Bad Dreams (2 page)

‘You're not a bit like me, then,' I told Imogen. ‘You know those battered old Christmas albums you see in jumble sales that have a picture on the front of a girl reading another album just the same, with a picture of herself on the cover? You know how they go on, down and down, smaller and smaller, like boxes inside boxes, until the girl's too small to be seen?'

‘Yes, I've seen those.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘that's who I want to be. That girl who's reading all the other lives in from the outside.'

Now it was her turn to look at me as if I were loopy. ‘Really?'

‘Yes,' I admitted. ‘That's who I'd like to be more than anyone in the world.'

And then I showed her how to use the card index in the book corner. And how to stamp the books out, and how to tell from the coloured sticker on the spine whether it should go back in Older Readers, or Poetry, or Project Work.

She had a funny way of picking up the books – gingerly, as if they might scorch her. After a few minutes, I asked her, as a joke:

‘Didn't you have any of these in your old school?'

She made a face. ‘Oh, yes,' she said. ‘We had them. It's just that I hardly ever had to go near them.'

Strange thing to say. And I was just thinking, ‘No wonder her work's so bad', when, suddenly, I saw her jump.

‘Oh!' she said, startled.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing.'

But I couldn't help noicing she hadn't touched that book again. She was staring at it nervously.

‘It's that book, isn't it?' I said. ‘Something about it has upset you.'

‘Don't be silly,' she said. But she had definitely gone red again.

I'm not an idiot. I kept a watch. And only a few minutes later, I saw it happen a second time. Imogen picked up a different book, and dropped it as if it had stung her.

As if it were red hot.

‘What up?' I asked again.

‘Nothing.'

I think, when people try to fool you, they can practically expect you to start spying on them. And that's why I was watching so closely when, later that morning, Mr Hooper hurried past her without a single word, then, noticing her anxious little ‘new-girl' face, stopped guiltily and thrust the book he happened to be carrying into her hand.

‘Here, Imogen,' he said. ‘You say you don't like books. Try this one –
Violet's Game
. Melly says it's brilliant. It's about a girl called Violet. That's her you can see on the cover, cuddling that kitten. And she—'

He broke off because Imogen was already backing away. ‘Oh, no! I couldn't bear it! I can't stand stories about animals that have been hurt.'

Mr Hooper looked a bit surprised. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I hadn't realized you'd already read it.'

‘Oh, no.' Imogen started to shake her head, then stopped, embarrassed. And Mr Hooper looked a little embarrassed, too. After all, just because
Violet's Game
has only just come into our class book corner, it didn't mean Imogen couldn't have come across it back in her old school.

‘Well, at least it ends happily,' Mr Hooper reminded her. Then the bell rang, and he rushed off to get his coffee.

So I was the only one left to see Imogen running her finger gently over the kitten in the picture on the cover, and muttering, ‘Good!'

As if she were glad to hear it.

And as if it were news.

CHAPTER THREE

W
as she more careful after that? I couldn't say. If you don't know exactly what you're looking for, you're often not sure what you've seen. She acted normally enough from then on. I heard her draw her breath in sharply once or twice. But the top shelf is pretty high, and it can be tiring, reaching up over and over to put things back after wet break.

But I was still curious about her and books. So whenever I came across one I really loved, I held it up.

‘Have you read this?'

Sometimes she nodded. Sometimes she shook her head. But she never burst out with the sort of thing everyone else says.

‘Oh yes! Didn't you just
love
the bit where his head flipped off, and it turned out he was an alien?'

Or, ‘I
hated
the creepy old lady. I knew she was out to get them from the veryp first page.'

Or even things like, ‘Did you cry when the dog died? I cried
buckets
. My dad had to make me a cup of tea!'

No, she'd just put on that closed look people get when they're trying to get past charity collectors in the street. She'd try to fob me off.

‘I think I read it, yes.'

‘You must
remember
.'

She'd try and distract me. Even though hardly anyone had come near the book corner for days, she'd pretend we were so busy she had to interrupt to ask, ‘Should this book here be put away? Or do I leave it out for the next project group?'

And I'd give up.

But, next day, when I held one of my favourites up to her face, I did quite definitely see her shudder.

‘You have read this one, then? You know what it's about.'

‘Well,
sort
of . . .'

‘Didn't you get to finish it?'

She tossed her head vaguely. You couldn't tell if she meant yes, or no.

‘Well,
did
you?'

She wouldn't answer. She just asked a question of her own. ‘What did you want to say about it, anyway?'

‘Nothing,' I muttered grumpily, and went back to my sorting. I had decided there was no point in trying to talk to Imogen about the books. I think, if two of you have read the same things, you should be able to have a good long chat about them, not have to put up with the other person ending each conversation by staring uncomfortably at her feet, and mumbling things like, ‘Yes, I suppose so,' or, ‘I'm not sure I remember that bit very well,' or, ‘Maybe that wasn't actually the book I read.' I felt so cross about it, I even complained about her to Mr Hooper.