Free In Sarah's Shadow by Karen McCombie Page A

I just hadn’t known what it was until I’d overheard Conor and Mr Fisher just now.
    “Megan, Conor and I have a big favour to ask of you…”
    If Cherish and Angel had still been talking to Sarah, I guess their reaction towards me rehearsing with them would have been as frosty as if I’d landed on an iceberg wearing a bikini.
    Instead, they’d just looked confused at this last-minute audition Mr Fisher had announced, which made the whole thing marginally less terrifying for me. (Onlyjust.) I found that the only way to play it was not to look at the two girls; to stare straight out at the darkened hall, milling with rival bands and technicians, and do what I’d been doing in the privacy of my own room up till now, and backstage within Conor’s hearing, even though I hadn’t realised it.
    “Good, good,” Mr Fisher had nodded matter-of-factly, once we’d run through the song.
    (Suddenly, my mouth felt cotton-wool dry with nerves. How had I just managed to sing?)
    “See? I told you it would work!” I heard Conor shout triumphantly across the monitors at Mr Fisher, before turning and giving me a beaming smile and a big thumbs-up.
    “That…that sounded great. I mean, together; we all sounded great,” I suddenly heard Angel’s voice say.
    My God, she was talking to me.
    “Yeah, it really did,” I saw Cherish nod enthusiastically at Angel, then at me.
    Wow – this felt like my own version of a fairytale: Cinderella makes friends with the not-at-all-ugly sisters…
    And three-quarters of an hour later, this Cinderella is about to see if the fairytale is about to come crashingdown around her ears. I mean, this is real now, this is it. I should be shaking, but weirdly, I’m not. I keep my eyes on Conor’s back as he leads the way on to the stage, and find myself wondering what the strange, overwhelming roaring sound is. Then I realise it’s the crowd from our school, cheering us on. Will Pamela be out there, do you think? She hadn’t made up her mind to put her name down, last time I spoke to her, and since she hadn’t been doing much speaking to me at all lately, I haven’t a clue if her face will be out there, staring back in the darkness at us. I tell you, if sheer jealousy is what her stupid moods are all about, then seeing me standing on stage with Angel and Cherish and everyone is really going to do her head in…
    For a split second, before I take my place at the mike, I see Salman settle himself behind the drum kit, the huge, spray-painted art backdrop behind that. Geeta and everyone might as well not have bothered spraying the name on (Near Miss, Mr Fisher had decided, after the band nearly broke up when Sarah walked out on them); it’s impossible to read against the rest of the graffitied words and designs up there.
    “Are you OK?” Angel squeezes my hand as we group around the back-up mike with Cherish.
    A breathless “uh-huh” is all I manage to whisper back.
    I’m OK, and this whole thing will be OK, I tell myself. I managed not to mess up the harmonies at our rushed, shoehorned-in, extra soundcheck earlier, didn’t I?
    “You look great!” Cherish mouths at me, looking pretty great herself, with her amazingly lush black curls glinting with a dusting of gold that she’s also brushed over Angel’s waterfall of hair and my own brown fizz of a hairdo.
    Only it isn’t really fizz any more, since Angel and Cherish got to work on me. I couldn’t exactly claim to be the ugly duckling who turned into a beautiful swan, but I think I could pass for an almost cute duckling now, thanks to the hair-preening and make-up and the spare, black, stretch satin top of Angel’s that I’m wearing.
    Me, Cherish and Angel…who’d have thought?
    Then Salman begins to tap out time on his drumsticks: here we go. I glance quickly at Mr Fisher, poised and ready to play Sarah’s guitar part, and at Conor, who shoots me that look again – the fleeting glance that seems to have a chasm of meaning behind it.
    I