“Stop fussing, Angela!” I hear Dad jovially tell my mum off as I head out into the hall. “Let the girl talk!”
What a joke, eh? Dad tells Mum off for the heinous crime of stalling Sarah’s latest piece of good news, in her never-ending stream of amazing luck. He doesn’t nark at Mum for ordering me about; it’s as if I came as a package deal with the house (‘1930s semi with garage; servant included’).
“Well…” Sarah begins from the comfort of the sofa, but I’m outside in the hall now, burying my face into the soft-as-clouds furry collar of this amazing sheepskin coat. Not that I want it – if I wore it, I’d look like…well, a sheep. Whereas Sarah – with her matching boots, knee-length denim skirt and tight black top – looks like she just stepped out of the pages of a style magazine.
If only I was taller, slimmer, less round in places I shouldn’t be and more round in places I should; maybe then I’d have people staring at me in the street like Sarah does; maybe then I’d be less invisible.
And then I smell it – the cloying, sickly-sweet scent that Sarah always smothers herself in. It jars in my head and sends a sharp pain shooting through my sinuses. I quickly pull my face away from it and chuck the coat towards the row of hooks on the wall, but I miss and it crumples into a pale heap on the floor. I grab it up roughly, then chuck it towards the rack again, not bothering to search among the white fluffy fibres for a clothes hoop for hanging. Instead, the coat dangles lopsidedly, swaying gently, an ugly bulge already pressing through the suede where the hook juts out.
There’ll be a mark if I leave it like that…I think guiltily. Automatically, I reach over to hang it properly, then hear Sarah’s boastful words waft out of the living room, as if she’s deliberately raised her voice so I don’t miss what she’s got to say.
“…and that’s when Mr Fisher said – ‘I want you, Sarah!’”
I want you, Sarah…to shut up, for once? I say to myself, feeling the blood pound in my veins.
I want you, Sarah…to leave the country and never come back?
I want you, Sarah…to have, just for once, the tiniest bit of bad luck – just enough so you know what life feels like for the mere mortals who have to live in your shadow?
All of a sudden, I snatch my hand from Sarah’s crumpled coat, turning away from it and the ugly bulge, and walk back into the living room. It’s petty and pathetic, I know, but you can’t begrudge a girl a bit of petty and pathetic revenge now and then, specially in the face of a sister who gets the strangest kick out of making her feel useless…
Somehow, I don’t feel like sitting back down next to her – maybe Sarah’s silver lining is radiating too much ultra-violet light for a thin-skinned person like me to stand. Instead, I perch on the arm of Mum’s chair and try and figure out what exactly Sarah’s boasting on about this time.
“So, Mr Fisher chose you, out of how many people, Sarah?” Mum asks, practically prickling with static electricity she’s so proud.
“Well, there were about thirty people at the auditions today, and I think he saw more people yesterday,” Sarah smiles a golden-child smile. “But today he finally decided on which five to pick for the band line-up.”
“And when is the actual Battle of the Bands competition happening?”
That’s Dad, perched now on the edge of his seat. He couldn’t look more excited if he suddenly saw his Lotto numbers sliding next to each other on the TV screen.
I get it. This Battle of the Bands thing – there are posters all over the noticeboards at school about it. It’s this regional competition that’s on at the end of next month – all the schools in the area enter a band, and the winners get a free pair of drumsticks from the competition sponsors or whatever. It’s pretty good fun; I was in the audience for it last year and there were some really brilliant bands there, and some spectacularly naff ones too, but it was a great afternoon’s skive. I hadn’t realised Sarah was going in for it this time around. I mean, I know she can sing (well, she can do anything, can’t she?) and she’s taught herself to play guitar this year (in between getting top grades in her exams, having an amazing social life and being all-round fantastic). But then she wouldn’t tell me, would she? She’s not even bothering to look at me now; she’s saving all her smiles for her appreciative audience of two.
“Who else is in the band with you? Did Cherish and Angel get picked?” asks Mum.
I realise I’m scratching at my wrists and stop. It’s a nervous habit and I don’t mean to do it, but it just happens. It really winds Mum up.
“Yes, they got picked too. And there’s this guy Conor who’s going to play bass and a lad called Salman who’s going to be on drums. I kind of know both of them, but just to say hi to.”
I rack my brains. Cherish and Angel – of course I know them, since they’ve been best friends with Sarah for years, regularly swanning in and out of our house (and blanking me, usually). But Salman and Conor…well, I’m pretty sure there’s a Salman in the Upper Sixth, but I don’t know about a Conor – there’re loads of Conors at our school.
“And so what happens now?”
That’s Dad again, probably already envisaging some glittering musical career for Sarah. Sorry, Daddy dearest; don’t suppose she’ll be opening for U2 any time soon. Then again, knowing her luck…
“Well,” Sarah says brightly, “we’ll have to get together with Mr Fisher and work out what song we want to play, then it’ll be a case of loads of rehearsals up until the competition!”
They’ll probably win. I haven’t heard them play together and I haven’t seen the two blokes, but unless they make a real mess of it or the guys look like extras out of Planet of the Apes, then it’s in the bag. How could the judges pass over a band that’s got the three prettiest, coolest girls in our school in it?
Oh, boy…Sarah’s swollen head is just about to get that bit more hot-air balloon-sized. Winning the competition will be a case of yet more glory landing slap-bang in her lap, just like it always does. Unlike me, who can’t scrape past average in any given exam. The only competitions I ever bother to enter are for give-aways in magazines. And guess what? ‘Free glitter make-up!! 1000s of sets up for grabs!!! To everyone except Megan Collins!’ I’ll tell you what my luck’s like: if I buy a magazine with a free gift on the cover, I won’t notice the gift’s been nicked off it till I’m outside the shop and can’t complain. And round about then is the time I’ll step in the dog poo and get soaked by an unexpected black cloud’s worth of rain.
God, I’m off on one again, aren’t I? I’m sorry. It’s just hard when you don’t feel like one of life’s shiny, happy people. And it’s even harder when one of life’s shiny, happy people lives in the room across the hall from you.
“Megan, don’t do that!”
Mum’s voice is soft and urgent, her cool fingers are pressing mine still. I hadn’t realised I’d been scratch-scratching at my wrists again. And now they’re all looking at me. Looking at the freak member of their family with the scars on my skin that remind me and them of just how imperfect I am.
“I’ve got homework,” I mumble and get out of the room, away from the pitying, uncomfortable glances that are focused on me. They’re better off without me around, spoiling my parents’ fun as they soak up the sparkles of Sarah’s success.
“Megan…!”
I hope Mum doesn’t follow me – I don’t want her to. I hate those cosy pep talks she tries to give me, when she perches on the edge of my bed and always ends up upset, holding my