Don't Even Think About It Read online

  Still no answer. I was beginning to feel a bit desperate – was she just going to keep staring at me until I left? Maybe if I asked her a question she’d have to answer, so I said, ‘How are you feeling?’

  First I thought she wasn’t going to say anything. She blinked two more times, and then she put up a hand – the one without the tube attached – and rubbed at her nose, and then she turned her head away from me so it was facing the wall.

  I snuck a glance at her locker and saw a box of Maltesers and a bundle of Tracy Beaker magazines and a furry white toy cat all sitting on top.

  And then, all of a sudden, she turned back to me and said, ‘It wasn’t because of that.’

  I said, ‘What?’ because I wasn’t sure what she meant.

  ‘It wasn’t because you hit me. You hit like a girl. I was going to have the operation anyway.’

  And then, before I had a chance to say anything, do you know what she said? She said, ‘I probably deserved it anyway.’ She kept her eyes on my face all the time and she didn’t blink, not once.

  And all I could think of to say to that was, ‘Oh.’ It was a lot to take in:

  It wasn’t my fault that she was in hospital.

  I wasn’t even strong enough to hurt a helpless invalid.

  She didn’t really blame me for hitting her.

  And then I realised something else: she didn’t have to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. She could have said nothing, and let me go on thinking that I was to blame, but she didn’t.

  Which was the first nice thing Ruth Wallace had ever done for me.

  And saying that she deserved it – well, that was almost the same as telling me she was sorry, which was the last thing I had been expecting. I was the one who was supposed to be saying sorry here.

  Just then, a bell rang in the corridor, and she said, ‘You have to go now.’ And then she closed her eyes, and I waited a minute to see if she’d open them again, but she didn’t, so I turned around and walked out. The girl in the other bed still had her eyes closed, but she probably heard every word.

  And all the way downstairs, I was still trying to get my head around the fact that I had just had my first ever conversation with Ruth Wallace. And nobody had shouted, and nobody had said anything nasty.

  And all the way home, I thought about how I’d been worrying myself sick for the past few days, how I’d tossed and turned in bed every night, waiting for someone to find out what a terrible thing I’d done, wondering if Ruth Wallace was dead, or seriously injured.

  Imagine she reads Tracey Beaker, just like me. I wonder what music she listens to – wouldn’t it be funny if she liked Eminem?

  Hit like a girl, indeed. I’d like to see her try and hurt someone with a litre of milk.

  But thank goodness that’s all over, and I can concentrate on the next terrifying thing in my life – my first ever date, tomorrow night.

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  Late, Friday, 7th January.

  Talk about a disaster.

  It started off OK. Chris was waiting for me at the corner of the cinema block, which was just as well, because I was ready to run home again if he wasn’t.

  He smelt nice, but he looked a bit strange. His clothes were fine – he wore black jeans and a grey shirt, and a leather jacket that looked new – but he had stuff in his hair, some kind of gel, or something, that made it all stick up as if someone had just given him a fright. It was a real pity, because Chris has lovely floppy hair. He probably thought it made him look cool.

  Anyway, I began to relax a bit when I saw him, especially when he smiled. He really has the most gorgeous smile. His dimple is so much cuter than mine, it’s not fair.

  As we walked towards the cinema, Chris began telling me about the digital camera he’d got for Christmas, but I wasn’t really listening, because all I kept thinking was ‘I’m on a date.’ I was half hoping, and half dreading, that he’d try to hold my hand, but he didn’t.

  And then, as soon as we walked into the cinema, it all went horribly wrong, because the first two people we saw were Bumble and Catherine.

  It was AWFUL. We had to talk to them, of course, because they saw us too. And – you’ve guessed it – they were going to the same film as us, so we joined the queue together as if we were four best friends.

  For some reason I could hardly look at Bumble, so I concentrated on Catherine, trying to look interested while she bragged about the clothes she’d got for Christmas, and the gold watch her godmother or someone had given her, and the skiing trip she’s going on at mid-term. I was bored after the first three words.

  And naturally, we all had to sit together inside. I couldn’t really see Bumble and Catherine, because they were on the other side of Chris, but I sure found it hard to concentrate on the film. If you asked me what it was about, all I’d be able to tell you was that Scarlett Johannsen was in it, dressed like someone from long ago, with a bonnet and stuff, and in the end she died. I think she died anyway – I remember her in a bed looking weak, and crying a lot. (Of course, her make-up stayed perfect.)

  I kept waiting for Chris to put his arm around me – I had decided not to slap his face if he did – but he didn’t even try. Maybe the other two put him off. Or maybe that just never happens on first dates.

  I can’t believe how little I know about this kind of stuff. They should teach it at school: the dos and don’ts of first dates. It would be a lot more useful than knowing the capital of the Czech Republic – and you can bet everyone would pay attention.

  Anyway, I couldn’t wait to get away from the others afterwards, so the minute we were outside I said I had a headache, and my best friend Catherine tried not to look too happy at the thought of having Bumble all to herself for the rest of the evening.

  He barely looked at me when Chris and I were leaving – maybe he was glad to be rid of me too.

