TOPIC: I hide in the downstairs loo and put on eyeliner
I hide in the downstairs loo and put on eyeliner. It makes my grey eyes look smoky and defined, covering up the fact I've been crying. I think make-up suits me, but Dad disagrees. He thinks make-up is just for girls.
I look like my Uncle Jim, apparently. I never met him, because he died before I was born. Sometimes I like to imagine I've got his eyes, or his shy smile, or his cheekbones. He's not in any of the family pictures and it's like he's been erased. Old people still don't like to talk about what happened to young men in "those days."
Sighing, I rinse my hands under the cold tap, picking off the last few flakes of black nail varnish. Mrs Wilkins made me remove it for home economics because it's "unhygienic," only she never says that to the girls. I straighten my tie in front of the mirror, smoothing down the lapels of my stiff, black suit. It's a funeral, so you're supposed to look depressed.
I sneak out of the bathroom and run straight into Mum. 'Sam,' she says. 'Oh, there you are. What do you think you're doing?'
'What?'
'You know what.' She licks her finger and reaches over to scrub my eyes, but I duck. I've done everything right: I wore a suit (like she asked) and I sat quietly through the service, looking all humble and morose, and I've been perfectly polite and respectful to all the old people.
'Mum, it's just make-up.'
'Yes, I know.' She pulls me to one side. 'And we've spoken about this…' I can wear make-up in the house when it's just Mum and Dad, but not outside. And especially not at school. 'Do you really think now is the right time?'
'The right time for what?'
'You have lovely eyes.' Mum smiles, sadly. 'But let's not upset your dad anymore. Not today. Not now.'
'Mum, you're taking away my right to self-expression…' I weave past her, into the living room, where all the adults are standing around, picking at finger sandwiches and bowls of crisps.
