Girls in Tears (6 page)

when their dreams come true!

I am dying. I’m hot all over and yet I’m shivering. My nose is all bunged up, my throat is raw, my head aches, my chest hurts. I know I’m really, really ill. I’m sure I’ve got pneumonia. Double pneumonia. No,
triple
. Hang on, I’ve only got two lungs. It feels like they’re both blown up like balloons, about to burst.

Everyone thinks I’ve just got Eggs’s cold. This isn’t a
cold
. How could anyone feel so awful with a mere cold? Yet no one seems remotely sympathetic. Dad and Anna made me go to school yesterday, which was so unfair. And a waste of time. I couldn’t concentrate on any of the lessons and could barely crawl across the hockey pitch. OK, OK, I suppose I’m
usually
inattentive and appalling at PE, but I couldn’t even paint properly in art, my best subject.

We are still stuck in the still-life slot. I like
animated
life a lot more, though I suppose Mr. Windsor did his best to make it interesting for us. He showed us copies of these weirdly lovely seventeenth-century Spanish paintings of cabbages on string, and then he dangled a whole load of real cabbages in the air for us to copy. Magda had a little go at flicking one cabbage into another to see if they’d go
dong dong dong
backward and forward like those smart executive toys, but they just made a dull
thwack
and got their strings all tangled. Mr. Windsor said if we didn’t settle down sharpish he’d lop off our heads and string them up instead.

So we settled, sort of, though Magda kept moaning that the smell of cabbages was making her feel sick. I couldn’t smell anything at all but I felt sick anyway. I tried hard at first but my cabbages looked like giant green roses and I lost heart. I painted in a little cartoon bunny upon on its back legs, mouth open and drooling, desperately trying to leap up and reach the dangling feast. Magda and Nadine were duly appreciative but Mr. Windsor wasn’t amused.

“We all know you’re an inventive cartoonist, Ellie, but it’s getting a little bit predictable the way you fall back on cartoons whenever you’re having trouble with a serious subject.”

“Oooh!” Magda said mockingly.

“That’s enough, Magda! You three girls are starting to annoy me. I shall split the three of you up if you carry on like this.”

“No one could
ever
split us up,” Magda muttered, but not quite loud enough for him to hear.

“Now, come on, Ellie. Paint over the rabbit and look a little harder at your cabbages. You haven’t got the texture of the leaves right at all. They look far too limp.”

I
felt limp all day long at school. I didn’t really feel like going out with Russell. Nadine was going round to Magda’s house and they were going to sort out all their stuff to see what to wear to Big Mac’s party. Nadine isn’t remotely interested in any of the boys there. She’s still dippy about this
Xanadu
fan Ellis who keeps e-mailing her. Still, she said she’d come along to give Magda moral support.

“
I’ll
give you moral support, Mags,” I say, a little wounded.

“Yeah, but you’ll be sitting in a corner snogging with Russell all night, won’t you?”

“No I won’t. Well, not all the time. And there’ll be dancing—”

“God, does Russell
dance
?” says Nadine.

I give her a very dark look.

“Sorry, sorry!” she says hurriedly.

We are best friends again, but things are still slightly edgy. Every time I catch Nadine looking at me I wonder if she’s thinking, FAT FAT FAT.

I’ve always said I love Magda and Nadine absolutely equally, but I suppose secretly I’ve always liked Nadine just a teeny weeny bit more, simply because we’ve known each other since we were four and we’ve shared so much together. But now I sometimes wonder if maybe Magda is just that little bit nicer. Nadine can be such a witch at times. And almost
too
wild. I thought she was mad to get involved with Liam. Then there was that time she insisted we go off with those scary guys in their van, when we tried to go to the Claudie concert. And now she’s gone truly crazy, confiding all sorts of secret stuff to a total stranger.

I tried having one more go at telling her how risky this can be but she just laughed at me. She’s starting to laugh at me more and more now. She acts like I’ve become Ms. Dull and Deadly Boring since going out with Russell. Which is ridiculous. Isn’t it?

