Shining On Page 10

  My sister—my not-in-the-least-bit-identical twin—is gorgeous. She has long, naturally blond hair, eyes the color of speedwells and tiny dimples in her cheeks and chin, which boys seem to find irresistible. Don't get me wrong—I used to look pretty OK too, in a chubby kind of way. My legs are my best assets—which is just as well considering what happened. But of course, I don't exactly attract the following that my sister manages. Currently, Jess has four guys salivating over her: Oliver—the class high-flyer, who is dark and sultry and up himself; Alex—who is fair and freckled and turns scarlet every time Jess flutters her eyelashes at him; and James—who's sweet and seems about three years younger than her. And then there's the one we don't mention, Matt. Who is—well, Matt.

  We've known Matt since we were little kids at primary school. Our mum used to take him to school because his mother was often ill, and then, after she died, Matt used to spend hours round at our house in the holidays while his dad was at work.

  He was more like a brother in those days, I guess—but suddenly that changed.

  I think I fell in love with Matt when I was fourteen. You know how it is—one day he's just the guy next door, the next you find yourself dreaming about him, and hanging out of the window in the hope of seeing him in his rugby gear going off to practice. Then he asked me to go with him to the rugby club awards party—he was dead chuffed about it because he was getting an award for Most Improved Player.

  Jess was not happy about it.

  “We always do everything together,” she asserted firmly. “You can't go without me—you won't talk to anyone.”

  I'd always been known as the shy one, largely because once Jess is on a roll, no one can get a word in edgeways.

  “I'll be talking to Matt,” I protested. Jess ignored me.

  “Don't worry,” she said bossily. “I'll find a way to get there.”

  And of course she did. Jess always finds a way to do what she wants. She started chatting up Ben Hardwick, who was one of Matt's best friends, and the next thing you know, she's coming to the party.

  But it was OK, because Matt didn't leave my side all evening. We danced practically every dance and when we weren't dancing we sat and talked nonstop. He said I was pretty and witty (West Side Story was being reshown at our local cinema) and he made me feel a million dollars. That night, he kissed me; my first really proper, long, slow, smoochy kiss. I could see Jess watching me out of the cor-ner of her eyes, and it was cool to see how surprised she looked.

  After that, we were inseparable—Matt and me, not me and Jess. We would walk Matt's dog over the Downs and didn't have to say anything—we just held hands and drank in the views, and he didn't think it was boring like some of the guys I'd known.

  But it wasn't all lovey-dovey stuff either: we talked for hours about everything from politics to rap music, and we laughed a lot.

  We'd been together for six months when it happened. It was Saturday 25th July. Of course, everyone knows that date now—they call it 25/7. The day of our Town Carnival. It was a glorious, Technicolor summer day—the kind you get about once every three years in England. The papers said that made it worse, because there were even more peo-ple than usual. Everyone was in skimpy clothes, strolling about watching the jugglers and street musicians in the Market Place or lounging on the stone steps by the foun-tains, licking ice creams. I was on cloud nine because just before we left for the Carnival, Matt had gone all pink and shy and fumbled about in his pocket.

  “I got you this,” he said, thrusting a little box into my hands. “For a six months' anniversary present. You proba-bly won't like it, and that's OK, you can change it, I mean, it's nothing really …”

  By then I'd opened the box.

  “It's beautiful,” I murmured, not just because I wanted him to feel good, but because it really was—a tiny silver shell with a pearl in the middle, hanging on a fine silver chain.

  “It's not expensive or anything,” Matt apologized. “It's just from the market.”

  “No, it's from you,” I said, and leaned forward so that he could fasten it round my neck. “I'll keep it forever.”

  Dumb thing to say.

  Anyway, after that we headed for the Carnival. It had taken over the whole town center; streets were packed with waltzers, bouncy castles and dodgems; food stalls crammed the side roads and music blared out from loudspeakers. We met up with loads of our mates, ate ice cream and hot dogs and chips, and then felt sick riding the roller coasters.

  When I think about what happened, it's as if there's a movie playing in slow motion in my head.

  “Come on,” Matt is saying again, “let's go on the Screamin' Spinner.”

