Bad Dreams (9 page)

‘Get out of it?'

‘Lose this “gift” of yours. Turn back into a normal person.'

‘I
am
a normal person!'

‘You know what I mean. And if your mum's right, and what you've got is like blue eyes, or curly hair, then you can't be the first.'

‘So what are you looking for?'

‘A book,' I said. ‘I'll know it when I find it. It'll be something that explains what all the people who were like you before did to get rid of it.'

She looked quite blank.

‘Listen,' I told her patiently. ‘You don't think you're the first of your sort to be unpopular, do you? I'm sure seeing into the future has never been the best way of making and keeping friends. Don't tell me all those early soothsayers were daft enough to stroll around turning ashen every five minutes, and pointing at the next person who was going to fall down the well, because I don't believe it. The rest of the villagers would have stood for it only once or twice, and then drowned them in the duckpond.'

Imogen was silent. I do believe it must have been the very first time she'd given a thought to all the people who'd had the gift in centuries before. But that's one of the things you get from reading all the time – a sense of other places, other times, and other ways of doing things.

‘So what are you telling me?' she asked at last.

‘I'm not telling you anything,' I said, ‘because I don't yet know. But you can be pretty sure that, whatever it is you want to find out about, somebody wanted to know it before you. And books have been invented for over four hundred years. So there's usually one about it somewhere.'

Again, I reached up to the very top shelf, this time for a volume called
Magical Thinking
which had caught my attention.

‘My bet', I told her, ‘is that most of these special people must have had the sense to lose this so-called “gift” of theirs as fast as they could. And I'm going to find out how they did it.'

‘I bet they didn't
all
want to lose it,' she said stubbornly. ‘I bet some of them thought that it was
interesting
.'

‘Or
fun
,' I said scathingly. ‘People like your mother.'

I heard the sharp intake of breath. But, struggling with my balance on the top step, I must have missed the sound of her footsteps walking away, and the swish of the swing doors closing behind her.

That, or another of her skills was Levitation. Or even Vanishing. Because, when I looked round again, Imogen had gone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W
hen someone storms off like that, you're not quite sure if they've gone off for good, or if they're going to show up again in a few minutes, pretending they just went off to buy sweeties or gum.

So I sat on the ladder a little while, hoping she'd reappear, and flicking through
Magical Thinking
by Prof. J. B. Blackstaffe. It was a bit of a surprise, that book. You'd think someone like me, who reads so much, would have got used to the fact that titles so often turn out to mean something quite different from what you imagined when you first saw them on the shelf. I would have thought that
Magical Thinking
would be about spells, or the power of thought, or voodoo, or something.

In fact, it was poor old Professor Blackstaffe trying to persuade us to use our brains.

He posed little problems at the top of each page, and asked you questions. Then he told you what the Great Thinkers of the Past would have thought about each one.

While I was waiting for Imogen, I read the first.

Most of the Great Thinkers of the Past turned out to be Stellar Fusspots, too, if you want my opinion. They mostly went for
A
or
C
. (I'd have picked
B
.) But when it was obvious Imogen wasn't coming, I gave up and put the book back on the shelf, and went on home.

I hoped by morning she'd have forgiven me for being so rude about her mother. But when I took my place beside her in the class, she turned away.

I tapped her shoulder. ‘Look,' I said. ‘That was a horrible thing I said, and I'm really sorry. But I was only trying to help you.'

‘
Help
me?' She glowered. ‘You mean,
bully
me, don't you?'

I stared at her. ‘Is that really what you think I've been doing?'

‘Well, isn't it? Dragging me off to the library when you can't find exactly what you want here in school? Making me hang around while you peer into every single book?'

‘I'm only trying to find something that has to be there.'

Her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, yes! It has to be there, of course! You know! And that's the trouble with you, Melanie Palmer. You think you know
everything
. But it doesn't even seem to have sunk into your big, fat, book-swollen brain that in that library there were about a billion books about harnessing the ancient mysteries, but none at all about giving it up!'

