Girl, 15: Charming but Insane (23 page)

‘Oh, it’s fine, I can walk, it’s not far,’ said Jess.

‘No, I’ll drop you off at home,’ said Mr Fothergill, ‘in case your mother’s worried.’

‘My mother only worries about the International Situation,’ said Jess.

‘In that case,’ said Mr Fothergill, ‘she must be out of her mind with terror.’

He picked up his jacket and switched out the lights. They strolled down the corridor.

‘We’ve just got to pick up Fred,’ said Mr Fothergill.

Jess’s heart lurched. She and Fred had not exchanged a word or a look, let alone an ape impersonation, for ages. Suddenly her legs felt as if they were made of cooked spaghetti. They reached the door of the Editorial Office. It was open. Fred was inside, tapping away frenziedly at his PC keyboard amid a chaos of papers.

‘Home time, Fred,’ said Mr Fothergill.

Fred looked up, saw Jess and suddenly went pale. And then he went red.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Jess politely.

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Fred. He shut down the computer, got up and stuffed a few pieces of paper in his bag. He didn’t look at her.

‘Fred’s looking forward to acting as theatre critic for the show,’ said Mr Fothergill. Jess felt sick with fear. ‘He says he’s going to rip everyone to shreds.’

‘When does the newspaper come out?’ asked Jess, too paralysed with horror to say anything interesting.

‘The beginning of next week,’ said Mr Fothergill, as they walked across the car park towards the Greased Banana. ‘I’m afraid my car is a sporty two-seater, but I’m sure you two can squash up together, just for a half-mile or so.’ Mr Fothergill unlocked the car with the carefree, cheery manner of a practised torturer. ‘You get in first, Fred. Jess won’t mind sitting on your knee, will you, Jess?’

‘Oh no,’ said Jess. ‘It’ll be good practice for when I sit on the knee of the editor of
The New York Times
.’

‘You’ll probably
be
the editor of
The New York Times
, Jess,’ said Mr Fothergill, opening the passenger door.

Fred clambered in clumsily, and Jess, urged on by Mr Fothergill, fell in on top of him.

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Fothergill, ‘but I’ll just have to fasten the seat belt. It’ll go round both of you, no problem.’

Fastened together in hostile misery, Jess and Fred waited while Mr Fothergill got into the driver’s seat, messed around with his glasses, dropped his keys and generally wasted time. Eventually the Greased Banana started with a roar. Jess could feel the warmth of Fred’s lap. He was sitting very still, and was totally silent – no doubt in deep shock. Jess felt hot. She felt cold. She shivered. Mr Fothergill drove out along the road, merrily chatting about theatre critics. Jess and Fred were both speechless at the ghastliness of their situation. It was Mr Fothergill’s turn for a monologue now, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Eventually they got to Jess’s house, and she climbed out.

‘Thanks for the lift, Mr Fothergill,’ she said. ‘Sorry I was so heavy, Fred,’ she added clumsily, not looking him in the eye. ‘Gotta lose some weight. Bye!’

The Greased Banana roared off again. Jess walked up her garden path, relieved and yet somehow a bit sorry that this bizarre episode was over. It was the first time she had ever sat on a boy’s lap.

How ironical that it should have been Fred’s. He must have hated every minute. She had felt hot and cold and shivery with a mixture of excitement and horror. If it was like that with a boy she hated, what would it be like with Ben Jones? Although she wasn’t sure she and Ben would ever get on lap-sitting terms. Jess thought it was more likely that she might one day sit on a red-hot barbecue, or a live alligator.

‘Hello, love!’ cried Granny perkily. ‘There’s been a massacre in Venezuela!’ Always so cheerful in the face of disaster. ‘And I’ve made a coconut cake!’

Halfway through the coconut cake, Jess noticed that she had a bit of a sore throat. Later, watching
Jurassic Park
with Granny, Jess had another attack of shivering. She felt hot. She felt cold. Maybe it hadn’t been the horror of sitting on Fred’s lap. Maybe it was the flu.

‘You look a bit flushed, love,’ said Granny. By the time her mum came in from her peace meeting, Jess was lying on the sofa covered up with Great Grandpa’s army blanket. Her mum took her temperature. It was 39 degrees.

‘That’s two degrees of fever,’ she said. ‘You must go to bed. Oh my goodness! My baby! I was out at a stupid meeting and all the time you were ill!’ Whenever Jess was ill, her mum came over all sentimental and slushy. ‘Darling! I’ll get you some scrambled egg!’

‘I don’t want scrambled egg!’ croaked Jess. ‘I don’t like scrambled egg even when I’m well!’

‘Yes, of course, sorry, I’m such an idiot!’ said her mum, helping Jess upstairs and fussing around, making the bed ready. ‘Oh no! We’ve run out of Vitamin C!’

‘What’s her temperature in Fahrenheit?’ shouted Granny from the bottom of the stairs.

‘About a hundred, I suppose,’ replied her mum.

Jess didn’t like the sound of that. A hundred! It sounded terrible. What if she died? Well, if she did, at least Fred would be sorry.

Jess ran a little video in her head in which Fred came to her funeral, inconsolable with grief, and visited her grave every day for the rest of his life, sobbing and chucking rosebuds about. Also, because she had sat on his lap, he never washed his knees again. Although probably he never washed them anyway.

All night she shivered and shook. Every bone in her body ached. She couldn’t move. Peculiar feverish dreams came and went. She was riding on the wing of an aeroplane. The traffic in town was being directed by a gigantic naked baby. Worst of all, she was doing her stand-up routine and she couldn’t remember the words. When she woke up next day, her sheets were wet with sweat.

