Free The Look by Sophia Bennett

way around. My day was natural history programs, hers was chemo. But there’s something strange about Ava. Whatever drugs they’ve given her, they’ve had the opposite effect from what I expected. Her eyes still have their dangerous glitter, she’s full of energy, and you’d think she’d just been to a rave — or how she looked when she got back from Glastonbury, anyway.
    “How did it go?” I ask.
    “Ew, at the time,” she admits, taking a bite out of a banana. “But I feel WONDERFUL now. Mum says it’s the steroids. I don’t care. If it’s going to be like this for the next two weeks, fantastic!”
    Are they sure she has cancer? Has she been massively misdiagnosed? Anyway, while Mum gets busy chopping apples, celery, and practically anything else green that isn’t the kitchen door, I tell Ava quietly about the test shoot.
    “Fabulous!” she says when I’ve finished. “Perfect! Hey! My sister’s nearly a mod-el! It’s so exci-ting! Go check her o-out!”
    She dances round the room as she singsongs. What did they put in those steroids?
    “I’m not going, remember?” I point out.
    “Why?”
    She stops dancing and pouts at me.
    “Because I don’t want to. Because it’s silly. Because I’d need permission.”
    “You do want to. It’s a test shoot! How cool is that? Lily Cole had test shoots. So did Rosie Huntington-Whiteley. You’ll be like Heidi Klum.”
    Who are these people? How does she know about so many of them, when I only know Kate Moss and Claudia Something, who Dad fancies? Why would I want to be like Rosie Huntington-Whiteley anyway? OK, I can imagine how people might want to be like them. Attractive people. Just not people like me.
    “Go on, T,” Ava pleads. “You looked great in those Polaroids. It’s just one morning. You’ll have fun. Think of it as work experience.”
    “As what?”
    “I dunno. Stylist? Hairdresser? Makeup artist? Designer? You’ll meet loads of new people. It’ll be good for you.”
    “Just because you want to be a surf instructor —”
    “Cool job, huh? Better than your tree surgeon idea. Or Bob the Builder, I seem to remember. Or Oreo taster.”
    “Not necessarily. And I can’t do it anyway,” I say, playing my trump card, “because Mum would kill me.”
    “Aha!” Ava exclaims, playing hers. “But she won’t know, will she? Because she’ll be at work on Saturday, in that fabulous green uniform of hers, and Dad’s researching at the library. So the flat will be empty and they’ll assume you’re here, doing homework, or at Daisy’s. And if they ask difficult questions, I’ll cover for you. You know how good I am at lying.”
    I do. She inherited all the lying genes, whereas whatever I’m thinking is written all over my face.
    “And look, Frankie’s gone to all that trouble, just for you. You can’t let her down now, can you?” She does her pouty face. “I’ll call and pretend to be Mum and tell them that it’s all sorted. I’ll help you get ready. You can tell me all about it. And I’ve just had chemo , T. How can you resist me?” Mega-pout.
    But this time I’m ready. I pull myself up to my full five feet eleven inches and stare her straight in the eye. “No way ever. Not in a million years. And that’s final.”
    She doesn’t say anything back. She just points to the area in her chest where the tubes are, and smiles a wicked smile.

A nd so, at eleven o’clock on Saturday, I find myself standing outside Highbury & Islington Underground station, watching Ava study Dad’s A-Z map of London and wondering when I will ever learn. Probably never. When we’re in our nineties, I’ll be doing something stupid with my walker because my older sister made me.
    And she’ll be around then, obviously. Because what’s happening is just a blip. Ninety percent of people are totally cured. Totally.
    I’m still not sure how she talked me into it. I lasted twenty-four hours. Then I crumbled and she really got to work. First, she had to