Out there she’s just a zero,
Observed. Judged. Promptly erased.
In here she’s always the hero,
Understood. Respected. Embraced.
—CC
Edinburgh, Scotland
I am Comet Caldwell.
And I sort of, kind of, absolutely hate my name.
People expect something extraordinary of a girl called Comet. Someone effortlessly cool and magnetic. Someone who lights up a room and draws attention the way a comet does when it blazes light and fire across the sky.
But a comet, when you break it down, is the opposite.
It’s an icy body that releases gas and dust.
Comets are basically great big dirty snowballs. Or, as some scientists have taken to calling them, snowy dirtballs.
Yup. A snowy dirtball. That makes more sense.
I was not a blaze of light and fire across the sky. I was just your average sixteen-year-old high school girl. An average sixteen-year-old who was spending the last day of summer uploading her latest attempt at poetry to her anonymous blog. The one with the comments turned off so I wouldn’t be subjected to public opinion and ridicule. “The Day We Caught the Train” by Ocean Colour Scene blared out of my laptop as I worked. I had a thing for nineties and early noughties indie music.
My phone vibrated. I ignored it, making sure the typesetting on my latest post was just right. Because that’s what I really cared about. The typesetting. Not the poem. Or that people would stumble across my blog and scorn the words torn from my beating heart.
The buzzing started up again and I sighed in irritation.
Vicki Calling.
As one of my two best friends, Vicki didn’t deserve to be ignored. I put my music on mute and picked up. “I hope you know you’re interrupting Liam and I, but keep it on the down low. Miley doesn’t know about our secret love.”
Vicki gave a huff of laughter. “Babe, I’ll take it to the grave.”
“So what’s up?”
“What’s up is Steph and I have been standing outside your house for the last ten minutes, ringing your doorbell. We can hear the music you dug out of a time capsule and Kyle has peered out the window at us and shooed us away twice.”
Kyle was my dad. Although I thought of him as Dad in my head, I never actually called him Dad. My parents had taught me to call them Carrie and Kyle from the moment I could make vowel sounds.
Of course my dad had waved my friends away. Because answering the door for people who weren’t there to see him would be too much like hard work.
I hopped off my bed, hurried out of my room and down the hall to the front door. As I swung it open, I was blasted by the familiar scent of the salty sea beyond our garden gate along with a rush of cool wind. I hung up my phone.
Vicki eyed my outfit carefully and then decided. “Nice.”
To say I had a quirky taste in fashion was putting it mildly. I was currently wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar underneath a preppy lilac cardigan. Very 1950s. I’d matched it with a turquoise multilayered silk petticoat, and a pair of Irregular Choice Victorian ankle boots. They were lilac and instead of laces they were adorned with turquoise satin ribbons tied into large bows.
Steph stared at Vicki as if to say, Are you serious? and then she gave me a pained smile. “Dude, surely Carrie notices you in that outfit?”
I chose not to be insulted.
Steph was petite with an enviable bra size and a butt that actually filled out her River Island jeans. She wore her long honey-blond hair in carefully arranged loose curls, and her makeup was always perfect. Fashion-wise she mostly wore on-trend clothes from the more expensive stores in the shopping center but dipped into high-end designer when her lawyer dad felt like spoiling her.
Right now she was wearing skinny jeans with purposely placed rips in them, knee-high brown leather boots with a low heel and a Ralph Lauren bomber jacket.
Unlike Steph, Vicki, the wannabe fashion designer, appreciated my attempt to be different. Although to be fair it wasn’t really an attempt on my part. Or even an attempt to get Carrie to notice me—I didn’t think it was anyway. I just wore whatever jumped out at me from my wardrobe that day.
Plus, 195 days out of the year, I had to wear a school uniform. The days when I didn’t, you bet your ass I was going to have fun with my outfits.
Wearing an oversize thin cream sweater with an angled hem, paired with bright green leggings with skulls on them, Vicki was more adventurous, like me. But she was naturally cool. This was a girl who could pull off the name Comet. She wore loosely laced black leather biker boots, large gold hoops in her ears and a bright green suede crossover body purse. Her tawny skin was flawless, so Vicki didn’t wear as much makeup as Steph, whose pale white skin tended to blemish. At that moment, like usual, Vicki was wearing only a few coats of mascara on the thick lashes of her hazel eyes, and a touch of gloss on her full lips. Her dark brown afro danced above her shoulders in the wind as she turned to raise an eyebrow at Steph.
“What?” Steph shrugged.
“Filter,” Vicki reminded her.
“It’s fine.” I waved off Steph’s comment. We all knew Carrie wouldn’t notice me if I ran through the house with my petticoat on fire.
“We didn’t come here to pass judgment on your cool as shit outfit,” Vicki emphasized for Steph’s benefit, but our friend just rolled her eyes. “It’s the last day of summer, Comet. We’re going to a party. You’re coming with us.”
“A party?” I asked. The thought of going to a party to hang out with a bunch of our classmates who would either ignore me or make fun of me, when I could finish posting on my blog, then curl up with the book I was in the middle of reading, made me want to slam the door in their faces and pretend I’d never answered my phone in the first place.
As if she saw the thought on my face, Steph shook her head. “Uh. No. Dude, you have to come to the party.”
“Steph, stop saying dude. You aren’t American. And this isn’t the 1990s.” Although I wondered if I wouldn’t have been better off as a sixteen-year-old in the 1990s. There was the music, of course. Oasis, hello! Need I go on? And then of course there was the lack of social media. I think there might have been instant chat back then. But if instant chat was a tiny school playground, social media was a city made up entirely of school playgrounds. There was plenty of laughter, games and messing around...but there was also that dark corner where the quiet kid got pushed around by the bully.
“Speaking of American—that’s why you need to come to the party. Cute American boy is going to be there.”
“And who’s that when he’s at home?”
“We so need to plug you in,” Steph tutted as she tapped her phone screen, alluding to the fact that I avoided most social media platforms. After a few slides of her finger over the screen she held it up to me.
It was a blurry photo of some girl with her arm around some guy.
“What am I looking at?”
“Cute