Vintage (2 page)

Then Marilyn was up and running down the stairs, her eyes burning. She could hear Sheila coming after her, calling her name.

The bus lurched to a stop. Marilyn fell down the last few steps. The last thing she knew she was sprawled out across the floor, her school bag landing painfully on top of her.

I'm lying on my stomach. On the floor of a bus. Like I've been dropped from a great height. That's weird enough. It's not as if I ride buses. So boring. All the waiting. I'd rather walk.

I can feel the engine throbbing through me. The floor's covered in cigarette ends. My cheek is down on one of them. It's sticking to my skin. I lift up my head. To get away from the stink.

I can see legs. Loads of them. Can't see anything very clearly though. It's like looking through a fog.

I don't know what's happening. But I don't like it. I've never been here before. Last thing I knew, Kyle was driving his brother's car into town with me in the passenger seat. Time to play with. Shopping to do. Now where am I? Who are these people? They banned smoking on buses when I was twelve. How come this one's different?

Mum's always saying I need to see a therapist again. She sees one. I think I was born to find out stuff. See stuff other people don't see. Understand stuff. Maybe I should be a therapist myself.

The others, they get on with it. Go to college. Dream of four kids and a house and a great job. And all that. I think there's something more important. The planet, for a start. Then this happens. Makes you think about what's real. What matters. Not that I could tell anyone. They'd have me sectioned.

All this. Flashing through my head. Then an old woman's voice:

“Stay there a minute love, get your breath back. You've had a nasty fall. That driver, he should never have taken the bend so fast, what with people coming downstairs. I shall tell the corporation, I shall.”

Another voice. “All right me duck, there was this dog in the road – puppy it was. You didn't want the driver to run it over, did you?”

I want to tell them both to back off. Leave me alone. I decide not to say anything before I have some kind of clue what's going on. Kyle says I'm unfreakable. But this is totally freaking me out. And where is Kyle? Where's my best mate?

A girl's face bends down towards mine. Her hand pulls at my shoulder. I'm not moving. I feel sick. Can't be pregnant. Can't be. I try to count the days.

“Marilyn, you're a clumsy clot. What were you doing running down the stairs so quick? They were only joking. Let's get you off this bloody bus.”

Marilyn? Who's Marilyn? Who's this girl? Seriously scared now. Don't move. Wait till everything stops spinning. Deep breaths. That way I might get to find out what's going on.

Another woman's voice: “There's no need for that kind of language, young lady. And you from the grammar school. I'll have words with your mother, I will.”

What language? What grammar school? What young lady? I want to say hang on. I must have concussion. Things don't seem normal. Right now I'm concentrating on not throwing up. If I open my mouth I know I will. I can't stand throwing up. Especially among strangers. And these people are very strange.

The girl hisses at me: “Marilyn, look at yourself, everyone can see your stocking tops – pull your skirt down, where's your glasses?”

A pair of pale blue plastic glasses. Thick lenses. Pointed corners. Lying close to my face. The hand sweeps them up. Pulls at my shoulder again. This time I get up. Pull down the skirt. Hang onto the bus seat next to me. My body doesn't feel right. I feel my mobile under my shirt. The girl hands me the glasses. I put them on. Everything looks clear now. Even more weird. Since when did I need glasses? Except the sunglasses. Fashion essentials don't count.

Then the girl picks up a heavy bag. Spilling out papers and books. She groans.

“What have you got in here? You are such a brain-box.”

I don't know the bag. Or what's in it. I don't know this girl. Never seen her before. Wearing some kind of uniform. Dark blue skirt, guy's white shirt. Tie. What's that about? Posh school or something? Can't be anyone I know.

I look down at myself. Above the weird stockings and lace-ups I'm wearing a dark blue skirt. Above that a guy's white shirt that's gone grey, and a tie.

Am I going mental?

Get me out of here.

Now.

Marilyn came round. She was sitting down, her head bent forward. She turned her head to the right. Her neck hurt, and her shoulder. She saw a blur of black as she opened her eyes, then a very white hand reached towards her.

“Holly, you okay? I didn't mean to brake so hard. That dog was right in the middle of the road.”

Marilyn's eyes began to focus.

“You'll be fine, no blood. You might have concussion, careful when you move.”

Marilyn struggled to sit up. Whoever this person was, she wished they'd shut up. Her head was aching.

The car started slowly, turned left and the driver parked.

She turned to take a better look. The hands on the steering wheel were long with thin fingers. The bitten fingernails were varnished in deep purple. The hair was black, back-combed, with a black alice band, all different lengths. It was a mess. She kept looking. Something didn't make sense. This wasn't like any girl she'd ever seen.

Marilyn lifted her head. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? You know who I am. Holly, you okay?”

Was it her who was Holly or the driver? No, she wasn't Holly, she was Marilyn, but the world had changed.

