Stuck on Me

  Praise for Camden Town Tales

  ‘Camden comes to life on the page in this engaging and fun story of friendship and celebrities . . . with characters so realistic you feel you might bump into them at Camden Town tube!’

  Chicklish

  Praise for Hilary Freeman

  ‘A great read.’

  Simon Lederman, Presenter,

  BBC Radio London

  ‘The perfect choice for teenage girls (and their mums). Warm and witty, compelling and insightful.’

  Sunday Express

  ‘The characters are believable and the narrative is pacy . . . a good read.’

  School Librarian

  ‘A really good read . . . funny, yet realistic.’

  Teen Titles

  To my gorgeous cousin,

  Anna Corre

  First published in Great Britain in 2012

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Hilary Freeman, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Hilary Freeman to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 131 7 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 203 1 (ebook)

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd,

  Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design by Simon Davis

  Cover illustrations by Susan Hellard

  Hi!

  Camden Town is one of the most colourful places in the world, with a unique mix of styles and cultures. Come here and you’ll see emos and cyberpunks, rockabillies, mods and indie kids . . . the list goes on and on. It truly is a place where you can dress outlandishly, and nobody blinks an eye.

  But when you’re a teenager, even in Camden, it can be difficult to accept the way you look, especially if you don’t have conventionally ‘beautiful’ features or a model figure. When I was younger I hated my big nose and frizzy hair and longed for straight, glossy locks and petite features, like the girls I considered to be pretty (and the ones I thought the boys liked). It took me many years – and lots of experiments with hair products – to learn how to make the best of my looks and, finally, to accept myself.

  In Stuck on Me, Sky faces similar thoughts, but is helped by her best friends Rosie and Vix. I hope that you’ll enjoy the ride and, if you’re not entirely happy with the way you look, that reading this book will also help you to like yourself a little more too.

  Love,

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  e’re at the Dublin Castle on Camden Parkway, a venue where every band you’ve ever heard of – and loads you haven’t – has played. It’s absolutely heaving. You can hardly hear the music over the chatter and the clinking of beer glasses. Nobody has asked our ages yet. If we keep our heads down, don’t try to buy drinks and blend into the crowd, nobody will take any notice of us. People always say that I look older than fourteen; Rosie too. Even Vix can get away with it when she dresses up and puts on eyeliner, like tonight. We’re not planning to stay too long, anyway. Just a quick look around, to see if he’s there, and then out again. If he is . . . well, I haven’t even imagined what will happen then.

  We push past the bar towards the back, where the bands perform. There’s a group of old-timers on stage, guys in their fifties who look like they’ve been gigging for years. They’re playing some vintage blues music, which I recognise from Mum’s CDs. I quite like it, although I’d never admit that to her.

  I take Rosie’s and Vix’s arms and steer them through the crowd, so that we can get a better view of the stage. I look from left to right, checking each musician off my list: pony-tailed singer and guitarist – not him; black bassist – not him; bald, lanky drummer – not him.

  Then I see the harmonica player and my knees buckle.

  ‘Oh my God. Oh my God,’ I whisper, aware that nobody can hear me. I feel sick, my legs are like jelly. I cling on to my friends’ arms for support.

  Vix grasps my hand and squeezes my fingers tight. ‘What, Sky?’ she asks, concerned. ‘What is it? Are you OK?’

  I realise I’m shaking. ‘The guy with the harmonica,’ I shout into her ear, my voice thin and squeaky. ‘Look. Over there.’

  He’s standing to the side of the stage, wearing baggy, faded jeans and a shirt that could do with ironing, the buttons straining at his belly. His hair is thinner than I remember but still dark and wavy, although there are traces of grey in his chin stubble. He looks tired, ill and bloated, and it makes me feel sad, even though I swore I’d never care about him again.

  ‘Are you sure?’ mouths Rosie.

  ‘It’s him,’ I stutter. ‘We’ve found him. Look at his profile, when he turns. It’s exactly the same as mine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Really? Wow!’ Rosie starts to walk forward to get a better view, but I drag her back, into the darkness. I don’t want him to notice me. Not yet.

  I have no doubt that it’s him. Looking at his face is like looking at an older, more weathered, male version of me.

  I guess it’s true what they say. If you want to find something – or someone – all you have to do is follow your nose . . .

  o, do you like my new dress?’ asks Rosie, striding and twirling around her bedroom as if she’s on the catwalk at London Fashion Week, while Vix and I gaze up at her from her bed. ‘Very retro-chic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Love it,’ says Vix, without hesitation.

  I stare at Rosie, trying to find something positive to say about her latest Stables Market find. The dress is ancient (from the seventies), smells like mothballs and has a horrible orange flower pattern on it. It doesn’t even fit her properly. There’s only one word for it: rank.

  ‘Um . . .’ I begin. I want to lie, I really do. I don’t want to hurt Rosie’s feelings. ‘Um . . .’

