The Look (3 page)

T
wo weeks later, I’m modeling handbags in Paris.

SO not. Obviously. On Monday, I’m in choir practice in the assembly hall. My singing is about as impressive as my tambourine playing, but my best friend, Daisy, kindly drowns me out most of the time with her P!nk-esque go-for-it vocals. Besides, we’ve got a new Head of Music called Mr. Anderson, who bounces around in front of us like a ball in a lottery machine and makes us do hip-hop versions of Haydn and Mozart — or, as today, One Direction as arranged by Debussy. It’s usually great.

As always, Daisy and I stand at the back so we can chat in between the singing bits.

“So, did you bring it?”

“What?” I ask.

“The card, of course.”

I told her about it on the phone yesterday. I still can’t quite understand what happened.

“No. It wasn’t in my pocket when I checked. I think I’ve lost it.”

I think back to the pale blue logo with the jagged line. I’ve searched everywhere for it but it’s gone.

“But he could be back in Carnaby Street this minute, taking advantage of some poor girl. You’ve no idea what some people would do to be a model.”

“No. What?”

“Well, stuff. Letting people talk them into bad situations.”

She furrows her angry brow. Daisy does a lot of angry brow furrowing. When she was born, I’m guessing her parents were picturing a little bundle of natural goodness, with curly blonde locks and a sunshine smile to go with her name. What they got was a mop of black hair, an obsession with classic indie rock, and an easily aroused sense of grievance. Venus Flytrap would suit her better. I always think of daisies as black and spiky now.

“My mum said last night that a friend of hers had a daughter who got scammed. There was supposed to be this big audition for a tropical juice commercial. You had to go to this hotel room in your bikini. She went along and there were lots of girls in the room, milling about, and this guy was taking photos of them. Turned out, though, nobody knew who he was. There was no commercial. He was just some guy who liked looking at girls in bikinis.”

“Ew! That’s disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Well, this guy only asked my age,” I say. “I don’t think that’s illegal.”

“It should be,” she grumbles. “Going up to strangers in the street and taking photos.”

“He had this really nice Polaroid camera. Sort of retro. I’d love to have seen how it spat out the —”

The room has gone strangely quiet. Mr. Anderson is staring angrily in our direction.

“Oi! You there! The boy at the back. Stop talking and pay attention.”

Everyone looks around. There isn’t a boy at the back, just Daisy and me.

“Yes, you,” he goes on. “The tall one next to the girl with the spiky hair.”

A snicker goes around the group as people start to catch on, and the temperature of my face goes up by about five degrees.

“D’you mean Ted?” someone calls out.

Mr. Anderson nods. “Thank you. Yes, you, Ted. The boy at the back. You haven’t been paying attention for the last five minutes. Will you come down, please?”

This isn’t fair on so many levels. Daisy was doing most of the talking, for a start. I try to do as he says, but I can’t move. My body’s numb. My face must be so bright by now that you could use it as a homing beacon. I always thought Mr. Anderson liked me. I thought he was pleasantly surprised by my reggae interpretation of “Ave Maria.” I had no idea he didn’t even know I was female.

Daisy nudges me. Her eyes are completely round. “Sorry,” she mouths. Then she glances down at my legs and looks sympathetic. Oh, no … I’d forgotten about
that
.

Somehow, Dad managed to shrink my skirt vertically, but not horizontally. On my waist it’s still fine, but the length is different. Very, very different.
Length
is not a good way of describing it.
Short-th
might be better. Because this skirt is super-mini. So short that if I tuck my shirt in, it pokes out at the bottom.

“You’ll be fine,” Daisy says, unconvincingly.

I glare at her. Then back at my legs.

“I’m waiting,” sighs Mr. Anderson, tapping his foot.

Gradually some sensation returns to my limbs. Feeling like a human glowstick, I make my way down through the tiers of snickering singers. Then I walk across the assembly hall stage until I’m close to Mr. Anderson, beside the grand piano. I stand there, swaying slightly. The only thing keeping me going is the fact that suddenly he’s more embarrassed than me.

“It’s understandable,” says a voice from the front row. It’s Dean Daniels, naturally. The class comedian and wannabe
X Factor
star. “She’s got no boobs. Boy’s name. Easy mistake to make, sir. But she’s definitely a girl — you can tell from the color of her knickers.”

What? I look down in a panic. What color panties did I put on? How can he see them? Is the skirt that short? I yank it down as far as it will go, and half the choir erupts into laughter.

Oh, fabulous. Thanks, Dean. This is turning into
such
a perfect day.

“Er, I see,” Mr. Anderson mumbles gruffly. “That’s enough from you, Dean. Sorry about that, er, Ted, is it?”

“Short for Edwina,” I whisper.

“Right. Edwina. Well, don’t do it again … the talking, that is … Back to your place now. Um, where were we, everybody?”