The driver's shoulders were broad. Marilyn kept trying to focus but everything was blurred.

“What's up, is my mascara running?”

It was a boy's laugh. This couldn't be a boy.

Marilyn sank back against the seat and shut her eyes. Perhaps she was asleep, dreaming all this. It couldn't be happening. But her head still hurt, and it didn't feel like a dream.

There was a hard knock on the window.

“Come on out of there, you two. Police.”

I get off the bus at the top of a hill. Follow this girl who seems to know who I am. Whoever she thinks I am is definitely not me. Someone has stolen my identity. Or is this some kind of virtual reality?

The road looks like my road. But different. My house is there. But there's no parking space in the front. There's some kind of fence. With a gate and plants. Not that we've been there long enough to notice. Only since Mum and Dad split up. But I know her car goes where those plants are.

I steady myself on the bus stop. Seriously weird. Wonder if I've been reincarnated or something. Think you have to die first though. Don't remember doing that.

The girl's standing looking at me. A huge bag's hanging from her hand. Another slung over her shoulder.

“You sure you're okay? Di didn't mean it. You know what she's like.”

Mean what?

Who's Di?

I keep my head down.

“Your mum will take care of you,” the girl said.

Wrong on two counts. My mum won't get home till after seven. Taking care of me isn't on her list. She's out looking after other people's kids.

The deprived ones.

I've been in some mad states. Specially recently. But this is seriously scary. Even wish Mum was here. That's a first. She'd have a heart attack if she knew.

“Mm,” I say. Playing for time. Sickness better now I'm outside. Must be some kind of bad dream. One of those when you're half awake. Ten in the morning and it feels really real. I'll tell Kyle about it. Where is Kyle? Maybe I am dead.

“I'll take you to the gate, then I'll get off to mine – come on!” the girl says. Nothing to do but follow. She drops my bag at the gate. There was never a gate there before. Looks solid enough. Pick up the bag. Look for the latch.

She stares at me. Frowns. “I'll do it, Marilyn, you're in such a state.”

That name again. Remember doing my Marilyn Monroe look. To the guy across the road. When was that? Five minutes ago? Five years ago? The girl opens the gate. Leads me round to the side door.

“I won't stop. Your mum will sort you out. See you later alligator.”

She smiles like she's said something clever, or funny. Seems to expect me to say something back.

Now she's off. I watch her walk away. Can you miss someone you don't know? Who doesn't know your name? Who's from a different planet?

I do miss her, whoever she is.

The door opens. This woman comes out wearing a nylon apron with frills all over it. Flour on her hands. False smile on her face. Thin eyebrows. Thin lips, tight. Hair all puffy, like an old biddy from the shampoo and set brigade. But she looks about my mum's age.

“Hello love, I'm making some jam tarts. Want to put the jam in for me, you like doing that? Or maybe you're too old now.”

I'm standing there. Mouth wide open. Can see the shelves in the kitchen. Rows of saucepans and glass bowls. Nothing like our kitchen. Mum's booked a builder. To strip out the old units and put in new ones. This kitchen looks like some retro mock-up. In a museum.

“I'm not feeling too good,” I manage to say. I pick up the bag. Carry it in. Can't think what else to do. I don't seem to be a ghost. She can hear me. Unless she's dead too.

She puts her hand on my forehead. I can feel her hand. It's cool, real.

“Have you got a temperature? You are a bit hot.”

A bit hot? A thousand degrees. Stupid. I smile. Try to. I feel like crying.

“You go and have a lie-down in your bedroom. You can do your homework later. I've got no time for this. Your father's putting up the cupboards and there's so much to do.”

I'm about to tell her I don't need her to let me off the homework. I'm not doing anything now. And she can keep out of my life. For ever. But maybe that's not such a good idea. I swallow instead.

I head through the house, staring at everything. So totally different from our place where Mum gets stuff from Argos. Instead of this junk shop. Seriously, it's retro heaven here. I run up the stairs. Faded narrow carpet down the middle. I head for what I hope is my room.

The door looks the same. I open it. Like walking into a time warp. It seems to be a girl's bedroom. Not mine. Flowery wallpaper for a start. Narrow bed. Thin rug on the floor. All these weird pictures on the walls. Elvis Presley. Hey, and Marilyn Monroe, black and white. A poster. The Misfits. Cool. What is this girl like? Where is she? Who is she? Does she look so like me that her own mum doesn't realise I'm not her? But then I look down at myself. I don't look like me.

I look for a mirror. There's a tiny one on the table. I can only see one bit at a time.

I take a breath before I look.

Gasp.

It's somebody else.

I'm somebody else.

This isn't me. The haircut's crap, the face is – crap, unless you count all the bits being there in the right places.

Spots.

I look round for makeup, concealer, anything.