I didn’t have such a great time with Russell last night. I was feeling lousy but he’d set his heart on going to this fantasy film full of men with helmets and bare chests who zap people with one point of their finger. There were hardly any women in it, just a few silly maidens shrieking in see-through nightie things and a token evil old crone who ended up sinking under a sea of snakes. I thought it was
dire
but Russell lapped it up. He got irritated with me when I moaned and sighed and snuffled. He lectured me for ages afterward, telling me about this cult comic strip the film was based on.

“You should take an interest, Ellie, seeing as you want to do illustration when you’re older. Graphic novels are where it’s all happening. No one wants twee little picture books about girly mice.”

I was so insulted—on my mum’s behalf as well as mine—that I marched off without even giving him a kiss goodnight. Not that he’d have wanted one anyway. My lips are all chapped and my nose is red and very runny, enough to douse the desire of even the most impassioned boyfriend. Which Russell
is
.

I just don’t get boys. One minute he’s looking down on me, lecturing me about everything, expecting me to tell him he’s wonderful. The next minute he’s looking up to me, treating me like the most amazingly exciting girl in the world just because I have two breasts, appendages stuck on the front of half the world’s population, for God’s sake.

I wish he could be a real
friend,
like Magda and Nadine. Though Nadine isn’t always a
friendly
friend now. She’s always been a bit moody, right from when she was little. Thank goodness Magda is always happy-go-lucky and fun to be with. She can go on about boys and makeup and clothes a bit
too
much, but basically you couldn’t get a better friend.

She brought me some of her mum’s special lime cheesecake yesterday to cheer me up. I protested feebly about the megamillion calorie content.

“It’s lime, Ellie. Lots of vitamin C. Very very good for colds. This cake is
medicinal,
so blow the calories.”

So I did. I must admit I felt a lot better with a tummy full of cheesecake. Magda’s mum is such a brilliant cook. Anna used to be OK, but for the last couple of months she hasn’t really cooked anything, just heated stuff in the microwave. Still, how can she spend time cooking now she’s so busy with her designing? It’s OK for Magda’s mum. She runs the restaurant with Magda’s dad. Cooking is part of her career, so there’s no conflict.

There’s still every kind of conflict between Dad and Anna. I can hear them downstairs at breakfast now, and Eggs is yelling too.

I’m not getting up. I
can’t
get up. I’m too ill. Much much much too ill.

I pull the duvet over my head and curl up in my dark little lair, breathing heavily. I’m having a little doze when there’s a knock on the door. I peek out of the duvet. It’s Anna with a tray: orange juice, coffee and a croissant and a little bunch of grapes.

“For the invalid,” says Anna.

“You’re a darling,” I say thickly, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. There’s a letter on the tray too. “What’s that?”

“Isn’t it Russell’s handwriting?”

“No, his is more twirly.” I open the envelope. I unfold the letter. I find my glasses. I read the letter. By the time I get to the end, the sheet of paper is vibrating because I’m trembling so much.

It’s only from Nicola Sharp, the brilliant illustrator who does all those funny Funky Fairy picture books! I used to have a full set of all the Rainbow series. When I was four I thought UltraViolet the coolest little fairy ever and wanted all my clothes to be purple, right down to my socks and knickers.

Dear Eleanor Allard,

I’m one of the judges in the children’s cartoon competition. I have to make it plain straightaway that you
haven’t
won—we haven’t even had our final judges’
meeting yet. And I’m afraid your entry can’t be short-listed because it arrived a week after the closing date,
without an entry form. Now I don’t think this matters
in the slightest, but the company sponsoring the competition is being incredibly strict about this and insists
your entry (and a host of other latecomers too) must be
declared ineligible.

Normally I’d just think this is a shame and forget
about it, but I can’t forget you or your Myrtle Mouse. I
see lots of children’s and young people’s artwork, some
of it very very good—but I can honestly say your Myrtle is outstandingly original. I’d be proud to have invented her myself.

You are going to
have
to be an illustrator when you
grow up!