‘My poor baby! You can’t possibly go to school today,’ said her mum, mopping her brow with a horrible smelly face flannel.

Jess knew she couldn’t go to school. It was enough of a challenge just to walk the few steps along to the bathroom.

‘It’s the flu,’ her mum said. ‘You’ll probably feel better by the weekend.’

‘But it’s the show tomorrow,’ croaked Jess. ‘I’ve just got to get better for that.’

‘I’m sorry, love,’ said her mum. ‘But I think you’d better put that right out of your mind.’

A huge, bitter disappointment engulfed Jess. The one day of the year when she was really longing to go to school – the one day when she might have something really special to offer – was tomorrow. And it was just not going to be possible. Her body had let her down. Silently Jess cursed the God of Influenza. She bit her lip hard, trying not to cry, but she did snivel a bit into her pillow after her mum had gone downstairs. In fact, the flu had made her feel so weak, she broke down in tears every time she thought of the TV adverts for the animal shelter.

Desperately, Jess tried to think of a bitter joke to cheer herself up, to keep the tears at bay. Eventually she thought of one. At least her performance wouldn’t be ripped to shreds by Fred in his role as theatre critic.

Chapter 26

The next day Jess was still ill, but she managed to go downstairs. Her mum made up a bed for her on the sofa. Granny could take care of Jess while her mum was at work, as long as she didn’t have to go up and down stairs.

Jess’s mobile phone began to beep. Her dad had heard she was ill and started to text her.

WHAT SORT OF FLUE IS IT? he said. WHAT IS YOUR TEMPERATURE? TELL GRANNY TO GIVE YOU LOTS OF DRINKS.

MY TEMP IS 203, replied Jess, AND GRANNY HAS JUST GIVEN ME MY THIRD GIN & TONIC.

ARE YOU JOKING OR ARE YOU DELIRIOUS?  asked her dad.

DELIRIOUS, replied Jess. P.S. WHY DID YOU AND MUM SPLIT UP?

There was a long pause, during which Jess and Granny watched
The Simpsons
, then her dad texted back.

IT'S A LONG STORY, TOO LONG FOR A TEXT. TO DO WITH MY DREADFUL PERSONALITY DISORDER.

CHICKEN! answered Jess.

I'LL TELL YOU WHEN I SEE YOU, promised her dad. EXCUSE ME WHILE I VISIT THE N.POLE. ONLY JOKING! GET BETTER SOON. I LOVE YOU.

Sometime after
The Simpsons
, Jess went to sleep and dreamt Bart was a real, life-size friend of hers. She was quite disappointed when she woke up.

Granny pottered about, sat nearby and made her some dainty little sandwiches, like for a dolls’ tea party. She read Jess extracts from the paper about the most grisly murders. This passed the time quite pleasantly until her mum came home. By now Jess’s pains had gone, although she still felt so weak, she could hardly raise her head. Jess slept again, and dreamt she was living in a cave in India with an owl. When she awoke it was 8.30 in the evening. By now the show would be in full swing. Jess should have been performing her very first stand-up comedy routine. Instead she was lying on the sofa, watching a trashy TV game show.

The next twenty-four hours passed in much the same way – sleep, lots of drinks and weird dreams. Halfway through an awful one in which she had three eyes and grass growing out of her hands, Granny’s face appeared in the sky.

‘Jess, love,’ she said, ‘Flora’s come to see you. With a boy. I think it might be Fred.’

Jess’s grassy hands disappeared and were replaced by the front room. Jess struggled up to a sitting position.

‘Shall I bring them in?’ asked Granny. ‘Are you well enough to see them?’ Oh no! The sofa was covered with sweaty bedclothes! Jess’s own pyjamas smelt like the zoo! She ran her fingers through her hair – it was a bird’s nest. As for her face – well, she hadn’t looked in the mirror for more than two whole days. This was a record, but it was also a disaster. What had become of her eyebrows?

‘Oh, all right, bring them in,’ said Jess.

Granny nipped out again and the next minute Flora came in, not with Fred, but with Ben Jones. Jess felt relieved but also somehow disappointed. They peeped round the door as if they were afraid of what they might see.

‘Welcome to my swamp,’ croaked Jess. ‘Sorry about the stink.’

That was it, then. Ben Jones would never, ever ask her out again, now he had seen her like this.

‘You poor thing, Jess!’ cried Flora. ‘We’ve brought you some grapes. Don’t worry – I’ve washed them.’

Granny bustled about, found a plate for the grapes, arranged them nicely by Jess’s sofa, offered Flora and Ben some juice, and then discreetly went off to her room and shut the door. Flora and Ben sat on the floor, side by side, looking strangely like a pair of twins: both fair, both good-looking, with matching blue eyes.
They’re made for each other
, thought Jess.
It’s only a matter of time before they realise it. I won’t mind. I’ll prepare myself
.

‘So, how did it go?’ croaked Jess.

‘Oh, Jess, it was brilliant!’ said Flora. ‘The whole show was brilliant.’

‘What about the band?’ asked Jess.

‘It was great!’ said Flora. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Everybody was cracking up even before we started to speak or anything – just the way we looked. You’re a genius, Jess. It was all your idea.’

‘Um, shame you couldn’t do your stand-up routine,’ said Ben. ‘I was really looking forward to seeing you do it.’

‘Well, some other time, I suppose,’ said Jess. There was a silence. It became, in some curious but definite way, an awkward silence. Oh-oh. Perhaps Ben and Flora had started going out already. Perhaps they had walked here hand-in-hand. Perhaps they had shared a kiss beneath the bus shelter to nerve themselves up for the ordeal of telling Jess.