Vicky Angel (8 page)

We both wince at the thought of what happens behind those curtains in the crematorium.

“I didn't know what to do about her hair. I love our Vicky's hair. She sits on the sofa in front of me when she watches television, leaning against my knees, and I brush her hair. She likes it, she gives little wriggles—”

“Like a cat.”

“That's it. So I couldn't stand the thought of all her lovely hair going. I took the scissors to the undertaker. I was going to cut off a big lock but I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave my darling looking lopsided. I wanted her to look perfect.” She's kneading the sugar bag, squeezing it hard. “She's still here, you know,” she says. “You'll probably think I'm mad—Charlie does—the doctor says it's only natural but he thinks I've gone off my head too—but I
see
her, Jade.”

“I know,” I say. “I do too.”

She stares. “
You
see her?”

“Yes. And she talks to me.”

“She talks?” she repeats. Her face tightens. “She doesn't talk to me. Why doesn't she talk to me?”

This is crazy. We're still arguing about Vicky even now she's dead. It's always been the same. Mrs. Waters always wanted Vicky to come round the shops with her, go on visits to her gran and granddad, go to makeup parties, do all these Mumsie-Daughter things together. Vicky would nearly always wriggle out of it and hang out with me. Mrs. Waters never blamed Vicky. She always blamed me.

“She talks to you,” she says.

“Yes. But she says a lot about you. How sad she is because she misses you so.”

“I don't need you to tell me how my Vicky feels!” she says, and she gives me a little push.

“I'm sorry,” I say helplessly. I start spooning tea into the pot so I can clear off out of there as soon as possible.

“What are you doing? This is
my
kitchen!”

“I know. I don't mean to barge in, but they told me to, Vicky's gran and the others. They want their tea, a cup of tea,” I burble.

She stares at me as if she can hardly believe her ears.

“They want a cup of tea,” she says slowly. “Oh well. Let's get our priorities right. A cup of tea, a can of beer, they'll make it better. Vicky's dead. Never mind, sip your tea, slurp your beer, have a party!” She starts rattling the tea caddy and jangling milk bottles.

“At least you know what it's like,” she says. “You love her as much as I do, don't you?”

More, I say silently.

“Oh, Jade,” she says, and she suddenly drops the milk bottle. Milk spatters her shoes, my skirt. We both blink stupidly.

“No use crying over spilt milk,” she says, and gives a wild snort of laughter. Then tears spurt down her cheeks.

She suddenly puts her arms round me and clings tight. I hug her back, both of us standing in the spreading white puddle.

“How are we going to bear it?” she says.

I don't know how.

At least there is this ritual to perform on the day of Vicky's funeral. But then there's the next day

They stretch out endlessly, time slowing down until I stop believing my own watch. I've slowed down too. Each step is like wading through thick mud, each mouthful of food remains in my mouth like chewing gum. Everything is such an effort that it takes me five minutes to brush my teeth or do up my shoes. When I talk, my voice sounds strangely distorted, as if I'm set on the wrong speed.

Everyone's kind to me at school but I can't always react the right way. I creep around in this fog while they rush around in the sunshine. Some of the girls still cry over Vicky but it's all in fits and starts. Some of them seem to relish the whole
idea of Vicky's death and keep asking me stuff about seeing her die. They want to know all the details. I say I can't remember. I can't. I can't. I can't.

Mr. Failsworth sends for me and we sit in his study, a tray of coffee and a plate of biscuits in front of me as if I'm a prospective parent. He talks the most terrible claptrap about Brief Lives and the Stages of Grief and Life Must Go On. He certainly goes on and on and on. I eat a chocolate biscuit to distract myself but something's gone wrong with my swallowing since Vicky died. I swallow all the time, gulp gulp gulp, it drives me crazy, but when I've got a mouthful of food I can't get my swallowing organized properly. I end up having a choking fit, spraying Mr. Failsworth with chocolate biscuit crumbs. I don't think he'll have me back for another little pep talk in a hurry.