  Chris walked me home, and he did most of the talking. I tried to be cheerful, really I did, but I wasn’t very good at it. I was in a lousy mood – trust Catherine Eggleston to ruin my first ever date – and all I could manage was ‘Oh yeah’, and ‘Really?’ and stuff like that.

  When we got to my house I just turned to Chris and said, ‘Well thanks a lot, see you,’ and bolted up the path.

  So much for worrying about my first kiss.

  Thank goodness Dad was still out. I left him a note telling him I’d gone to bed and went straight upstairs. I won’t get up tomorrow until he’s left for work, just in case he starts asking me all about tonight.

  So that’s the end of my first and only date with Chris. Let’s hope the next time someone asks me out, Catherine Eggleston is a million miles away – preferably rolling down some ski slope and breaking at least one leg.

  Chloe gets back from Kerry tomorrow, thank goodness. At least I’ll have one friend to talk to, since my old one doesn’t seem to want me any more, and my almost-boyfriend is history.

  Back to school on Monday, as if things weren’t bad enough. Actually, I don’t really mind going back – at least I won’t be hanging around here thinking about what a mess I make of everything. And I’m starting advanced swimming lessons after school, which I’m looking forward to.

  We went swimming once a week in primary school, and I was in the advanced group in sixth class, but this is much more grown up, with all the different strokes, and races and everything. And we’ll be doing life-saving too, which should be really cool.

  OK, I just heard Dad coming in, so I’m off to bed in case he looks in.

  Five past eight, Thursday, 13th January.

  Can you believe it? Chris texted me a while ago.

  I was in shock when I got his message. After the way the date turned out, I was sure he’d never want to have anything more to do with me. And then, just as I was starting my homework, this text arrived:

  Hi fncy pzza 2moro nite? Meet 7pm same plc?

  Imagine – he actually wants to see me again. I waited fifteen minutes, just so it wouldn’t look
like he was the only boy who wanted to go out with me, and then I texted him back:

  OK C U then

  So we’re going out for a pizza tomorrow night. I’m just beginning to have that sick feeling again. I thought it was only first dates that were terrifying, but it looks like I was wrong. Maybe it takes three or four of them before you stop wanting to throw up at the thought.

  I’m wondering whether to tell Dad. Will he be cross if he finds out that I’m going on dates without saying anything? Do fathers need to know about these kinds of things? Would he be horrified at the thought of his little girl having a boyfriend?

  Yes, probably. Maybe I’ll say nothing just yet.

  Oh and guess what else? Ruth Wallace came home from hospital yesterday, nearly a week after I went to see her. I happened to be passing the landing window as her Dad was taking the wheelchair out of the boot of his car, and I watched him opening the passenger door and lifting her out and putting her into the wheelchair very carefully, as if she was a china doll.

  She had a red coat on, and nice black boots, and one of her dorky hats.

  I’m not sure if she saw me. She looked towards our house for a second, and she seemed to be staring straight at the landing window, but she didn’t wave or anything, and neither did I.

  I wonder if she’ll say anything about the magazines that appeared in her porch later on. I wonder if she’ll guess who left them there.

  I’ve started the advanced swimming after school, and it’s great, much more interesting than the swimming we did in primary. Our coach is called Sandra and she gives everyone really individual attention, because there are only five of us in the class. She told us we’ll be having an exhibition before Easter for our parents, and I tried not to think about Mam not being there.

  One more thing she’s missing out on.

  Oh, and the big news from school is that our whole class is getting penfriends from France. Mr Geraghty, our French teacher, has a friend teaching in Paris who’s going to get her class to write to us. We could get a boy or a girl, since the French class is mixed – we’ll have to wait and see when they write back.

  Chloe and I have agreed that if either of us gets a boy we’ll both write to him, and hopefully he won’t mind being shared.

  We have to write to them in French and they’ll write back to us in English, which could make things a bit tricky. I think I’ve already mentioned how awful my French is. Hopefully my penfriend’s English will be just as bad, and we’ll be quits.

  And remember Henry, the gorgeous pizza delivery guy? Well, I asked him what his second name was, and it’s Morrissey, which is a bit of a disappointment. I had thought of much better ones for him, like D’Arcy or Montague or Fitzwilliam. Not that it matters really – as Granny Daly would say, WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  Someone must have given him gloves for Christmas. They’re black leather ones, so they go with his jacket. And he wears a hat these days too, a woolly green one with two blue stripes at the bottom, which I have to say looks a tiny bit girly to me, but I suppose it keeps him warm. He’s still the sexiest-looking boy I know. Chris is cute more than sexy.

  Imagine if Henry phoned and asked me out – now that would be truly terrifying. I suppose I’d have to choose between him and Chris. Or we could meet in secret, to make it even more romantic. And then if Chris found out, they’d probably have to fight over me. Henry would probably win, because he’s older and taller. I just hope he wouldn’t hurt Chris too much.

  There’s been no sign of Bumble and Catherine around town. I suppose they’re still madly in love. I wonder if Bumble will ring me when she breaks his heart. Of course, I’ll be there for him, even if he has rejected my friendship, and I’ll never, ever say he should have seen it coming.

