The Worry Web Site

by Jacqueline Wilson

  “We do so see her!” I shouted. “We see her lots and lots and lots, so you can just shut up and stay away from me and my family.”

  I rushed into a cubicle and locked the door and wouldn't come out for ages. In fact Dad had to come into the ladies' room to get me out and it was dead embarrassing and everyone was staring.

  I managed to hold things in until I was in bed that night and then I cried and cried and cried. I tried to cry quietly but I woke Hannah.

  “Are you crying because you've been so bad?” she whispered. She had been awestruck by my behavior.

  “I'm not crying. I've just got a cold,” I snuffled, blowing my nose.

  I really did get a cold the next day and I made such a fuss that Dad let me stay off school. Auntie Evie up the road came to keep an eye on me. When she dozed off watching a soap opera after lunch I crept into the hall and made a phone call—to my mum.

  Mum didn't know who I was at first.

  Well, she did. She just didn't recognize my voice and said, “Who?” suspiciously as if it was someone playing a joke on her.

  “It's me, Mum.” I paused. I wondered if I was going to have to add, “You know. Holly. Your daughter.”

  “What do you want, Holly? Is something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. It's Dad.”

  “Well, what about him? He's not ill, is he? Because I can't really have you girls to stay at the moment as I'm not too great myself and I'm having all sorts of dramas with Mike and—”

  She went on and on and on. Then she remembered.

  “Anyway. What about your dad?”

  “He's got a girlfriend!”

  “Has he?” She sounded so casual, as if I'd just announced he'd got a new tie.

  “She's a teacher at our school.”

  “Oh well. That figures. It's the only way your dad would ever meet anyone.”

  I hated the way Mum always sounded so sniffy about Dad, like he was the most boring man on earth.

  “Don't you mind, Mum?”

  “Well, what's it got to do with me?”

  “It's serious. She might end up our stepmother.”

  “Oh! Isn't she very nice to you, then?”

  “She's —” I couldn't quite tell an outright lie. “She's OK.”

  “Then what are you worried about, eh?”

  “Well, she could turn out horrid. Most stepmothers are. Like in ‘Snow White.’”

  “Ah. ‘Snow White.’ I had that fairy-tale book when I was a little girl.”

  “I know. You gave it to me.”

  I can't stand it when Mum forgets things. Sometimes it feels as if she's forgotten all about me. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and missed her but the words wouldn't sort themselves out and while I was still wondering how to say it Mum said, “Well, I've got to go now, Holly. See you. Bye.”

  So I put the phone down. I stopped feeling I loved her and hated her for a bit. She said “see you” but she doesn't want to. She doesn't even like talking to me on the phone much now.

  Dad says it's because she feels bad about leaving us. I think maybe she's bad.

  I take after her now.

  I went back to school the next day because it was dead depressing staying at home. My nose was sniffier than ever and so was I. Samantha was showing off her new barrettes, which were like little butterflies, but I simply yawned and said they looked stupid. Samantha said I was just jealous because she had long fair curls and I didn't. I said I didn't care one bit about having long fair curls. (Big lie.) Greg said he didn't think long fair curls were all that great and he much preferred my hair! Old Greg is going as daft as poor William if you ask me.

  Mr. Speed told me to hand the marked homework out and asked me to read aloud to the others and sent me with a message to the headmaster. I bashed the homework books bang on the desks, I read aloud in a bored, flat, can't-be-bothered voice, and I dawdled down the corridor so slowly after giving my message I missed half the lesson.

  “I wonder why you're in such a bad mood today, Holly?” said Mr. Speed.

  I shrugged and pouted. Mr. Speed imitated me. He looked so funny I very nearly gave in and giggled.

  “Maybe you need a bit of peace and quiet? I know! How about a little computer practice?”

  I knew this was a Crafty Ploy. Mr. Speed wanted me to access his Worry Web Site. And I couldn't resist. I typed it in. Remember?

  I think I'm going to get a stepmother.

  I wish she was wicked.

  Comments:

  You're nuts!

  What is she on about?

  How do you know the person with the worry is a girl?

  Because it's such a silly girly thing.

  You're being dead sexist.