With every warm wish,

Nicola Sharp

I give such a shriek that Anna shakes my breakfast tray and spills the coffee. “Ellie, darling, what is it?”

“Oh, Anna!” I say—and I burst into tears.

Dad and Eggs come running in. “What’s happened? Have you scalded yourself, Ellie?” Dad yells.

Anna puts the tray down. She looks at the letter and then flings her arms round me. “You
clever
girl! Look what Nicola Sharp’s written about our Ellie!” she says, thrusting the letter at Dad.

“Nicola Sharp! She’s the lady who makes up the Raspberry Red Fairy, the one who blows lots of raspberries,” says Eggs, demonstrating in case we might not understand.

Dad’s asking questions, Anna’s laughing, I’m crying, Eggs is blowing raspberries, all of us squashed into my tiny bedroom. It’s as if we’re a proper happy family again, us four Allards together—but then Dad has to spoil it. He’s shaking his head as he reads the letter.

“Well done, Ellie,” he says flatly.

“Well done? Is that all you can say?” says Anna. “Come on, it’s wonderful! It’s simply amazing that Nicola Sharp picked Ellie’s entry out of hundreds, maybe even thousands! Fancy her saying she wishes she’d invented your Myrtle Mouse herself!”

“But she’s not Ellie’s Myrtle Mouse,” says Dad. “Ros invented her.”

There’s a little silence. Dad rarely talks about my mum, especially not by name. He gives a sad softness to the one syllable. Anna flinches.

I stare at Dad. I feel as if he’s snatched all my happiness away. My flu floods back. I hurt all over.

“But Ellie’s made Myrtle Mouse her own, you know that!” Anna says sharply.

Dad is looking down at Nicola Sharp’s letter. He quotes one word: “Original.”

It’s enough. I know Dad’s right . . . in a way.

Anna argues fiercely that he’s wrong wrong wrong. “I know you have huge problems with my silly old sweaters becoming a success, but I’m
amazed
you’re not even big enough to be pleased that your own daughter is so talented.”

Dad sucks in his breath. Anna is so angry, breathing hard, red in the face. Eggs is frightened. He slips his hand in mine. I squeeze it tightly, needing to hang on to him for my own sake.

It’s all spoilt. Dad’s right. I
didn’t
invent Myrtle. But it
felt
as if I did.

I need to talk about it. I phone Magda. I wait for quite a while before I try her, because Magda likes to sleep late at weekends. Well, she likes to sleep late every single day but her mum generally unwinds her from her duvet in time to get to school. I wait until twelve, when I feel there’s a reasonable chance of finding Magda up and alert.

I’ve waited too long. She’s already gone out.

“I think she’s round at Nadine’s, Ellie,” says Magda’s mum.

“Oh. Right. Fine.”

“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 and whisper together and act like I’m a gross intruder?

I can’t stand it. It’s all happening so quickly. They don’t seem to count me in anymore.

Well, to hell with them. I know who really cares about me. The one who loves me more than anyone else.

I finger my ring and phone Russell.

when their boyfriends betray them

This party is a big mistake. I can’t stick Big Mac, for a start. He is big, a large foulmouthed strutting lout. He’s big-headed too, bragging all over the place. I suppose in material terms he’s got a lot to brag about. His house is huge, a four-storied Georgian house that’s more like a mini-mansion. It’s incredibly furnished, too. I feel like I’ve stepped into
Interiors
magazine.

Big Mac’s mum and dad disappear pretty early on in the evening. I just hope no one stubs out their cigarette on the Chinese porcelain or pukes on the Turkish carpet. There seems every chance as there’s unlimited drink. I thought there might be a weak fruit punch and a few cans of lager, but there are bottles of vodka all over the place and the guys are already knocking the clear liquid back as if it was Perrier water. They mostly
are
guys too. There are a couple of little girls plastered in makeup, teetering on high heels. If you scrubbed their faces you’d see that they’re probably still at
primary
school. They’re obviously little sisters, desperate not to miss out on a party. The few girls my age divide sharply into two categories—scary girls with tiny tops showing off their navel rings, knocking back the vodka with more aplomb than the boys, and sad girls straight out of the 1950s wearing ladylike party frocks.