  Maybe Chris and I could find him someone nice, to help him forget about Catherine. Chloe would be ideal if she’d only give up the garlic.

  She’s coming over soon to help me decide what I’m going to wear 2moro nite, so I’d better stop. Wish me luck.

  Late, Friday, 14th January.

  Well that was a big improvement, apart from the last bit.

  We met at seven – actually ten past, because I dribbled toothpaste on my pink top and I had to change, but I think the girl being late is allowed. Chris was waiting for me at the same corner as before. (Maybe that’ll be our corner from now on. Maybe in fifty years’ time we’ll be showing our grandchildren where we used to meet for our dates.)

  He had the gel in his hair again, which was a bit disappointing. But he looked glad to see me, and I was still happy that he hadn’t been put off me forever, so I decided I wouldn’t let it bother me.

  We walked to the pizza place, and thank goodness there was no sign of you-know-who there. (I mean Catherine and Bumble, in case you don’t know who.) I ordered a small cheese and pineapple pizza because I didn’t want Chris to think I was a savage – and also because I wasn’t sure how much of it I’d manage to eat anyway, with my nerves. He didn’t seem nervous at all – he ordered a medium pizza with pepperoni and onions for himself, so there wasn’t much wrong with his appetite. Maybe boys don’t get nervous about dating.

  Anyway, it was fine – the date, I mean, not the pizza – although that was OK too. Not quite as good as the ones from Pizza Palace that Henry delivers, but good enough. Chris and I chatted away about school and stuff, and there weren’t too many embarrassing silences, and I actually managed to finish most of my pizza.

  So everything was going fine until we began to walk home. Chris took my hand when we got outside the restaurant, which made me flutter a bit all over again, but it was kind of nice. And everything was going very well until we got to my gate.

  And then I turned to him to say goodnight, and he lunged towards me and – how can I describe it? His face bashed into mine, and his nose jammed into my cheek, and he pressed his mouth up against mine for a second, and I could smell onions, and then it was over.

  My first kiss – the thing I’d been half dreading and half hoping for since I was about eight. It took about three seconds, and all I remember is his nose shoved into my cheek and the smell of onions. I was so disappointed, I could barely say goodnight to him.

  Aren’t kisses supposed to be wonderful, like in the films? Did I do something wrong? Or did I not do something I should have done?

  Maybe we just need some practice. I’m sure it should be slower. They’re always much slower, in the films. And the boy should take the girl’s face in his hands, very gently, and sort of lean towards her, with a soppy look on his face. Chris did none of that. He mustn’t be watching the right kind of films.

  I just know Chloe is going to call me tomorrow and ask me about kissing, since we figured it was going to happen tonight. I suppose I’ll have to pretend it was wonderful, so she won’t be disappointed.

  Like I was.

  Middle of the afternoon, Saturday, 15th January.

  A funny thing happened just now.

  I met Ruth Wallace. I was walking past her gate on my way home from Chloe’s house, and she was wheeling herself down the path, and she had a red and blue hat on that her granny must have crocheted for her, and it was truly disgusting.

  And she looked at me and nodded. And I looked at her and nodded back. And then, because she didn’t look like she was going to say or do anything else, I kind of smiled.

  And she kind of smiled back. And then she said, ‘Your jacket is the colour of vomit.’

  And quick as a flash, I said, ‘At least I’m not wearing a tea cosy on my head.’ It was the first time I’d ever said anything back to her.

  She looked at me for a minute, and then she said, ‘That skirt must have been going cheap.’

  And I said, ‘At least my granny didn’t knit it for me.’

  It was fun, in a weird kind of a way. Not nasty at all, more like a game between us. And then she turned and wheeled herself back up the path, and I came in home.

  She didn’t mention the magazines I left in her porch, and neither
did I.

  The colour of vomit, indeed. Shows how much she knows about khaki.

  Later

  Mam just phoned, and we chatted for a bit, and just before she hung up, she said, ‘By the way, will you be at home tomorrow around two?’

  And I said I would, and she said, ‘Good, because I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  And I said, ‘What is it?’ which I know is a really dumb question, right after someone has told you it’s a surprise.

  But all she’d say was, ‘Wait till tomorrow, and you’ll find out.’ She wouldn’t tell me anything else, even though I did my best nagging, which usually works on Dad.

  I have no idea what it could be. It can’t be something coming in the post, because tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll just have to wait and see.

  I love surprises.

  Five to eleven, Sunday night, 16th January.

  I’m all cried out. I think the last time I cried like this was the day Mam left – or maybe on my birthday, when I opened her presents. And today she made me cry again.

  Dad and I had sausage and mash for lunch, which we often do on Sunday. I must say mash is one of the few things that Dad gets exactly right, all buttery and fluffy. And I always cook the sausages now, and make sure they’re the same colour all over.

  And all the way through lunch, I kept checking the clock on the wall, waiting for two o’ clock to come. I didn’t say anything to Dad about it, because we still don’t really mention Mam that much.

  Anyway, we were just finished, and I was thinking about whether to have ice cream for dessert, or a slice of the lemon cake that Marjorie sent over the other day. I had just decided that I’d better have a bit of both when the doorbell rang.