Katy

by Jacqueline Wilson

  It felt great to heave it all out of me. After I’d sent the email I felt that wonderful feeling of peace you get when you’ve been violently sick. I didn’t even have the strength to haul myself back on to the bed. I fell asleep slumped sideways in my wheelchair.

  Izzie discovered me in the morning and was appalled.

  ‘I think it’s all too much for you, Katy. It would be madness to go into school today. You need to stretch out in bed and have a proper sleep. Perhaps wait a couple of weeks and build up your strength first,’ she fussed.

  ‘No way! It would be like starting as a new girl all over again. I’m fine, really I am,’ I protested.

  ‘Well then, how about mornings only for a while?’

  ‘Definitely not. I especially need to go in the afternoons,’ I said. I’d looked properly at the timetable. All the PE sessions were in the afternoon.

  ‘You’re the most obstinate girl in all the world,’ said Izzie. ‘But maybe that works in your favour now. Your dad and I are very proud of you.’

  So I went back to school on Tuesday. And Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. I stayed desperately tired and I ached all over and I developed dreadful blisters on my hands from all the wheelchair-pushing, but Izzie bought me fingerless leather gloves that actually looked incredibly cool.

  Mrs Slater gave me special maths tuition whenever she’d set the others work. I still couldn’t get my head round these new problems so she went back over sums I’d learned in Year Six, even Year Five, and at last my mind whirred into action. It was as if she’d given the batteries in my brain a good shaking to get them working again. Then when I could whizz through all the old sums she started adding a few new ones, and I coped with them OK. She seemed as pleased as I was when I started getting them right.

  I managed all the other lessons too, and especially enjoyed ‘science’, when I chatted about books half the time with Miss Lambert. I did well in Mrs Levy’s class too, but my favourite lesson was PE. I kept practising with Mr Myers, who raised the net a little each session – and soon I was scoring goals when it was nearly at the proper height.

  Mr Myers started bouncing the ball near me to see if I could stop wheeling, catch it, and then hang on to it until I was ready to pass it to someone else or try shooting myself. It sounded easy enough, but it was incredibly difficult to get the rhythm right.

  I kept trying but I simply didn’t have the knack. I found it especially humiliating when the Myball teams were having a half-time break and watching me. I knew Eva and Maddie and Sarah were all smirking as I missed the ball again and again.

  ‘Katy, if I helped you, could you manage to sit on the floor with your back against the wall?’ Mr Myers asked softly in my ear.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But I don’t think it’ll help me much, so what’s the point?’ I said.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said.

  He lifted me very carefully and sat me down on a gym mat, making sure I was safely propped up.

  ‘Right, I want a volunteer,’ he called. ‘Who’s one of the best at Myball?’

  Lots of them waved their hands in the air – including Eva.

  ‘OK, Eva, you go first,’ said Mr Myers.

  He wheeled my chair into the middle of the floor.

  ‘Right, Eva, hop in. Let’s see how you can manage Wheelie Myball.’

  Eva went pink. ‘Oh sir, do I have to? I don’t want to sit in Katy’s wheelchair!’

  ‘Give it a go. Be a good sport,’ said Mr Myers. He said it lightly, but there was an edge to his voice.

  So Eva climbed into my wheelchair, grimacing as she did so, as if she thought I’d wet the seat. Mr Myers threw her a ball and she caught it.

  ‘There! I can do it, easy-peasy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, any fool can catch the ball if they’re stationary,’ said Mr Myers. ‘Try wheeling and then I’ll throw it. And then have a go at shooting. See how you do.’

  Oh joy! Eva couldn’t catch it once. She dropped it again and again. She couldn’t control the wheelchair at all. And then when Mr Myers made her try shooting she was useless at that too, and couldn’t get the ball anywhere near the net.

  ‘There. It’s not actually as easy-peasy as you’d think,’ said Mr Myers.

  I wanted to throw my arms round him and kiss him. It was a moment of total triumph. And suddenly half a dozen people wanted a go in my wheelchair, and they all found it difficult to manoeuvre and lost all their ball skills. Ryan tried too, and was equally useless.