Mrs. Cambridge has been giving me little talks too, but they're more like private chats. She says she understands exactly what I'm going through and that it must hurt horribly. She's being kind, I suppose. But how can she understand? And it doesn't hurt the way I thought it would. It's not sharp all the time. It's dull dull dull. I want it to hurt
more
. I can't even seem to cry now.

I heard Mum whispering to Dad, saying I was getting over it better than she'd thought, going to school and acting almost like normal.

It's scary that I've been replaced by this Zombie Brain and no one else has noticed.

The worst thing of all is that Vicky isn't here. I try and try and try to conjure her up. Nothing. Sometimes I pretend and talk to her but I know I'm doing it. It's just like an imaginary game and it won't work because I'm too old for Let's Pretend.

I don't know how to get her back. I sometimes think about going to join her, as she wanted. I think about ways but it's all so difficult. I'm not brave enough to go to the top of the multi-story car park and jump off. Besides, if you smatter yourself into little pulpy pieces maybe you stay that way in your afterlife. I've thought of hanging but the only ropes I can think of are the ones in the school gym and Mr. Lorrimer is always bouncing around in his trainers, keeping an eye on things. I'm not very good at knots anyway.

There are pills but that's hopeless at the moment because of my swallowing problem. It would take all day to manage an overdose. There's no guarantee I could be with Vicky anyway. Maybe she's disappeared for good now she's cremated.

I wish she'd been buried so I could go to her graveside. She'd have liked a grave with a white marble angel.

I try standing outside the school for ages in case she might be hovering where the car hit her. You can't walk on the pavement because it's knee deep in flowers, big new bunches on top of old
wilting ones. There are teddies and bunnies and little windmills and lots of letters. Some are smudged into blue blurs because it's rained since Vicky died, but others are in special plastic folders to keep their messages intact. There are photos of Vicky too, cut out of the local newspaper and mounted on card and bordered by glitter stars and sticker hearts. I stare at all these paper Vickys and they smile back mockingly.

“Talk to me!” I mutter. “Please, Vicky. I'll do anything. Anything at all. Just come back and talk to me.”

A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn round. It's Mr. Lorrimer. Oh God. Vicky's sent him.

“Poor Jade,” he says, patting my shoulder. He sees my horrified expression. He whips his hand away as if I'm a red-hot radiator. He's obviously scared I think he's touching me up.

“Well, I'll—I'll leave you in peace,” he says, starting to back away.

“Mr. Lorrimer—” My voice comes out as a croak. I can't believe I'm going to say this.

He pauses anxiously.

“Mr. Lorrimer, I've been thinking. I really would like to join your Fun Run Friday Club.”

He looks surprised. As well he might.

“I know I'm useless at running.”

“I wouldn't say that,” he says kindly, though it's exactly what any sane person would insist.

“It's just that Vicky wanted to join, and—”

“I see,” he says. “Well, I think it's an excellent
idea, Jade. Please come along next Friday. You'll be very welcome.”

“Even though I won't be able to keep up with anyone?”

“It's not about racing. It's about having fun running. However fast or however slowly. You can start off at the pace you find easiest, Jade.”

“Like a snail's pace?”

“We're not all jaguars, you know. You'll find a few fellow snails creeping along beside you.”

He smiles and then leaves me alone. Though I'm not alone. Vicky is grinning by my side.

“Oh, Vicky, I've missed you so.”

“You're going to
hate
the Fun Run Club!”

“I know.”

“Poor old Jade. And poor old me too. I'm getting fed up with this ghost lark. I've missed you too.”

I hold out my arms. I can't feel her, but she's here, part of me again.

T
his is it. Time for the Fun Run. Only this isn't fun and I can't run to save my life. Stupid expression. There are so many.
I nearly died. I look like death warmed up. It's killing me
. All these little death clichés curdling on my tongue.