  Look, what about his/her PROBLEM?

  What problem? Heaps of kids get stepmothers. I've got one and she's OK.

  I've got a mum and a dad and a stepmum and a stepdad and it's great at Christmas and birthdays because you get two lots of presents.

  Why do you want a WICKED stepmother???

  I've GOT a wicked stepmother. You can have mine!

  I didn't think these comments particularly kind. Or constructive. There were other even more useless suggestions that I deleted. I sat staring at the screen, wishing I could delete myself. Mr. Speed saw me and whizzed right over before I could quit the Web site.

  “Aha! So you're having a peep at the Worry Web Site, Holly. Hmm. Interesting worry! Have you typed in your comment for this poor soul who wants a wicked stepmother?”

  He was trying to kid me that the Web site is ultra-anonymous. But I'm not daft. I gave him a long hard look.

  “I'm the poor soul, Mr. Speed. You know it's me.”

  “Yes, that's very true, Holly. You've caught me out.”

  “You haven't put a comment.”

  “That's also true. OK.” He leaned over me and typed.

  I don't know WHY you want a wicked stepmother. Perhaps you can elaborate?

  He waited. I fidgeted.

  “Elaborate means tell me more,” said Mr. Speed.

  “I know. I don't know how, though. It's all muddly. It's my dad—and Miss Morgan.”

  Mr. Speed's eyes opened wide.

  “Our Miss Morgan?”

  “This is highly confidential, Mr. Speed,” I said hurriedly.

  “Mum's the word,” said Mr. Speed, finger on his lips.

  So I told him. His eyes got wider and wider, like the dog in the fairy tale with eyes as big as dinner plates.

  “Your dad's a very lucky man,” he said eventually. “And I should imagine young Hannah's thrilled. So — how do you feel, Holly?”

  “I feel bad,” I said. “And I keep acting bad and then I feel even worse. And Miss Morgan is always so nicey-nicey-nice about it. I want her to be bad. If she was really wicked like Snow White's stepmother then I could hate her and be horrid to her and it would be perfectly OK.”

  “I can't quite imagine Miss Morgan trying to force you to eat poisoned apples,” said Mr. Speed. “Let alone hiring an axman to chop you into little bits in the middle of the forest.”

  “I think I've got a worry that can't be solved,” I said gloomily.

  “Well — we could just fiddle with the meaning of wicked. I've always thought Miss Morgan an ultra-lovely, delightful young woman—this is also highly confidential, Holly. I especially admire her amazing purple boots. We could well say she looks seriously wicked. Right?”

  I groaned.

  “Sorry!” Mr. Speed shook his head at me apologetically. “I'll work on it. But there aren't always easy answers to worries. You know that. Tell you something, though. You're not bad. You're still my little star. You'll get your twinkle back soon, you'll see.”

  I kept out of Miss Morgan's way that week. I delivered Hannah off at the door of the preschool class but didn't go in myself. Dad went out with Miss Morgan on Friday night but he came home early when I was still sitting up in bed reading my fairy-tale book. He popped his head round the door to tell me to put t
he light off and go to sleep. He seemed all sad and scowly. Maybe he'd had a row with Miss Morgan!

  However, she came round to our house on Saturday looking extra-specially lovely in a long purple dress with little mirrors all round the hem.

  “Let me see if I can see my face,” said Hannah, kneeling down and peering into each mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

  “Mirror, mirror on her skirt, who is acting like a stupid little squirt?” I said, yanking Hannah upright.

  “Ouch! You're so grumpy now, Holly. I don't want you to come round the town with us because you spoil everything,” said Hannah.

  “Good, I don't want to come,” I said, but I felt bad, bad, bad. My eyes went all watery because even Hannah didn't want me anymore.

  “I think we won't all go round the town today,” said Miss Morgan. Her eyes were as glittery as the little mirrors on her skirt. “Maybe Holly and I might just go shopping together?”

  “What about me?” said Hannah indignantly.

  “I'll take you to the library and the swings, Hannah, and then we'll have an ice cream or two—or three or four or five—in McDonald's, OK?” said Dad.

