The Worry Web Site (3 page)

“I can't
quite
imagine Miss Morgan trying to force you to eat poisoned apples,” said Mr. Speed. “Let alone hiring an axman to chop you into little bits in the middle of the forest.”

“I think I've got a worry that can't be solved,” I said gloomily.

“Well — we could just fiddle with the meaning of
wicked
. I've always thought Miss Morgan an ultra-lovely, delightful young woman—this is also highly confidential, Holly. I especially admire her amazing purple boots. We could well say she looks seriously wicked. Right?”

I groaned.

“Sorry!” Mr. Speed shook his head at me apologetically. “I'll work on it. But there aren't always
easy answers to worries. You know that. Tell you something, though. You're
not
bad. You're still my little star. You'll get your twinkle back soon, you'll see.”

I kept out of Miss Morgan's way that week. I delivered Hannah off at the door of the preschool class but didn't go in myself. Dad went out with Miss Morgan on Friday night but he came home early when I was still sitting up in bed reading my fairy-tale book. He popped his head round the door to tell me to put the light off and go to sleep. He seemed all sad and scowly. Maybe he'd had a row with Miss Morgan!

However, she came round to our house on Saturday looking extra-specially lovely in a long purple dress with little mirrors all round the hem.

“Let me see if I can see my face,” said Hannah, kneeling down and peering into each mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

“Mirror, mirror on her skirt, who is acting like a stupid little squirt?” I said, yanking Hannah upright.

“Ouch! You're so grumpy now, Holly. I don't want you to come round the town with us because you spoil everything,” said Hannah.

“Good, I don't
want
to come,” I said, but I felt bad, bad, bad. My eyes went all watery because even Hannah didn't want me anymore.

“I think we won't
all
go round the town today,” said Miss Morgan. Her eyes were as glittery as the little mirrors on her skirt. “Maybe Holly and I might just go shopping together?”

“What about
me
?” said Hannah indignantly.

“I'll take you to the library and the swings, Hannah, and then we'll have an ice cream or two—or three or four or five—in McDonald's, OK?” said Dad.

Hannah had her mouth open to protest bitterly but she got sidetracked by the ice cream bribe. Maybe my mouth was open too. I didn't get what was going on.

“I don't want to go shopping,” I said.

“Yes, you do—if you've got money in your pocket,” said Dad, and he handed me a ten-pound note.

I couldn't believe it. Ten pounds, all for me! So I sloped off with Miss Morgan. I decided I wasn't going to speak to her, though. Not one word, all the way into town. But the weird thing was, she didn't say one word to me either! She just strode along in her purple pointy boots and whenever I glanced at her she
glared
at me. I'd never seen her glare before, not even when Hannah's preschool class got really, really rowdy and started throwing powder paint about. (It might have been Hannah who started it because she ended up rainbow-colored right down to her knickers.)

It's sort of scary when a smiley person goes all glarey. The silence was starting to get on my nerves so much that I blurted out, “I want to go to Claire's Accessories to get some of those little butterfly barrettes. And maybe one of those little lucky-bead bracelets.”

Miss Morgan sniffed. “You're lucky, all right, Holly. Your dad spoils you so. And you've certainly been acting like a spoilt brat recently. I'm getting sick of it.”

I stared at her. It was as if she'd suddenly started spitting toads.

“You're not supposed to talk to me like that. You're a
teacher
!”

“And I'm also your dad's girlfriend and if you'd only give us a chance I think we'd be really happy together. But you just want to muck everything up, don't you? Can't you see how unhappy you're making your dad?”

“He's only unhappy because of
you
.
You've
mucked everything up. It was really great before, when it was just Hannah and Dad and me.”

“
You
felt great,” said Miss Morgan, and she stamped her boot so that her skirt swung and all the little mirrors glittered. “Don't you realize how
lonely
your dad felt?”

“He wasn't a bit lonely! And anyway, maybe—
maybe my mum might come back and then he'd have
her
, wouldn't he?”

“You know perfectly well your mum isn't ever going to come back. And even if she did your dad wouldn't want her. She walked out on all of you, even little Hannah. I don't see how she could ever have done that. Why do you act like she's so wonderful when she could do a wicked thing like leave her own children?”

