This one was easier to deal with. It still hurt, but there was something comforting about it too. It was like hearing his voice. And I missed hearing his voice so much I found it hard to breathe sometimes.
I had no idea who’d sung the solo at the Christmas concert, because I hadn’t gone. He should have known that I wouldn’t have gone without him.
As for the ‘mission’, it was all getting a bit like one of those TV makeover programmes I never watched. I was sort of pissed off that it seemed like he was trying to change me, but he was right about one thing: I did like the new hair. It suited me. I’d even booked another appointment with Fernando to sort out my roots before I went back to school in January.
The truth is, I’d already realized that the heavy-on-the-kohl panda eyes didn’t exactly look good with my new hair. They didn’t match somehow. So either the hair had to go back to black or the make-up had to change. Neither was a particularly appealing prospect.
The first time Mum ever saw me with the eye make-up she burst out laughing and asked if I’d been in a fight. It didn’t amuse her quite so much the second time or the third time or all the times after that. It’s not like we argued about it – not exactly. But I knew she hated it, and that was enough to make me want to keep it. The hair was more of an issue with her – probably because hair is the one thing she’s vain about. She goes to the most expensive salon in town every four weeks. If she’s a week late because of a holiday or something, she gets really antsy. It’s pretty funny.
Christmas wasn’t as awful as I’d expected. I mean, it was awful, but I’d steeled myself for it to be excruciating. The hardest bit was Christmas Eve, when Kai and I always used to exchange presents. I had a tiny fake Christmas tree on my desk and we’d put each other’s presents under it about a week before Christmas. Kai had made this super-cheesy Christmas playlist that we had to listen to every year without fail. I didn’t play it this year. And when Mum brought my
little Christmas tree down from the attic I told her to put it in Noah’s room. For a second there I thought she was going to protest, but she said nothing.
Some of Kai’s wishes came true at least. Noah did get a lot of presents and I did get left alone – for the most part. Mum didn’t get stressed, even though the turkey turned out to be even more overcooked than usual. But Dad
did
get drunk. Still, three out of four wasn’t bad.
It was a sort of tradition in our family that you opened your best present last. Of course the problem was, you didn’t
know
which was the best present, so you had to rely on parental advice. Mum kept aside this big box for me to open after everything else. Big boxes were usually a good bet. Soft parcels were rarely good because soft parcels meant clothes. Mum’s idea of the sort of clothes I should wear and my idea of the sort of clothes I should wear had been mutually exclusive since I was ten years old.
When she handed over the parcel, she was smiling. She was proud of herself, which both annoyed and worried me. I hated having to pretend I liked things – summoning up that fake enthusiasm never came easily.
It was a fancy gift box from some crazy-expensive cosmetics company. Nestled among red tissue paper
were tubs and pencils, brushes and bottles and things I couldn’t even identify. It must have cost an absolute fortune.
‘Mum, this is . . .’
‘Do you like it? Oh, I do hope you like it! I had such fun choosing it all. I must have been in the shop for hours!’
I couldn’t get over the timing of it. For a mad second there I thought she must have read Kai’s letter, but of course she hadn’t. I didn’t know how to feel. I was sort of annoyed that she was trying to change me too. And horrified that she’d spent so much money. And, more worryingly, I was a little bit excited. But I’d never have admitted that to anyone in a million years.
When I took my presents up to my room after lunch, I took each item out of the box and lined them up on my desk. Then I took out the ancient pencil case that had served as make-up bag for the past couple of years (covered in Tippex, holes punched through with a compass, complete with bits of pencil shavings). There was some cheap foundation that was two years out of date, my trusty kohl and mascara, and some blusher I’d never used. That was it. My make-up collection in all its glory. It was truly a pathetic sight.
Without even thinking I chucked the whole thing
in the bin, kohl and all. Then I came to my senses and retrieved the pencil case (sentimental value) and the kohl (just in case). When Mum emptied my bin the next day she didn’t say anything, but she definitely noticed the new make-up lined up on the desk. It was there again – that almost-smile that made me want to punch something. I wanted to shout, JUST COS I’VE THROWN OUT SOME CRUSTY OLD MAKE-UP, IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING’S CHANGED! IT DOESN’T MEAN
I’VE
CHANGED.
