The Face Beneath the Mask

Vain, they called me. Bitchy. Spiteful. The names changed as I did, ranging from pretty to ugly, perfect to cow.

The strange thing was, they always seemed the opposite of what I would say. Like, beautiful. And vain. I didn't get many "vain"s, but people were always complimenting my looks before it happened, stroking my long, strawberry-blonde hair, pinching my rosy cheeks. 'You look like a model, Gabs,' they said.

'Silly,' I said, smiling indifferently. It might have been true. But I would never have called myself pretty, or admired the way I looked. I did try to look nice, by adding golden spray to my hair, wearing mascara. I wore eye shadow, too, and a thick, powdery mask of foundation. Lipstick, bronze. Long, dangly earrings, or maybe hoops. A perfect French manicure, pink, white and rectangular. Everything, everything that made me pretty - it was fake.

If something's fake, it isn't real. It doesn't exist. So - although I kept a steady supply of spray and make-up, and practiced smiles in the mirror - I found it fascinating that people thought me beautiful. When, really, I didn't exist. Not my beauty, anyway.

Nothing that made me matter.

I know I was lucky, then. I was admired. I hadn't always been admired - at primary school I was known for blushing a lot, and being incredibly shy. Maybe my ponytail, too. Maybe my outbursts. I wouldn't call them outbursts, and I wouldn't then - I would've called them a way of sticking up for my little sister, Zoe, who had to have a special helper in her Year One classroom. She had Down's syndrome. She wasn't made fun of, generally - her class adored her - but the all-too-familiar Year Six boys, in my class, weren't as understanding of her condition.

'You leave them to me, Zoe,' I told her, with more confidence than I felt. 'Okay?'

''Kay, Gabby.' Zoe, always an angel, kissed me and gave me a one-armed hug, before running off to play "Princess" with a girl called Mandaline. I waved and started to walk around the playground, fists clenched, looking for Matty and Carlos. When I found them I charged towards them, angrily, giving Matty a shove from behind. His jaw dropped, when he saw me there.

I scowled, furious.

'Just what,' I said, before he could speak, 'have you been saying to my sister?'

'Sister?' Matty said, sounding disgruntled, and rubbing his lower back. 'What sister?' He glanced at Carlos, who sneered at me.

'You don't have a sister,' he informed me, scathingly.

'Zoe Mitchell!' I shouted, my fury rising. 'Zoe Mitchell, Gabriella Mitchell - do you believe me now?'

There was a silence, if a short one, which spread considerably further than our argument. All across the playground, I'd say. I blushed. Then, trying to keep some dignity, I glared, scowled, looked, furiously, at Matty.

'Well?' I prompted.

'Well,' he said, sounding small. 'We . . . We're . . .'

'We're sorry,' said Carlos. He said it quickly, in a rush, after gaping for a moment. He'd had trouble getting the words out, I knew, but I nodded, grimly, partially satisfied.

'Glad to hear it,' I said. I felt the silence, and the stillness, and I crossed my arms to stop myself from shivering. 'Just don't do it again, right?'

I might sound like a brat, or a bully, but Matty and Carlos had done worse than this, and I'd always been protective of Zoe. She was young, and vulnerable. I'd been old and vulnerable, but after that I became the opposite.

I became one of them. They.

Those people.

That might have led to those months off school, or it might have been the same without. I would never know. I have a feeling though, had I had real, un-fake friends, who saw the face behind the foundation, that I might have handled the situation better. I might have helped Zoe handle it better, too. I was in my first GCSE year now, tests, revision and coursework, but Zoe might not be able to do GCSEs at all. Not at my age, anyway. Not at fifteen.

She could work though, and she would probably get them eventually.

Still.

She would have to work.

And I wasn't setting the best example.

I was hoping that would change, today. 'Are you sure you're ready?' my mother had asked me, over a fried breakfast, which Mum made specially for the occasion. 'Maybe you could have a half day, to start, or spend a bit of time catching up?'

'If I spend time catching up, I never will catch up,' I said, shivering. I seemed to shiver whenever I was nervous, so I was visibly shaking now.

'Here, Gabby, take my blanket.'

'Thanks, Zoe.' Zoe's blanket, or "Voodoo", as she called it (God knows where she got the name from, or why she chose it), had sticky patches, where Zoe had chewed, but it was warm, cosy and, in any case, it was a very kind gesture. Very sweet. I felt better, slightly, with my sister's blanket, and asked, 'what are you doing at school today?', knowing it would make her happy.

'I'm doing writing, today,' Zoe said, sounding proud. She tugged at her soft, fawn-like hair, then let it bounce into place again. It was straight, and a bob, but it had been trimmed to shape around her face, so when she pulled it it seemed much longer, and straighter, like someone had held an iron at either side.

