The Worry Web Site (7 page)

Dad took me sometimes. He got me my own special little tennis racket and threw the ball at me again and again. We went swimming on Sunday mornings and he showed me how to dive and swim right down to the bottom of the deep end and he called me his little dolphin.

But then he met this horrible woman, Sandy, at his gym and Mum found out. Dad didn't stop seeing Sandy. He packed his bag and walked out and stopped seeing
us
.

He said he wasn't leaving me, he was just leaving Mum. He said he was still my dad and he loved me lots and lots and lots and he'd see me every single week. But that hasn't worked out because he and Sandy have moved away and now that Sandy's going to have a baby, Dad doesn't come over so much. I haven't seen him for weeks now. He was supposed to come last weekend for Simon's birthday, he absolutely
promised
, but the day before, he rang to say Sandy had got these special tickets for a trip to Paris as a surprise so they were going there instead.

Mum shouted down the phone that he obviously couldn't care less about his own son and his birthday. Dad said that he loved Simon very much but perhaps it wasn't good for him to see him so often anyway because Simon got very overexcited and silly and the visits were obviously upsetting him.

Simon kicked Sandy hard on the shin the last time we went round to Dad's new place.

I wished I was young enough to kick Sandy too.

Mum said we didn't
need
Dad at Simon's party, we'd have a much better time by ourselves. But we didn't.

I don't suppose Dad will come to my party now either. No one will come to my party. No one likes me anymore. It was so awful on the bus when we all went to the museum. Greg was horrible to me. I
thought he really
liked
me. But he's nuts on Holly instead. Holly hates me too. She always pulls a face and sighs when I start talking. And Mr. Speed likes Holly best now, I just know he does. He's always chatting to her. He makes a great big fuss of Claire too. And though he's always telling Greg off you can tell he thinks he's really funny. Mr. Speed even likes silly-willy William more than me.

William banged right into me at lunchtime and spilt his orange drink all down my school blouse. I shouted at him. William looked upset in his silly, goofy way.

“I'm sorry, Samantha. I didn't
mean
to. I was just in a hurry to get seconds.”

“Look at my blouse! It's all
orange
,” I said, plucking at my dripping blouse.

“It looks like a pretty pattern. Orange is a lovely color,” said William. “Here, let's dry it a bit.”

He picked up the messy old cloth we use to wipe the tables and started dabbing at me, smearing bits of old chip and pizza sauce all over my blouse, making it a hundred times worse.

“Leave
off
, William. Don't be so
stupid
,” I shouted.

William burst into tears like a baby. Mr. Speed came dashing up.

“Hey hey hey! Why are two of my favorite pupils abusing each other so bitterly?” he asked. “Don't
cry
, William.”

“I'm not
anyone's
favorite,” I said, and I burst into tears too.

Mr. Speed tutted and sighed and mopped us both. He told William he could have extra chips if he stopped crying. William cheered up immediately and went bounding off.

“I think your problems are possibly less easily solved, Samantha,” said Mr. Speed. “But you'll certainly feel a
little
better if we find you a change of blouse. That one's sopping. How about changing into your PE shirt?”

“I took it home for Mum to wash,” I sniffed.

“Oh dear, oh dear. Never mind. Come with me.”

I trailed after him miserably.

“I might have someone's spare PE top in the classroom cupboard,” said Mr. Speed.

While he was searching high and low among ancient confiscated Pokémon cards and single sneakers and dried-up felt-tips I went and looked to see if I had any replies on the Worry Web Site.

Comments:

My dad is so scary I wish he WASN'T at home with us.

My dad's great but he's always tired because of his new job so I hardly ever get to talk to him either.

My mum gets cross too. AND my dad.

Yeah, and MY little sister can be a right pain too, and
as a matter of fact I don't see my mum but I don't go on and on about it. And I can't help it if Mr. Speed sometimes picks me to do stuff now. It doesn't mean he's stopped liking you.

Mr. Speed came and peered over my shoulder.

“Budge over, Samantha.”

He typed:

Of course your teacher likes you. He is a wonderful, kindly man who likes everyone. ESPECIALLY sad little souls going through a bad patch.

“There!” said Mr. Speed. “Do you think this particular sad little soul will be comforted, Samantha?”

“Maybe just a little bit,” I said.