“
You're
wicked and I hate you! I wish you'd stomp off in your silly boots and never ever come back!” Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why did you have to turn out so horrible?”

“Oh, Holly!” said Miss Morgan. Tears streamed down her cheeks too. “I'm sorry. I
am
wicked. I don't want to be horrible. I can't do this anymore. It's awful. I like you too much.”

“No you don't! No one does. No one wants me!”

“I want you very, very much,” she said.

She put her arms round me and we hugged right there in the street. I cried and she cried. We kept on hugging. I sniffled so much I dripped on her purple dress but she didn't mind a bit. She found her hankie and I blew my nose and she blew her nose too and then we went off to this posh coffee shop and had wonderful grown-up frothy coffee and an apple Danish pastry each. I had difficulty eating mine at
first because I had hiccups from all that crying. Miss Morgan saw me hesitating.

“They're not poisoned apples, I promise,” she said.

I peered at her suspiciously, spooning up the froth from my coffee.

“What's Mr. Speed been saying to you?”

“Mr. Speed?” said Miss Morgan, dead nonchalant. She shook her head, tossing her lovely long hair over her shoulder. “Oh, nothing in particular.”

You know what teachers are like. They always back each other up.

I think Mr. Speed
might
have told her my worry, even though it's supposed to be confidential. He was just trying to act like a fairy godmother and grant my wish. I had a sudden vision of Mr. Speed in a fairy frock clutching a wand and I laughed so much I blew the rest of the froth off my coffee.

“What?” said Miss Morgan, giggling a bit too.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” I said. I thought for a bit. “Miss Morgan—I'm sorry I said all that stuff. I don't really hate you.”

“I'm sorry too, Holly. I didn't mean all that stuff I said either. I was just feeling fed up and worried because your dad said on Friday that we might have to stop seeing each other if it was making you so unhappy. He always puts you and Hannah first.”

“Well — you come second,” I said, patting her hand. “And I'll tell Dad I don't really want you two to break up.”

“Yes, you might end up with a
really
wicked stepmother,” said Miss Morgan, and she pulled this dreadful frowny ferocious face.

I laughed and she laughed—and we both knew we'd kind of made friends. They never seem to do that in fairy stories, do they? Then we went shopping and I bought Miss Morgan a little comb for her long thick hair and I got Dad some gel for his short thinning hair. I found some butterfly barrettes but I bought them for Hannah. I chose special little gold star ones for me. Miss Morgan said they really, really suited me.

I wore them to school on Monday and Greg said they looked lovely and Mr. Speed said I seemed to be twinkling splendidly. He had a twinkle in
his
eye too.

Miss Morgan said she's going to make Hannah and me special dresses. Hannah's is going to have little mirrors and mine is going to have stars embroidered all over.

I suppose they could just be bridesmaid's dresses—.

Type in your worry:

Oh dear. I hope no one's looking. This is so embarrassing. OK. Here goes.

I like this girl. I like her very much. I want to be her friend. I want to be her BOYfriend. I've gone all red and shuddery and yucky just typing it! I hate all this loveydovey stuff. It really sucks. I don't WANT to feel like this. I generally HATE girls.

I certainly hate my sister, Sarah-Jane. She is only a year younger than me but she's little and dinky-looking and she talks in a special lispy baby voice so that everyone treats her like she's five years old.

It's so irritating having a
little
sister. She's allowed to kick me or elbow me in the ribs or creep up behind
me and pinch my neck but if I clump her one I'm in serious trouble. I'm
generally
in serious trouble at home about Sarah-Jane.

She's so sneaky too. She puts on this little simper and says, “Mum, I don't want to be mean and tell on Greg, but––” and then she
does
tell. She exaggerates like crazy. And then Mum bellows, “Gregory!” and I know I'm in for it. I
hate
being called Gregory. It's a saint's name. You certainly need the patience of a saint with Sarah-Jane as your sister.

