Stuck on Me (7 page)

I hear the buzz of the intercom but, before I can get to the entry phone to open the downstairs door, Mum has already let Rich in. I should have told her he was coming. They’ll be making
awkward small talk now, about school and how Rich’s parents are, and how the whole family should come for tea, which will never, ever happen. I hear him squeaking across the hall floorboards
towards my bedroom, in the half-size too big trainers we bought a few weeks ago. I stand by the door, ready to greet him.

He pushes the door open and bounces into my room on his air soles. ‘So what’s going down?’

‘Eh?’ I’d have liked a kiss hello. I move towards him and he gives me a quick peck on the lips.

‘Why did you drag me round here? What’s happening?’

‘I didn’t drag you. Anyway . . . it’s about my dad . . .’

Rich sits down on my bed, so I sit next to him. Our knees are touching, but he doesn’t put his arm around me. ‘I thought you didn’t have a dad,’ he says. ‘I thought
he’d died or something, when you were a kid.’

‘He didn’t die,’ I say, irritated. I
know
I’ve told Rich the whole story once before. ‘He walked out on us and never came back. And then he
disappeared.’

‘So you don’t know where he is?’

‘Exactly. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want to find him.’ I tell Rich about my conversation with Mum and the videos I’ve watched. Now I need a hug more than
ever. I lean my head on Rich’s shoulder and he pats my hair, unromantically, the way you’d pet a dog.

‘I don’t get why you want to see him. He sounds like a loser.’

‘Because he’s my dad. The only one I’ll ever have.’

Rich shrugs. ‘OK, fair enough. If that’s what you want to do, go for it.’

‘Thanks.’ I’m waiting for him to volunteer to help me, but he doesn’t. ‘So will you help me?’

‘Sure, if you want. Not sure what I can do though. I don’t even know what he looks like.’

Nor do I, I think. Not any more. ‘I know, but . . . Anyway, can I have a hug?’

‘Course,’ he says. He twists around so that he’s facing me and puts his arms around my shoulders, pulling me in towards him. He smells a bit sweaty but I don’t mind too
much. The hug turns into a snog, which isn’t really what I want right now, but I let myself go with it. I do like kissing Rich.

There are three sharp taps on the door. Rich jumps away from me, as if he’s had an electric shock. I don’t know why; one thing about having a mum like mine is that she’s very
laid-back about things like snogging. She says she trusts me.

‘Hey, guys,’ says Mum, poking her head around the door. She’s trying to be cool again. I cringe. She attempts to make eye contact with me but I’m still upset with her so
I look away. ‘Um, would you like to stay for supper, Rich? There’s plenty to go around.’

‘No, thanks,’ he says, clambering up from the bed and smoothing down his jeans. ‘I’d better be going, actually. See you at school tomorrow, Sky?’

‘Um, yeah,’ I say. I don’t feel that our conversation is finished yet. ‘Talk later, maybe?’

‘OK.’ He gives me another peck, this time on the cheek, and then he’s off, squeaking down the hall again.

I’m quiet and sulky during dinner, especially as I’m not in the least bit hungry. Grass wants to know what’s wrong with me. I tell her I’ve got a headache. I think Mum
has already talked things over with Ocean because she gives me a disapproving look. I give her one back. I push my food around my plate, eat a few mouthfuls and then announce that I have coursework
to do, so I’m going to my room. Mum sighs and nods but she doesn’t stop me.

I do have coursework to do but I have no intention of doing it straight away. Instead, I go on Facebook and message Rosie and Vix. I might not be able to count on my mum or my boyfriend to help
me find Dad. But I know I can count on my best friends.

Will you come over?
I type.
I’ve got something important I need to ask you.

They both message back almost immediately.
What is it?
writes Rosie.
Sounds exciting!

Course I will, hon,
says Vix.
Are you OK?

That really sums up the difference between my two best friends. Rosie’s all about having fun, while Vix worries about everyone and wants to take care of them. I couldn’t manage
without either of them. I don’t know why I didn’t call them earlier, instead of Rich.