I think Magda and Nadine are going to be mad at me for suggesting they come. Still, I’m mad at them for meeting up without me.

I’m mad at Russell, too. I’m crammed into an armchair with him, his arm round me, like he’s showing me off to all his mates. The Girlfriend. Not that he’s acting proud of me. I tried so hard getting ready for the party. I selected and tried on and then rejected three-quarters of the clothes in my wardrobe. I even ransacked Anna’s wardrobe and tried on this loose crimson velvet dress. Well, it’s loose on Anna, and horribly tight on me. And maybe a bit
too
dressy.

I decided it wasn’t cool to look as if I’d tried too hard, so I eventually chose this big soft sweater. It’s
not
one of Anna’s designs, it’s plain black with a deep V-neck that shows a little cleavage. A little too much cleavage, actually, so I’m wearing a little black vest thingy underneath. I’m squeezed into my black jeans. They’re getting tighter every time I put them on but they do still do up, just. I’ve got my black pointy boots, too, which are already pinching quite a bit, but I daren’t kick them off in case my feet smell sweaty.

I don’t think I look too bad, especially considering I’ve still got this filthy cold—but Russell didn’t look enthusiastic when he saw me.

“Hi, Ellie. Aren’t you changed yet?”

“Yes, I am changed,” I said a little sharply.

“Right. OK. Let’s go, then.” He fidgeted with his shirt collar.

“Is that a new shirt, Russell? It looks great.” It was OKish—a silky navy affair, just a tad too slick and sleazy for my taste, but I was trying to be generous.

“Cynthia gave it to me,” Russell murmured, wriggling inside it. “I think it’s a bit naff.”

“No, it’s lovely,” I said.

I waited.

“Do you think I look OK?”

“What? Yeah. Fine.” He clearly wasn’t impressed.

“You don’t think I’m a bit . . . understated?” I asked. I wanted reassurance. I didn’t get it.

“Well, it
is
a party. Maybe you could change into something a bit more . . . sparkly?”

I felt like kicking him. “I don’t do sparkly, Russell, ” I said. “What do you suggest? A tinsel bikini and a tiara?”

“OK, no need to get shirty. I just thought . . . maybe a skirt? And high heels, you know, to show your legs off a bit? Oh, forget it. Come on, let’s go.”

I still waited.

“What?”

“Don’t you want to see my letter from Nicola Sharp?”

“Well, you read it out to me on the phone. Congratulations.” He kissed me very briefly on my cheek, the way you peck an old auntie.

I can’t
believe
this. I expected Russell to be really thrilled for me. He hardly said anything when I told him about it on the phone. He didn’t even do a Dad and point out that Myrtle isn’t all mine and can’t really count as my original creation. When I eventually ran out of steam he just said, “That’s great, Ellie,” very offhand, like it was the least great thing in the world. But if
he’d
had a personal letter of praise and encouragement from Nicola Sharp he’d be thrilled.

I’d
be thrilled for him. And it isn’t as if I’ve won the competition. Russell could still win it himself.

“You wait, Russell, I bet you
do
win the competition,” I whisper, snuggling up to him, trying to act sweet to him in front of his friends.

“Do you have to be so patronizing, Ellie?” Russell hisses. “Just shut up about it, eh?”

He bends forward and kisses me roughly, his tongue right down my throat. There are raucous cheers and jeers in the background. I struggle free, outraged.

“Don’t pull away from me, Ellie,” Russell whispers.

“You do that again and I’ll bite your tongue off! Don’t think you can insult me one second and slurp all over me the next just to impress your stupid friends.” I’m whispering so they can’t hear— but my body language speaks for me.

“Uh-oh! Looks like the little lovebirds are having a tiff!” Big Mac yells. He makes silly noises and suggestions.

“Oh, grow up, can’t you?” I say.

