Bad Dreams (13 page)

And I'd learned this. You weren't free till you threw whichever horrible thing it was away.

As far as possible. Firmly. For good, for sure, and for
ever
.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

S
o I said nothing. Nothing to Mum, when she made me my favourite pancakes for breakfast – ‘to stoke me up properly'. Nothing to Dad, who must have put his alarm on in the middle of the night to phone and wish me luck from Singapore. And nothing when people looked up as I walked in the classroom, and asked, ‘Are you nervous, Mel?' or, ‘Getting excited?'

‘A bit,' was all I answered, as if the Harries Cup was the one thing on my mind, not jewellery theft, and spoiling a perfectly good friendship. And I kept my cool front up all through the morning, and all through lunch, and on the walk to the pool. When Miss Rorty winked at me during the Grand Opening, I winked back. I tried not to worry as I inspected Councillor Archibald Leroy for signs of a possible heart attack. And when we were sent off to change, straight after the fourth years, I made as many jokey faces as everyone else while Miss Rankin prowled round the cubicles, fussing and scolding.

‘Hurry up. There are still loads of people to come through these changing rooms. Don't leave so much as a sock in the cubicles. Put your stuff neatly on the benches.'

Her eyes fell on Imogen's pile. ‘And
sensibly
, please, Imogen.'

I could see why she'd said it. Imogen had rolled up her uniform into a giant sausage. Clearly, she'd taken my advice and hidden the necklace inside it. But even without looking, I would have known she wasn't wearing it, because the first thing Miss Rankin did as she scolded was drop both hands cheerfully onto her shoulders to push her back to her clothes pile. And only a moment later, Maria slid an arm in hers. ‘Hey, Immy. Ready to break the world water speed record?'

Imogen turned to me. ‘Coming?'

I nodded, and, as a trio, we splashed through the footbath into the brightness of the pool and huddled round one of the radiators, waiting for Mrs Parkin to get round to calling out our first big race.

It wasn't long.

‘Inter-Class Relay! Mr Hooper's, Mrs Potter's and Ms Robinson's classes. Half of you on each side, please. One width each!'

Our class always puts the weedy swimmers on first, to get them over. Tasj started us off, and she was absolutely useless, as usual. Then Colin Hamblebury fell in and thrashed his arms about a bit, losing us half a width more. And Liz hadn't improved much. She just stroked her way across idly, not even bothering to glance to the side to see how the other two classes were doing.

But Imogen did brilliantly. She ended up swimming against Norman Pizarro and Tara Bloor, neither of whom are much good. But still she made up miles in her short width, and when she got out of the water, everyone was cheering.

‘Well done, Immy!'

‘Excellent swim, Miss Mermaid!'

She looked delighted. And I was really pleased as well, because it showed that what I had in mind was right. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes since she'd taken off the necklace, and look! Already she seemed to have melted in and become just like one of the others. She was laughing and joking, and huddling round the radiator as if she were just one more companionable bee in a hive. They'll be plaiting her hair next, I remember thinking. And, just for a moment, I wondered if I would be jealous when it was all over, and she was in a gang with them, and no longer a loner like I am.

And, no, I thought. I really don't think that I'll give a hoot. It seems to me that you can only get truly jealous of people if they are somehow exactly the way you've always wanted to be (or think you are already, but others don't realize).

But I don't want to be what Mr Hooper calls, ‘a little more gregarious'.

I just want to be me.

And Imogen should have the right to be her real self, too. So seeing her leaning back against the radiator, laughing, with the wet ends of her hair being flicked by Hal, made it easier to sneak away, back through the footbaths into the crowded changing rooms, where even Miss Rankin had lost track of who was coming and going.

‘Excuse me . . . Can I get through please? . . . Sorry . . .' Finally I made it past the busy cubicles back to the bench. I glanced round quickly, then slid my fingers inside Imogen's tightly wrapped pile of clothes. And all I can say is that I hope she makes a better job of hiding the next piece of jewellery somebody gives her.

The glittering loops of this one practically fell into my hand.

And it was the weirdest thing. Suddenly I felt as if I were already underwater – way, way down, lost in a storm of bubbles.

‘Oh!'

I clawed at my throat. I couldn't breathe and my knees were buckling beneath me.

‘Are you all right?' A little second year had heard me gasping. ‘Shall I go and get Miss Rankin for you?'

I was so close to fainting that I dropped the necklace, which fell in a fold of towel. Only then did I manage to gather my senses.

‘No, no. I'm fine,' I said, even before the wave of panic passed, leaving me even more sure I had to get this horrid chain of Imogen's out of our lives. Not even caring whose towel it was I was borrowing, I scrunched the necklace up in it as tightly as I could without touching, and pushed my way through all the second years rushing out of the cubicles, to hurry back the way I'd come, towards the footbaths.

And how I thought I might intimidate a golden chain with my determination, I'll never know. (I'm not in the habit of talking to jewellery.) But as I splashed through the arch, I found myself whispering to it, horribly fiercely:

‘Don't think you're going to beat
me
. Because you're
not
!'

I heard a voice behind me. ‘Keep your hair on, Mel. Only a race.'

I spun round. Stepping out of the footbaths on the boys' side was Toby Harrison, who'd win the Harries Cup for sure if I weren't swimming.

‘I didn't mean you,' I said hastily.

He looked offended. ‘I'm sure I don't know who you
do
mean, then.'

How can you try and explain you're talking to a necklace? You can't. So I shut up, except to say, ‘Well, good luck, anyway.'

He grinned. ‘And good luck to you, Melly. See you at the finish – when I look back over my shoulder!'

‘Keep dreaming, Toby!'

He went off towards his friends, and I stuffed the towel under the heating pipe, and hurried back to join our relay queue. It had become so short that people were panicking.

‘Mel, where have you
been
?'

‘We thought you'd
vanished
.'

‘We still have nearly half a width to make up. You can do it, can't you?'

Can I save half a width? Can Granny knit? I did the fastest racing dive Miss Rorty says she's ever seen in a school gala. I was across the pool so fast that poor Hugh Gregory had no idea his class had lost till he shook the hair from his eyes and saw my fingertips already on the ledge, and me turning, laughing.

‘But I was—'

I didn't hear the end for cheers.

‘Brilliant, Mel!'

‘
Saved!
'

I did a celebratory backwards flip in the water. I thought I might as well. I knew I wasn't going to beat any speed records winning the Cup race – not with the tumble turn that I'd been practising up at the deep end. As soon as Miss Rorty saw that, she'd stop all her cheery nodding and waving. She'd be too busy wondering what on earth could have happened to turn a race that should have been a dead cert from the very start into a risky business with only three seconds to spare.

But there was no way round it. And I would at least still win the Cup. In my last practice session I'd timed it over and over. Four extra seconds for the tumble turn, and two more to get up to speed.

It could be done. And I'd do it.

And the best thing was that I couldn't possibly be tempted to fiddle with the plan. How could I? It was all worked out. Only one way to do it. Start from the shallower end, and, in a three-length race, you only get one tumble turn under the boards.

Or – put it another way – only one chance.