  Hannah had her mouth open to protest bitterly but she got sidetracked by the ice cream bribe. Maybe my mouth was open too. I didn't get what was going on.

  “I don't want to go shopping,” I said.

  “Yes, you do—if you've got money in your pocket,” said Dad, and he handed me a ten-pound note.

  I couldn't believe it. Ten pounds, all for me! So I sloped off with Miss Morgan. I decided I wasn't going to speak to her, though. Not one word, all the way into town. But the weird thing was, she didn't say one word to me either! She just strode along in her purple pointy boots and whenever I glanced at her she glared at me. I'd never seen her glare before, not even when Hannah's preschool class got really, really rowdy and started throwing powder paint about. (It might have been Hannah who started it because she ended up rainbow-colored right down to her knickers.)

  It's sort of scary when a smiley person goes all glarey. The silence was starting to get on my nerves so much that I blurted out, “I want to go to Claire's Accessories to get some of those little butterfly barrettes. And maybe one of those little lucky-bead bracelets.”

  Miss Morgan sniffed. “You're lucky, all right, Holly. Your dad spoils you so. And you've certainly been acting like a spoilt brat recently. I'm getting sick of it.”

  I stared at her. It was as if she'd suddenly started spitting toads.

  “You're not supposed to talk to me like that. You're a teacher!”

  “And I'm also your dad's girlfriend and if you'd only give us a chance I think we'd be really happy together. But you just want to muck everything up, don't you? Can't you see how unhappy you're making your dad?”

  “He's only unhappy because of you. You've mucked everything up. It was really great before, when it was just Hannah and Dad and me.”

  “You felt great,” said Miss Morgan, and she stamped her boot so that her skirt swung and all the little mirrors glittered. “Don't you realize how lonely your dad felt?”

  “He wasn't a bit lonely! And anyway, maybe— maybe my mum might come back and then he'd have her, wouldn't he?”

  “You know perfectly well your mum isn't ever going to come back. And even if she did your dad wouldn't want her. She walked out on all of you, even little Hannah. I don't see how she could ever have done that. Why do you act like she's so wonderful when she could do a wicked thing like leave her own children?”

  “You're wicked and I hate you! I wish you'd stomp off in your silly boots and never ever come back!” Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why did you have to turn out so horrible?”

  “Oh, Holly!” said Miss Morgan. Tears streamed down her cheeks too. “I'm sorry. I am wicked. I don't want to be horrible. I can't do this anymore. It's awful. I like you too much.”

  “No you don't! No one does. No one wants me!”

  “I want you very, very much,” she said.

  She put her arms round me and we hugged right there in the street. I cried and she cried. We kept on hugging. I sniffled so much I dripped on her purple dress but she didn't mind a bit. She found her hankie and I blew my nose and she blew her nose too and then we went off to this posh coffee shop and had wonderful grown-up frothy coffee and an apple Danish pastry each. I had difficulty eating mine at first because I had hiccups from all that crying. Miss Morgan saw me hesitating.

  “They're not poisoned apples, I promise,” she said.

  I peered at her suspiciously, spooning up the froth from my coffee.

  “What's Mr. Speed been saying to you?”

  “Mr. Speed?” said Miss Morgan, dead nonchalant. She shook her head, tossing her lovely long hair over her shoulder. “Oh, nothing in particular.”

  You know what teachers are like. They always back each other up.

  I think Mr. Speed might have told her my worry, even though it's supposed to be confidential. He was just trying to act like a fairy godmother and grant my wish. I had a sudden vision of Mr. Speed in a fairy frock clutching a wand and I laughed so much I blew the rest of the froth off my coffee.

  “What?” said Miss Morgan, giggling a bit too.

  “Oh, nothing in particular,” I said. I thought for a bit. “Miss Morgan—I'm sorry I said all that stuff. I don't really hate you.”

  “I'm sorry too, Holly. I didn't mean all that stuff I said either. I was just feeling fed up and worried because your dad said on Friday that we might have to stop seeing each other if it was making you so unhappy. He always puts you and Hannah first.”

  “Well — you come second,” I said, patting her hand. “And I'll tell Dad I don't really want you two to break up.”

