Cookie

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘I’m not sure I can eat it all, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll have a little nosh, shall I?’ said Mum. ‘Oh chips, yummy yummy.’

  ‘In my tummy,’ I said automatically. ‘Mum . . . is Dad still mad?’

  ‘He’s OK now. He’s just nipped out to the office to check on something.’ She paused. ‘This new Water Meadows deal means a lot to him, Beauty. Maybe that’s why he’s so . . . tetchy at the moment.’ Mum’s voice sounded odd, like she was reading aloud. She wasn’t looking me in the eye.

  ‘That’s rubbish, Mum,’ I said. I nestled up close to her. ‘I’m sorry you got shouted at when it was my fault, getting him all worked up about the rabbit. He was so angry I thought he was going to whack me one!’

  ‘Your dad would never ever hit you, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘You’re his little Beauty.’

  She put her arms round me, knocking my glass of orange juice over. ‘Oh no! I’m so clumsy. We’ll have to change the sheets, otherwise it’ll look like you’ve wet the bed!’ said Mum, trying to joke again. Her smile was stretched so tight it looked as if her face might split in two.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I said, starting to cry.

  ‘There now, pet,’ said Mum, rescuing my crayons and drawing pad from my damp bed. ‘Oh, what a lovely chicken!’

  ‘I ate it, Mum,’ I confessed. ‘The real chocolate chicken. I ate it. It’s all gone.’

  ‘Even its little chocolate beak and claws?’ said Mum. ‘Well, good for you! You had to wait long enough for your tea.’

  She shook her head at the picture.

  ‘You’re so good at art, love. Can I keep it? We could frame it and hang it up in the kitchen.’

  ‘Well, I did it for Sam. You’re supposed to send your pictures in to the programme and then they show the best ones on the telly. But I think I’m a bit too old to send my picture in. It’s supposed to be a programme for very little kids. Don’t ever tell anyone I watch it, Mum.’

  ‘As if I would. It’s a lovely programme. I like it. So maybe it’s a programme for little kids and little mums. I like that Sam.’

  ‘So do I. And Lily.’ I sighed.

  ‘Oh, Beauty, I wish you could have your own rabbit. I’d give anything to change your dad’s mind. But there’s no way he’ll let you have any kind of pet, darling.’

  I put my head on my knees.

  ‘I hate him,’ I muttered.

  ‘No you don’t. He’s your dad and—’

  ‘And he loves me very much – not,’ I said. ‘If he really loved us he wouldn’t get mad and he wouldn’t shout at us and he’d let me have a rabbit.’

  ‘He doesn’t often shout,’ said Mum. ‘It’s just when he’s really stressed out. He can’t seem to help it. He doesn’t always mean it. And I’m sure he feels sorry afterwards.’

  ‘Yeah, like, I’m sorry, Dilly, my mouth just opens and out come all these awful words and I swear and say dreadful things but I can’t help it. Has he ever said something like that, Mum? Has he ever even apologized?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Mum smoothed my straggly hair, tucking it behind my ears.

  ‘Maybe I’ll ask Dad to get me boxing gloves for my birthday and then I’ll bash him one if he shouts at us,’ I said.

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Mum. ‘How about eating one little triangle of tuna sandwich, eh? Just a little nibble.’

  I tried a tiny bite. Then another. And then suddenly I was starving hungry and able to tuck into my tea. Mum had a triangle of tuna sand– wich too, and we shared out the chips.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish it was just you and me.’

  ‘Sh!’ Mum looked anxiously over her shoulder even though we knew Dad was at the Happy Homes office on the other side of town.

  When we’d finished our tea and I’d got ready for bed Mum stayed in my room and we read stories together. Mum’s mum, my nana, never read her any stories at all, so it’s fun for Mum reading them for the first time with me.

  We used to read lots of stories about fairies and then another series about a princess. Mum had just bought me a new princess book.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s not the same series. I’ve made a mistake. Typical me! It looks a bit queer and old-fashioned. It’s probably boring. We don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,’ said Mum.

  ‘I think it looks good,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ll start it off, OK?’