I wriggle out of the armchair and go and get myself a drink. A vodka. It’s the first time I’ve ever had vodka, actually. I approach it very gingerly. It doesn’t taste too bad at all, especially with tonic. It doesn’t really seem to
have
a taste. I drink it down quickly and try another.

I know this isn’t wise but I don’t care. I’m not going to sit back down with Russell, not till he shows he’s sorry. This doesn’t seem likely. He’s pointedly ignoring me, swapping stupid dirty jokes with Big Mac and his mates. They all crack up laughing. They are so
childish
. Maybe Nadine is right about going out with schoolboys.

It doesn’t look as if Nadine and Magda are coming. I can’t say that I blame them. No, wait! I can hear their voices in the hall and Nadine’s silver bangles jangling. They walk into the living room— and there’s a chorus of wolf whistles. They both go pink, though they struggle madly to act cool. They both look fabulous. Nadine’s in a tight black lace top and a weird asymmetric skirt and very high buckled boots with witchy toes. Magda’s in a red off-the-shoulder sweater and a very short shiny black skirt, black fishnet tights and black stilettos.

“They’re
Ellie’s
friends?” says Big Mac, sounding incredulous. “You pulled the wrong girl out of that little gang, Russell!”

I feel myself going fiery red and pour another drink to help me calm down. Russell doesn’t say a word in my defense. He’s probably thinking the same as Big Mac.

Well, to hell with him. Maybe
I
picked the wrong boy. All these boys are awful. I’ll simply join up with Nadine and Magda and we’ll have a great girly time together.

Only it doesn’t work out like that. Magda and Nadine are
surrounded
by boys, Big Mac way to the fore. I’m kind of on the edge, trying to jump up and talk over people’s shoulders. They don’t even hear me at first, so I speak up a bit. The CD that’s playing suddenly stops and I find I’m bellowing in a hushed room. Everyone stares at me like I’m a loony.

“Are you all right, Ellie?” Magda whispers, shoving her way through the adoring throng and pulling me to one side.

“You’re bright red in the face,” says Nadine, joining us. “And your eyes look all weird. Ellie, are you
drunk
?”

“No. Well. I’ve just one drink. Well, maybe two.” I hold up my vodka glass. It seems to have a life of its own and spills all over the place, up my drab woolly sleeve and down my dull jeans.

“That’s vodka,” says Nadine. She raises her eyebrows. “And I think you’ve had more than two, Ellie. Better watch it.”

How can
Nadine
tell me off for drinking! “You shut up, Nads.”

“You’re slurring your words, Ellie!” says Magda.

“No I’m not! Will you two quit getting at me? Come on, let’s dance, eh?”

“What about Russell?” says Magda, glancing at him. He’s glowering in the armchair, knocking back the vodka too.

“What about him?” I say. “He doesn’t own me, lock, stock and barrel and dancing rights. He doesn’t like dancing anyway.”

This is true. He likes anything slow and smoochy, when you just stand and sway together, but anything fast and wild is out of the question. If I really
make
him he’ll have a go, but he flings his arms around windmill fashion and looks such a total plonker it’s dead embarrassing. I never ever want him to dance in front of Nadine and Magda. Their eyebrows would disappear right up under their hair.

I’m not that great at dancing either. I’m OK. I can keep to the beat and I don’t flop around too much. I’ve practiced little routines in the mirror that look passably spontaneous but cool. I’m a novice compared with the others, though.

Nadine is the most
striking
dancer. She does weird gothic things, her face utterly deadpan like she’s just risen from the grave, but she puts her hands on her totally flat stomach and kind of wiggles in a way that’s incredibly sexy. But not as sexy as Magda. She’s gone to dancing classes since she was three, for God’s sake, so she’s brilliant at any kind of step. It’s not just the way she dances anyway, it’s the way she looks. She
preens,
looking down and then suddenly looking up under her eyelashes. She tosses her hair and shakes her hips and sticks out her bum and looks incredible. If
I
fluttered my eyelashes and tossed my wild curls and waggled my great big fat bum everyone would laugh.