“It's probably surprising to an extremely popular girl like you that someone can feel so lonely,” said Mr. Speed.

“Mmm!” I said.

“I can't find a spare shirt anywhere. Come with me. We'll see if Mrs. Holmes has a hidden cache in her office.”

We went down the corridor to the main entrance. Mr. Speed bobbed into the secretary's office while I hung around, picking at my sticky sodden blouse. There were paintings stuck all over the walls. Some of them had been there a while and were curling at the edges. There were a few
My Family
paintings our class did last year.

My picture was there. I'd painted my dad and my mum and my little brother and me, all of us standing in a line and smiling. The red paint had run a bit when I did my face, so my lips were huge.

I stared at my stupid gigantic grin and then I punched the paper, bashing my own pinkly-painted face. My little brother was grinning too. It was his fault Dad didn't come anymore, because he behaved so badly. I hit my little brother too. The paper tore a little, so that my mum's head was nearly split in two. I didn't care. If she hadn't shouted so much Dad might have stayed.

I looked at Dad. I'd painted him extra carefully, though I couldn't get the colors quite right. His hair was bright lemon, his eyes ultramarine, his cheeks scarlet. I wasn't really that great at painting. I couldn't make my dad look handsome enough.

I'd printed
MY FAMILY
underneath. But Dad wasn't really part of our family anymore. He was part of a brand-new family with Sandy. He was going to have this new baby too. I hoped it wouldn't be a little girl. He'd love her much more than he loved me.

My fist clenched and I punched Dad hard, again and again, harder and harder.

“Hey, hey! Stop it! Samantha, you'll hurt your poor hand,” Mr. Speed shouted, rushing out of Mrs. Holmes's office.

“I don't care,” I yelled. I punched my painting again, even though there were beads of blood on my knuckles and my arm throbbed all the way up past my elbow.

“Well,
I
care,” said Mr. Speed. “Good lord, child,
stop
it.”

He caught hold of my hand. I burst into tears. Mr. Speed patted me gently on the back and then led me into Mrs. Holmes's office. She found me a box of tissues, a clean blouse, and a big bandage for my fist.

Mr. Speed came back to collect me. “Ah! All mopped up?”

I nodded.

“I'll take you back to the classroom, sweetheart. Dear, oh dear. I'd better have a word with your mum when she comes to collect you.”

“I don't want you to have a word with my mum, Mr. Speed. I want you to have a word with my
dad
.” I looked up at him. “You're great at fixing things, aren't you? I bet you could sort out all the worries on our Web site. Well, why can't you sort out mine? Can't you make my dad come back?”

Mr. Speed sighed.

“I can't do that, Samantha. I can sometimes solve little tiny problems but I can't do a thing about big sad problems. Not even mine. My own marriage
broke up a while ago. I know just how you're feeling, poppet.”

“Did you leave your children, Mr. Speed?”

“I don't have any children,” he said. He gave a funny little grin. “Maybe teaching all you lot put me off having any of my own?”

“But if you
did
have children would you walk out on them?”

“Oh, Samantha, how can I possibly answer that one?” said Mr. Speed.

“I bet you wouldn't,” I said. I thought about my dad. I saw him walking off, his arm round Sandy. I stood still in the corridor. “I hate my dad,” I whispered. The words tasted bad in my mouth so I spat them out louder. “
I hate my dad!
”

“Yes. I can understand that,” said Mr. Speed. “Though you still love him lots too. But you're very, very angry with him. That's why you started punching his picture. But that's not really a good idea, is it? You only hurt your poor old hand.” He carefully patted my bandage.

“What do you think I should do then, Mr. Speed? Punch my
dad
?”

“That's maybe not a good idea either.”

“Our Simon kicked his girlfriend. She got a big bruise on her leg.”

“Oh dear. I shall wear shin pads when your Simon
comes up into this grade. He's in Miss Morgan's class, isn't he? She'll channel all his energy into finger painting or digging in the sandpit. Excellent activities! How about a spot of digging, Samantha? How about getting a spade and having a good dig in your garden whenever you feel especially cross or miserable?”

“We live in a flat, Mr. Speed. We haven't even got a window box.”

“Ah. Well — perhaps we could purloin a little patch of the school garden?” Mr. Speed smiled. “Let's go and have a look round, see if we can find the right little corner.”