  We put the tray on the floor and Mum squashed in beside me. I started reading about this little girl, Sara Crewe. I was interested that it said right in the first paragraph that she was odd-looking. Later on she said she was one of the ugliest children she’d ever seen. I especially liked that part.

  Mum liked the bit where Sara’s father buys her a whole new set of clothes, and then another elaborate set for Sara’s new doll, Emily. Mum took her turn reading while I drew lots of velvet dresses and hats with feathers and fur coats and muffs and old-fashioned lace-trimmed underwear – a long row for Sara and a little row underneath for Emily.

  We got so absorbed we jumped violently when we heard the car draw up outside.

  ‘Oh, lordy, that’s Dad back. Quick, chuck your crayons on the floor and settle down to sleep, pet, OK?’

  Mum gave me a quick kiss, kicked my tray under the bed, switched off my light and rushed out of the room. I lay still. We’d forgotten to change my orange-juicy sheet and it felt uncomfortably damp and sticky.

  I listened out for shouting. I could hear Dad talking but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then I heard pad pad pad as he came up the stairs in his socks. My heart started thudding. I shut my eyes tight and tried to breathe deeply, as if I was asleep.

  I heard my door creak open.

  ‘Beauty?’ Dad whispered.

  I tried not to twitch. I breathed in and out, in and out, in and out . . .

  ‘Beauty!’ said Dad, very near me now. His head was so close I could feel his breath on me.

  ‘I think you’re awake,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure I saw your light on when I drove up.’

  Eyes shut, keep breathing, don’t flinch!

  ‘Oh, well. Never mind. You’re a very naughty girl, plaguing your old dad about pets, especially when I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. No wonder I get cross! But remember this, sweetheart. Your daddy loves you. You’re his special Beauty.’ His voice thickened as if he was about to cry.

  He gave me a kiss on my cheek. He stayed bent over me for a few seconds. I think he was hoping I’d put my arms around his neck. I kept them stiffly by my sides, my fists clenched. He sighed and then went out of my room, pulling the door to behind him.

  I still didn’t dare move, just in case he poked his head back in and caught me fidgeting. I stayed in exactly the same position, cramped and uncomfortable, until I heard the television downstairs. Then I dared stretch out. My arms and legs throbbed. I breathed out so deeply my nostrils quivered. My insides still hurt though, as if someone had taken my long wiggly intestines and tied knots up and down them, like a string of sausages. I clasped PJ against my sore tummy and eventually went to sleep.

  Four

  Dad had usually left for work by the time I got up in the morning. However, when I went downstairs for breakfast he was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading his newspaper. My tummy squeezed back into sausages even though Mum smiled at me reassuringly. She was looking extra-pretty in her shiny peach satin nightie and dressing gown, her long blonde hair falling past her shoulders, her neck and arms as smooth and white as ice cream.

  ‘Hi, poppet. Would you like an egg?’ she said.

  I shook my head, pouring myself a bowl of cornflakes.

  ‘I’ve got two flaky corns on my feet. Would you like to snack on them too?’ asked Dad, looking up from his paper.

  I made myself giggle, though he’d made that joke hundreds of times already. It came out like a little mouse snicker. Mum poured him another cup of coffee and gave him another round of toast. Dad flicked
it with his fingers.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dilly, this isn’t toasted properly. It’s meant to be toast, right? Shove it back in the toaster.’ Dad raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Your mother, Beauty! Not what you’d call a cook. Maybe it’s just as well you said no to that egg, because she hasn’t got a clue how to boil it.’

  I smiled uncomfortably. ‘There’s not time, anyway, Mum,’ I said, looking at the clock. ‘Shall I watch Dad’s toast while you go and get dressed?’

  ‘I’m taking you to school today, Beauty,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve got to pop into the Guildhall to see about this planning malarkey so I’ll drop you off on the way.’

  I sat chewing my cornflakes into mush. It was a small mouthful but it seemed to be swelling right up to the roof of my mouth, swilling in and out of my teeth, coating my tongue with orangey-gold slime. I tried swallowing but my throat wouldn’t work. I didn’t dare spit the cornflakes out into my bowl. I was doomed to keep them multiplying in my mouth until they spurted straight out of my ears.

  ‘Beauty? What are you pulling that silly face for? Aren’t you pleased I’m giving you a lift in the Merc? Make all your little friends envious, eh?’