I ask them if they’ll come over in an hour, which should give me just enough time to do a bit of homework first. I’m so lucky that we all live on Paradise Avenue and can pop in and
out of each other’s homes as often as we like (parents permitting). It’s almost like having sisters – ones you’d choose, not the ones you’re lumbered with.

They turn up together and I usher them into my room before Mum can get her claws into them. Neither of them can stay more than an hour; it’s a school night and already past eight. I
quickly bring them up to speed on what’s happened.

‘You’ve never told us much about your dad before,’ says Vix. ‘I never thought to ask.’

‘That’s because there isn’t much to tell,’ I say, filling them in on my scant memories and the little I do know. ‘I need to find him to figure out the
rest.’

‘Of course we’ll help you,’ says Rosie, and Vix nods in agreement. Rosie gets on really well with her dad. Even though he embarrasses her sometimes, he’s fun and sweet
and easy to talk to. She totally gets why I want to find my father. ‘It’ll be fun. We can be like private detectives.’

Vix is a little more concerned. ‘What if he turns out to be a waste of space, like your mum says? Or worse, what if he doesn’t even want to meet you?’

I shrug. I haven’t considered the possibility that he won’t want to see me. ‘I’m sure he will. Anyway, he might have changed. He might have stopped drinking now. And
maybe he acted the way he did because he wasn’t happy with my mum. It can’t be all his fault. I know she can be a pain to live with sometimes.’

A flicker of annoyance passes across Vix’s face. ‘Your mum’s cool, Sky. A bit out there and eccentric, but she’s sweet.’

‘Yeah, I know. Sometimes,’ I say, guiltily. I suddenly see things through Vix’s eyes. Here I am slagging Mum off, but I’m lucky to have her. Vix’s mum is ill a lot.
She can’t go out much or take Vix anywhere. Vix has to do a lot of the work around her house too. It’s probably why she’s more serious and grown up than me or Rosie.

‘Anyway,’ says Rosie. ‘You won’t know what he’s like until you meet him. So where do we start?’

‘The internet,’ I say. ‘Where else?’

All three of us crowd around my PC. I have butterflies. Maybe, in just a few clicks, I’ll be able to track down my dad. I wonder why I’ve never thought to look him up before.
It’s such an obvious thing to do.

‘Do you think he might be on Facebook?’ says Vix.

‘God, I hope not. He’s way too old,’ I say. Mum has been threatening to join up for months, not because she wants to spy on me, like most mums would, but because she likes my
friends and wants to keep in touch with them. I’ve told her that if she does join I won’t let her friend me. ‘Worth a try though . . .’

‘What’s his name then?’ Rosie already has her hands poised above the keyboard.

‘Connor Carter.’

‘Cool name,’ says Vix.

‘Yeah, way better than Smith.’

‘Or Buttery,’ says Rosie, although, secretly, I think she likes her weird name. ‘OK . . . C-O-N-N-O-R C-A-R-T-E-R . . . Is that right?’

I nod and she presses return.

‘God, Sky, there are hundreds of them! It must be a really popular name.’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘I guess we’d better trawl through them all then. Shouldn’t take too long; with the ones that have pictures it should be obvious.’

It’s a dead end. Even though half the men on Facebook seem to be called Connor Carter, not one of them could be my father. I guess that would have been too easy. He doesn’t have a
MySpace page either, or appear to belong to any social networking sites. That’s what comes of being old, I suppose.

‘What next?’ says Rosie. ‘Shall we just Google him?’

I frown. ‘I guess. God, it would have been so much easier if my mum would help. She must know the names of the bands he was in. Try,
Connor Carter, music
or something. Or
Connor
Carter, musician
.’

‘OK,’ says Rosie. ‘Here goes . . .’ She presses return and, in an instant, there’s a long list of suggested links which may, or may not, feature my dad. We scroll
down the pages, working our way through them, ignoring the ones which definitely aren’t him (about college kids in America, for example) and clicking on the ones that just might be.
It’s a frustrating process: Dad seems to have left as little trace on the internet as he has in my life.

