Sick Teen Read online

Sick Teen

  Jon Jacks

  Other New Adult and Children’s books by Jon Jacks

  The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

  The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

  A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

  The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

  Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll’s Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

  P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

  Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

  Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

  Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

  Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

  Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

  The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

  Memesis – April Queen, May Fool

  Text copyright© 2016 Jon Jacks

  All rights reserved

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  Thank you for your support.

  Chapter 1

  Have you ever wondered, as you’ve drunk a coffee while talking to someone, how shocked they’d be if you just suddenly threw it over them?

  You have, haven’t you!

  I sensed it: that instant spark of recognition!

  I did, I really really did!

  Wow, how crazy is that?

  And I thought it was just me!

  *

  Okay, okay: so now we’ve got that out of the way!

  Things are going really nicely between us, aren’t they?

  We’re obviously kindred spirits.

  At odds with the world – an ever-nagging sense that not everything around us is as it ideally should be.

  Sure, we can’t quite put our finger on what we think’s wrong.

  But it’s not our job, is it, to figure that out?

  That’s way, way above our pay grade.

  Not that I get paid anything, of course.

  Not at my age. Unless you count the odd holiday job.

  And boy, how boring is that!

  Surely I’m not fated to be doing that sort of thing for the rest of my life?

  Surely I’m better than that?

  But that’s what worries me, isn’t it?

  I’m not really so sure I am better than that.

  *

  Here’s another thing I’d better get out of the way: you couldn’t really consider me a ‘nice’ person.

  Not in the way people think ‘nice’ people should behave, least ways.

  You know: saying ‘yes’ when you’d far rather say ‘no’.

  Being polite, when the guy you’re talking to doesn’t deserve it.

  That sorta thing.

  See, I don’t subscribe to that way of behaviour; going against your more natural instincts is what I call it.

  So that means I’m not a ‘nice’ person.

  Thing is, if we’re all being really honest here, how many of us can really say that, deep down inside, they’re really ‘nice’?

  We’ve got all sorts of things filed and hidden away deep down inside us, haven’t we?

  No?

  That doesn’t sound like you?

  Well okay, have it your own way.

  We all like to think of ourselves as being ‘nice’, don’t we?

  That if we were placed in a certain situation, we’d do the right thing?

  Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from.

  But know what?

  I reckon you’re kidding yourself.

  It’s just one more thing you’re hiding away.

  *

  Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not looking down on you, not berating you.

  I mean, who am I to see myself as being better than you?

  Haven’t I just admitted that I’m no better than you?

  And I wouldn't be even a teensy-weeny bit bothered if you’re beginning to see yourself as being better than me.

  See, I’m truly amazed by the amazing amount of people in this world who flatter themselves that you even care what they think.

  But they think, don't they, that somehow you should care enough to completely change the way you behave, just to satisfy them.

  Like we’re that shallow we’d just do what they want, right?

  So just to show the world that I don't really care what rules they’ve made up, the rules you're supposed to obey if you want to fit in, well; I go right against all those rules, don't I?

  I dress how I want, see? Going for the long draping garments that hide my figure. The plastered on makeup that hides my face. The thick braiding and dreadlocks – and the dye – that hides what my hair looks like.

  Thing is, I still dress this way even though, thankfully, it dawned on me one day – I’m still accepting all the rules aren’t I, really?

  I mean, if I really didn't give a damn about all those rules, well – then why am I making such a big deal about it, going to all this trouble just to show I don’t consider myself bound by them?

  I mean, if I really don’t care what people think, if I really don’t want to be bound by all these rules; then why the heck don’t I just be me?

  Because when you think about it, all I’m really doing is just hiding the real me under this fake character I’ve created.

  She’s not the real me, is she?

  She can’t be, can she?

  Does that make sense?

  I’ve got to admit, there’s a part of me that reckons it doesn’t.

  And then again, there’s another part that insists it does.

  Wouldn’t it be great if I could get all these different parts of myself to agree for once?

  *

  There’s one thing, I suppose, that most of my different parts do seem to agree on.

  There’s a guy at school – isn’t there always? – whom just about every girl goes mad about.

  Huh, like he’s really all that great!

  Me, I can take him or leave him.

  The only weird connection between us, the way I see it, is that we share this small yet dreadful birthmark on the side of our necks. You could say it’s a whirling spiral, at best; a snail’s shell, at worst. It’s a sort of bloody purple too.

  He hates it, obviously; he tries to hide it.

  But I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen the way he’s embarrassed about it: about the way something so small can damage his otherwise almost perfect beauty.