So Mr. Speed and I went across the playground over to the garden. I'd played on the grass heaps of times but I'd never really looked properly at the garden bit before. I peered at the plants. Mr. Speed started spouting all these long Latin names. I listened politely, not really taking any of it in until Mr. Speed pointed to a patch of earth behind a big bush.

“Aha! This looks the perfect plot. OK, Samantha. This is your patch. I'll find you a spade. You can dig here any playtime or lunchtime, before school, after school, whenever.”

I tried having a little dig there and then. I couldn't do too much because of my sore hand. I wasn't very good at it at first. I was too quick and clumsy and
couldn't budge the hard earth. Mr. Speed showed me how to do it slowly and rhythmically, putting my foot on the spade, straightening up so I wouldn't hurt my back.

“That's it! Ah, you've got into the swing of things now. We'll be hiring you out on building sites at this rate. You'll have muscles like Madonna by the end of the month.”

I think digging
has
made me stronger. Greg was mucking around in the corridor doing a silly dance and showing off in front of Holly. He did a twiddly bit and banged right into me. I pushed him away so hard he nearly fell over! That'll teach him. I can't stick Greg now. I don't envy Holly one bit. I wouldn't want him as a boyfriend if you paid me.

I don't want
William
as my boyfriend either. But he seems to think he is!

I cheered up a bit after I had my first little dig. I felt mean for making William cry so I went up to him after school. He cowered away as if I was going to hit him. That made me feel worse—so I put my arm round him.

“Sorry I yelled at you, William,” I said, and I gave him a hug.

I thought that was it. It
was
as far as I was concerned. But now William goes pink whenever I go near him and he follows me around like a little dog.
He tries to carry my schoolbag and rushes to get my school lunch for me and whenever I go for a dig William trails after me and wants to dig too.

I had a little moan about it to Mr. Speed.

“It was
my
private patch, Mr. Speed, and now William wants to dig too.”

“Yeah, I can see it's annoying having young William under your feet all the time, Samantha. But on the other hand he needs a bit of digging therapy himself.”

“OK, Mr. Speed. But I wish he didn't have to dig on
my
bit. I tried planting an apple core just to see if it might just grow up into an apple tree and William dug it up the very next day.”

“Perhaps you could mark off your special bit and make sure William keeps to his? And I'll let you have a few seeds and bulbs if you fancy a spot of real gardening. That's a great idea.”

So I divided my patch into two and told William he could dig all he wanted on his own bit. Mr. Speed brought us lots of lovely things to plant in our new gardens. Mine were a mixture of pretty flower seeds: pinks and pansies, primroses and sweet peas.

“And I'll see if I can get some raspberry canes too. They'll be a lot speedier than apple trees,” said Mr. Speed. “I thought you'd like to grow something to eat too, William, seeing as you're the lad of gargantuan
appetite. I thought potatoes would be more in your line. Think of all those chips! And we might go for something really exotic like a squash. That
would
be a challenge for the Enormous Mouthful contest! But you'd better have a few flowers too.”

Mr. Speed handed him a seed packet with a picture of deep purply-red-and-white little flowers on it. They were called Sweet Williams!

“I wish there was a flower called Sweet Samantha,” said Mr. Speed.

So now I've stopped digging and started gardening. Little weeny green shoots are starting to grow through the very well-dug earth. They might just be little weeds, though. We'll have to wait and see.

Mr. Speed brought William and me a tomato plant today. My dad loves tomatoes. He can gollop up a whole pound, easy-peasy. If he comes to visit when my tomatoes are ripe I might offer him his very own homegrown tomato salad. But if he
doesn't
come then Mum and Simon and me will eat them all up. Well, I'll save enough for a special tomato sandwich for Mr. Speed.

I have one worry less. My teacher really
does
like me lots!

The first Worry Web Site story, about Holly, was made available on the Internet in 2001 by bol.com, an online bookseller, and the Guardian, a major British newspaper. I suggested we have a competition to see if any children wanted to make up their own story about a child in Mr. Speed's class who has a worry to type onto the Web site. I was delighted that there were 15,000 entries. The short-listed stories I personally judged were all of such a high standard that it was agonizing only being able to choose one. But that one story was so special that it simply had to be the winner. It's by Lauren Roberts, age twelve.