Girls in Tears
Table of Contents
when their friends say mean things
when they hate the way they look
when their friends have secrets
when their friends say they’re fat
when they quarrel with their friends
when their boyfriends don’t understand
when their boyfriends betray them
when their hearts are breaking breaking breaking
when they wake up and remember . . .
when everything ends happily ever after
Be sure to read the other books in Jacqueline Wilson’s GIRLS Quartet!
For
all
the
very
special
girls
in
Ward
27,
Leicester Royal Infirmary
“I think she’s round at Nadine’s, Ellie,” says Magda’s mum. “Why don’t you pop round to Nadine’s too, dear?”
Why don’t I? Because they haven’t invited me. Why didn’t they tell me they were seeing each other on Saturday morning? We always meet up together. But now
together
seems to mean
two
gether. Magda and Nadine have formed a special exclusive twosome behind my back.
I could just slope round to Nadine’s. . . . But what if they look at each other like I’m a gross intruder?
when they’re happy
You’ll never ever guess what! I’m so happy happy happy. I want to laugh, sing, shout, even have a little cry. I can’t
wait
to tell Magda and Nadine.
I go down to breakfast and sip coffee and nibble dry toast, my hand carefully displayed beside my plate.
I wait for someone to notice. I smile blithely at my dad and my stepmum, Anna, over breakfast. I even smile at my little brother, Eggs, though he has a cold and deeply unattractive green slime is dribbling out of his nostrils.
“Why are you grinning at me like that, Ellie?” Eggs asks me thickly, chomping very strawberryjammy toast. We’ve run out of butter, so Anna’s let him have double jam instead. “Stop looking at me.”
“I don’t want to look at you, little Runny Nose. You are not a pretty sight.”
“I don’t want to be pretty,” says Eggs, sniffing so snortily that we all protest.
“For goodness’ sake, son, you’re putting me right off my breakfast,” Dad says, swatting at Eggs with his
Guardian
.
“Get a tissue, Eggs,” says Anna, sketching maniacally on a pad.
OK, maybe it’s too much to expect Dad and Eggs to notice but I was sure Anna would spot it straight away.
“There
aren’t
any tissues,” Eggs says triumphantly, breathing in and out to make his nose bubble.
“Oh God, no, that’s right. I didn’t get to Waitrose yesterday,” says Anna. “OK, Eggs, use loo-roll instead.”
“I haven’t got any,” says Eggs, looking round as if he expects Andrex puppies to trot right into our kitchen trailing toilet paper like in the adverts. “What’s that you’re drawing, Mum? Is it a rabbit? Let’s look.”
He pulls at Anna’s paper. Anna hangs on. The paper tears in two.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Eggs, I’ve been working on that wretched bunnies-in-bed design since six this morning!” Anna shouts. “Now go to the loo and get some paper and blow your nose this instant. I am
sick
of you, do you hear me?”
Eggs sniffs, startled. He gets down from the table and backs away worriedly. He’s still holding half the piece of paper. He drops it guiltily and rushes to the door, his mouth wobbling. We hear him crying in the hall.
“He’s crying, Anna,” says Dad.
“I know,” says Anna, starting to sketch on a new piece of paper.
“What’s the matter with you? Why be so snappy with him? He only wanted to look,” says Dad, folding up his newspaper. He stands, looking martyred. “I’m going to comfort poor little Eggs.”
“Yes, you do that,” says Anna through gritted teeth. “He is actually your son too, though when he woke five times in the night with his stuffed-up nose I seem to remember
you
remained happily snoring.”
“No wonder his nose is stuffed up if the poor little kid can’t blow it. Why on earth have we run out of everything like tissues and butter? I would have thought they were basic domestic necessities.”
“Yes, they are,” says Anna, still drawing—but her hand is trembling. “And they generally appear as if by magic in this house because
one
of us slogs off to the supermarket every week.”
I can’t stand this. My happy bubble is on the brink of bursting. My magic hand clenches. What’s the matter with Dad and Anna and Eggs? Why won’t they lighten up? Why can’t Dad offer to do the weekly shop? Why can’t Anna watch her tongue? Why can’t Eggs blow his sniffly little nose? Why does it all have to turn into a stupid scene with Dad shouting, Anna near tears, Eggs already howling?
I’m
the teenager. I’m the one who should be shouting and shrieking all over the place. Yet look at me! I’m little Ellie Ever-so-Effervescent because—oh, because because because!
I stretch out my hand, fingers extended, in a totally obvious gesture. Anna looks up. She looks at me. She looks at my hand. But her blue eyes are blank. She can only see her boring bedtime bunnies.
I grab my rucksack and say goodbye to Anna and Dad. They hardly notice me. I find Eggs drooping in the downstairs toilet and give him a quick hug. Big mistake. He leaves a little slime trail on my school blazer where he has snuffled his nose. Then he looks up at me.