“Admiring Friday’s knickers,” says a voice from the second row as I go past, not quite loud enough for Mr. Anderson to hear, but easily loud enough to make Dean grin.

Cally Harvest, sitting smugly in her cloud of poufy hair and signature perfume — Radiance by Britney Spears. I can smell it from here. I’m pretty sure it will always remind me of this moment. And make me want to be sick.

Cally smirks at Dean. I avoid everyone’s eyes as I dodge my way back up to my place at the back, wondering who, in an ideal world, I would take my revenge on first: Cally, Dad, Dean, or Daisy.

Daisy looks suitably apologetic when I sit back down beside her, eyes stinging. She even hands me her sweater so I can put it over my legs. I can’t bear to see them right now. They look pretty silly at the best of times — bits of spaghetti hanging down where my thighs should be — but at this moment their endless, bony paleness is more than I can take.

Mr. Anderson holds up his hands.

“‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ everybody. From the top.”

The others stand to sing, while I sit where I am and regret ever coming to school today.

How come in my head I’m Ted Trout — decent ex-gymnast, friendly, artistic, a loyal supporter of the Woodland Trust — whereas in public I’m “the boy at the back”? Or Freaky Friday? Or, as of now, “the girl with the knickers”?

They hit the chorus. One voice sings out above the others, doing his famous Harry Styles impression.

Dean. If I could take my revenge on anyone first, it would be him. The guy everybody loves, because he’s always cracking
jokes and having a laugh. He’s not bad-looking, if you happen to like walking bowl-banged early Bieber impersonations. I happen to know that Cally has had a crush on him since Christmas, and it certainly looks as though she’s got his attention now. He keeps turning to grin at her.

If Dean’s on your side, everything’s perfect. It’s just that there has to be another side, to even things out, and that’s the side I’m on. Me and all the other freaks and losers. But mostly me.

“A
nd what color knickers
are
you wearing?” Ava asks. We’re on the bus home.

“That’s not the point! Lilac, sort of, since you ask.”

Somehow, I’ve managed to get a seat next to her for once. I wanted her to share my pain, but she’s not taking this nearly seriously enough.

“I bet they’re gray by now,” she says. “All our clothes seem to go gray when Dad gets involved in the laundry.”

“This is all
your
fault, you know, for not lending me your skirt last night.”

She looks guilty. “All right, you can have the one with the dodgy waistband.”

“Oh, great. Now that it’s too late.”

“Or I can always keep it —”

“No! I’ll borrow it,” I say quickly.

There’s sulking and there’s self-preservation. I’m not stupid.

She grins and looks out of the top deck front window. My favorite place on the bus. It’s always full when I try and sit here, but somehow, when Ava wants to, it’s free. It must be magic or voodoo or something. She’s always been like this.

She scratches her arm and I spot the Band-Aid near her elbow.

“Oh, did the doctor give you another blood test?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, “and he wants me to have a biopsy on my neck.”

“What’s that?”

“They stick a needle in and suck out what’s inside so they can test it.”

She knows how much I hate needles, so she says it with flailing hands and bulging eyes, looming over me like a mad scientist.

“Ew, get off me! Sounds yuck. You seem in a good mood for someone who’s given blood.”

“That wasn’t the good bit,” she says. “I got a text from Constantine & Reed this morning. I got the job! Louise did, too. Four weeks as a salesgirl. Longer if we want it. So that’s the summer sorted.” She does her singsong, happy voice. “I get to see Jes-se. And I get to go surf-ing. And I get a dis-count.”

“So we
didn’t
have to go busking!”

“It was a useful experience, T,” she says, digging me in the ribs. “Just think — now you can put
professional musician
on your résumé.”

“I don’t have a résumé.”

“Well, you will one day.”

“Does a Starburst count as professional payment?”

She looks sleepy again and rests her head on my shoulder. “Just hope they don’t ask you too many questions in your interviews. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” She closes her eyes.

Various students come to check out the front of the bus, see
Ava resting beside me, and give me a friendly wave. I take a deep breath and try to hold on to this moment. For five minutes, I’m not “the girl with the knickers” — I’m “Ava Trout’s sister.” Maybe this makes me temporarily cool by association. I sit back in my seat while the burning finally fades from my cheeks. Meanwhile, the Elizabeth Taylor look-alike beside me starts gently snoring into my collar.

Looking back ten days later, the sleeping was a clue. There were other clues, too, but we missed them. We all thought it was a combination of being a teenager, moving house, exam stress, and a virus. Instead, we worried about math and sociology tests, gray underwear, finishing a book chapter, and underdone potatoes dauphinoise.

Then the doctor called one morning to say the biopsy results were in. Mum and Ava arranged to get them that afternoon, while I was at school. I thought nothing of it.

By coincidence, as I get off the bus, I spot them walking back to the flat from the doctor’s. I call to them and they turn to look at me.

