18

‘Look,’ Bonnie hisses as we sit on plastic chairs in the doctor’s waiting room. She’s peering over the top of an out-of-date copy of House Beautiful.

House bloody Beautiful. I’m tempted to rip it from her hands and hurl it across the room.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Over there,’ Bonnie says, pointing at the staff list on the wall. ‘Dr Ali is a locum.’

‘So? Locums are still doctors.’

‘Hmmmmmm,’ Bonnie says, folding her arms across her chest.

‘I’m sure Dr Ali will be fine.’

Bonnie flips the page. ‘We’ll see.’

Dr Ali turns out to be a young woman with a shiny black bob and a kind smile. I like her straightaway.

‘So, what seems to be the problem?’ she asks as we sit down.

I show Dr Ali my wrists. Within about three seconds she makes a diagnosis.

‘Scabies,’ she says.

‘Scabies?’ I repeat. I’ve never heard of it.

‘It’s a contagious skin disease,’ Dr Ali explains. ‘Caused by tiny mites that burrow under the skin, They’re called Sarcoptes scabiei. They feed using their mouths and front legs to penetrate the epidermis to lay their eggs.’

‘How can you tell?’ Bonnie asks.

Dr Ali rubs some ink on my left wrist, then wipes it off. ‘See that?’ she says, her finger tracing the line of ink that remains. ‘That’s a mite tunnel or a burrow. A sure sign of scabies basically.’

A shiver ripples down my spine.

‘Not to worry though,’ Dr Ali continues. ‘Scabies may be unpleasant but it’s very easily treated. A special cream called permethrin usually does the trick.’ She turns round in her swivel chair and begins to tap away at her computer keyboard.

‘How did I get it?’ I ask.

‘It’s hard to pinpoint for sure,’ Dr Ali says, continuing to type. ‘But most commonly it’s passed from human to human, via some sort of skin-to-skin contact, usually a family member or romantic partner. The contact has to be prolonged, though – we’re talking fifteen to twenty minutes skin-to-skin.’

I glance at Bonnie, who is rifling determinedly through her handbag. As usual, it’s overflowing with pointless things – broken pens, a long defunct phone charger, endless used tissues, a Chapstick with the lid missing, an empty Smints box, a crumpled Happy Easter card with a grinning bunny rabbit on the front.

‘Have you been itchy?’ I ask.

Bonnie’s head snaps up. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’

‘I was just wondering who I could have got this from.’

‘Does it matter?’ Bonnie says. ‘You heard what the doctor said; the cream will sort it out.’

I try to think of the last time I had any sort of prolonged skin-to-skin contact with anyone. Even with Bonnie.

Then I remember.

That night in front of The Sound of Music.

But that was over a month ago.

‘The incubation period can last up to eight weeks,’ Dr Ali continues as if reading my mind. ‘So, it’s possible you were infected quite some time ago.’

Bingo.

‘Show me your wrists,’ I say, turning to Bonnie.

‘What?’

‘Roll up your sleeves and show me your wrists.’

‘What for?’

‘I just want to see.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Bonnie says, panic flickering in her eyes. ‘Look, we’re wasting the nice doctor’s time.’

‘Not at all,’ Dr Ali says. ‘Perhaps it is worth me having a look. I was actually about to say, we recommend that anyone the infected person may have come into close contact with has the treatment too, even if they’re not displaying any symptoms, just as a precaution.’ She wheels her chair over to Bonnie. ‘If you wouldn’t mind letting me take a look, Mrs Snow,’ she says, gesturing at Bonnie’s wrists. ‘Just to confirm either way.’

Bonnie opens her mouth, then closes it again before reluctantly shrugging out of her coat and rolling up the left sleeve of her jumper.

The spots on Bonnie’s wrists are fainter than mine but they’re undoubtedly the same thing.

‘Mystery solved,’ Dr Ali says. ‘How long have you had these, Mrs Snow?’

‘Oh God, I don’t know,’ Bonnie says irritably, yanking her sleeve back down. ‘Not long. I’ve barely noticed them.’

As if, I think.

As. If.

‘What?’ Bonnie says, clocking the fury on my face. ‘I just assumed it was eczema!’

