Vicky Angel (9 page)

“Moby Dick, that's me,” he says, and mimes spouting through his blowhole.

The boys laugh again and speed off.

“You're always clowning, Fatboy.”

“Better to have them laughing with me, not at me.”

I look at him. Not the big red Jell-O, but the boy inside.

“I get it,” I say softly. “Sorry … Sam.”

He grins at me.

“I'm afraid I'm going to wipe that smile off your face,” says Mr. Lorrimer, already lapping us. “You're both well and truly warmed up now. Try half a lap of running.”

“Can't we have a bit of a rest first?” Sam suggests.

“Then you'll have to warm up again!” says Mr. Lorrimer. “Come on, both of you. Run a little. Nice easy pace.”

Sam screws up his face as he starts. I clench my fists and try to force it.

“No, you guys. Relax. Don't grit your teeth. Loosen up. Float!”

“Oh, sure, I'm built for floating,” Sam gasps, keeling this way and that.

“Try to run straight, Sam. Straight bodies too. Don't scrunch up so you're even smaller, Jade. Run tall.”

He jogs effortlessly beside us, practically marking time, while we lumber and gasp.

“I can't breathe!” Sam moans.

“Yes you can! As long as you can talk you're doing fine.”

I can't even manage that. I gurgle and groan until Mr. Lorrimer takes pity on us and lets us walk for a bit.

“This is meant to be good for us?” I pant.

“I am definitely having a heart attack,” says Sam.

“Well, don't count on me to give you the kiss of life.”

“I know an easier way of losing weight—cutting off both my legs. And it would hurt less,” says Sam, rubbing his legs. “I'm sure I've got shin-splints.”

“I haven't got a clue what that is, but
I've
got stress fractures,” I say.

We soldier on, fantasizing injuries. It's still pure torture but it's good to have someone to groan along with. Vicky always streaks ahead and shows off—

“Jade? What is it? Have you got a stitch?”

I shake my head, unable to explain.

“Is it Vicky?” Sam asks delicately.

I stare at him in surprise. I didn't expect him to understand. It's weird. I'm starting to
like
Fatboy Sam.

Maybe it's because we're both so hung up on Vicky. I don't know where she is. I thought she'd fly along with me. She's the only reason I'm making a fool of myself fun running. Maybe she'll be waiting for me by her flowers.

I shower quickly and rush off. There are more fresh flowers, tight pink rosebuds and lots of
lilies, large and white and waxy, with their overwhelming funeral smell.

“The local florist must be having a field day,” Vicky says, landing at my feet right in front of me so I have to stop dead.

She laughs.

“Stopped dead
by
the dead. Or undead, I suppose.
Is
that what they call spooks? It's like being an ethnic minority. There's so many nasty names.”

“You're not a spook. You're Vicky.”

“Little Vicky Angel,” she says, putting her hands together in mock prayer. She turns her head, peering round at her back. “I can't make wings. I keep trying to invent them, lovely rustling feathery ones, but I can't manage so much as a bit of budgie fluff. Oh well. I
can
do the rest. Watch.”

Her black top and jeans bleach to the snowiest white while her hair lifts to form a perfect golden-red halo. She looks at the flowers beneath her pearly boots and waves her arm in the air. Rosebuds circle her neck, slide up and down on her wrist and stud every finger. White lilies cloak her fragrantly, swaying round her as she moves, regally, just like a real angel.

Then she suddenly straddles her legs, tosses her head, points one boot and leers.

“Hey, now I'm Elvis, right? All that white cloak stuff was way over the top. Wonderfully tacky, definitely late Elvis.” She starts a spot-on Presley
imitation, wiggling her hips in her white angel flares and turning the pearl boots into electric blue suede shoes.

I have to run away before I crack up laughing.

“Wait for me! Haven't you done enough running today?”

Vicky swoops above me, kicking off her suede shoes so that they spiral into the air, tearing off her flowers until they flutter like confetti.

“Where were
you
on the Fun Run? I only did it for you. But you cleared off.”