“Why are you being nice to me, Ellie?” he asks suspiciously.
It’s a waste of time acting Miss Sweetness and Light in my family. I might just as well be mean and moody. “OK, when I come back home I’ll be very very
nasty,
” I hiss at Eggs, baring my teeth and making strangling movements with my hands.
He giggles nervously, not quite sure whether I’m joking. I reach out to ruffle his hair but he ducks. I smile at him and rush off, not wanting to listen to the row in the kitchen a second longer.
Dad and Anna have started to act almost as if they hate each other. It’s getting a bit scary. It’s weird to think that when Dad first married Anna I couldn’t stand her. I’d have given anything to break them up. I thought Anna was all that’s awful. I was just a little kid. I wasn’t ready to be fair. I hated her simply because I felt she was trying to take my mum’s place.
Mum died when I was little. I still think about her every day. Not all the time—just in little wistful moments. I like to talk to her inside my head and she talks back to me. I know it’s just me, of course. But it’s still a comfort.
I used to think that every time I went on a shopping trip with Anna or curled up on a sofa with her to watch
Friends
I was being grossly mean and disloyal to Mum. It made me feel so bad. Then I’d turn on Anna and make her feel bad too. But now I can see how skewed that sort of thinking is. I can like Anna lots and
still
love my mum. Simple.
After all, I’ve had two best friends forever and a day and I don’t fuss whether I like Nadine or Magda best. I like them both and they like me and I can’t
wait
to show them!
I run for the bus, wanting to get to school early. As I charge round the corner, rucksack flying, I barge straight into that blond guy I used to have such a crush on. My Dream Man—only it turned out he’s gay. Anyway, even if he wasn’t, he’s years older than me and so incredibly gorgeous he wouldn’t dream of going out with a tubby Year Nine schoolgirl with frizzy hair and glasses and a tendency to blush post box red every ten minutes.
Oh God, I’m blushing
now
. He grins at me. “Hi. You’re the girl who’s
always
in a rush,” he says.
“I’m so sorry. Did I hit you in the kneecaps with my rucksack?”
“Possibly. But I’ll forgive you. You must be very keen to get to school!”
I raise an eyebrow. Well, I hope I do. Maybe I’m just contorting my face into a leering squint. “I don’t really go a bundle on school. I’m not exactly the studious type. No, I just want to see my friends.”
“Right. Yeah, I envy girls—they always share so much with their friends. Guys have their mates, sure, but they don’t seem to get so close,” he says. “Oh well, see you around.”
“Yes, see you. And I’ll try not to barge right into you next time.”
I waltz on my way, swinging my rucksack. I’m really getting to know him. He’s so lovely. A few months ago I’d have been absolutely over the moon, soaring above the stars, pirouetting around the planets, swooping way past the sun. Now it’s great, but it’s no big deal. He’s just a pal. I know he’s got a boyfriend—and so have I.
Russell means more to me than the most gorgeous guy in the whole world. No—
he
is the most gorgeous guy, I know he is. I think the world of him. He thinks the world of me, too. I know he does. He proved it last night.
Wait till I tell Magda
and Nadine!
I run and catch the bus and get to school so early that they’re not there yet! This is the very first time in two and a half years that I’ve ever got to school before them. This is definitely a day with a difference.
Come
on,
Magda and Nadine! Where are you? There are a few girls in the classroom, the keen ones, like Anna. I wonder what it would be like to be seriously brainy like her, top of the class all the time. But she isn’t as good as me at art, and that’s really all that matters to me.
I love art so much. Dad teaches at the art college. People say I take after him. I don’t like to think that. I take after my
mum
. She was artistic too. I’ve still got a wonderful picture book she made me when I was little, full of lovely little stories about a tiny mouse called Myrtle. Myrtle has big purple ears and a little lilac face with a pointy pink nose and blue whiskers to match her bright blue tail.
I feel a sudden pang thinking about Myrtle. Maybe I can try doing little pictures of her myself. I love playing around and inventing little cartoon creatures. My favorite creation is Ellie Elephant, modeled on myself. I am not teeny-weeny mouse size. I am of great galumphing pachyderm proportions, but I decided not to care.
I did go on this crazy diet last term and drove everyone crazy too. I was a kind of crazy girl myself, going bananas if I ate anything other than a spoonful of cottage cheese and a lettuce leaf. I certainly wouldn’t
eat
bananas, at seventy-five calories per piece.
At
last
! Nadine glides into the classroom, dark eyes gleaming, long black hair framing her chalk-white face. Nadine manages to look Queen of the Goths even in her school sweater and skirt. Though her face isn’t utterly colorless today. She’s got pink spots on her cheeks. This is the only external sign when Nadine is seriously excited. She struggles to keep her face as blank as a mask—but her eyes have got a witchy glitter.