‘There doesn’t appear to be anything about eczema in your notes,’ Dr Ali says, squinting at her computer screen.

‘Well, there should be,’ Bonnie says indignantly.

More lies. Miraculously, Bonnie’s health has always been oddly robust.

‘Without treatment, the mites can survive on the body for up to two months,’ Dr Ali explains.

‘But how did Bonnie – I mean, my mum – get them in the first place?’ I ask.

I can’t leave it here. I need to get to the bottom of this.

‘It’s hard to say for sure,’ Dr Ali says.

‘Like, could a dirty house be to blame?’ I ask, my face reddening to match my wrists.

That gets Bonnie’s attention. I can feel her eyes on me, sharp and alert, like a rabbit emerging from its burrow.

‘A dirty house?’ Dr Ali repeats, her brow furrowing a little.

‘I mean, just for example,’ I add quickly.

‘Well, it’s entirely possible,’ Dr Ali says slowly, her eyes flicking from me to Bonnie. ‘It’s certainly a lot easier for mites to breed in a less hygienic environment.’

There’s a pause.

‘Is there any particular reason you ask, Rosie?’ she asks gently. Her brown eyes are feather-soft, gentle and full of concern. With a glimmer of something else. Suspicion.

I catch it just in time.

‘No, nothing like that, just a bit curious,’ I say quickly, desperate to throw her off the scent.

It doesn’t work. Dr Ali’s frown is deepening.

‘So, what happens now?’ I continue stammering a little. ‘You were talking about a cream?’

‘I’ll give you a prescription,’ Dr Ali says, the frown not leaving her face. ‘You should also wash all your bed linen, nightwear and towels on at least fifty degrees. If you’re unable to wash certain items, place them in a plastic bag for at least seventy-two hours. That ought to kill off the scabies mites. I would advise giving your entire house a good vacuum too. Just in case.’

But how do you vacuum floors you can’t even see? My eyes brim with tears of frustration.

‘Are you all right, Rosie?’ Dr Ali asks.

I blink the tears back. I need to pull myself together. And fast. The last thing I need is Dr Ali making a well-meaning report to Social Services because I got emotional and slipped up.

‘It’s just a bit, um, overwhelming,’ I improvise. ‘All the instructions …’

‘Would you like me to write them down?’ Dr Ali asks gently, glancing at Bonnie who has stopped paying attention and is fiddling with her phone.

‘No, no, it’s fine. Vacuum, wash everything on fifty, put everything else in a plastic bag for seventy-two hours.’

‘Perfect,’ Dr Ali says.

‘Er, what about school?’ I ask. Dr Ali’s form is now blurry through the watery film covering my eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

‘Are sure you’re OK, Rosie?’ she asks, her head tilting to one side.

Bonnie’s fingernails stop tapping at her phone.

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just a bit upset about the scabies, you know …’

Dr Ali smiles sympathetically. ‘Not to worry. I know it’s not nice, but we’ve got you covered, and providing you start the treatment tonight, you’ll be all good to go back to school on Monday. I have to warn you though; the itching may last for up to two weeks.’

She prints off two prescriptions and hands them to Bonnie.

‘Is that it?’ Bonnie asks, stuffing them in her coat pocket.

‘That’s everything,’ Dr Ali says. ‘Unless there’s anything else you’d like to talk about?’ She’s looking at me as she says this.

‘No, thank you,’ Bonnie replies, stalking out the room. ‘Come on, Ro.’

I stand up.

‘Rosie?’ Dr Ali asks softly. ‘What about you? Is there anything else we haven’t covered?’

I swallow.

‘Anything at all?’ she adds.

For a moment, I imagine telling Dr Ali absolutely everything – letting all the hurt and frustration and anger pour out of me along with the tears I’m currently fighting to keep from falling. As I stand there, my mouth full of cotton wool, I feel a bit like I’m teetering on the top of a tall building, the wind in my hair, as I look down at the roaring traffic below.

To jump or not to jump.

‘Rosie?’ Dr Ali prompts.

Her interruption snaps me back to reality. What on earth was I thinking?

‘No, that’s everything, thank you,’ I say. I pick up my backpack and walk slowly after Bonnie.

