Under My Skin by James Dawson Page B

didn’t feel right either – although she guessed Molly Sue was a homunculus in some ways.
    â€˜I gotta say,’ Molly Sue said as Sally changed into some of Stan’s pyjamas while he brushed his teeth in the bathroom down the hall. ‘I’m pretty darn hurt you think I’m a demon.’
    Shut up
.
    â€˜Aw, c’mon, girl, can’t we just get along? We gotta show the ladies some love.’
    OK, we’ll start with some questions.
Sister Bernadette and
Satanville
hadn’t provided any answers so there was only Molly Sue left to interrogate.
Where did the House of Skin go? Where are Boris and Rosita?
    â€˜Somewhere safe.’
    What’s that supposed to mean?
    â€˜They look after me, an’ I look after them. They been very good to me down the years.’
    That doesn’t answer my question and Stan will be back any second.
    â€˜Don’t worry, I’m gonna give you your privacy. You get yours, girl!’
    Ew! No! It’s not like that!
    Molly Sue laughed a low, throaty laugh. ‘Maybe not for you.’
    Or him. He’s like my brother!
    Right on cue, Stan ambled back into the bedroom, a blob of toothpaste on his chin. ‘You OK?’
    â€˜Fine!’ Sally said brightly, pushing Molly Sue out of her head.
    As ever, Stan let Sally take his bed and he went sidecar in a sleeping bag on the floor. They chatted about
Satanville
and school for a while as Sally grew sleepier, before Stan promptly changed the subject. ‘Are you going to go to the Year Twelve dance?’
    That woke her up. It was months away. ‘What? No. As if.’
    â€˜I’m thinking about it.’
    â€˜Oh God, why? This play is bad enough – I think I’ve reached my “joining in” quota for the year.’
    Stan rolled to his side and propped himself up on an elbow. ‘Yeah, I know they kinda suck, but we only have three socials left until we leave school for ever.’
    â€˜I’m striving for a hundred per cent non-attendance rate.’
    â€˜But it’s like prom! Taryn went to prom!’ He paused. ‘Why do you think Americans always say “go to prom” instead of “go to
the
prom”? Surely that’s bad English?’
    â€˜I have no idea. But I don’t want to go.’
    â€˜Jennie’s going with Kyle.’
    â€˜All the more reason to stay home.’
    â€˜Come on! We could go together . . . just as friends. It’ll be fun.’
    â€˜Told ya so . . .’ Molly Sue said in a sing-song voice.
    Sally ignored her. ‘Sorry, Stan. I honestly think I’d rather die.’
    Stan pouted. ‘OK, whatever, but don’t come crying to me when you’re thirty and sad you didn’t go to prom.’
    â€˜Goodnight, Stan!’
    â€˜Sweet dreams, Feather.’ He rolled away from her and rested his head.
    â€˜Sweet dreams . . .’ cooed Molly Sue.
    Oh, pipe down.
    The following day Sally was presented with a rock / hard place duo of options for her Saturday. The first was accompanying her parents to the garden centre to look for new border shrubs (staying at home wasn’t an option, apparently – her dad felt it wasn’t healthy to spend such a pleasant weekend stuck indoors). The second, slightly less hideous, option was heading up to the lake with Stan, Jennie and some of Kyle’s music friends. There was talk of getting rowing boats out to one of the islands in the middle of the lake. Stan promised they could get their own rowing boat, so she agreed.
    Once again, Sally layered up like she was getting ready to visit a mosque – every inch of skin covered in case anyone got a glimpse of Molly Sue. Today she wore a long vest top and a lacy cardigan, which would at least allow some ventilation. They didn’t really team well, but it’d have to do.
    It was about a twenty-minute drive from Mulberry Hill to the lake in Kyle’s mum’s car. As they drove even