  See, I don’t look for all the wonderful things about him; no, I look for the awful things about him.

  The odd zit. The day he comes in with lank, greasy hair.

  On those days, see, he’s nothing special.

  He’s human.

  He’s fallible.

  And now, too, he’s dead.

  *

  Chapter 2

  So, if this boy’s dead, shouldn’t I have said, then, that there was a guy at school?

  Seeing that, of course, he’s not really here anymore?

  I suppose, if you really need to be a trifle pedantic, yeah; you’re right. I should have talked about him in the past tense.

  But, see, he’s still alive to me.

  In my memo
ries, he walks, he talks. He plays football like, one day, he could’ve been a professional.

  In reality, back in the past, it was, yeah, let’s be honest; all a little different.

  He’d walk by me; like he didn't see me.

  He’d talk, but not to me; it was like he didn't know I existed.

  He’d play the other girls like they were all part of one huge, joyful game for him: but when it came to me, I was never invited to play.

  In the game of love, I’m the one who, when it comes to choosing a team, no one ever wants on their side.

  *

  Wait, wait! I know what you’re thinking now!

  That maybe I killed him!

  What? You think I’m really that whacko?

  It was nothing to do with me!

  A tattoo gone wrong; that’s what caused it, apparently.

  An infection; blood poisoning.

  Yeah, sometimes, unfortunately, it happens

  Me, I’d never even known he had tattoos until I’d heard this.

  Apparently he had them where only his very closest friends could see them.

  So that excluded me then, right?

  Thing is, the girls who must have seen them didn’t exactly go blabbing about them either.

  No surprise there then: they’d hardly be thought of as ‘nice’ girls, would they now?

  *

  A confession: I didn’t want him dead, obviously – but yeah, I was a bit miffed when he started dating my ‘best’ friend, Lisa.’

  If I could’ve, you know, replaced her in his affection, I would’ve done.

  Sure, that’s not very ‘nice’ is it?

  Thinking that way about a friend. Especially a ‘best’ friend.

  But, see, the odd thing about it all is that there was a very good reason why me and Lisa were ‘best’ friends.

  Mainly, because we were both losers in the game of life.

  Losers stick together, right?

  To bolster each other’s self-esteem. By being completely miserable about absolutely everything else around them.

  Sure, I’m a saddo.

  But together, we were saddoes!

  Then one day, Lisa wasn’t a saddo at all.

  Suddenly, she was easily the most beautiful girl in school!

  *

  It’s the ‘look’ that says to every girl in school; Like wow, isn’t this what you really wished you looked like?

  The ‘look’ that says to the boys, Date her and every other boy will envy you.

  Problem is, boys, dare you ask her out? See, if you're even partially bright, you've got to know the chances are she’s going to ever so politely turn you down, every bit as efficiently as a vet puts down a slobbering little puppy.

  ‘What’ve you done?’ I asked Lisa. ‘How’d you get yourself looking like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ she says, all innocent.

  Yeah, like no one’s noticed the phenomenal change in her!

  It’s not just me asking her this; it’s everyone!

  And the boys, suddenly they’re all taking an interest too.

  Like, suddenly, she’s become the schools most interesting girl to talk to!

  All on account of a few layers of shovelled on makeup.

  But then, that’s what’s all so confusing, isn’t it?

  Way I see it – and I’ve got in real close to check, her being my best friend and all – there isn’t any makeup involved.

  It’s all a perfectly natural beauty!

  *

  Even his death doesn’t seem to affect how wonderful she looks.

  Sure, she’s sobbing regularly; gets the red eyes, the runny nose, every now and again.

  But that’s it – in every other way, she could be getting professionally prepared to appear on some daytime show; ‘How I Lost My Love and Beat the Blues’ sorta thing.

  Like grieving is the world’s most wonderful beauty regime you can hook into it.

  All the cool girls, the ‘in’ crowd, they’re all fussing over her.

  Making out they’re the only ones who care about what she’s been through, poor dear.

  Telling her how wonderful she still looks.

  Asking, amongst all those considerate platitudes, if she can recommend a good shampoo: something that can give their hair a boost, the same way she has with whatever it is she uses.

  She tells them, of course; the brand, the type.

  Also what face wash she uses; where she buys her clothes; her scent – that kinda thing.

  Course, none of it has the effect any of these girls are really after.

  That remarkable transformation from zero to full on glamour.

  She’s keeping her secret, obviously.