  I remember the sick feeling in my stomach, remember the way I shook my head, said that I was dying of thirst and couldn't do another thing till I'd had a drink. I remember being afraid to say that I was terrified of fast roller coasters, because I knew Matt adored them and he'd once told me that he despised weedy girls who wouldn't have a laugh.

  “Not me,” I said as casually as I could. “I need a drink— I'm fried. You go.”

  “Not without you,” he replied. “Tell you what, I'll keep our place in the queue—you go and get some Pepsi.”

  Then the pictures in my head fast-forward. I'm standing in line at the juice and cola bar outside Hendersons, I'm actually letting mums with little kids go ahead of me, because I reckon Matt will get to the front of the roller coaster queue and go on the ride without me. No way am I going spinning round at speed and turning upside down and disgracing myself by throwing up all over him.

  And then, suddenly, that's just what I am doing. There are no pictures in my head after that. Just the noise of a deafening bang and then another, of screaming, the feeling of flying through the air, of searing, agonizing pain in my eyes, of a choking feeling in my throat, then a sickening, jarring thud. And I remember the Town Hall clock striking three.

  I wish I could say that I don't remember any more, but I do. I remember lying there, choking as blood spurted from my nose and mouth, conscious of people running, jumping over me, shouting, “Bomb!” and crying. I remember trying to open my eyes, but they seemed stuck together. I remember struggling to lift my arm, shrieking in pain, to touch my face.

  And I remember finding bare cheekbone.

  The papers the next day reported that the paramedics had to abandon their ambulances and run down the street because all the rides and stalls were blocking the way. The guy who reached me just said, “Jesus,” and whether it was the panic in his voice, or the loss of blood, I don't know. But at that point I passed out.

  Teenager's face blown to pieces in Carnival bomb. That's what one of the more sensational tabloids had as its headline. Surgeons dig two dozen shards of glass from 16-year-old's face. There were before-and-after photos in the press, like they really wanted to rub salt into the wound. The before pictures showed me and Jess on the beach at Brighton; the after pictures concentrated on me, hair shorn to my scalp, in a clear plastic film I had to wear night and day. They were the last photos I have ever had taken. I refuse to go near a camera anymore.

  I was lucky, I know that. Ten people died; two more lost arms or legs. But I feel like I lost me.

  Matt came to see me in hospital. He didn't stay long. You can't blame him. I guess looking at me must have made him want to vomit, and anyway, I totally refused to look at him. Well, wouldn't you? I was a mess. He tried to get me to talk, but I just told him to go away. I couldn't bear to see him making such an effort to be nice when it was clear it was the last place he wanted to be.

  I was in hospital for seven weeks. They took skin from my thighs to try to patch my face, they set my broken collarbone and arm and ankle and they gave me physio-therapy. At least three times a week Matt came in—and every time I told the nurses to send him away. One of them told me I was crazy to give the elbow to a guy as fit as Matt, but I knew she was just doing this “positive input” stuff you read about.

  Eventually, they let me go home. I
had to keep this cling-film stuff all over my cheeks and forehead while the burns healed. I was going to miss a year of school. Instead of lessons I had lots of rest, hospital appointments, sessions with the counselor. I didn't go out unless it was in the car. I just wanted to lock myself away because I looked so ugly, so tainted, so hideous. Some days, I even wanted to die.

  After I got home, my best friends, Fran and Chloe, would call in to see me on their way back from school at least twice a week, but even that was hard. They would talk about the hockey team (I used to be goalie) and what they were doing in dance and drama, and how there was a new club opening down by the river and how we should all go. But when they said that last bit, they never looked right at me—it was like they knew the answer already.

  Matt popped in every day after I got home, and every time I refused to see him. I would lock my bedroom door, turn my music as loud as I dared and cry. Or shout. Or thump my fist on the floor until my knuckles turned as red as my cheeks. Sometimes it was because I was angry with Matt—if he hadn't pressed me to go on the ride, I wouldn't have hung about by the drinks stand for so long and maybe I'd have been out of the way…. Sometimes I was just angry with myself; the ride was at the top of the street and no one on it was hurt. If I hadn't been such a wimp …

  A couple of times, when I didn't know he was in the kitchen talking to my mum, I'd appear at the door and he'd say dumb things like “It's not looking too bad now, hon-estly.” One time when he'd gone on about how it would be better in no time, I just blew. I told him to cut the crap and face facts, and if he couldn't do that, then he'd better leave me alone.

