Stuck on Me (5 page)

I put the tape measure in my schoolbag, so I could measure Rosie and Vix’s noses later this afternoon, when we meet. And then, in desperation, I Googled
ways to make your nose look
smaller.
The page I found told me that if I wanted to make my nose look shorter, I should apply my regular foundation all over my face, and then put one shade darker underneath, where my
nostrils meet. But I don’t have two shades of foundation, just some organic, vegan, tinted moisturiser that Mum bought me for Christmas. I snuck into Ocean’s room and
‘borrowed’ some of hers, painting it on over the top of my base. It looked ridiculous, like I’d accidentally stuck my nose in a cup of hot chocolate and forgotten to wipe it off.
I had to wash my face and start all over again. On my second attempt, I used Ocean’s bronzer instead, which looked slightly better. Then, as instructed, I defined my eyes with eyeliner to
make them look bigger and detract attention away from my nose. I also tried another tip from the article: parting my hair on the side, instead of in the centre. Believe me, that doesn’t work
when you’ve got a bob, and a fringe. I made such a mess of my hair that I had to wet it down and blow dry it again. All of which made me late for school. Which wasn’t a good way to
start the year.

And, frankly, the day has gone downhill from there. I couldn’t find my new classroom, got into trouble for being late and had to take a desk right at the front, under the teacher’s
nose and miles away from Rich. He didn’t save me a place next to him, like I hoped he would. Instead, he positioned himself in the back corner, next to Luke. I still haven’t had a
chance to talk to him about yesterday. I tried last night, but he didn’t come online and, when I texted him
Goodnight
, he replied
See you tomorrow
, without even putting a kiss.
At breaktime, he played football with his mates.

Now I’m trying to find the GCSE drama room, and I’m lost again.

‘Hey, Sky, come over here.’

Here we go,
I think. The invitation is from Ella North and it spells trouble. Ella isn’t my friend. She’s one of those weasly girls who does anything she can find to make
herself look more attractive/popular and less boring/stupid. Bitchiness is her MO. She travels around with a coven of girls who are even more weasly than she is and therefore too scared to stand up
to her. It’s times like these that I wish Rosie and Vix went to the same school as me. When you’ve got a mum like mine, and a slightly weird name to boot, people like to pick on you. Or
try to. It never used to bother me; I’m not your typical victim – I’ve got tons of friends and a boyfriend, which is more than the bullies have. Usually, I give as good as I get
and they soon grow tired and move on to someone else. But I’m not feeling very confident today, what with my worries about my ever-expanding nose and about Rich, and I just want to be left in
peace.

‘I’m in a hurry,’ I say. ‘Got somewhere to be.’

‘Next period doesn’t start for five minutes.’

‘Yeah, but . . .’

‘Rude, or what?’ says Ella, turning to her coven. They all cackle together. ‘I only wanted to ask if you had a good summer.’

I offer her my fakest smile. ‘It was lovely, thanks. You?’

‘Oh yes, mine was fabulous. So have you been on holiday?’

‘Yeah, to Goa.’

She smirks. ‘Thought so. Must have been
really
sunny there.’

‘Duh, it’s Goa. It’s near the equator. Of course it was sunny.’

‘Well, you got a hell of a tan.’

‘No I didn’t,’ I say, lifting up my arm and pushing my sleeve back. Barely even a watch mark. I’m less than half a shade darker than I usually am because Mum insisted
that we smother ourselves in hideous natural sunscreen made from zinc. It made me look like a Goth. ‘Not really.’

Ella peers at me, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Then why is your nose, like,
bright orange
?’

I contest that. My nose, like the rest of my face, is now almost certainly bright red with embarrassment. Of all the things she could pick on, why did she have to choose my nose? ‘No it
isn’t,’ I say, unconvincingly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I’m mortified.

Ella reaches into her bag and pulls out a powder compact. ‘Yes it is,’ she says, smirking, as she clicks it open. ‘Look.’ She pushes the mirror in front of my face.
She’s right: over the course of the morning Ocean’s bronzing powder has combined with the oils in my skin and transformed to the colour of orangeade. Orangeade now mixed with
humiliation. Instead of making my nose look smaller, as I intended, my efforts have made it look twice as obvious. ‘Not a good look, Sky, is it, eh? Unless you were going for the
“I’ve been Tangoed” look.’

‘I must have rubbed something on it by accident,’ I say feebly. ‘I’ll go and wash it off.’

‘Good idea,’ she says. She sounds smug, victorious. ‘See you later, Sky.’

I force myself to smile, to make it seem that I’m not bothered. ‘Sure.’ I turn and walk away as fast as I can, so she can’t see that my eyes are brimming with tears.

By the time the final bell rings, I have never, ever been so desperate to see my best friends. I’ve arranged to meet Vix and Rosie at Starbucks, which is right on the canal by Camden Lock.
Now that summer is over, there won’t be many more evenings when we can sit outside in the sunshine after school and watch the colourful people of Camden pass by.

‘I’ve had a horrible day,’ I say, as we queue for our drinks. ‘Please tell me something nice to cheer me up.’

‘What’s up, Sky?’ Vix rubs my arm, affectionately. ‘Are you still worrying about what Rich said yesterday?’

‘Yeah, that and the fact I had the worst start to the year that you can imagine.’

We sit and I tell them about my bronzing powder disaster, and Ella North, and the fact that Rich hardly said two words to me all day.

‘I know just the thing,’ says Rosie. ‘Remember what I mentioned before, Vix? The thing that Sky would kill to do. Have we got time?’