  “Yes, you might end up with a really wicked stepmother,” said Miss Morgan, and she pulled this dreadful frowny ferocious face.

  I laughed and she laughed—and we both knew we'd kind of made friends. They never seem to do that in fairy stories, do they? Then we went shopping and I bought Miss Morgan a little comb for her long thick hair and I got Dad some gel for his short thinning hair. I found some butterfly barrettes but I bought them for Hannah. I chose special little gold star ones for me. Miss Morgan said they really, really suited me.

  I wore them to school on Monday and Greg said they looked lovely and Mr. Speed said I seemed to be twinkling splendidly. He had a twinkle in his eye too.

  Miss Morgan said she's going to make Hannah and me special dresses. Hannah's is going to have little mirrors and mine is going to have stars embroidered all over.

  I suppose they could just be bridesmaid's dresses—.

  GREG'S WORRY

  Type in your worry:

  Oh dear. I hope no one's looking. This is so embarrassing. OK. Here goes.

  I like this girl. I like her very much. I want to be her friend. I want to be her BOYfriend. I've gone all red and shuddery and yucky just typing it! I hate all this loveydovey stuff. It really sucks. I don't WANT to feel like this. I generally HATE girls.

  I certainly hate my sister, Sarah-Jane. She is only a year younger than me but she's little and dinky-looking and she talks in a special lispy baby voice so that everyone treats her like she's five years old.

  It's so irritating having a little sister. She's allowed to kick me or elbow me in the ribs or creep up behind me and pinch my neck but if I clump her one I'm in serious trouble. I'm generally in serious trouble at home about Sarah-Jane.

  She's so sneaky too. She puts on this little simper and says, “Mum, I don't want to be mean and tell on Greg, but––” and then she does tell. She exaggerates like crazy. And then Mum bellows, “Gregory!” and I know I'm in for it. I hate being called Gregory. It's a saint's name. You certainly need the patience of a saint with Sarah-Jane as your sister.

  I don't like my girl cousins much either, Yvonne and Julia and Katrina. They come round our house on a Sunday and they all squeeze into Sarah-Jane's bedroom and try on each othe
r's clothes and do each other's hair. They do this for hours. Then I have to sit with them for Sunday lunch and they go whisper, whisper, whisper, giggle, giggle, giggle. It is torture. I feel so tense about it that I can't eat comfortably and that makes me do certain rude windy things and then they all squeal and Mum goes, “Gregory!” as if I'm doing it on purpose. Which just occasionally I am.

  I didn't reckon any of the girls in my class at school either. Well, Claire's OK because she's good at soccer and I suppose I've always thought Samantha's ever so pretty—but she reminds me too much of Sarah-Jane. I never really noticed any of the other girls.

  But then I got to sit behind Holly when we all went into Mr. Speed's class. I stuck my feet on the back of her chair and kicked a bit, because that's what you do when a girl sits in front of you. Most of them whine and fidget and moan that you're getting mud on their skirt. But Holly whipped round quick as a wink, her fingers went fiddly-flick—and there were my shoelaces tied together! Then she gave me this great grin. I couldn't help grinning back even though she'd tied such a tight knot I couldn't pick it open and had to saw through my shoelaces with my penknife. I don't know how to put it into words. It was just her big grin. It really got to me.

  So I tried to figure out ways of making her grin again. The next day I came to school wearing my muddy walks-in-the-country welly boots. We don't often go for muddy walks in the country so they'd got a bit small without my realizing. I had to scrunch up my toes, which was dead uncomfortable. I also had to put up with everyone asking me why I was wearing my wellies when it wasn't raining. Not so much as a cloud in the sky.

  Mr. Speed did this whole pantomime thing of putting up an imaginary umbrella. Everyone laughed. Holly laughed too. I waited until everyone stopped sniggering at my boring foot-blistering boots. Mr. Speed started telling some soppy fairy story in the Literacy Hour and Holly was listening hard, her hair tucked behind her neat little ears. Then I put my boots on the back of her chair.

  She turned round.

  I waited. I thought she'd see she couldn't tie any laces this time and give that glorious grin again. But she sighed, stiffened her hand, and gave the tip of each boot a swift karate chop.