I change into my shorts and T-shirt in the gym. They've been crushed up in my locker so they're terribly crumpled. The shorts don't even seem to fit anymore. The waistband sags and the legs flap baggily. I'll run right out of them if I'm not careful.

I haven't got the right sort of running trainers either, just bog-standard cheapo plimsolls, but I don't care. I'd need real wings on my shoes before it would make any difference.

This is going to be so humiliating. Julie Myers and Laura Moss are also getting changed. Julie's the girls' sports captain of the whole school, for God's sake, and beefy old Laura's almost as bad, in all the first teams and a serious swimmer too. I
bet her salmon-pink thighs alone weigh more than me. I feel so stupid and skinny. They're staring at me curiously, wondering what on earth I'm doing here.

I stumble out of the changing rooms and trudge to the playing fields. I already feel exhausted and I haven't even started yet. There's a whole group of Sporting Wonders stretching elaborately like they're about to compete in the Olympics. I think I'll simply slink away again.

Mr. Lorrimer's spotted me. He gives me a big friendly wave and bounces over.

“Jade! I'm so glad you came. How are you doing? Stupid question. Still, you might find it helps just a little to have a bit of exercise. Now, I gather running isn't your favorite activity, right?”

I nod fervently.

“Well, I should start off taking things very easy. Have a walk round the field a few times first.”

“Walk?”

“Briskly—not a window-shopping amble. It's to warm you up.”

I
am
warm. Too warm. My T-shirt is sticking to me.

“It's to get your circulation going,” says Mr. Lorrimer, as I blow upward into my fringe. “Here, have a drink first.”

He offers me a bottle of water. “You look as if you could do with a five-course meal too. Did you have lunch today, Jade?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“You're getting so skinny,” he says worriedly.

“Gee, I know, it's a real problem!” It's Fatboy Sam puffing up to us, alarmingly large in a great gray tracksuit.

Mr. Lorrimer laughs. “You've got a great sense of humor, Sam.”

“
Great
being the operative word,” says Fatboy. He raises his arms in a parody of muscle flexing. “Right! Watch Wonderboy jog!” He screws up his face and hurtles forward.

“Hey, hey! Hold on there. You need to walk for a bit first. You and Jade can keep each other company. But first whip that tracksuit off before you melt on the spot.”

“That's the point of it, Mr. Lorrimer. I want to burn up the fat.”

“You won't just burn, you'll
boil
. Off with it.”

“Oh, sir. Do I have to? I don't want to strip off in front of Jade, it'll embarrass me.”

I think he's fooling about but he does go even redder as he takes the tracksuit off. He's like an elephant stepping out of his skin.

“Why on earth are you here? You hate running, same as me,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I'm going to get fit, aren't I?” says Sam.

We realize we are hopelessly unfit. Just walking briskly round and round the field makes us both breathless.

“Maybe I don't really care about getting fit after all,” Sam puffs.

“Yeah, who wants muscles?” I say as the others streak past us effortlessly.

Our walk slows to a crawl by the third lap of the field.

“You look as if you both need winding up,” says Mr. Lorrimer, jogging past. “Come on, stride out, both of you—and then we'll try a little run.”

“I feel more like a little lie-down,” Sam gasps.

“Try exercising your legs more and your tongue less,” says Mr. Lorrimer.

He jogs off into the distance.

“Do you think he was a nerdy fatman like me in his youth?” Fatboy Sam puffs. “And then he joined a Fun Run Club and pow, he turned into Super Speedy Fitman?”

“Definitely,” I say dryly. Literally. I've no spit left in my mouth. All the moisture in my body is oozing out of my pores. Oh God, I hope my deodorant's working. I feel disgusting. Thank goodness I'm only walking with Fatboy Sam. And he's in a worse state than I am. He's glistening like a strawberry Jell-O, and no matter how many times he mops his forehead with his hankie he stays molten.

Three fitness freaks in Year Ten flash past and say something cruel about whales. They all crack up laughing. Sam laughs cheerily too.