Karen McCombie - In Sarah’s Shadow

The figures on them: they might as well be of Homer, Bart and Lisa Simpson, for all they mean to me. But not to Mrs Harrison, who makes the sort of small, appreciative “ooh” noise that my Mum does when Sarah does a turn in the living room, modelling her latest amazing outfit. Only this “ooh” is all for me…

“I see change, lots of change. One phase of your life is ending and a new one is beginning. And with it being in conjunction with these other two cards…”

She pauses, starting up with that tap-tap-tapping of her nail on the laminated illustrations again (but not drumming nearly as fast as my heart is now beating).

“…it’s a change that’s going to make you very happy. And it’s coming soon – sooner than you think.”

Change? Happiness? Coming my way soon? My heart is soaring so high I could kiss the thoughtful frown off Mrs Harrison’s forehead – only I won’t, since I don’t want to ruin a beautiful moment by getting peach powder in my mouth…

I’ve been holding my breath, looking for early sightings of this earth-shattering change coming my way. But life has been depressingly normal: Pamela’s been bleating on about her non-blossoming romance with Tariq; every teacher has ignored the fact that there are other subjects – and other teachers – at school and has saddled me with mountains of homework; and Sarah swanned out last night on yet another date with Conor.

I know this last fact because it was me who opened the door to him and had my second ever encounter with that smile. I tell you, no other boy has ever looked at me that intently or smiled at me so warmly in my life. Of course, it only lasted a nanosecond, before Sarah swooped on us, gathering up her coat and Conor, and practically hurtling the poor guy down our garden path.

But I don’t care; one nanosecond of that smile will keep me going till next time, whenever that might be. My head’s got a snapshot of his face and those friendly, soul-searching brown eyes, firmly fixed, deep in my psyche. And there’s a soundtrack on loop too…“Hi, Megan! Hi, Megan! Hi, Megan!” (I’ve erased the part that said “Is Sarah in?”)

“That one’s seventy-five pence, love.” A voice jars me out of my thoughts.

I glance at the tatty copy of Catcher in the Rye I’ve been holding and quickly put it down.

“No thanks,” I shake my head at the pushy guy behind the makeshift table covered in paperbacks.

I’m on my way home from another Saturday hanging out in town with Pamela. This stall: it’s parked up outside our local supermarket every weekend afternoon and I’ve never usually given it a second glance. But a few minutes ago, I found myself hovering, scanning the rows of bright covers, thinking that maybe I should lose myself in a book, to help pass the time till this amazing change decided to make itself known.

But I guess I shouldn’t be too impatient. It was only yesterday teatime that Mrs Fruitcake Harrison did her tarot thing on me.

“Go on…I’ll make it fifty pence for you!” says the stall guy, forcing Catcher in the Rye under my nose again. “It’s a classic! It’ll be good for your schoolwork!”

Which is exactly why I don’t want it. And probably the reason why I’d absent-mindedly picked it up in the first place – we’d read it already in English.

I’m smiling and shaking my head, already stepping away from the book and the hard sell, when something catches my eye. Witch Way Now? says a cartoony, gothic, black title on a blood-red book. Spells To Make Your Life Special! it says in smaller letters underneath. I can tell from the mock-serious lettering and the exclamation mark that this isn’t exactly some ancient tome of historical importance – it’s more like a tongue-in-cheek ‘spook’ cash-in on the back of the Harry Potter phenomenon.

But, cynical or not, I find myself picking it up and flicking through the pages. ‘The It Should Have Been Me! Love Spell’ makes me smile. I could sure do with some of that. ‘The How To Make Him Know I Exist Spell’ makes the smile start to fade as I become more intrigued. And then I spot it…

‘The Change Your Life Spell’.

“Fancy that one? Won’t get you many gold stars from your teachers, a book like that!” I hear the pushy guy guffaw. “Fifty pence for that one, love. As long as you promise to come back and turn it into a fifty quid note once you’ve got the hang of the spells!”

He thinks he’s a real hoot, this bloke. He’s not going to get a laugh out of me with pathetic witticisms like that – all he is going to get is fifty pence, in the smallest, most annoying pile of change I can rake from the bottom of my purse.

“Oi! You going to be the next Sabrina then!” I hear him call out to me when I’m already halfway down the street.

Of course I’m not the next Sabrina. Of course I don’t really believe in magic. But what I do believe in are signs and gut feelings – and maybe (just maybe) this book is the start of it all happening.

Maybe that’s rubbish, but so what – it only cost me a bunch of loose coins that were weighing down my bag anyway. And if I’m right, well, it could be the best fifty pence I’ve ever spent…

I feel ridiculous.

According to the book, I need: a beeswax candle (is there any other kind?); a fresh sprig of lavender; an object sacred to me; and a peaceful, quiet room. The trouble is, I don’t have any of those. What I do have is a cinnamon-scented room freshener candle (unused, unloved Christmas present); some lavender aromatherapy oil (ditto); a copy of PJ Harvey’s Songs from the City, Songs from the Sea (my favourite rock staress, my all-time favourite CD and therefore my sacred object); and a room that is anything but peaceful, thanks to my dad roaring at the Manchester United versus Someone-or-other football match on the telly downstairs and Sarah twanging away on her guitar in her room across the hall.

“Come on…just do it,” I whisper to myself, trying to block out the noise and my feelings of total silliness. The point is, I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe in doing something symbolic, so if I go through the motions of this – with my reject Christmas presents and Songs from the City blaring on my CD player to drown out Manchester United and Sarah’s twanging – then I’m being positive. I’m saying if change is going to happen then I’m ready and waiting, not sulking in the corner while good stuff passes me by…(Wow – what would Mum make of that, if she could hear what I’m telling myself?)

First, light the candle…

Great – what with? I don’t want to spoil the moment and go trekking downstairs searching for matches. I’ll only get the third degree from Mum, hassling me about what exactly I want them for (to light the bonfire under the witch I’ve got stashed in my bedroom, obviously), so instead I just place the candle exactly in front of me on the carpet and stare at it intently, like I’m meditating or something. And then I realise that’s pretty stupid, because I need to look away at the book for my next set of instructions.

Move the sprig of lavender above the candle flame in anti-clockwise circles: not close enough to burn it, but enough to let the smell of the lavender infuse the room with its cleansing scent.

OK, so all I have is a small, brown bottle. I twist the cap off and it seems to make more sense to waft it (in anti-clockwise circles, of course) under my nose, so I can actually smell the damn stuff.

Next, hold your sacred object to your heart…

Easy peasy: I grab the empty CD box, with its cover of PJ Harvey striding through a night-time, light-strewn Times Square in New York, and clutch it to my chest. In the background, PJ growls above the roar of guitars.