Zoe seemed to find this fascinating. For a moment.

'Writing,' she said, blinking, and interrupting herself. 'I can write my whole name now, can't I, Mummy?'

'You sure can, darling.'

I felt my eyes fill with tears, at this display. It was so sad. Zoe was always pleased with herself, whatever she was doing, while I had spent months at home or in a psychiatrist's office.

Zoe would normally ask that question to Daddy, and he would have given Mum's response.

I blinked, trying to hold my tears. 'There's no shame in feeling sad,' my psychiatrist had told me, as I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. 'It's okay to be depressed,' Mum had said.

Suddenly, with no warning at all, I burst into tears.

Right there, in front of my mum and sister. At breakfast. Before my first day at school after months, months, of sitting, crying, alone in my bedroom.

Zoe looked worried.

'Do you not like my Voodoo?' she said, sadly, gazing at the blanket.

'Of course I like your Voodoo,' I managed to sob, hugging it, and burying my face inside.

'Come out of there, honey,' Mum said, soothingly. 'Look, I know you must be scared. This is a big step for you. The divorce has unsettled us all, and it must be scary, going back to school after all this time. You will feel like a stranger. Your friends, they -'

'Mum, stop.'

I know she was trying to help, but . . . well, my hands were shaking to the point that I couldn't control them anymore, and, somehow, knocked over my empty cup.

'Well, I'm glad you're a fast drinker,' Mum said, standing it upright. 'I wouldn't like coffee on my tablecloth, not with the amount it cost.'

That's something I haven't mentioned yet. Since "the divorce", as we call it, Mum has acquired a number of new things, objects, around the house. It's just a matter of time until it's a new boyfriend, new husband, new family . . .

New family.

Just like Dad.

'Oh, Gabby, there's a crack!'

'Sorry.' I blushed, guiltily, wondering if Mum would get remarried, and if Zoe and I would be bridesmaids, in hideous frocks.

'Well,' Mum said, tutting at the broken mug. 'Good job I didn't use that new crockery, eh, girls?' She pointed to a tea set that I hadn't even noticed, though it was standing, proudly, in the biggest and the emptiest of our see-through cupboards.

'Eh, Mum,' Zoe agreed.

Good grief.

'I'm going to clean my teeth, Mum,' I said, standing up, and tripping over my chair.

'Careful!' Mum said, sounding alarmed. 'You're not going to get flattened by your own school bus, are you?'

'Ha ha, Mum.' I hoped she'd meant it as a joke. She didn't seem too sure herself, but nodded at me, warily, as I dumped my plates in the kitchen sink.

I spent ages in the bathroom. I didn't clean my teeth. I'd all ready done them before eating breakfast, so I relaxed, for once, and stared into the bathroom mirror.

I wasn't applying lip gloss, or adding an extra six layers of mascara.

I was seeing what I looked like. Natural.

Existent.

Me.



'Gabby?'

'Gabriella?'

'Is that Gabby Mitchell?'

'No, she's Gabby Jones, now. Didn't you hear? Her parents got divorced.'

I listened, watched, felt people's eyes on me, as I wandered up the path to school. I listened to the rumours. Some of them were miles off - for a start, I hadn't changed my name after the divorce, and my mother's name wasn't Freya Jones; it was Freya Goodwick. Some rumours were spot on. Some of them weren't rumours at all, but mere comments, like my ex-best friend, Laura McCartney, screaming, 'Oh my God, she's back!' and running over to me, her heels bouncing off the floor.

'Gabby!' she said, giving me a big, powerful hug. 'Gabs, oh Gabs, I've missed you so much!'

Then she saw my face. My hair. I didn't look like I had before - pale, gaunt, with circles under my eyes. I actually thought I looked quite nice. My skin, without the mask, was surprisingly pale, but it was smooth, creamy, and my cheeks were pink. My hair waved, slightly, even long. I had always used blonde highlighting spray, not proper dye, so my hair was darker, now, which made my skin look more dramatic.

I definitely sounded vain, but . . . I don't know. It was better, somehow. I had a reason. And it wasn't the same as everyone else's.

'Oh my God, Gabby.' Laura blinked at me. 'What do you look like? Why aren't you wearing any make-up?'

In other words: 'Where are you?'

Where's your beauty?

'I don't know, Laurie.'

I should have stayed - I left her, didn't I? I abandoned her. But she'd just tottered over to me from a group of girls, all of whom I recognized, and I didn't want to be sucked into that group again. Any group but them. Anyone but them. Laura gawped at me as I walked past her and up the steps to school, but she didn't say a word. I didn't, either.

I would speak to her later, of course. I wasn't horrible.

For now, though, I would find someone else like me. Someone real.

Someone who wasn't afraid to show the face beneath the mask.