Bad Dreams (16 page)

It looks like nothing as a book. The picture on the cover is just a girl in a crinoline skirt. She looks quite drippy, as if nothing of any interest could ever happen to her. The book's so old, it has that tiny print everyone hates reading because it takes for ever to get down a page. The paragraphs go on for
days
, and there are only three pictures, and they're all hidden behind tissue. Probably the only reason it's still on the shelf is because it was donated by Mrs Trent's own granny.

But it's the creepiest book I've ever read. It's terrifying. Horrible. From the first page, your skin starts crawling. I'm not even going to begin to tell you what happens to poor Lucy Fainlight. But it's a ghastly story.

Outside the classroom, I bumped into Toby.

‘Do me a favour,' I begged him. ‘Give this book to Imogen.'

He gave me a funny look. ‘The buzzer's gone. Aren't you coming in?'

‘Not right this minute.'

Shrugging, he took the book. On his way over to his place by the window, he dropped it in front of Imogen.

‘Here,' he said. ‘Present from Melly.'

I thought that might be a mistake. She might ignore it. But, no. Clearly curious, she glanced at it, then, gingerly as usual, reached out to turn it over so she could see the picture on the front. I stood in the doorway, watching and waiting as her fingers touched the cover.

And nothing happened. Not a thing. No draining face. No trembling fingertips. No growing look of dismay. She might as well have been inspecting a cauliflower for all the emotion she displayed.

That's when I knew I'd done it. The girl who only had to lean back against a photo on a wall to know exactly who was going to win the Harries Cup now didn't even have the first inklings of a clue what horrors lay in store for Lucy Fainlight. Now she was free. Free from pretending she didn't know things that she did. Free from half-lies and horrible decisions (like having to let me worry about nice Mr Leroy because she couldn't bring herself to tell me that it wasn't that he wouldn't be on the podium to hand me the Cup. It was that I wouldn't be there to take it!).

And free to have surprises. Read books without knowing the end. Go back to her old school and be delighted at just how quickly and easily she could make friends. She would be happy, the miseries of the future no longer dripping like poisonous rain into the days of here and now, spoiling her life.

She would be free.

And so would I. I could barely believe it. Free to sneak off and read, just like before. Free to hide back in books. Free from the shackles of having to sit by someone at lunch, and on trips, and before Assembly.

Free to unplug from the chatter and blot them all out, as usual. Free to be
me
.

It only took Mr Hooper half a day to suss me out.

‘Melly, you have the most seraphic smile on your face. Go on. Admit it. You're delighted to have this desk beside you back empty.'

He raised the lid, and saw that I'd colonized it already with half the new stock from the library.

He raised his eyebrows at me.

‘It's only sensible,' I told him. ‘It's only if you've read them that you know exactly which section you should put them in.'

‘Oh, I see,' he said. ‘It's not just that you're planning a long and pleasant convalescence from the strain of having a friend for a few days.'

I showed my outrage. ‘She was here
six whole weeks
.'

He shook his head. ‘Oh, Melly, Melly. I've said it before. What on earth are we going to do with you?'

‘Nothing,' I told him firmly. ‘Just don't fret. I've
told
you. I've told
everyone
. I'm happy reading. I prefer the company of books.'

‘You really won't miss her, will you?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I really won't.'

And it is true. I'm not sorry that she's gone. I wish her well. I hope her mum gets over the disappointment. I have felt a tiny bit uneasy once or twice, mostly because it was meddling. But if I had to face the same choice over again, I'd still pick
A
, even if Professor Blackstaffe were standing there scowling. I'd still do exactly what I did.

So, truthfully, I only have one real regret. And that's that, the very first time I came across something in real life halfway as exciting as something in a story, I was the one who put a stop to it. I was the one who, when you think about it, closed it up.

I'd never have done that with a book. But there again, as I explained right at the start, that's just the way I am. Though I've gone to the trouble of writing this book for you, the fact is that I have
always
preferred reading.

A Note from the Author

W
hat is the difference between a good reader and a real bookworm?

One of the questions children often ask authors is, ‘Do you put yourself in your books?' I confess that, in
Bad Dreams
, I have written the closest account of myself as a child.

I was like Mel. I thought the same way she does. I had the same passion for reading and the same habit of trying to get to all the good books first. I hoarded books and comics everywhere so there would always,
always
be something to read.

I'm not sure how people turn into bookworms. I should think it's probably partly genetic – like happening to have blue eyes or brown hair – and partly being lucky enough to meet the right books at the right time. You're blessed if your parents and teachers know the value of libraries and second-hand bookshops, and make the effort to see you have a constant supply of fresh things to read.

But most of it comes from inside you. There are those who secretly believe (as Mel tries to explain to her teacher) that books are in some ways far more real than real life itself. They can certainly bring as much pleasure. (The American humourist, Logan Pearsall Smith, is famous for once declaring, ‘People say Life is the thing, but I much prefer reading.')

I learned to read when I was very young indeed. When I was three, my mother had triplet babies and, to make things a little easier, I was sent straight to the next door infant school. Nobody explained that I was really only there to be babysat, and didn't need to try to keep up with the rest. So by the age of four I was a very good reader. Then, when the primary school insisted I wouldn't be old enough to join them for another year, my lovely infant school headteacher gave me the run of the glass-fronted bookshelf in her office, I still remember tapping nervously on the door, being beckoned inside, and sitting quietly on her carpet choosing my next few books, then trying to stop the glass doors juddering horribly along their wooden runnels when it was time to slide them closed again.

A whole school year, at seven, with nothing to do but sit and read. Some people would have hated it. I was in seventh heaven. I've
always
preferred reading. When I was young, my mother was forever trying to shoo me out of the house. ‘It's such a nice day. Why don't you go outside?'

I always tried to wriggle out of it, preferring to stay inside and read about someone else in a story who had done just that.

And find out what happened to them . . .