I wave at her, waggling my fingers extravagantly. She’s not looking at me properly. She just waggles her own black-pearl nails back at me. “You’ll never ever guess what, Ellie!” she says.
I can’t get a word in edgeways to tell her
my
amazing news!
when their friends say mean things
This is so typical of Nadine! I love her dearly but she
always
has to upstage me. When we were tiny girls and I was thrilled to get my first ever Barbie doll, the standard little-girly version, Nadine got a special collector’s Queen of the Night Barbie with long hair and a beautiful deep blue dress. She was supposed to be kept in pristine condition in her plastic case, but Nadine got her out and combed her luxuriant hair and made her fly through the air, deep blue skirts billowing, as she cast wondrous spells and made up enchantments. My own homespun everyday Barbie couldn’t possibly compete. Nadine’s Queen of the Night Barbie wouldn’t make friends with mine. She said she was much too dull and boring, unable to do the simplest spell. She was only suited to be a servant. So my Barbie had to perform humble and lowly tasks for the Queen of the Night. She didn’t like it one bit—and neither did I.
Then Nadine’s mum discovered that the Queen of the Night had tangles in her hair and a rip in her skirt because she’d been making magic too enthusiastically. The Queen of the Night was confiscated and confined to her plastic palace and Nadine wasn’t allowed out to play for a fortnight. Nadine didn’t care. She hung out of her bedroom window and wailed pathetically to startled passersby in the street, “Help me! My cruel mother has locked me up and thrown away the key!”
I was allowed my very first pair of clumpy high heels to wear at the school disco when I was ten— but Nadine came with real pointy goth boots with spiky stiletto heels. She fell over three times while we were dancing but she still managed to look incredibly cool.
It’s been worse since we started secondary school. Nadine had the first period, the first kiss, the first serious boyfriend. Liam is a total jerk but he
is
good-looking and he’s
eighteen
. They broke up because Nadine found out all the bad things about him—but she
still
seems to think about him wistfully. Until today.
“I’ve met this incredibly glorious super-cool guy! He’s like my ideal dream man, Ellie, just so ultra-perfect I almost feel I’ve made him up.” She raises one eyebrow at me. She does it perfectly. She’s insinuating that some people tend to fantasize about boyfriends and end up telling their friends whopping great lies.
Some
people—like me. I got a bit carried away before when Nadine announced she was going out with Liam. Plus my other best friend, Magda, is so drop-dead gorgeous she can always get any boy she wants. I felt so left out that I started spinning them this tale about Dan, an extremely irritating boy I met on holiday in Wales, making out he was Mr. Perfect. Then, when I started, I couldn’t stop. Oh, it’s such a wondrous relief not to have to do that anymore. I don’t have to pretend about Russell. And now . . . I look down at my hand. I spread my fingers wide.
“Ellie? Are you listening to me?” Nadine asks. “And why are you wearing that tacky freebie kids’ ring?”
My head jerks as if she’s slapped me. I take a step backward, unable to believe she’s said it. Nadine’s my
friend
. How can she hurt me so? I stare at her until her white face and long black hair start to blur.
“Ellie? Ellie, what is it? Are you
crying
?” Nadine says.
“No, of course not,” I insist as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Oh, Ellie, what have I said?” says Nadine, putting her arm round me.
I try to wriggle away but she hangs on. “No, come on, tell me. I don’t get it. Why are you suddenly acting like I’ve done something terrible? You
can’t
be upset because I teased you about the ring.”
“You said it was tacky,” I mumble pathetically.
“It
is
tacky,” says Nadine. “Natasha’s worn hers for days and her finger’s gone all green. I told her she’d get gangrene and that her whole arm would go bad unless she had her finger chopped off immediately. Natasha pretended to be scared and told Mum and cried. Well, she was just pretending, not real tears—not like you, Ellie.” Nadine reaches out and very gently wipes away the tear.
“Natasha’s got a ring like mine? Silver, with the little love heart design?”
“It’s not real silver, dopey. You didn’t buy it, did you? It was taped onto the front of this new kids’ magazine,
Lovehearts
.”
“No, I didn’t buy it,” I whisper. “Russell gave it to me.”
It was so romantic. Russell came round to my house last night. We’re not really supposed to see each other on Thursday nights, just Friday and Saturday, because of boring old homework in the evenings, and Russell has to get up horribly early every morning to do his paper round.
His paper round
. So. He didn’t go out and choose my ring specially. He saw this kids’ comic in the newsagent’s when he was collecting the papers for his round and ripped the freebie ring off one of the kids’ comics.
“Russell gave you a
Lovehearts
comic ring?” says Nadine. She doesn’t say any more. She doesn’t need to.