Kai had it all wrong with his amateur psychology. If I hadn’t wanted people to notice me I would have probably gone for no make-up at all and my natural baked-mud hair. That would have been the best way to blend in with all the others. They wouldn’t have called me freak or goth or emo then, would they? No. There’s no deep, dark reason for the way I looked. It seemed like a good idea at the time, that’s all. And once you do something like that, it’s pretty much making a statement: this is who I am. And once the statement’s been made, it can be hard to take it back.
I spent a fair chunk of the Christmas holidays messing around with the new make-up. It was all subtle and muted and understated, but that’s not to say it looked
good straight away. Far from it. I looked like some strange version of myself whose skin didn’t exactly look like skin any more. But the more I experimented the better I got. I’d always liked art at school and this was sort of similar. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of embarrassment. It felt shameful to be wasting all this time on something so meaningless. And I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was using the make-up to plaster on a shiny, happy face so no one would know I was drowning. I don’t think that was quite what Kai had in mind.
On New Year’s Eve we watched the usual crap TV. Noah was hyper because he was allowed to stay up till midnight for the first time. Mum let me have a couple of glasses of champagne and we all hugged each other as the fireworks erupted over London on the telly.
As she was hugging me, Mum whispered in my ear, ‘This year will be easier, sweetheart. I promise.’ She had no idea that this time next year I wouldn’t be here. I’d be dead. Just like him.
There was only one thing on my mind as the minutes after midnight ticked by, stretching the bond between me and Kai even further. Suddenly, he was
last
year. The way I saw it, I had a choice: I could sleepwalk my way through the days and weeks and months between Kai’s letters, or I could
do
something.
I’d wasted so much time already – two whole months of self-indulgent grief had got me precisely
nowhere. It was time to put all that aside (or at least bury it deep enough so that no one else could see it). Somehow I’d allowed myself to forget that I’d wanted revenge even
before
he died. Kai’s humiliation was enough to make me want to hurt someone. But his death had forced me into some kind of suspended animation.
It was time to wake up. I was going to do exactly what Kai had told me not to do in his first letter. I was going to do whatever it took to find out who filmed him. Then I was going to punish them.
Against my better judgement, my first port of call was Louise. There were two reasons for this: she was the only other person (other than his parents) who cared about him as much as I did; and she was bound to know most of the people who’d been at Max’s party. That was enough to outweigh the fact that I was practically allergic to her.
I texted her on New Year’s Day, not even bothering with the usual pleasantries:
Louise, I need to find out who filmed him. You in or not?
No reply. Four hours later I texted:
Well?
(This wasn’t just me being impatient – I knew for a fact that she was practically surgically attached to her phone, so there was really no excuse for the radio silence.)
Still no reply. One last try the next day:
You going to bother replying?
She didn’t bother replying – of course she didn’t. But you can’t say I didn’t try.
My next idea was to talk to Bland Boy A and Bland Girl B. They might have seen something at the party, and at least
they
would be sympathetic.
I went kohl-less the first day back at school after Christmas; I even trialled some of my new make-up. Nothing much, just a bit of foundation and powder, a dab of lip gloss, a tiny bit of eye pencil. No one said anything, but I was uber-sensitive to any looks I got. I felt exposed. Judged. At least no one could tell I was blushing, I guess.
As it happened, hardly anyone noticed the change. I suppose I just assumed everyone was like me – noticing and commenting on every little thing, whether it be Lucas’s obvious affection for hair products or the length of Amber Sheldon’s skirts. But they
deserved
to be looked at, analysed, criticized. That was the price they paid for being popular.