  I mean, you’d think – me being her best friend – she’d tell me, wouldn’t you?

  But she doesn’t.

  *

  Not that I’m really bothered.

  You’ve got to be pretty damn shallow, haven’t you, to kid yourself being beautiful is so important?

  Being beautiful isn’t everything, is it?

  And that’s what I get around to telling Lisa one day

  She’s no longer the truly great girl she used to be, I warn her.

  She’s just become like so many other girls at school; the ones she used to look down on, before she became ‘best’ friends with them.

  Arrogant. Envious. Vindictive. Greedy. Mean.

  Not wishing to share secrets with a best friend; how mean is that?

  If you’re not willing to be honest with your best friend, what kind of person are you, really?

  ‘I would share my secret with you,’ she says at last, ‘if I knew for sure how it had all happened!’

  ‘So, you’re saying you just sorta magically woke up looking like this one morning; that’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘If you must know; yes!’

  I laugh, give her a wary ‘don’t mess with me’ look.

  She doesn’t laugh.

  She gives me the stern glare, the straight, firm lips.

  She’s being serious.

  ‘You must’ve done something different,’ I point out. ‘Just tell me what that is: or I’ll never speak to you again!’

  So she tells me; she’s got a tattoo.

  *

  Chapter 3

  A tattoo?

  That’s it?

  You’re kidding me, right?

  She’s not kidding me.

  She opens her blouse a little, pulls it off her shoulder, slightly turns her back to me.

  It’s a hare and moon. So tiny I can hardly see it. It’s tattooed onto her back across her shoulder blade, like the rise in her white flesh is a hill the hare’s gambolling over.

  ‘That makes you go from being a Z lister to a triple A?’

  ‘Z lister?’ she says, like she’s a touch offended, immediately insisting, ‘I was pretty!’

  Oh sure.

  No, I don’t say it.

  I let my eyes convey it.

  She reads them right.

  ‘I just never made the most of it, that’s all!’ she adds defensively.

  Course, we’d all like to think that, wouldn’t we?

  No way is Lisa’s change all down to just some fairytale tattoo!

  ‘Why’d you get a tattoo in the first place?’ I ask curiously: it’s not like she’d ever shown any interest in having one before.

  ‘Well,’ she say, all bashful, all little-Miss-Innocence, ‘I’d sort of heard...you know, whisperings. That he had had a few tattoos–’

  ‘I knew it! You’d had your eyes on him all along!’

  ‘Oh, let’s face it, Tana,’ she surprisingly snaps back, ‘neither of us had a chance with him–’

  ‘Didn’t you just say you were “pretty”? That you just weren’t putting any effort into looking good?’

  ‘Yeah, Tana; like he was interested in anyone who was just “pretty”!’

  True; she’s got me there.

  I’ll give her that.
>
  ‘This tattoo,’ I say, ‘do you think I could get one?’

  *

  Whoope-de-do.

  Sweet sixteen.

  And already so bored with life.

  I mean, who cares what I really want for my birthday?

  It’s all just the sort of stuff they think I should like.

  ‘Nice’ stuff; rather than the sort of thing mum wishes I wouldn’t wear, which is what I’d really want.

  The main thing, though, is that I’m ‘at that difficult age’.

  An age when most aunties and what have you at least admit they’ve got no idea what you might want.

  So they slip you the money instead; telling you to ‘get what you really want’.

  And that suits me fine.

  Because what I really want is a tattoo.

  *

  Okay, okay; so I’m a hypocrite.

  Big deal.

  Get over it, can’t you?

  It’s just like, you know, when each Miss World contestant is asked what she’d really really like once she’s crowned

  World peace.

  Give me a break! Course she doesn’t.

  I mean, who really takes her seriously?

  But she knows that’s what she’s expected to say.

  Me, what else should I say but that being beautiful isn’t important to me.

  It’s not like I really had a choice, is it?

  And now I do!

  So I’ve changed my mind, naturally.

  Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

  Remain open to changing your mind when the situation changes?

  Now look, don’t get me wrong: if it came to a straight up choice between having hair that would make Wonder Woman sick with envy, or a world where no one suffers, of course I’d plump for the latter.

  But yeah, I’d like the chance to think about it a little bit first.

  Especially if the downside is that I actually end up with flat, greasy hair like Jolei Ferres at school.

  I mean, no one should have to put up with that, should they?

  So yeah, I’d really have to think about that!

  It’s not like I’m responsible for all the world’s suffering, am I?

  Nope!

  All I’m responsible for is making sure I get on in the world.