 

I don’t say anything until we’re in the car.

‘How long?’ I demand.

Bonnie doesn’t answer, turning on the engine and flicking on the radio, flooding the car with ‘Waterloo’ by ABBA. I turn it off again.

‘How long, Bonnie?’ I repeat.

‘How long what?’ Bonnie asks, lighting a cigarette, filling the car with smoke.

‘How long have you had it?’ I ask, wafting the air.

‘Not long.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bonnie!’

‘You heard what the doctor said – it’s easy enough to get rid of.’

‘But I shouldn’t have got it in the first place!’

‘Stop getting at me! I’m not a child.’

‘And I’m not an adult! I shouldn’t have to be dealing with this … rubbish.’

Because that’s what most of my life is. In every sense of the word.

‘People saw, Bonnie,’ I say, my voice trembling.

‘What people? When?’

‘Girls in my PE lesson.’ My skin prickles with shame as I picture the disgust on Sienna and Paige’s faces, and the pity on Cassie’s. I can’t decide which felt worse.

Bonnie sighs and shakes her head. ‘You know what your problem is, Ro?’ she says. ‘You worry about what people think far too much.’

‘Well, one of us has to give a toss about something other than themselves!’ I snap.

‘I didn’t know it was contagious! You’re acting like I gave it to you on purpose!’

‘That’s not the point and you know it.’

Bonnie lets out an impatient sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Ro. OK?’

But sorry isn’t good enough. Not when I know Bonnie has no intention of backing up her apology with a change in behaviour. Coming out of Bonnie’s mouth, ‘sorry’ is a nothing word – flimsy and meaningless. She may as well be saying ‘teapot’ or ‘dragonfly’ or ‘vanilla custard’.

Bonnie starts the engine and reverses out of the space, almost clipping the car parked next to us. It’s started to rain again, the miserable grey sky suiting my mood perfectly. I rest my head against the window and watch the raindrops roll down the glass, tracing their watery tracks as I try my hardest not to cry.

 

By the time I’ve changed my bedding, been to the launderette and cleaned as much of the house as logistically possible, it’s way past my usual bedtime. Noah messages to ask how my day’s been, but I’m too ashamed to even reply.

I put my phone away and perch on the edge of the overflowing bathtub and read the permethrin instruction leaflet. As directed, I remove all of my clothes and smother every centimetre of my body with the thick sticky cream, my body trembling with cold and resentment.

This is all Bonnie’s fault, and she didn’t even have the decency to help me clean up the place. After I refused her apology, she spent the rest of the car journey in a sulk and the moment we got home from the pharmacy she retreated to the living room, shutting the door and turning on both the TV and radio at full blast like a moody teenager.

I hate you, I think as I apply the cream between my toes.

‘I hate you,’ I say out loud as I rub it under my armpits and in the creases of my elbows.

I begin to cry – my scalding hot tears making my entire body shake.

‘I hate you,’ I sob as I use a cotton bud to apply the cream under my finger and toenails.

My sobs become louder, wetter, angrier. It feels good to let some of the fury and frustration and pain out. It isn’t enough though. I need more. More of a release.

‘I hate you,’ I yell as I pull on my pyjamas, the cotton clinging to my slightly sticky body. I hold my breath, before realizing there’s no way my voice can be heard over the blizzard of noise coming from the living room below.

‘I hate you!’ I yell again, louder this time. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

 

By the time I collapse into bed, I’m weak with exhaustion. The anger is still raw, but I feel a little calmer, my breathing slow and even.

I’m about to turn out my light when I catch sight of the creased National Youth Choir of Great Britain leaflet on my desk. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it all week, but for some reason I haven’t got round to it. I slip out of bed and retrieve it, climbing back under the duvet and staring at the otherworldly faces of the smiling singers.

What would Bonnie do in this situation? I don’t have to ponder. I know what she’d do. Because in Bonnie’s world, Bonnie always puts herself first. My entire life revolves around protecting her and this stupid house. Why shouldn’t I do something for myself for once?

I check the time: 11.52. I pull out my laptop from under my bed, open it up, and before I can talk myself out of it, type the choir’s website address into the search bar.