Conor to my fabulously friendly sister (not) and her shy little friend. I think Megan grunts some form of hello at him, while Pamela does what Pamela does best: giggles and turns prawn-pink.
I hear Conor say a hearty hello, oblivious to the drop in temperature. We’ve come from the brisk and chilly outdoors into something sub-zero, thanks to Megan’s icy glare.
Only right now, it’s not as icy as it was only a few short seconds ago; her eyes are flitting between Conor and me and then back at Conor again with an unreadable expression in them. What is that look? Is it irritation? Confusion? Curiosity?
Oh, I don’t know – Megan’s too hard to figure out at the best of times. But what I do know is there’s something about it that’s sending a shiver all the way down my spine and straight back up again.
Chapter 3
Twitterings and warnings
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to scare you. I haven’t scared you, have I?”
I’d be a lot less scared if Mrs Harrison would stop gripping my arm quite so tightly in her amazingly strong, wiry hand.
“It’s just that it’s a bit hard to take in,” I try to say tactfully.
It’s just that this whole thing sounds like a complete load of rubbish. Like the deluded rantings of someone going ever so gently but firmly senile.
I mean, none of what this mad old dear has just said can be true, because a) Megan might not be the easiest person to live with, but there’s no way she “means harm”– or whatever sinister way Mrs Harrison put it – to me or anyone else; and b) Meg’s always been spooked by this woman – she never got over the kind of wariness that all the local kids feel about Mrs Harrison – and therefore she would never, ever set foot inside her house for a tarot reading, like Mrs Harrison claimed happened yesterday.
Uh-uh, no way…
“I know you’re only young—”
Oh, God, please don’t patronise me! I think to myself, keeping what I hope is a polite, tolerant smile on my face as Mrs Harrison drivels on. (Mum’s always drummed it into me to be nice to the neighbours at all times, but it’s proving to be a bit of a struggle right now.)
“—and it’s very hard to understand concepts like the spiritual world—”
It’s very hard to understand Mrs Harrison, full stop. Urgh…if I’d only been able to find my other glove earlier, if I hadn’t faffed about wasting time looking for it, then maybe she wouldn’t have spotted me and dragged me into her house. Maybe I’d be well on the way to rehearsal by now, arriving nice and early in the hope of a bit of time alone with Conor. Although there’s been so much of that this last week that I can hardly complain. One date at the skateboarding show on Sunday (andseveral snogs after!) and we were officially going out together. The only time I haven’t hung out with him after school this week was Monday, and we met for lunch that day (a baked potato in the precinct and more kisses in lieu of pudding…).
“—and you have to believe, dear, that I always, always keep my readings confidential,” Mrs Harrison trills on, her funny, peachy face powder clogging in the frowns of her forehead. “But this feeling I had about your sister when I was giving her a reading, this malevolence I felt towards you…the message was so strong, dear, that I knew I just had to tell you to take care. Do you understand? Does that make sense?”
My blood boils – Megan isn’t malevolent; she’s just troubled, depressed, severely lacking in self-esteem. Wasn’t that the gist of what the doctor told Mum and Dad last year? How dare this woman who doesn’t really know anything about Meg, or about us and what we’ve been through, pass judgement?!
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t really make sense,” I try to say as kindly as I can, even though I don’t feel very kindly towards this woman at all right now. “Meg’s fine; she’s just a bit introverted, that’s all.”
“And the scars on her
I hear Conor say a hearty hello, oblivious to the drop in temperature. We’ve come from the brisk and chilly outdoors into something sub-zero, thanks to Megan’s icy glare.
Only right now, it’s not as icy as it was only a few short seconds ago; her eyes are flitting between Conor and me and then back at Conor again with an unreadable expression in them. What is that look? Is it irritation? Confusion? Curiosity?
Oh, I don’t know – Megan’s too hard to figure out at the best of times. But what I do know is there’s something about it that’s sending a shiver all the way down my spine and straight back up again.
Chapter 3
Twitterings and warnings
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to scare you. I haven’t scared you, have I?”
I’d be a lot less scared if Mrs Harrison would stop gripping my arm quite so tightly in her amazingly strong, wiry hand.
“It’s just that it’s a bit hard to take in,” I try to say tactfully.
It’s just that this whole thing sounds like a complete load of rubbish. Like the deluded rantings of someone going ever so gently but firmly senile.
I mean, none of what this mad old dear has just said can be true, because a) Megan might not be the easiest person to live with, but there’s no way she “means harm”– or whatever sinister way Mrs Harrison put it – to me or anyone else; and b) Meg’s always been spooked by this woman – she never got over the kind of wariness that all the local kids feel about Mrs Harrison – and therefore she would never, ever set foot inside her house for a tarot reading, like Mrs Harrison claimed happened yesterday.
Uh-uh, no way…
“I know you’re only young—”
Oh, God, please don’t patronise me! I think to myself, keeping what I hope is a polite, tolerant smile on my face as Mrs Harrison drivels on. (Mum’s always drummed it into me to be nice to the neighbours at all times, but it’s proving to be a bit of a struggle right now.)
“—and it’s very hard to understand concepts like the spiritual world—”
It’s very hard to understand Mrs Harrison, full stop. Urgh…if I’d only been able to find my other glove earlier, if I hadn’t faffed about wasting time looking for it, then maybe she wouldn’t have spotted me and dragged me into her house. Maybe I’d be well on the way to rehearsal by now, arriving nice and early in the hope of a bit of time alone with Conor. Although there’s been so much of that this last week that I can hardly complain. One date at the skateboarding show on Sunday (andseveral snogs after!) and we were officially going out together. The only time I haven’t hung out with him after school this week was Monday, and we met for lunch that day (a baked potato in the precinct and more kisses in lieu of pudding…).
“—and you have to believe, dear, that I always, always keep my readings confidential,” Mrs Harrison trills on, her funny, peachy face powder clogging in the frowns of her forehead. “But this feeling I had about your sister when I was giving her a reading, this malevolence I felt towards you…the message was so strong, dear, that I knew I just had to tell you to take care. Do you understand? Does that make sense?”
My blood boils – Megan isn’t malevolent; she’s just troubled, depressed, severely lacking in self-esteem. Wasn’t that the gist of what the doctor told Mum and Dad last year? How dare this woman who doesn’t really know anything about Meg, or about us and what we’ve been through, pass judgement?!
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t really make sense,” I try to say as kindly as I can, even though I don’t feel very kindly towards this woman at all right now. “Meg’s fine; she’s just a bit introverted, that’s all.”
“And the scars on her
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