“I was there, all set to run with you.
You
were the one who went off, with that stupid Fatboy oaf.”

“Sam's OK.”

“Oooh—Sam!”

“Shut up, Vic.”

“You can't ever shut me up now. I can go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on—” She's right by my ear, shouting into my head.

“Stop it!”

“And on and on and on and on!”

“You're driving me crazy.”

“That's what ghosts are supposed to do. And on and on and on and on and on and—”

“Jade?” A car pulls up beside me, startling me still. I've been shaking my head violently to get away from Vicky's voice. Now the street shakes instead. Everything blurs.

“Jade, are you all right?”

It's Miss Gilmore, English and drama. Oh God, I hope I wasn't talking out loud to Vicky. She's standing right beside Miss Gilmore, eyes gleaming, eager to see what happens next.

“I'm OK, thanks,” I mumble.

“Would you like a lift home?”

That sounds a wonderful idea. I'm tired out after all the running. I long to get into Miss Gilmore's car and drive off, but Vicky is glaring at me, shaking her head.

“It's kind of you, but I'm fine walking.”

“How are you doing, Jade?”

I shrug.

“I thought you read Vicky's ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’ beautifully. It was almost as if you
were
Vicky. You know I've started up this Drama Club? Your name was down for it, but then it was crossed out.”

“I—changed my mind.”

“Can't you change it back? I think you'd be brilliant.”

The word shines in the air—but Vicky is still glaring.

“I'm not sure, Miss Gilmore.”

She thinks I'm shy. “Why not come next week, Jade, just to give it a try? Some of the girls in your class come. Madeleine and Sarah.”

Vicky sighs impatiently. She pushes her way right through Miss Gilmore, emerging weirdly out of her navy sweatshirt and trousers, still in her startlingly fluorescent white. She takes hold
of my head with her ghostly hands and tries to shake it to say no.

“Jade? Have you hurt your neck?”

“It's … just a bit stiff.”

“And I'm a
big
stiff and you're
not
going to get involved with all that dreary drama stuff! That wasn't part of the deal at all! It was
because
of the drama stuff that—”

I can't let her say it.

“I'm sorry,” I hiss at Miss Gilmore, and then I rush off. Vicky runs beside me, doing aerial ladder steps of triumph.

I run till I turn the corner and then collapse against the wall.

“What's the matter?” Vicky asks.

“I feel awful.”

“
You
feel awful! What about me?”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“You haven't been acting very sorry. All that huffing and puffing with stupid Fatboy Sam!”

“I'll stay away from Sam.”

“
Fatboy
Sam.”

“Absolutely Grotesquely Ginormous Fatter-than-fat-boy Sam.”

“Right! That's better,” says Vicky, grinning. “Shall I come back to your house? I'll race you.”

She spirals up in the air and leaves me way behind.

S
o now I know how it has to be. It's not really so very different from the way it was when Vicky was alive. She wanted all my attention then. She's got it now.

It takes a little while for people to cotton on. Especially Fatboy Sam. He hangs around waiting for me after lessons, he tries to sit next to me at lunch, he's there waiting when I walk home from school.

“Get rid of that creep!” Vicky commands.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” I say. Vicky's frowning, furious. I take a deep breath. “Sorry,
Fatboy
. I want to walk home by myself.”

He stares at me. I feel bad when I see his face. I can't look him in the eye. I stare past him at Vicky's flowers. They're running rampant now, crowding the gutters and clogging the drains so that there's a little flood whenever it rains. Someone started to clear the old rotting bouquets
but there were violent protests. People meekly cross the road now and walk on the other side so that Vicky's flowers stay unsullied. She's the only one who walks there now, tiptoeing through her tulips, dancing on daisies, romping all over her roses. Sometimes she pauses, reading some of the letters, looking at the photos, bending to touch a teddy. I've seen her cry, mourning herself. Other days she swaggers around counting the tributes, crowing that she must be the most mourned girl in the town, the whole
country
. There's been a one-minute spot on local television. Dad videoed it for me. Whenever I watch it Vicky is there too, admiring herself. But sometimes she's in a mad mood and she kicks the flowers, shuffling and stamping as if they're autumn leaves, reading out, “Vicky, I'll always be dreaming of you,” in a silly scoffing voice. “Well, dream on, darling, I'd never have wasted my breath on you when I was alive.”

