I take my guitar off and park myself down on my amp till the fighting blows over. It doesn’t. Out in the auditorium, I can just about make out Mr Fisher and Megan talking, and then Meg is off; off to do something very self-important from the way she goes stomping out.

I don’t have the energy for any of this. Once upon a time (ie, right up till last week) I couldn’t wait for this competition, and now part of me can’t wait till it’s over, if it means I don’t have to have anything to do with Conor ever again.

Oops.

What a liar I am.

All I
really
want is for Conor to tell me this has all been some stupid, tragic mistake and that everything’s all right. Then we’ll kiss and laugh about it and then kiss some more…

“You complete
cow,
Sarah Collins!” I suddenly hear Angel curse as she comes hurtling through the hall’s double doors “You think it’s
funny
telling my business to the world? Like my life’s some big
joke?!”

I’m frozen, too paralysed with shock to move. But I’ve heard her right; it is me that my best friend Angel is yelling at, shooting me looks to kill as she thunders up the short flight of steps flanking the stage.

“Hey, everyone!” Angel bellows at the top of her voice, turning and throwing her arms out wide to an imaginary audience. “I LOST my VIRGINITY on Saturday!! Did everyone in town HEAR that? Or did you all get an E-MAIL about it from Sarah ALREADY?!”

I don’t need the ground to open up and swallow me; I need a direct portal to drop me to the Earth’s core. This is awful. How did she find out? Has Cherish said something and Angel’s taken it the wrong way? But when would that have happened? When I tried to speak to her five minutes ago, Angel had been upset,
but not with
me,
I didn’t think. Whereas now – now I think I’m in danger of having a mike stand chucked at my head.

Where’s Mr Fisher when I need him?

And why is Megan staring up at the stage as if she’s enjoying some West End play?

Ah,
wait
a minute…

“You mailed her message to other people?
Not
just me?!” Cherish turns on me next, before I get a chance to mull over my suspicions about Megan.

“No! No, I
didn’t!
I only sent it to you, Cher! Honestly!” I shake my head hard.

“It doesn’t matter
how
many people you told, Sarah!” Angel starts to sob, sending shivers of guilt through me. “Don’t you get it? I asked you, I
begged
you not to tell anyone else!”

“She’s right! If she didn’t want anyone else to know, then you shouldn’t have told me!” Cherish snarls in my direction, before going over and wrapping her arms around Angel.

Excuse me, but has the whole world gone mad and someone’s forgotten to tell me? And it’s getting crazier. Salman has just come out from behind his drum kit and walked round to stand supportively close to Angel and Cherish, which would be pretty funny – if
this situation wasn’t so horrible – considering Sal and Cherish were bickering like crazy up till about thirty seconds ago. Conor…he’s taken a few steps closer to Angel and co; he’s obviously trying to let me know where his loyalties lie, without the dirty job of having to talk to me.

“I was only trying to help, Angel!” I hear the words tumble from my mouth. “I didn’t know what to say to you! I thought Cherish might…”

And then I stop when I see four pairs of accusing eyes staring at me like I’m scum. There’s no point in this, no point at all…I let the guitar go without a second thought and hear it let out an unhappy groan of notes as it hits the floor.

“Fine. Believe what you want to believe,” I mutter in a shaky voice. “I quit.”

“Oh,
great!”
I can hear Mr Fisher’s voice boom from somewhere up in the balcony as I push my way through the black-out curtains at the side of the stage. “And what are we supposed to do
now?”

I hate walking out on Mr Fisher – he’s probably the only person I know who doesn’t dislike me or isn’t disappointed in me in some way. Then again, now that I’ve messed up his pet project, I’m probably not his number one favourite person either.

Well,
I think, wiping the tears from eyes as I hurry towards the exit,
welcome to the club, Mr Fisher. The
‘I
Hate Sarah Collins’ club – it’s got a growing membership…