It’s the first of June. A beautiful summer’s day. All the sycamore trees along the road are a vivid green, their leaves standing out against the crystal blue of the sky. But Mum’s face is as gray as our knicker collection. So is Ava’s. They won’t talk to me. Not a single word. It is … not good. I have the same buzzing in my ears as when I was scammed on Carnaby Street. I want to say something but I can’t think of the right question to ask, because I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Instead, I wait beside
Ava while Mum struggles to get her key into the lock of the front door. Her hands are shaking.

The sky doesn’t make sense.

That’s what I’m thinking. The blue sky doesn’t make sense. Today it is the wrong sky.

Dad’s waiting at the top of the stairs. I don’t know if Mum phoned him from the doctor’s office or if he just knew, but his face is gray, too. He looks as if something heavy is about to fall on him and he’s worried he’ll be knocked over.

We somehow get into the living room and, without thinking, we sit at the table in our usual places. Four gray faces, framed against a blue sky, with the ash tree waving cheerily through the open window, caught by a summer breeze.

Dad just looks at Mum. Something in his expression makes me reach out to hold his hand.

“It’s lymphoma,” Mum tells him. “The biopsy was pretty certain. They’ll need to do more tests, but they think she’s had it for months.
Months
, Stephen. And those other blood tests said she was fine …”

She stares at the tabletop. Her hands are still shaking. She’s talking about Ava as if she’s not there, and something about Ava isn’t there at the moment. There’s a far, faraway look in her eyes.

“What’s lymphoma?” I ask.

Mum tries to answer, but can’t.

“It’s cancer, love,” Dad says, surprising himself with the sound of his voice. “I think. Isn’t it?”

Mum nods so microscopically you can hardly see it.

But cancer is for old people. Dad’s mum died of it two years
ago. Cancer kills you. Ava can’t possibly have it. Maybe it’s just a really bad flu. Or asthma?

“They’re referring us to a pediatric oncologist,” Mum says. “He has a space on Saturday morning. Apparently he sees patients on the weekend, which is good. It’s not always so quick, but there was a cancellation and they didn’t want to waste time …”

She stops as suddenly as she started, and gazes out the window at the tree, as if she’s just noticed it. I stare at Ava’s neck, just as Dad did when he first pointed out the swelling. It’s very obvious when you look. Could it be an actual tumor, like they talk about on
Grey’s Anatomy
? I can feel my whole body going cold. I don’t want to worry anybody, but I think I’m going to faint.

Dad squeezes my hand to steady me. “Don’t fret, love. It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. Won’t you, Ava, my sweets? Won’t she, Mandy, love? What else did the doctor say?”

There’s a coded signal in Dad’s voice that clearly says to Mum that we need some good news, and quick.

Mum snaps out of her reverie and nods.

“He said it’s quite common in teenagers and they know exactly what to do. He said this man at the hospital — Doctor … I’ve forgotten his name.
Damn
. Doctor …” She wipes a hand over her forehead and gives up trying to remember. “Something. Anyway, he’s highly respected and he’ll explain everything on Saturday.”

“And it will be fine, right?” Dad checks.

Mum smiles a tight smile and says nothing. Clearly the doctor didn’t say it would be fine.

“I’m going to bed,” Ava says, getting up without glancing at any of us. “Wake me later.”

Three gray faces nod. After she goes, nobody speaks. The breeze keeps blowing somehow. It’s the only sound in the room.

Ava’s favorite pictures are stuck to the inside of the closet door.

She’s standing on a beach in Cornwall, wearing a wetsuit and clutching a surfboard. Next to her is a bleach-haired boy with a muscled torso and deep gold tan. This is Jesse, teaching Ava to surf last summer when we went camping near Polzeath. Oh, and falling in love with her, but that’s quite normal. Ava has to deal with boys who fall in love with her all the time. The difference was, this time it was totally mutual. Jesse’s surprisingly sweet for someone so gorgeous. Mum and Dad were convinced their romance wouldn’t survive several months of not seeing each other — apart from one weekend at Christmas when he came up to visit — but it has so far. The photo’s pretty tattered by now, because she regularly takes it down to kiss and stroke it, despite the fact that she has an identical version on her phone, which she also strokes and kisses.

I
know
.

Ava with her best friend, Louise Randolph, who’s captain of the volleyball team. They’re in matching skinny jeans, lacy camisoles, and smoky eyes, and look as if they’re about to get signed up to a record label. Actually, I think they were going bowling.

A group shot of several girls in short skirts and sweatshirts, clutching field hockey sticks and grinning. Ava’s in the middle, holding the silver cup they won last year at the South London
Schools Tournament. The team is going on tour to Belgium next term, if they can raise the money.

This is Ava’s life: Jesse, surfing, and volleyball in the summer; her friends, looking good, field hockey in the winter — never mind A-level exams, which she takes next year. I don’t think she’s got time for cancer.