  Lying would be the kind thing to do, wouldn’t it? Rosie doesn’t want to know what I think; she just wants admiration. But, unfortunately, I just have to tell the truth. ‘Um, sorry, but I don’t really like it,’ I say, finally. ‘If I’m honest, it’s a bit big for you. And it looks like it needs a good wash. You’ve got much nicer dresses.’

  Vix’s mouth falls open in shock. ‘Sky, what’s got into you?’

  Rosie looks at me, hurt. ‘Blunt much?’ She glances down at her dress, grimaces and starts to remove it. She’ll probably never wear it out now. I feel bad.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ I say. ‘I’m not being nasty. But I really can’t lie to you.’

  I can lie, obviously – I’m quite capable of it and I’ve done it in the past, usually just to be kind – but, as of today, I’ve decided that from now on, I mustn’t. I’m far too superstitious and it’s much too risky. Why? B
ecause if I ever do lie again, there’s the tiniest chance that the story Mum read to me as a child will come true. My nose might start growing, Pinocchio-stylee. And that, frankly, would be a disaster on a world-ending scale.

  I’m not exaggerating. My nose already casts its own shadow. A few more centimetres and it could block out the sun.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, you don’t have a big nose,’ says Rosie, when I explain this to her, by way of an apology for being rude about her dress. ‘It’s a normal-sized nose.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Normal-sized for an anteater, maybe.’

  ‘Oh Sky, don’t be so down on yourself,’ says Vix. ‘I never even noticed your nose until you pointed it out. I always notice your pretty eyes, or your hair. There’s nothing wrong with your nose.’

  They’re both lying, of course. Lying to make me feel better. But it’s easy for them; they don’t have to worry about the consequences. Vix has a tiny, doll-sized nose and Rosie has a perfectly proportioned, sharp little nose that fits the rest of her features. Mine looks like it’s been stuck on me like Mr Potato Head’s. I really must have told a hell of a lot of lies in a previous life to deserve my hooter. Or maybe I was an anteater in a previous life.

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ said Mum, when I once suggested this explanation. ‘You were definitely an Egyptian princess. I can see it in your aura.’

  My mum believes in all that stuff: reincarnation, karma, chanting mantras and recycling compost. That’s why she took me and my sisters on a retreat in Goa recently. And why she persuaded me to have my nose pierced while we were there. Most mums would have tried to talk their fourteen-year-old daughter out of it. Not my mum. She encouraged it, and then she had hers done too. And now we’ve both got little red, sparkly jewels to the side of our right nostrils. Big mistake. My nose stud is like a neon sign, proclaiming: Big Nose Right Here.

  Rosie and Vix disagree, of course. They think my nose stud looks cool.

  ‘I wish I could get one done, but Mum would kill me,’ says Rosie, stroking her neat little nostril. ‘She’d go on about hygiene and hepatitis and sharing needles. I’m not even allowed to get my ears pierced until I’m sixteen.’

  ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ I say. ‘Mum had my ears pierced when I was a baby. I didn’t get a choice. My baby photos look like an advert for Claire’s Accessories.’

  ‘If you hate it that much, take it out,’ says Vix, always practical. ‘You’ll probably have to for school, anyway. But I think it suits you.’

  ‘I tried that,’ I tell her, ‘but it just leaves a slightly scabby hole, which looks even worse.’

  ‘It’ll heal over. And in the meantime, there’s always concealer.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s true. I wonder if I can conceal my whole nose?’

  Vix slaps me playfully on the arm. ‘There is nothing wrong with your nose. Believe me. You’re gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah, and you need glasses.’

  I wish I could believe Vix and Rosie. But the evidence that they’re wrong is everywhere I look: in reflections, in photographs, in the shadows on my bedroom wall at night that make me look so witch-like in silhouette that I frighten myself. Every morning, when I stare in the mirror, my nose appears to have grown longer and beakier, as if it’s making a bid for freedom from my face. I know I’ve been going through what Mum calls a growth spurt, with my arms and legs and torso lengthening and even the shape of my face becoming leaner and less squishy. But my nose? It’s sprinting ahead of the rest of my features. The scariest thing is, I don’t know where the finish line is.

  My nose even gets in the way when I kiss my boyfriend, Rich. I can’t remember it being a problem in the past but now, every time we go in for a snog, our noses bash into each other, and we end up doing this stupid dance with our heads until we find a better position, by which time we don’t feel much like kissing any more. Rich doesn’t have a big nose, so it must be my fault.

  ‘When did your nose start bothering you so much?’ asks Rosie, coming to sit beside me on the bed. She’s taken off the vile orange dress and put her jeans and T-shirt back on. ‘You never used to have a problem with it.’

  ‘When it started growing out of proportion to the rest of my face,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t felt growing pains.’

  Rosie laughs. ‘What are you on about, Sky? You look the same as you always have. Just not like a little kid any more.’

  ‘Yeah, your face has got character,’ says Vix.