I don’t feel like laughing. I feel like crying. I’m with Magda and Nadine but I feel separate from them. I feel
separate
from myself too. It’s like I’ve stepped aside and I’m staring at this sad fat girl who is everyone’s third choice. Russell is watching me gloomily. That’s what he’s thinking too.

Looks aren’t everything. I know that, we all know that. When the music stops I’ll tell Naddie and Mags all about Nicola Sharp and how she loves my Myrtle Mouse. No, that makes me feel bad too, like I stole her from my mum. I miss her so much. I don’t want to keep missing her like this, it hurts too much.

I swig several mouthfuls of vodka straight from the bottle. It doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel a lot worse. Oh God, I’ve got to get to the bathroom. I don’t know where it is. The room is rushing round and round. I can’t see which way to go. I’ve got to get out or I’ll throw up in front of everyone. . . .

“Ellie?” Russell has got hold of me. He’s pulling me—too hard, so that I stumble. Then Magda has me firmly under one arm, Nadine the other, and they’re rushing me out of the room.

“Leave her to us, Russell.”

They get me to a loo in time and stand guard outside the door. When I’ve stopped being sick at long last they wipe my face and give me a sip of water and take me to a bedroom—dear God, I hope it isn’t Big Mac’s—and they lay me down and put coats over me because I’m shivering.

“You just close your eyes and go to sleep, Ellie.”

“Yeah, sleep it off, and then you’ll feel much better.”

“You’re both being so sweet to me now. You do still like me, don’t you?” I burble pathetically.

Magda smoothes my hair and Nadine tucks me up. They say they love me and they’re my best friends. And they are, they are, they are.

Russell is my boyfriend. He’s supposed to look after me. He gave me my ring. But where is he now? He doesn’t care about me. Girlfriends are the only ones who are there for you, no matter what. They’re the only ones you can trust. . . .

I doze off. Some time later someone pulls at my coat-covers. I groan and clutch at them.

“Give over, Ellie. I want my coat!” Nadine whispers. “I’m going home. This is a crap party. I’m sick of silly schoolboys.”

“What about Mags?” I mumble.

“Oh, she’s staying. She seems to be enjoying herself,” says Nadine. She sounds strange. “I think you’d better go back to sleep, Ellie.”

She leans close and gives me a hug. I’m so glad we’re still friends. Still, she’s not staying. Magda’s the friend waiting for me, looking out for me. She’ll help me home if things still aren’t right with Russell and me.

I swivel his ring agitatedly round and round my finger, trying to make sense of things. Maybe I was a tiny bit tactless? He’s only human. Of course he’s going to feel a little bit jealous. Maybe I’ll go and try to make it up with him. He’s been mean to me, but I haven’t exactly behaved sensibly this evening.

Oh God, my head. The minute I try to get off the bed a thumping pain knocks me back. I feel sick again. I am never ever ever going to drink another drop of vodka in my life.

I lie very still, clutching the edge of the bed because the room is hurtling round and round now. My stomach lurches. Oh no!

I struggle off the bed and feel my way to the door. I bolt along the landing, tripping over intensely twined couples. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Someone else has been ill before me and made a disgusting mess. I hope no one thinks it’s me.

I manage to be neatly sick down the loo but my hair flops wildly in the way. I’m terrified I’ve got sick in it. I end up dunking my head in the wash-basin, rinsing my hair. I’m soaking wet all over but at least I feel a little less fuddled. I towel myself as dry as I can get, shivering violently. I hope I can find my own coat in the pile. I need it anyway. I’m going home. Yes, with Russell and Magda. I’ve got to find them.

I emerge shakily from the bathroom. Someone’s been banging on the door for the last five minutes.

“For God’s sake, what were you doing in there, having a bath?” some boy demands. He blinks at my wet hair. “You
were
having a bath. Weird!”

I push past him and go in search of Magda and Russell. I have to pick my way very carefully along the landing. There are couples huddled all over the place. I don’t think they’d like it if I switched the lights on. Maybe more girls turned up while I was upstairs. It looks like Big Mac and a lot of his pals got lucky.