I don't like my girl cousins much either, Yvonne and Julia and Katrina. They come round our house on a Sunday and they all squeeze into Sarah-Jane's bedroom and try on each other's clothes and do each other's hair. They do this for
hours
. Then I have to sit with them for Sunday lunch and they go whisper, whisper, whisper, giggle, giggle, giggle. It is
torture
. I feel so tense about it that I can't eat comfortably and that makes me do certain rude windy things and then they all squeal and Mum goes,
“Gregory
!
”
as if I'm doing it on purpose. Which just occasionally I am.

I didn't reckon any of the girls in my class at school either. Well, Claire's OK because she's good at soccer and I suppose I've always thought Samantha's ever so pretty—but she reminds me too much of Sarah-Jane. I never really noticed any of the other girls.

But then I got to sit behind Holly when we all went into Mr. Speed's class. I stuck my feet on the back of her chair and kicked a bit, because that's what you
do
when a girl sits in front of you. Most of them whine and fidget and moan that you're getting mud on their skirt. But Holly whipped round quick as a wink, her fingers went fiddly-flick—and there were my shoelaces tied together! Then she gave me this great grin. I couldn't help grinning back even though she'd tied such a tight knot I couldn't pick it open and had to saw through my shoelaces with my penknife. I don't know how to put it into words. It was just her big grin. It really got to me.

So I tried to figure out ways of making her grin again. The next day I came to school wearing my muddy walks-in-the-country welly boots. We don't often
go
for muddy walks in the country so they'd got a bit small without my realizing. I had to scrunch up my toes, which was dead uncomfortable. I also had to put up with everyone asking me why I was wearing my wellies when it wasn't raining. Not so much as a cloud in the sky.

Mr. Speed did this whole pantomime thing of putting up an imaginary umbrella. Everyone laughed. Holly laughed too. I waited until everyone stopped sniggering at my boring foot-blistering boots. Mr. Speed started telling some soppy fairy story in
the Literacy Hour and Holly was listening hard, her hair tucked behind her neat little ears.
Then
I put my boots on the back of her chair.

She turned round.

I waited. I thought she'd see she couldn't tie any laces this time and give that glorious grin again. But she sighed, stiffened her hand, and gave the tip of each boot a swift karate chop.

It was such AGONY on my poor rubbed tootsies that I screamed.

“Oh my goodness, Greg!” Mr. Speed exploded, clutching his chest. “You'll give me a heart attack. I hope you have a totally convincing excuse for that banshee wail. Are you being fiendishly attacked by invisible aliens?”

“No, Mr. Speed,” I mumbled, trying to ease my throbbing feet.

“Then why the scream? Is it National Torment Mr. Speed Day today? No, that's
every
day as far as you lot are concerned. I warn you, children, I am in a very savage mood today. I am becoming more savage every second, moodier every minute. Well, Greg, I'm waiting for your explanation. I've given you long enough to concoct one. Were you perhaps provoked in some way?”

“No, Mr. Speed,” I said firmly. “I was just messing about.”

Holly turned round and gave me a quick smile, an abbreviated text-message version of her gorgeous grin.

I'd have listened to Mr. Speed lecturing me all day long just for that one weeny glance.

But it didn't get me anywhere.

I tried coming to school in my bedroom slippers the next day. My poor sore feet needed a little bit of cosseting. Unfortunately
this
time it decided to rain. In fact it positively poured buckets and my slippers got sodden.

I had to lie down on my back at the side of the classroom and rest both soaking slippers on the radiators until they steamed. Mr. Speed came in late and pretended to trip right over me.

“I've always assumed that standard classroom posture is bottom on chair. Is there any reason why you prefer this lying-on-back, legs-in-air position, Greg?” Mr. Speed said wearily.

I told him I was simply trying to dry out my slippers.

“Ah, I wondered what that extraordinary smell was,” said Mr. Speed. “Feet
off
the radiator, please! You'll give yourself chilblains as well as stinking the place out. I'm beginning to find your inappropriate footwear fetish rather irritating, lad. I suggest you
turn up in standard sensible shoes tomorrow or you
might
just find yourself left behind in the classroom when we go off on the school trip.”

The school trip! It wasn't anything to get excited about in itself. We were just going to a musty old museum. But we traveled there by bus! I had to find some way of sitting next to Holly on the journey.