I thought Mum was going to burst into tears when she came downstairs at breakfast to find me looking the way I did. She knew better than to mention it, thank Christ. If she’d have said anything I’d have
run upstairs and scrubbed off all the new makeup just to spite her. She must have been feeling
so
proud of herself. Thinking if only she’d known that all it would take to turn me into a normal daughter was shelling out at the make-up counter, she’d have done it years ago. I wasn’t about to tell her what was actually going on . . . mostly because the new look seemed to keep her off my back a bit. I was given more leeway, just because of a bit of hair dye and some chemicals slapped on my face. I’m not exactly sure what this says about my mother, but it can’t be anything good.
I found Jon (Bland Boy A) and Vicky (Bland Girl B) in the cafeteria at lunchtime. They were now a couple (or maybe they’d been a couple since forever and I just hadn’t noticed) and they held hands the entire time I talked to them. The hand-holding irritated me out of all proportion; my eyes kept drifting away from their nondescript faces towards their nondescript hands clutching one another. She seemed to be doing most of the clutching, like she couldn’t
bear
to let go even if it meant trying to cut through the tough cafeteria meat (also nondescript) with the side of her fork instead of her knife.
They were useless – utterly useless. They’d barely
set foot in the house all night, and hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious (but had the cheek to look at me weirdly when I asked if they
had
). I wasn’t even back to square one – I’d never left square one in the first place. When I got up to leave the table Jon looked like he was about to say something, but he half shook his head and turned his attention back to the girl. Like I said – useless.
I spent the afternoon lessons kicking myself. As if it was going to be that easy: ‘Well, now that you mention it, Jem, we did happen to see a suspicious character sneaking away from the scene of the crime, rubbing his hands in glee and laughing maniacally.’ I was a fucking idiot, plain and simple.
It wasn’t until I spotted Max in the chaos after the bell at three thirty that it occurred to me to ask
him
. Even if he hadn’t known everyone at the party, his brother would be able to help for sure. Unfortunately Max had Louise in tow. She was like one of those sucker fish that attach themselves to a shark to hitch a ride – Max couldn’t shake her off even if he wanted to. I couldn’t help noticing that Louise wasn’t looking any better after the Christmas break. It must have been awful at the McBride house; Kai’d always been into Christmas in a big way.
‘Max! Hey, how’s it going?’ As if I talked to him
all the time and it was completely normal for me to enquire after his well-being at any given moment.
‘Hey . . .’ There was this strange missed beat where I thought he was going to say my name but then didn’t. As if he suddenly remembered that I was one of the little people.
I tried to ignore the fact that Louise was hovering behind him, standing way too close, so that if you squinted a little it sort of looked like Max had two heads. ‘Um, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something. About your party . . . the night when . . . ?’
His face was perfectly blank; it was clear he had no idea what I was on about. I was going to have to say the words out loud. Louise faked a yawn, probably not realizing how very ugly it made her look. I tried again. ‘Look, can we go somewhere a bit quieter? I’ll . . . buy you a coffee or something.’
Louise rolled her eyes but (surprisingly) kept her mouth shut. Max ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘Er . . . yeah. Maybe tomorrow? I’ve got training at four.’ He held up his hand so I could see the goggles dangling from his wrist. Swimming. Hence the massive shoulders.
‘Cool. OK. Fine.’ How many words could I use to say exactly the same thing? ‘I’ll . . . see you then.
Then.’ I gave an awkward little wave and turned away, walking smack bang into Mr Franklin, who grabbed my arms to steady me and said, ‘Where’s the fire?’ I apologized and scurried away, blushing furiously no doubt.
That night I was feeling pretty good about things. I’d made progress; I congratulated myself on my bravery. I was finally doing something instead of just thinking about it. I wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced that Max would be able to help, but I had to give it a go.
I hardly slept – playing out possible conversations with Max in my head, unable to imagine what it would actually be like to sit down and talk to him.
Mum knocked on my door when I was doing my makeup. ‘Morning, love. Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer . . . bit early for Valentine’s Day though, eh?’ She held out an envelope. My name was written on it in blue biro:
Jem Halliday
.
Mum hovered over me, swigging black coffee from her ‘Number One Mum’ mug that Noah (well, Dad really) got her for Christmas. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’