I’m almost ready to admit defeat when we find something.

‘Look!’ says Vix. ‘Is that him?’ She points her finger at a link about some gig, somewhere, which lists one Connor Carter among the musicians playing.

‘Go on! Click on it!’

The band – featuring Connor Carter on violin – was called The Four Horsemen. The gig was at a venue in South London. It was five years ago.

‘It’s something, I suppose,’ says Vix. ‘Let’s bookmark it.’

‘OK.’ I feel flat. This is going to be harder than I imagined. ‘Is there anything else?’

Our search reveals a few more Four Horsemen gigs, with no photos and no further details. And then, about three years ago, the trail dries up. ‘The Four Horseman must have split,’ I
say. ‘Oh well, it was worth a shot.’

Vix puts her arm on my shoulder. ‘Never mind, hon. There must be another way.’

Rosie looks thoughtful. Then she practically leaps into the air. ‘I know!’ she says, sounding extremely pleased with herself. ‘I’ve got an ace idea. Why don’t we go
to Dot’s Music Shop and ask there? It’s just up the road, on St Pancras Way. Rufus Justice told me about it! It’s where all the musicians in Camden get their guitar strings and
their music and stuff. It’s been there for years. If your dad ever lived and played in Camden, they’re bound to know about him!’

‘That’s a great idea!’ I say, excited again. ‘Let’s check it out on Saturday.’

ich and I are in Strada, an Italian restaurant on Parkway. It’s not the most romantic place in the world
(all the tables are close together), but the food is tasty and at least it’s a proper restaurant. Rich has never taken me to a proper restaurant before, only to KFC or to Burger King. I have
a sneaking suspicion that tonight might have been his mum’s idea, but I’m not going to ask because I’d rather not know. Sometimes, I get the feeling Rich’s mum likes me more
than he does.

Rich didn’t remember that our anniversary was coming up – I had to tell him – but Rosie says boys never do remember that kind of detail so, for once, I shouldn’t hold it
against him. And, although six months is ages, it’s not strictly an anniversary, just a half one, so he might not have realised its significance. It doesn’t matter now; he agreed to go
out for dinner to celebrate and even said he’d pay. I think he’s trying to make things better between us.

I check my watch. Nine p.m. Six months ago, at precisely this time, we were at Jessica Carrington’s fourteenth birthday party, snogging each other’s faces off, and I had never felt
so happy. I wonder if I should mention it? Jog Rich’s memory? Maybe it would make the atmosphere between us more romantic. I glance at him; he has chocolate sauce stuck in the crevices at the
corners of his mouth. I think better of it. Tonight things are . . . different. But at least we’re out together, just the two of us, without his mates.

It’s been an OK evening, I guess. We’ve talked a bit, although not about anything important, like how my hunt for Dad is going. He hasn’t asked. We’ve eaten garlic bread
and pizza and now Rich is working his way through a chocolate pudding, while I sip mint tea. ‘So,’ he’s saying, ‘we’re playing them next week and if I score then I
might be captain. Cool, eh?’

‘Yeah . . . sure . . . That’s great . . .’

He’s rambling on about how he’s better playing on the left side, and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I can’t concentrate. A woman has just walked into the
restaurant and sat down at the table opposite. All I can do is stare at her profile. I’m transfixed. She has the most enormous, hooked nose that I’ve ever seen. It’s quite
astonishingly big. Wow! I can’t take my eyes off it. I really don’t understand how she can dare to go out in public with a nose like that. Unless . . . I look to her side. No,
there’s no sign of a white stick or a guide dog. She must know what’s protruding from the middle of her face. But she seems oblivious to it, smiling and chatting with her friend, as if
she doesn’t have a care in the world. She has made-up eyes and glossy hair, and she’s wearing a lovely tan leather jacket and silk scarf, so she clearly cares about her appearance. So
why hasn’t she got rid of that nose? She must be at least thirty. Doesn’t she mind it? Has she just got used to it?