  I nodded, incapable of speech. My nod was the biggest fib ever. I didn’t want Dad to take me to school. I especially didn’t want him to take me in his shiny silver Mercedes. Mercedes was my middle name. It caused almost as much hilarity as my first name. Skye suggested I should be called Ugly Skoda Cookson. This always made Skye and Emily and Arabella fall about laughing.

  ‘Say something, then, don’t just nod your head,’ said Dad.

  I swallowed desperately. Some of the cornflake slurp slid down the back of my throat.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I mumbled, taking a long drink of juice.

  The cornflakes were still such a soggy clump that I choked. I clamped my hand over my mouth while Mum patted me on the back. I leaned against her, rubbing my cheek against the soft silkiness of her nightie. I wished I was little enough for her to pick me up and hold me safe in her arms, still way too small for school.

  I cleaned my teeth and went to the toilet and stuck my arms into my brown blazer. Dad sighed when he saw me.

  ‘I don’t know! I fork out for the poshest girls’ school in the whole county and they want you all to wear that ugly uniform the colour of dog’s muck.’

  ‘Gerry!’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, honestly, why can’t it be pink or lilac or some pretty girly colour? She looks like Little Orphan Annie.’ Dad tousled my hair in exasperation. ‘At least Little Orphan Annie had curls. Can’t you do something with Beauty’s hair, Dilly? What about a perm?’

  ‘She’s still a little girl! And I think Beauty’s got lovely hair just as it is,’ said Mum.

  ‘You’d like to be a little curlynob, wouldn’t you, Beauty?’ said Dad. ‘Couldn’t you put it up in those roller things at night for her, Dilly?’

  ‘People don’t use rollers any more!’ said Mum. ‘Not since bouffant hairdos went out of fashion.’

  ‘Oh well, pardon me, I’m just a sad old bloke who hasn’t got a clue about fashion,’ said Dad.

  There was an edge to his voice. I held my breath, wondering if he was going to start ranting all over again, but he just shook his head at Mum and slapped her lightly on the bottom.

  ‘That’s right, you put me in my place, Dilly,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, then, Beauty, let’s get you to school.’

  There was no way I could get out of it. I slumped down low on the soft leather back seat as Dad tooted his horn and shouted and swore his way through the traffic.

  ‘Idiot! Call yourself a driver! Come on, stop dithering, I’m late already,’ Dad fumed, honking at the car in front of us.

  ‘Tell you what, Dad, I could jump out here. It would only take me two minutes to walk up the road. Then you could go straight into town to the Guildhall.’

  ‘What? No, don’t talk nonsense, darling, I’m delivering you right to the school gates,’ said Dad.

  There was no point wasting breath trying to persuade him. He drew up absolutely spit-spot in front of the school gates, even though there was an official notice on the gatepost warning parents not to park there. I didn’t dare point this out to Dad, but lots of the mothers and fathers delivering their own girls to school were staring, some even raising their eyebrows and shaking their heads.

  The Mercedes was always a noticeable car. Now it seemed as big as a double-decker bus. I undid my seat belt, struggled with the door handle and hurtled out of the car.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, Dad,’ I gabbled.

  ‘Hey, don’t I get a kiss from my Beauty?’ Dad called loudly from his open window.

  Arabella and Emily were standing watching. They nudged each other, sniggering, as I kissed Dad’s cheek.

  ‘Bye bye, Beauty!’ he called.

  Arabella and Emily were practically wetting themselves.

  ‘Hello hello, Ugly!’ said Arabella. ‘So Big Daddy brought you to school today, eh?’

  ‘Don’t you know you’re not supposed to park outside the gates? Does your dad think he’s so special in that great big silver sardine tin that rules don’t apply to him?’ said Emily.

  I tried to march past but they took an arm each, hanging onto me. I craned round and saw Dad waving at me cheerily, thinking I’d met up with my two best friends – instead of my two worst enemies. No, Skye was the worst enemy of all. There she was, singing and dancing in the playground, showing off some silly routine she’d learned from the television, tossing her long blonde hair and wiggling her hips. She should have looked ridiculous but she didn’t. She sounded like a real singer and strutted like a real dancer. You couldn’t help watching her. It wasn’t just me. We were all watching, everyone in the whole playground, and all the girls were wishing they were Skye, even me.