And she was rumbled. I had rumbled her. It's
words
, you see. Miss Rorty knows the spin on a ball. Mum senses when I'm coming down with something. Mr Hooper knows when someone's had too much help with their homework.

And I know words. I know exactly how they fit, and where they belong. I know who uses which ones, and I can always sense when they are out of place.

Or have been borrowed.

‘“
Harnessing the ancient mysteries
”? Is that what your mother calls it?'

It was as if I'd pressed some button that said, ‘
Detonate!
' She went berserk. Tears spurted, and she flew at me, practically pushing me backwards off my chair.

‘Shut up! My family's nothing to do with you! So just shut up!'

And don't we all know those words, too! Neil used to yell them all the time when his dad went to prison, and people in the classroom made even friendly remarks, or asked even reasonable questions. So now I at least had a clue to why Imogen kept secrets from her giddy, childlike mother, and hid the strains of all her days in school, and tried to keep pleasing with this horrible ‘gift' of hers.

Like Neil, she was just trying to protect someone she loved who couldn't help but embarrass her.

And she had made enough noise doing it. Now everyone was staring. And when Mr Hooper came in through the door a moment later, his eyebrows were already raised. He must have heard from outside in the corridor.

I didn't want to make things worse for her. So I just tried to make a joke of it, moving my chair back and raising my arms, like someone protecting themselves from an attacker. But to her, I whispered, ‘Sorry! I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to say anything nasty. I just thought it didn't sound like you. But I wasn't being rude about your mother again, honestly. In fact—'

If you'd seen her tearful face, you'd have lied too.

‘In fact, I'm sure she's right. She knows an awful lot more than I do, after all, having a bit of a gift herself. I only dragged you to the library because I was
curious
.'

Mollified, Imogen stopped scowling so fiercely.

‘Friends?' I asked tentatively.

There was a moment's silence, then, ‘All right, then. Friends,' she agreed, a little unwillingly.

I didn't like to push it, so I was good as gold all day. Mr Hooper helped. Twice, he sent me off on good long jobs, to give us a rest from each other. But things were still a little prickly, so when she rather diffidently asked me if I wanted to walk home with her, I didn't like to tell her it was my swimming evening and I didn't have time, so I invited her along instead.

‘We practically drive down your street. Mum won't mind stopping to pick you up.'

In fact, Mum was delighted. (Like Mr Hooper, she's always relieved to find I'm not completely allergic to spending time with real people.) So, even though you could tell that something about Imogen made her a bit uneasy, she was nice to her all the way, asking her how she was enjoying being in a new school, and whether she was getting along with Mr Hooper, and what she liked doing best – even trying to get Imogen into the pool as an extra on our Family Swimsaver Ticket.

While the man at the cash desk was reaching down our locker key bracelets, Imogen and I stood back against the wall. I pointed to one of the framed photographs opposite.

‘That looks exactly like the Harries Cup.'

Imogen grinned. ‘You really want to win it, don't you, Mel?'

‘I've wanted it for
three years
,' I confessed. ‘The first year, Toby Harrison beat me by a couple of metres. That was fair enough. Then, last year, Mum wouldn't even let me try.'

Imogen stared across at my mum. ‘Wouldn't
let
you?'

‘I did have flu,' I admitted. ‘But still I'm sure I could have done it. There was only Phoebe Tucker in the running, and I was a good five seconds faster than her over the whole three lengths. But this year she's too old to enter. So,' I said, flattening myself back against the wall to let a man with a pushchair get past, ‘in two weeks' time, Mr Archibald Leroy, Councillor for Leisure Services, will be handing the Harries Cup to
me
.'

‘No, he won't,' said Imogen.

‘Sorry?'

I'd turned to stare at her, but just at that moment, Mum hurried over. ‘What a time that took! Let's hope there's no more messing about, or it won't have been worth coming.' She held out her cupped hands. ‘Right, then. Hand it all over. Money, watches, diamonds . . .'