  So he did. Oh, he still called round, but that was only when he was picking Jess up for a party, or walking her to school. I told myself that I wasn't bothered—that I wasn't even that keen on him, really. Don't get me wrong—Jess was a star. She never talked about Matt and her, what they did or where they went. She made a point of filling me in on the days she went out with Oliver or Alex or James, but Matt she dismissed as “OK, I guess. He misses you, though—I know he does.” But I knew she was just trying to make me feel better. That's why I said no to the End of Year Ball. I didn't want pity—not from her, not from anyone.

  I began to suspect that Matt and Jess were more than just good friends and I was proved right this afternoon. I was looking out the window and I saw Matt giving Jess a hug. Not a little “Goodbye, nice to have seen you” hug, but a long “Please don't ever let go of me” hug. That's when I took the necklace off. I'd only recently been able to put it round my neck again, but I'd always had it with me—I'd worn it as a bracelet while my face mended. Well, I ripped the necklace off, actually, so violently that the chain broke. I almost cried—but then, anger took over. OK, so I'd said that I would keep it forever, but that was when I looked normal, when I was proper girlfriend material, when I de-served to have a love token. Not now. I went into the kitchen, opened the pedal bin and flung the necklace in-side. Then I ran upstairs, slammed my bedroom door and cried like I'd never cried before.

  Of course, once I managed to stop, I realized I was starving. That's what always happens with me—if I cry, or lose my temper, I end up with this overwhelming desire to stuff my face with chocolate or biscuits or ice cream. I used to fight it because I didn't want to get spots, but since that doesn't matter now, I decided to go and raid the fridge.

  I thought I had the house to myself. Mum and Dad play bridge on Thursdays and clearly Jess was hanging out with Matt. I'd just spooned Toffee Crunch and pistachio ice cream into a bowl when the front door slammed.

  “Fancy a milk shake?” I heard Jess ask.

  “Cool.” It was Matt. I froze. They were heading this way and my eyes were red and puffy. OK, I know—with a face like mine that was the least of my worries, but still …

  I grabbed my bowl and nipped into the laundry room, quietly shutting the door behind me. With a bit of luck, they'd get their drinks and go.

  I guess Jess must have chucked the empty milk carton at Matt—anyway, all I heard was the clunk of the pedal bin and then Matt's voice.

  “What the hell … ?”

  “What's the matter?”

  “This.” Matt's voice was croaky. “The necklace I gave Ellie. She said she'd keep it forever.”

  “It must have broken,” I heard Jess say. “Perhaps it fell off and Mum found it and didn't know …”

  Her voice trailed off. Even Jess, whose imagination has won her prizes for creative writing, couldn't come up with a valid reason for a silver necklace that I had adored ending up among the carrot peelings.

  “No point in trying any longer, then, is there?” Matt said. “I thought she wasn't talking to me because she was embarrassed about her face. I thought I could make her realize that I don't care what she looks like, I just want her. But she's clearly not interested. Well, you know—we've certainly talked about it enough, haven't we? But she's clearly just not interested. I feel like a total prat.”

  My heart was pounding in my ears. I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Half of me wanted to go into the kitchen and say sorry, the other half was dreading being found.

  “She does like you, really she does,” Jess ventured. “She's still getting over the bomb—you know that. She hasn't re-ally wanted to talk to anyone. Mum said it would just take time. I guess she thought you'd lose interest and she wanted to ditch you first.”

  It felt as though someone had sent a thousand volts of electricity through my body. She was right—that was it. I'd been hurting physically for so long that I couldn't bear to hurt any more. And clearly he would have dumped me in the end—that was obvious and …

  “I don't get it,” Matt shouted. “We always had such a great time together. I don't get why she doesn't even just want to hang out. I miss her sense of humor. I miss our con-versations. She always made me feel good about myself….” His voice went all shaky as if he was trying not to cry. “I just miss her.”