  ‘Thanks.’ I bristle. She means it as a compliment, but I know what ‘character’ means: it’s another word for ugly. Girls with characterful faces never get to play the love interest in movies; they’re always the sisters or best friends.

  I want to change the subject now. Rosie and Vix are both staring at my face so intently that I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘It’s not important. Let’s watch a DVD or something.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ says Rosie. ‘Just don’t worry about it, OK?’

  ‘Course not,’ I promise, discreetly crossing my fingers. ‘I won’t mention it ever again.’

  But as I say this, I’m sure I can feel a little tickle in the tip of my nose, as it extends by yet another millimetre.

  ich and I have been together for ages, longer than any other couple I know. We’re coming up to our six-month anniversary. That’s serious. ‘Too serious,’ Mum says. She thinks I should be ‘playing the field’ but what does she know? She hasn’t had a proper boyfriend since Dad left. I’m pretty sure I love Rich and he told me he loves me too, although he hasn’t said it for a while (if I think about it). And (if I think about it harder), he’s never said it first. I’d rather not think about that, though, because it makes me miserable. It’s bad enough that I’ve hardly seen him this summer, although that’s not really his fault – I was in Goa for weeks and we couldn’t talk or message each other very often. If my mum weren’t so dippy, I might wonder if she planned the holiday just to split us up.

  I really missed Rich while I was away. I thought about him all the time and I didn’t even check out anybody else. Although, to be fair, I didn’t meet many guys who didn’t have long, white beards. And long, curly toenails. Rich says he missed me too but . . . I don’t know. Something seems different now. I’ve been back for nearly a fortnight and we’ve only met up alone twice, for a couple of hours, and once it was just so I could help him buy some new trainers. At the beginning, he’d come round all the time, to talk and listen to music and stuff in my bedroom, but lately he seems to want us to go out with his mates instead.

  Just like today. I’ve rung Rich because we have a vague arrangement to spend the day together, doing something fun, before school starts tomorrow. And, if I’m honest, I’d also like to ask him if everything is all right between us. And if he thinks that my nose has grown since I went to Goa. And if that’s why he seems to be avoiding me.

  ‘Hey, Rich,’ I say, when he finally picks up. ‘Are you coming round, then?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, without even seeming to think about it. ‘I’m with my mates.’

  ‘Oh, right. It’s just that I thought you said we’d see each other today. I’d like to see you. I want to talk . . .’

  I shouldn’t have said that. I swear I can hear him bristle. ‘What about?’

  ‘Um . . .’ What I really want to say is ‘About us’ but I know that will sound serious and make him freak out. And I can’t say, ‘About my nose’ either, because that sounds ridiculous. ‘Nothing special. Just stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’ His voice becomes a whisper, as if he doesn’t want his mates to hear. ‘You’re not going all weird on me, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Right, well, I was going to text you anyway,’ he says, louder again. ‘I thought we could all go out together. To the bank holiday fair.’

  ‘Oh. I guess. I kind of thought we could have a day for just the two of us.’

  ‘Yeah, but we can do that any ti
me. Why don’t you ask Rosie and Vix if they want to come too?’

  ‘OK, sure,’ I say, even though I haven’t planned to see my friends today. I told them I’d be seeing Rich for a romantic afternoon, and if I tell them it’s turned into a group thing now they’ll start nagging me again about how Rich isn’t treating me right. Still, it’s better than staying in on my own. I know Rosie is meeting her brand new boyfriend Laurie, but she can drag him along if she wants. Vix doesn’t like Rich’s mates, although she’ll be sweet and friendly to their faces. If I’m honest, I don’t much like them either. They’re loud and lairy, and they make Rich act the same way.

  ‘Cool. See you at Camden Road at three, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I take a deep breath. ‘Love you.’

  But he’s already gone.

  A few hours later, I’m standing outside Camden Road railway station with Vix, waiting for Rich to show up. Rosie has decided not to come; she said she wants to get to know Laurie better first before she brings him out in public. I’m starting to think that I should have just told Rich that I’d see him tonight instead. There’s a fair at Hampstead Heath every bank holiday and I always seem to end up going along with friends, even though I never enjoy myself much. I don’t like the crowds, or the rides which make me feel dizzy and sick and mess up my hair. The only thing I do like are the dodgems. And the candy floss. I’ve never told anyone that before; you’re supposed to love fairs, aren’t you, especially if you’re a teen? That’s why they’re called ‘fun’ fairs. Yeah, sure. About as fun as doing your maths homework, but hanging upside down by your legs, thirty metres off the ground.

  ‘Hey,’ says Rich, rolling up with three of his most annoying mates in tow. I only know one of them: Luke, a guy from school, who still looks like he’s about eight and acts like it too. Rich gives me a peck on the cheek, which is almost, but not quite, as passionate as the one I gave my mum when I left the flat. However, it still inspires Luke to make loud squelching noises and to rub his hands up and down his chest like he’s having the steamiest snog ever.