  ‘Wow, this is impossible. You’re a real star, Katy,’ he said.

  I didn’t point out that I’d had ages to get used to my chair and I’d been practising with the ball for a long time too. I just smiled.

  ‘So, next lesson I think it’s time you joined in a game of Myball, Katy,’ said Mr Myers. ‘Do you fancy having a go?’

  Did I ever! I was nervous at first, wondering how it would work out, whether I’d be overwhelmed – but it was wonderful. The others were nervous of me, scared they might bump into me or somehow knock me out of my wheelchair, so I could dart among them and score yet another goal while they hung back.

  ‘We’re just being nice to you because you’re disabled,’ Eva puffed, her face a mottled salmon pink.

  ‘Good!’ I said. ‘Because my team’s winning!’

  I was in Ryan’s team. He’d picked me first! We were both the highest scorers, five goals each! So we high-fived each other and everyone in our team cheered.

  My email to Dexter was in bold capital letters that night. I never got any reply from him, but I kept on writing. It was as if I were keeping a diary just for him. Perhaps he didn’t even bother to read it. But if he did, I knew he’d understand.

  The games of MyBall helped change my status in class, especially with the boys. I was Katy the ace Myball player, not Katy the girl in the wheelchair. We even played our own version of Myball in the playground at break, and they always asked me to join in.

  They were sometimes a little rough now and Izzie exclaimed at the bruises on my legs, the scratches on my arms.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Katy!’ she said, dabbing at me with Savlon. ‘You must stop all this rough-housing. You know you have to take particular care of your legs. One of these cuts could easily go septic without you realizing.’

  ‘They’re scratches, Izzie. Don’t fuss!’ I said.

  She did fuss though, and made me show my legs to Dad.

  ‘You’re still my harum-scarum tomboy, chickie,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t go too mad. But I’m glad you’re having fun.’

  But the fun was over soon enough. In one game of Myball I happened to wheel straight into Eva. It was an accident. OK, maybe it was accidentally on purpose, but she was deliberately blocking me, stopping me aiming at the net. So I barged forward and knocked her out the way. She overbalanced and sat down on her bum. She wasn’t really hurt at all. She just looked a bit silly. I couldn’t help it if some of my team laughed. Me especially.

  She didn’t say anything much at the time. She just sloped off after the game, muttering darkly to Maddie and Sarah.

  I forgot all about it until the next PE lesson. Mr Myers came up to me. For once he looked awkward, his dark eyes not quite meeting mine.

  ‘I thought maybe you and I could practise hitting a ball with a rounders bat, Katy. Would you like to do that?’ he said.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But can’t I play Myball?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mrs Matthews has had a word. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea. She’s treating it as a health and safety issue.’

  ‘What? But I’m fine, you know I am. And even if I tumble out of my wheelchair it doesn’t really hurt,’ I protested.

  ‘I think maybe Mrs Matthews is worried about other pupils being hurt,’ said Mr Myers.

  He didn’t look in Eva’s direction. But I did. She was smirking triumphantly. She’d told on me. Perhaps her wretched mother had emailed Mrs Matthews. I hated Eva, I
hated her mother, I hated Mrs Matthews.

  Mr Myers did his best with me. He bowled me balls and tried his hardest to turn it into our own private game, but we both knew it was a poor substitute for a proper game with everyone else. I’d so loved being part of a Myball team and now I couldn’t take part any more.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Ryan. ‘You can still play games with us in the playground.’

  But I wasn’t even allowed to do that. The teacher on playground duty came over and said apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, Katy, but I don’t think you should be joining in. Someone might get hurt.’

  I wrote a long and desperate email to Dexter that night. I said I’d never go back to Springfield again because they wouldn’t let me be an ordinary pupil and I couldn’t stand always having to be an isolated onlooker. But in the morning I dragged myself up and got ready all the same.

  ‘Where are you going, Katy?’ Cecy asked, when I set off determinedly down the corridor as soon as we got to school.

  ‘I’m going to see Mrs Matthews,’ I said fiercely.