I don’t like her tone one little bit. She’s never really liked Russell. I can’t help wondering if she’s just a weeny bit jealous. Nadine always seems to get wild, weird boys who treat her like dirt. Russell is kind and artistic and intelligent. He treats me like a
person,
a real friend. He’s never tried to talk me into going too far with him. Nadine has often implied that he’s a bit wet, or even suggested that he can’t really fancy me. It’s not that at all! He can be
ever
so passionate. In fact, last night it was a real struggle not to get too carried away when we were up in my bedroom.
Russell made out to Anna that he’d come round to lend me his oil pastels for my art project. Well, he
had,
but then we slipped upstairs to my bedroom. Anna was so busy coping with Eggs and cooking supper and working on the new bunny series for her designer knitwear that she didn’t even notice.
Russell and I sat a little self-consciously on the edge of my bed. He demonstrated how to use his oil pastels, though I’ve actually had similar crayons since I was about seven. Then he sketched out suggestions for my vegetable still life—shiny red peppers next to yellow corn on the cob with deep purple eggplants as contrast. It looked very artistic but I rather wanted to arrange the vegetables into a portrait. I could do a face out of tiny new potatoes with startling chilli pepper lips and green bean eyes and then have corn-blond hair with a bow of baby carrots.
I was pretty proud of this original idea but when I told Russell he was rather crushing. He told me about some ancient Italian artist who’d done this centuries before. Maybe I’d better stick to a straight still life after all. Anna hasn’t got any green beans or peppers anyway. All the vegetables she could find were some big baking potatoes, a very yellow cauliflower, forgotten at the back of the fridge, and a family-size pack of frozen peas. I defy even old Archiwhatsit to feel inspired by this sad little selection.
Anyway, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit irritated with Russell when
he
showed me the way he thought I should arrange my composition—but I was also very aware of his warm body next to me. I loved the intent look on his face, the little furrow on his forehead, his two front teeth just resting on his full lower lip, the peachiness of his cheek . . . I couldn’t help stroking it and he turned to me and kissed me. The sketchbook fell to the floor, the oil pastels rolled right across my bedroom carpet, but we barely noticed.
We soon stopped sitting upright. We just naturally sank down on my pillow, so there we were, lying in each other’s arms. We weren’t technically
in
bed together, but definitely
on
the bed. It felt a little weird with my girly clutter all around and my old teddy lolling behind us on the pillow. I closed my eyes and concentrated on Russell.
I couldn’t close my
ears,
thought. I heard the front door slam—Dad home at last, very late. Anna shouted something and Eggs started wailing—not exactly the most romantic of background noises. Then we heard Eggs clumping upstairs, thump thump in his little-boy lace-ups. We sprang apart in case he was about to come charging straight through the door.
He didn’t, thank goodness, but Dad might come rushing up if he found out I was in my bedroom alone with Russell.
“Sorry! My family seem horribly in evidence,” I said, running my fingers through my wild hair.
“It’s OK, Ellie. I understand,” said Russell. He started playing with my hair too, teasing a strand out straight and then letting it spring back into a curl.
“It’s hopeless hair,” I said.
“I love it,” said Russell. “I love
you,
Ellie.” He looked at me, smiling. “Which reminds me! I’ve got a little present for you.” He felt in his pocket and brought out a tiny round package of pink tissue. I thought
ring
right away. Then I thought, No, don’t be so ridiculous, Ellie, of course it couldn’t be anything as incredibly exciting and romantic as a ring when you haven’t been going out with Russell
that
long and it isn’t even your birthday or Christmas. It’ll be something sweet but silly, like a chocolate in the shape of a heart or a tiny badge with I LOVE U or a minuscule teddy for a lucky mascot. But it wasn’t any of these things. It
was
a ring, a beautiful delicate silver ring with a heart design.
“Oh, Russell!” I said, stuck for further words.
“Put it on, then.”
I didn’t know which finger to try. It looked pretty small, so maybe the little finger. Besides, if I tried my
ring
finger Russell might think I was taking it far too seriously, acting almost as if we were getting engaged.
“You put it on for me,” I said.
Russell reached out and slipped it straight on my ring finger.
It meant so much to me. I vowed I would never take it off. But now, when I ease the ring up my finger toward the first joint, I see that the skin underneath has turned a dirty shade of green.
“Oh dear, you’ll have to have your finger chopped off too,” says Nadine, very gently.
“Oh well, I don’t care even if it
is
a freebie ring. It still means all the world because Russell gave it to me,” I say stoutly.
It
does
—but I’d so loved the thought of Russell taking some of his savings and going to some jewelry shop and carefully choosing a special ring for me. It’s another thing entirely if he just spotted the ring on the cover of a kids’ comic and ripped it off.
“Well, that’s great,” says Nadine. “Anyway, let me tell you about this
guy
. Oh good, there’s Magda. I can tell the two of you together. . . .”
But Nadine’s voice tails away as we both stare at Magda.
Her eyes are almost as red as her dyed hair. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.