  I guess at that moment I should have opened the door and walked into his arms, begged his forgiveness and said that I'd been a fool. If this were a film, I bet that's what would happen just before the credits rolled.

  But it's not and I didn't. I'm still in the laundry room and they're in the den. I don't know what will happen. I don't know how I'll explain the broken necklace to Matt and I certainly don't know how he'll react when I do say something.

  But I keep thinking that, even though I'm scarred, and even though things will never be the same, Matt still wants me. I guess I've been so wrapped up in how I look, I hadn't realized that he was missing me for me—not my face. And now I realize that I was missing him, too.

  I can't get my head around it yet, but I'm smiling for the first time in a long while. It still itches when I smile, but who cares? It's a lot better than the alternative.

  Cathy Hopkins

  Don't look at me, don't look at me, I prayed as Mrs. Goodwin peered over her glasses at the class. “We've a lot to talk about in the next few weeks,” she said. “I don't want any of you to feel pressurized, but I want to give it some attention now so that it doesn't come as a big panic later.”

  Pff. Too late, I thought, I am already in major panic mode. And I knew exactly what it was she wanted to talk about—it was all anybody had gone on about this term.

  “I want you to think about your future. Your goals. Ambitions,” continued Mrs. Goodwin as I wrote “bingo” and drew a star around it on the notepad in front of me. “What you want to be when you're older. Right. Anybody got any ideas?”

  Inwardly I groaned. I'd been dreading this. See, I don't know. Haven't a clue. Not the faintest. I'm fifteen—how am I supposed to know what I want to do with the rest of my life?

  Mrs. Goodwin started to look around the class, so I put my head down and tried to become invisible. This is some-thing that is hard to do when you've shot up to five foot nine while the rest of your classmates are normal heights of five foot four or five.

  “Jessica?”

  I knew. I knew
it would be me she asked first. “Yes, Miss.”

  “Let's get the ball rolling. Any idea what you'd like to do?”

  I could feel myself growing red as everyone turned to look at me.

  Duh, I dunno, I thought as a million mad thoughts went through my mind. Drug dealer. Stripper. Dog washer. Ghostbuster. Nun. It always happens when I'm put on the spot. Some rebel part of me takes over and I have to bite my lip not to let it out.

  “Don't know, Miss,” I blurted, wishing that she'd choose someone else.

  “No idea at all?”

  I shook my head. “Mmff.” Oh, great on the intelligent conversation, Jessica, I told myself. Mmff. What's that supposed to mean? Luckily Mrs. G moved on to Daniella Davey, who had her hand up and looked like she was bursting to tell us all her plans.

  “Lifeguard, Miss,” she said.

  “Now that's an original one. And why do you want to be a lifeguard?

  “So I can give fit boys the kiss of life, Miss.”

  Everyone cracked up apart from Mrs. G. She's such a tart, Daniella Davey, but she clearly has mad stuff in her head too. It must be something they put in the water here at school. Remind me not to drink any ever again.

  “Anyone got any sensible suggestions?” asked Mrs. Goodwin, wearily looking round.

  By now, half the class had their hands up.

  “Writer,” said Chris Shaw.

  “Nurse,” said Chloe Miller.

  “Flight attendant,” said Jocelyn Buck.

  “TV presenter,” said Rosie Moffat.

  “Rich and famous,” said Alison Ball (she's my mate) and everyone laughed again.

  Seems like everyone knows what they want to do. Everyone but me.

  When did they find out? How? Like, did it just happen one night while in the bath? Did a vision appear of St. Job, the patron saint of careers, who said, “Thou, O Chloe Miller, thou shalt be a nurse”? Whatever. Other people have clearly had signs. So why hasn't it happened to me? And why, all of a sudden, do I have to decide now? Every-one used to say, “Oh, don't grow up too fast, Jess, enjoy your youth,” but now it's “What are you going to do with the rest of your life? Come on, girl, make up your mind.” Like, ex-cuse me, how am I supposed to know? I didn't come with a set of instructions for life.