  ‘Oh goodness!’ said Cecy. ‘Are you sure? You’re not really supposed to see her without a proper appointment and she’s always very busy before school starts.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing her.’

  ‘Look, I know you’re really angry, and it’s ever so unfair, though I don’t quite get why you want to be in a Myball team so much. It’s crazy – I’d give anything to get out of having to play. I hate it. It’s so rough and everyone barges into you, and last time someone threw the ball right at my head and it really hurt.’

  ‘Oh, poor Cecy,’ I said. ‘But that’s exactly it: Myball is a rough game and people do get knocked about a bit. I’m going to tell her that. I’m going to make her change her mind.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone can change Mrs Matthews’ mind,’ said Cecy anxiously.

  She was right. The head frowned at me when I bowled straight into her study without waiting for her to call me in.

  ‘Ah, Katy. I’m very busy, dear. Can you come back later?’ she said, peering at various reports, her glasses right on the end of her nose.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I need to talk to you now, Mrs Matthews,’ I said, trying hard to keep my voice polite. ‘Why have you banned me from taking part in Myball?’

  Mrs Matthews put the reports down and hitched her glasses up her nose so she could focus on me properly. Her frown had deepened.

  ‘I haven’t banned you exactly, Katy. I just don’t think it’s very wise for you to take part. You could easily get hurt – or indeed you could unintentionally hurt another pupil,’ she said.

  ‘It’s because of Eva, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I bet she complained. She’s always got it in for me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Katy. I don’t like your tone. And I thought Eva was your friend?’

  ‘No. That’s just it. You thought Eva was my friend. She’s never ever been my friend,’ I said, not quite as polite now.

  ‘Well, I don’t have time for this childish nonsense. I’ve made a decision. I don’t want you joining in any contact sports either in PE or in the playground. I have to think of the safety issues.’

  ‘But anyone can get knocked over by anyone else. Look at rugby! Or you can get whacked about the legs playing hockey. It’s so unfair! Everybody else can join in and take a risk. Why can’t I?’

  ‘You know why, Katy. Now stop this silliness and run along.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep telling me to run when it’s obvious I can’t. And I’m sure there’s some regulation that says you have to treat disabled people the same as everyone else,’ I said.

  ‘And there’s also a regulation that says the head teacher can discipline or indeed exclude any pupil being persistently difficult and disruptive,’ said Mrs Matthews briskly. ‘I don’t think you realize how hard we are all trying to accommodate you. So please stop this silly arguing and go to your classroom.’

  So that was that. I couldn’t win. And I couldn’t play Myball any more.

  Mr Myers tried very hard to keep me feeling part of each PE lesson. He devised a game where I stayed sedentary and batted the ball while one person bowled at me and two others fielded, but it wasn’t anywhere near as exciting as Myball.

  ‘Here, Katy,’ said Mr Myers at the end of PE. He handed me a piece of paper with a name and phone number. ‘I’ve made a few enquiries and this guy here runs special wheelchair basketball sessions at a health club in Markover. It’s held on Friday nights. I know it’s a bit of a journey, but maybe your dad could drive you over. I think you’d find it fun.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Myers,’ I said, because he was really trying to help me, but I tucked the paper in the bottom of my book bag and didn’t make any attempt to get in touch with this guy. I didn’t want to do ‘special’ basketball with a load of disabled strangers. Probably most of them were old and helpless and they were just chucking balls about as gentle therapy.

  I didn’t want to define myself as disabled. I wanted to be me.

  School didn’t get any easier. I still had to get up much earlier than anyone else to manage my washing and dressing – and I could see it would get harder the older I got. Eva and co. were already experimenting with elaborate new hairstyles and make-up. If I tried to fiddle around like that I’d have to start getting up at four in the morning.

  School itself was mostly OK, but it was still exhausting keeping up with all the others, showing them I was just as good as they were. I was still absolutely exhausted when I got home every day. I didn’t always have to go to bed straight away but I certainly couldn’t stay up much later than supper. Izzie gave Jonnie and Dorry and Phil their bath while Clover and Elsie helped me into my pyjamas and got me tucked up in bed.