She's in that mood now, pelting Fatboy with phantom teddies and transparent roses. She's yelling obscenities at him, dodging backward and forward.

“What are you looking at?” Fatboy says.

“You!”

“No. It's as if … Do you pretend Vicky's still here sometimes?”

“No!”

“Just walk away! Who does that creep think he
is? Nosy old Wobbleguts. Say it to him.
Say
it!” Vicky insists.

So I say it and run past, though I feel so mean.

“
Why
do we have to be horrid to him, Vic?” I ask when we're nearly home. “He
likes
you. That's why he's hanging round me. To help me. He acts like he understands.”

“Who cares?” says Vicky. “Honestly. What is it with you and Fatboy? Do you fancy him, is that it?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“I'm not the one acting all cow-eyed and crazy whenever that pig comes grunting near me.”

“Don't! Don't talk about him like that. Why are you so
angry
?”

“Why? I'm meant to be thrilled that I'm dead, yeah?”

“OK, OK, keep your hair on.” I look at her, expecting her to send her entire head of hair spinning into space, but she droops suddenly, leaning against me.

“Sorry, Jade. I don't mean to go on like that. It just gets to me sometimes. Especially when you're chatting to people and I'm stuck with no one to talk to.”

“You can always talk to me. It's OK, Vicky.” I put my arm round her as best I can. “I don't want to talk to anyone else. Just you.”

Fatboy Sam seems to have got the message. He doesn't follow me round school or wait for me
afterward. When he sees me coming he walks smartly in the opposite direction. Well, as smartly as shambling Sam can manage.

But there's still the Fun Run Friday Club. He's there and I'm there and Mr. Lorrimer expects us to jog along together. Sam pretends he's having trouble with his trainers and hangs back while I walk on, and then he walks about twenty paces behind me, though Mr. Lorrimer keeps gesturing toward him to catch me up. I start running and Sam runs way behind, though he has to jog on the spot when I stop with a stitch.

“Hey, Jade, what's with you and Sam?” Mr. Lorrimer asks.

“Nothing,” I say, clutching my side.

“Bend over. The stitch will go in a minute. What do you mean, nothing? You can't kid me. Have you two had a tiff?”

“No! Look, he's nothing to do with me, Mr. Lorrimer. He's just Fatboy Sam.”

Vicky cheers.

Mr. Lorrimer frowns.

“Come on, Jade, give the boy a break. I didn't think you'd be one of the name-callers.”

I feel awful. I care what Mr. Lorrimer thinks of me. I care what Sam thinks of me too. It's just that I care about Vicky
more
.

I start running again though the stitch is still there. Mr. Lorrimer runs along beside me. I slow down. He slows too. There's no way I can run faster than him. I can't shake him off.

“Why do you think Sam joined the club in the first place?”

“I don't know,” I puff.

Because he wanted to lose weight? Get fit?

“Because he wanted to keep you company. He saw your name on the Fun Run list. He knew it would be hard on you without Vicky.”

“My heart bleeds,” Vicky interrupts rudely. “Puh-lease! Don't you dare soften, Jade. You are
not
getting stuck with Fatboy Sam.”

I'm not stuck. He lags behind like a long-distance shadow. Mr. Lorrimer gives up and dashes off. I run. I walk. I run. I walk. Vicky flies and cartwheels, flies and cartwheels. She's having fun. I want to have fun with her. She's the reason why I'm doing this stupid running. But it's not like last week. It's boring.

“How can you possibly be bored when you're with me!” Vicky says indignantly.

She won't leave me alone now. She's there all the time. She squashes up beside me in lessons and won't let me listen. When I try to write she seizes the pen.

“Give it a rest, you sad little swot! It's OK, they're not expecting you to do any proper work. You're still grieving, right?”