Vix glances at her phone. ‘I reckon so. If we walk fast.’ She gets up from her chair, grabbing her half-finished frappuccino and jacket. ‘Come on, Sky.’

‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘Not telling you,’ says Rosie, pulling my chair out from behind me, so I have to get up too. ‘It’s a surprise. Promise you’ll like it though.’

Vix takes one of my arms and Rosie the other, then they lead me a little way up Camden High Street. We cross the road and turn into Hawley Crescent.

‘Are we going to the MTV studios?’ I ask, excited now.

‘We sure are,’ says Rosie, ‘and hopefully, we’re going to see someone who should make you feel a whole lot better.’

‘Cool! Who is it?’

‘Not telling you! I can’t believe you don’t know about it already, though. Guess!’

I rack my brains. Rosie likes pop music and guitar bands, while I’m more into R&B and urban music. ‘I don’t have a clue. It can’t be Fieldstar, because they’re
away on tour . . . Beyoncé?’

‘No, much better than that. Well, in your opinion, anyway.’

We’ve joined a large crowd, which has gathered outside the studios. I search their faces for clues. They don’t look like indie kids, or emos. Most of them are around my age, and some
of them are really dressed up, like they’re going out for the night. I wish I wasn’t in my school uniform. Just as I’m about to say, ‘I give up’, there’s a roar
from the crowd and someone emerges from the MTV building, surrounded by minders. Rosie shoves me forward and, stumbling, I somehow find myself right at the front of the crowd, staring straight up
into the gorgeous features of Bizzie Trip.

‘Oh my God!’

I guess I’ve been so preoccupied with my worries that the news that one of my favourite R&B stars will be up the road – in person – has completely passed me by. I’ve
been playing his new album nonstop on my iPod for the past month. I know all the words by heart. Especially the rude ones.

Bizzie smiles directly at me and, when I hold out my hand towards him, I’m certain he touches my fingers for just a few more milliseconds than he does everyone else’s. I grapple,
desperately, with the insides of my school bag to find something for him to sign. All I can find is my GCSE science textbook. It will have to do. He takes it, regards it curiously for a moment,
then opens it randomly and scrawls his signature across one of its pages. He just manages to hand it back before he disappears into another section of the crowd.

From now on, for the rest of my life, whenever I remember the formula for copper oxide, I will think of Bizzie Trip.

Feeling light-headed but happy, I find my way back to Rosie and Vix, who are waiting for me at the entrance. ‘Thanks so much,’ I say, hugging each of my friends in turn. ‘I
love you two. You’re the best. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Yeah, we know,’ says Rosie, beaming. ‘Hey, you’re not so bad yourself.’

I laugh. And then I realise that, for a few minutes at least, I have almost forgotten about my nose. I say ‘almost’ because, when you’ve got a nose as big as mine, you can
never entirely forget about it. Whichever way you look, you can always see it out of the corner of your eye.

’m sitting at my dressing table, carefully applying my make-up for school, when Mum knocks on the door. I
can tell it’s her because, as always, she gives it three sharp taps. She won’t let me have a lock on the door – she doesn’t believe we should have any secrets from each
other or, even, that being naked is anything to be embarrassed about (cringe). Like most normal people, I don’t agree, so, when she started walking in unannounced, I started putting a chair
in front of the handle to block her. Then she started worrying about what I might be getting up to in here. ‘
Are you taking drugs, Sky?
’ The knocking thing is our compromise.

‘What are you doing?’ she says, when it must be pretty obvious, given that I’ve got a pot of foundation in one hand and a brush in the other. She glances at her watch.
‘Shouldn’t you have left for school already? You’re going to be late again.’

I tut, irritated by her nagging. ‘I’ll be quicker if you leave me to it.’

‘Why do you need so much make-up for school? Are you even allowed to wear make-up at school? You know you really should let your skin breathe.’

Breathe? What
is she going on about? I’m hardly planning to put foundation on from head to toe so that I suffocate, like the woman who was painted gold in that old James Bond film.
‘My skin is fine. Don’t go on at me, Mum.’

She shrugs. ‘I’m just worried about you, Sky. Every time I see you these days you’re staring into that mirror. You used to read. You used to make things. You used to care about
real issues. Now all you care about is the way you look. What’s happened to you, Sky?’

‘Nothing,’ I say. But her criticism stings. She’s right – I never did used to think much about my looks. Now I’m so preoccupied with my nose – whether
it’s shiny, who can see me in profile, if it’s grown – that I barely have time to think about anything else. It’s taking me longer and longer to get ready for school. Not
that I’m going to admit that to her. ‘I’ve just grown up and got a mind of my own.’

‘Growing up doesn’t mean you have to become shallow and obsessed with make-up.’

‘I’m not shallow! I do still care about important stuff. Anyway, you care what you look like too,’ I counter. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t spend money on expensive
organic sulphate-free shampoo, cruelty-free make-up and fair-trade hemp clothes in rainbow colours!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your appearance,’ she says, ‘but it certainly should not be the only thing you think about.’

‘It’s not! Besides, I wouldn’t have to think about it if I wasn’t so hideous! It’s not my fault I’ve got a deformed nose. I need plastic surgery!’

She tuts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your nose is fine. I think the problem is that you spend too much time looking at unrealistic images in fashion magazines. Those pictures have been
airbrushed, you know. Nobody really looks like that.’

Here we go . . . This is one of Mum’s favourite lectures. Everything is The Media’s fault, apparently. It really grates when she says that – does she think I don’t have a
mind of my own?