Free Over the Moon by Jean Ure Page B

you?”
    He says apologetically that they might be; how should he know? He’s never seen me before. Mum thensteps in to explain that the swelling’s gone down a bit since this morning, but it was quite bad.
    “We think it’s probably some kind of allergy … all the muck she puts on her face.”

    I roar at her that I haven’t
got
muck on my face. “I don’t
put
muck on my face! Do you see any muck on my face? I haven’t got
anything
on my face!”
    Mum says, “Well, not right at this moment, maybe. But some of that stuff … you never know what it’s got in it.”
    The doctor agrees with Mum. He says you can’t be too careful. “Especially if you have that type of skin.” He says what Mum said about being a redhead. He says, “I’m afraid beauty sometimes comes at a price.” He tells me to take antihistamine tablets and on no account to put anything whatsoever on my face.
    “Just let it breathe for a while.”
    “An excellent idea,” says Mum.
    She’s always been anti make-up. But I haven’t used any! We sit round the table that evening, me and Mum and Dad, trying to work out what else I could be allergic to, like my pillow, or house dust, or cheese, or – almostanything. Mum still says the most likely culprit is something I’ve put on myself. There isn’t any point in arguing with her; she gets these ideas. Nothing will change them.
    Hattie rings later, wanting to know how I am. I glumly inform her that I’ve got an allergy. She says, “Oh, horrible! Poor you,” and goes on to tell me how much money we made at the fundraiser. I know it’s very wrong of me, but just at this moment I don’t care two straws about the fundraiser. I don’t even care about the tsunami victims. All those poor people who died, or lost their loved ones. I just care about me and my face!

    Later on, the phone rings again. This time it’s Matt, also wanting to know how I am. “Are you going to be presentable in time for the Founder’s Day thing?”
    I squawk in protest at him, down the phone. “God, I should hope so!”
    Founder’s Day isn’t for another three weeks. I can’t still be in this state in three weeks!

    But I can. This is just the start of the nightmare. Next day when I wake up I grab the mirror and this thing, this loathsome, hideous, unspeakable
thing,
leers back at me, like some kind of deformed monstrosity out of a horror movie. Overnight, my entire face has swollen up. I just scream, and scream, and scream. Mum comes running, and so does Dad. Now even Mum can’t say that I’m over-reacting. Dad is almost as panic-stricken as I am; he wants to rush me straight down to the A & E department. It’s Mum – as always -who keeps her head. She says this is proof positive I’m allergic to something.

    “Now, Scarlett, think!” she says. “And be honest …
what have you been putting on your face
?”
    I sob hysterically that I haven’t been putting anything on my face.
    “I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you,” says Mum. And she pulls open the door of my bedside cabinet and starts rooting about inside it. “Cleansing lotion! Did you use any cleansing lotion?”
    “I didn’t need to! I wasn’t wearing any make-up.”
    “OK. What about eye shadow?”
    “No!”
    “What about mascara?”
    “No!”
    “Lipstick?”
    ‘No!”
    “What’s this stuff?
Toner!
What do you want toner for, at your age? For goodness’ sake! All this junk. Gel cleanser, correction stick— ”
    “That’s for spots! I haven’t used it.”
    “What about this?
Mattifying moisturiser
?”
    “No!”
    “Soothing day cream
?”
    I open my mouth – and then close it again. Mum says, “Scarlett, you didn’t?”
    I desperately want to say no, but I hesitate just a fraction of a second too long.

    “For crying out loud!” Mum’s holding up the jar, squinting at the list of contents.
“Fragrance.
It’s got perfume in it!”
    She unscrews the lid and takes a sniff. “That is disgusting!Totally