  Skye finished with a flourish, arms up, as if expecting applause. Some of the girls started clapping as if it was a real show and Skye was the star. Rhona clapped too, begging Skye to show her how to do the little skippy strutty bit.

  ‘Show us too, Skye!’ said Arabella, dropping my arm. ‘You’re so good you ought to go on Watchbox!’

  ‘Hey, Skye, did you see old Ugly coming to school in her dad’s silver rubbish car?’ said Emily, giving me a little shove.

  ‘Oh my, the Flashmobile,’ said Skye, shading her eyes, pretending to be dazzled. ‘Ooh, let’s all act like we’re impressed.’

  She pranced around, Arabella and Emily copying her. Rhona went on skipping and strutting, working her way over to me.

  ‘I’m useless at this lark,’ she said cheerily. She glanced at Skye and Emily and Arabella. ‘Take no notice, they’re just being silly,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said shakily.

  ‘You are coming to my birthday party, aren’t you, Beauty?’ she asked.

  I nodded shyly.

  ‘Ooh! You haven’t really asked Ugly, have you?’ said Skye, putting her hands on her hips. ‘You are a total ninny, Rhona. We don’t want creepy old Ugly.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Rhona. She reached out and squeezed my hand. Her brown eyes looked into mine. Her cheeks were very pink, maybe from the dancing. ‘I’m so glad you’re coming, Beauty.’

  She really sounded as if she meant it, as if she wanted us to be friends. Then the bell rang and Rhona pulled a face. ‘Oh, blow. Lesson time,’ she said.

  I pulled a face and sighed too, though I was always relieved when the bell went. I liked lessons. Miss Woodhead was kind but very strict, so we weren’t allowed to mess about and chat in the classroom. We had to sit up straight at our desks and listen carefully and put our hands up if we wanted to say anything. I could cope with lessons easy-peasy. It was the playtimes that were the problem, before school and mid-morning break and the endless lunch hour.

  We had to play outside unless it was pouring with rain, but we were allowed in if we needed to go to the toilet. The minute I’d finished lunch I rushed to the cloakrooms and locked myself in the end cubicle in the toilets
. I’d tucked my copy of A Little Princess inside my school blazer. I sat peacefully for more than half an hour, at Miss Minchin’s Seminary with Sara. The eldest girl at the school, spiteful Lavinia, was so like Skye.

  I wished I was more like Sara, who never seemed the slightest bit upset by Lavinia and all her catty remarks. Sara was loved by all the other girls, especially the little ones. They hung on her every word and called her a princess and begged her to tell them stories. I imagined myself sauntering next door, going into the Reception class, sitting on one of their squashy cushions and telling them one of my stories.

  They’d think I’d gone mental. The little girls didn’t seem to like me any more than the big girls.

  Sudden tears prickled in my eyes and splashed the insides of my glasses. I gave a monumental sniff and wiped my glasses on my blouse.

  ‘Don’t you dare cry,’ I told myself fiercely. ‘Stop being so stupidly sorry for yourself. Lots of people like you. Rhona likes you. She’s asked you to her birthday party. She wants to be friends.’

  I felt a lot better – until I heard two girls from our class, Louise and Poppy come into the toilets. I knew it was them because they kept calling out their silly nicknames, Lulu and Poo-poo. I think I’d almost sooner be called Ugly than Poo-poo, but Poppy didn’t seem to mind at all. They kept up this long silly conversation, shouting to each other from their individual cubicles.

  ‘Hey, Lulu, what are you going to give Rhona for her birthday?’

  ‘I thought I’d maybe give her one of those special stuffed bears with a recording inside its tummy, Poo-poo. I could make it sing Happy Birthday.’

  ‘Great idea, Lulu. Maybe we could give her two bears? I could give her a boy and you could give her a girl?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, Poo-poo – thought it was my idea first. Don’t tell anyone else or Rhona will get heaps of birthday bears.’

  ‘How many of us are going, Lulu?’

  ‘She’s invited everyone, Poo-poo, the whole class.’