  ‘And then we’ll read you a story, Katy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Can I read it to you? Mum says I’m good at reading aloud. Did you know that, Katy?’ Elsie babbled. She laid all her favourite books in a line on my bed as if she were playing Patience. ‘Go on, choose which one you want.’

  I didn’t really want to choose any of them. I’d have much sooner Elsie buzzed off so I could have a peaceful chat with Clover just as we used to. But somehow I couldn’t be mean to Elsie now.

  ‘Oh, Winnie-the-Pooh. I absolutely love those stories,’ I said, knowing that they were the ones Elsie liked most. ‘Could you possibly read me a chapter, Elsie?’

  So Elsie sat cross-legged on the end of my bed each night, reading me chapter after chapter. She did read aloud well, and she had different voices for each of the characters. She had a jolly, fat voice for Pooh; a tiny, squeaky voice for Piglet; a sad, sighing voice for Eeyore; and she even tried to do Australian voices for Kanga and Roo. Sometimes Clover and I got the giggles listening to her, but we simply pretended we were laughing at the story, which satisfied Elsie.

  They always settled me down carefully, tucking me up under the duvet and switching off my bedside lamp, and then they’d tiptoe away with elaborate care. I’d sometimes sit up again and write another email to Dexter. More often I’d fall asleep straight away – but I’d nearly always wake up in the middle of the night.

  That was the worst time. All my courage and resolution leaked away. I just lay uncomfortably in the dark, so sad and angry and resentful, feeling like a half-person whose life had finished already. I cried sometimes, which was always a mistake, because I’d end up with a splitting headache and red puffy eyes. I could cry Niagara Falls and it still wouldn’t make any difference. The accident had happened. I couldn’t walk.

  I did walk sometimes, in my dreams. I ran, I danced, I swam – and then I’d wake up and maybe for a second or two I’d forget and try to jump out of bed. Each time I remembered, it was sharply painful.

  School days were hard work but in a way they were better than Saturdays. We obviously didn’t go to the secret garden now. Dad and Izzie tried harder to do things with the children rather than leave us to our own devices. Dad often went swimming on Saturday m
ornings with the littlies, which they loved. Izzie found a pottery class for children and took Clover and Elsie and me there. It was mostly for little kids Elsie’s age or even younger. Clover didn’t seem to mind and loved messing around with the clay, taking immense pains painting her little pots once they were fired, but I felt much too old. I wasn’t much good at it either. My own pot went horribly lopsided, its lid didn’t fit properly and the rays of all my painted suns were too watery and dribbled down the sides.

  I stopped going. Clover immediately offered to stop going too, but I knew how much she loved the pottery classes, and she and Elsie wanted to make lots more pots for Christmas presents for the whole family.

  ‘OK, I’ll drop you two off at pottery and then Katy and I can go shopping,’ said Izzie.

  It was OK the first time. We went round the shopping centre and Izzie bought a new scarf and treated me to a stripy sweatshirt, and then we hung out in McDonald’s until it was time to go and collect the girls. But we couldn’t buy stuff every week and it was a bit pointless going round and round the same shops anyway.

  ‘Let’s just go home,’ I said the third week.

  So that’s what we did. It was very quiet in the house, just Izzie and me. She settled down to her boring old handbag-making, setting up shop on the kitchen table with all her bits of suede and leather.

  ‘You come and keep me company at the other end of the table,’ said Izzie.

  I got my homework out and tried to concentrate. I juggled all my books, swapping from maths to English to history. I still had so much catching up to do. Most of the teachers set me extra work now. I knew it was simply to help me, not a punishment – but it felt like one.

  I couldn’t seem to concentrate no matter which book I picked up. I tried for fifteen minutes, until all the lines of text started wriggling about like worms, and then I lost it altogether, threw three books on the floor and burst into tears.

  In the old days before the accident Izzie would always have had a right old go at me if I lost my temper. But now she picked my books up, gave me a box of tissues, and made us both a mug of hot chocolate. She went the whole hog with whipped cream and tiny marshmallows. I couldn’t help cheering up a little.