It was such AGONY on my poor rubbed tootsies that I screamed.
“Oh my goodness, Greg!” Mr. Speed exploded, clutching his chest. “You'll give me a heart attack. I hope you have a totally convincing excuse for that banshee wail. Are you being fiendishly attacked by invisible aliens?”
“No, Mr. Speed,” I mumbled, trying to ease my throbbing feet.
“Then why the scream? Is it National Torment Mr. Speed Day today? No, that's every day as far as you lot are concerned. I warn you, children, I am in a very savage mood today. I am becoming more savage every second, moodier every minute. Well, Greg, I'm waiting for your explanation. I've given you long enough to concoct one. Were you perhaps provoked in some way?”
“No, Mr. Speed,” I said firmly. “I was just messing about.”
Holly turned round and gave me a quick smile, an abbreviated text-message version of her gorgeous grin.
I'd have listened to Mr. Speed lecturing me all day long just for that one weeny glance.
But it didn't get me anywhere.
I tried coming to school in my bedroom slippers the next day. My poor sore feet needed a little bit of cosseting. Unfortunately this time it decided to rain. In fact it positively poured buckets and my slippers got sodden.
I had to lie down on my back at the side of the classroom and rest both soaking slippers on the radiators until they steamed. Mr. Speed came in late and pretended to trip right over me.
“I've always assumed that standard classroom posture is bottom on chair. Is there any reason why you prefer this lying-on-back, legs-in-air position, Greg?” Mr. Speed said wearily.
I told him I was simply trying to dry out my slippers.
“Ah, I wondered what that extraordinary smell was,” said Mr. Speed. “Feet off the radiator, please! You'll give yourself chilblains as well as stinking the place out. I'm beginning to find your inappropriate footwear fetish rather irritating, lad. I suggest you turn up in standard sensible shoes tomorrow or you might just find yourself left behind in the classroom when we go off on the school trip.”
The school trip! It wasn't anything to get excited about in itself. We were just going to a musty old museum. But we traveled there by bus! I had to find some way of sitting next to Holly on the journey.
She's got lots and lots and lots of friends in our class, but she hasn't got one particular friend. I was in with a chance. But she could pick anyone. There are thirty children in our class so she could have her choice of twenty-nine of us.
I wondered how I could get her to pick me.
I sauntered past the computer dead casually and then looked at my worry on the Web site to see if anyone had given me any good tips about getting a girlfriend.
Ha ha ha. I am not laughing. I am being extremely sarcastic. There weren't any tips at all, just a whole load of rubbish.
Comments:
I hate girls too.
So do I. They've got such silly squeaky voices that they make your head ache when they go on at you. And they don't understand important stuff like soccer.
Oh yes they do! I bet I know who you are and you're lousy at soccer. I don't want to boast but I'm on the soccer team even though I'm a girl and I scored three goals last match so you shut up.
See! They go on at you! You've proved my point.
I bet none of the girls in our class would go out with any of the boys because the boys are all so childish and stupid. I hate BOYS.
Some of the boys are OK. I would like one boy in particular to be my boyfriend. Guess who I am!
My heart leapt when I read that one, but this person had added her name at the end. Not her full name because we're not allowed to. So she put S––––––a.
Well, even weird William would have no trouble at all working that one out.
“Aha!” said Mr. Speed, peering over my shoulder.
I felt my cheeks burning, as if someone had switched on an electric fire in my face. My glasses steamed up so I could hardly see.
“This is a daft worry,” I said quickly. “I don't know what sort of idiot would write that.”
“My sort of idiot,” said Mr. Speed. He scrolled through the answers. “Oh dear! They're not very sympathetic, are they? I'd hoped they might have some kind of constructive advice for this poor lovelorn chap. I need advice.”
“Are you in love, Mr. Speed?” I asked, astonished. I mean, Mr. Speed is a teacher. And he's old too. Well, I think he is. It's difficult to tell with grown-ups. It's easy enough to tell whether a kid is five or ten or fifteen—but how do I know whether Mr. Speed is twenty-five or thirty or thirty-five or even older?
“Don't stare at me like that, lad. I'm not ready for my pension yet,” said Mr. Speed sharply.
“How do you read people's minds, Mr. Speed?” I said.
“Oh, it's my laser-light bionic glasses,” said Mr. Speed, wrinkling his nose so that his glasses wiggled about.
I laughed and wiggled my own glasses back.
“Mr. Speed, do you think girls mind if boys wear glasses?” I said.
“I don't think they mind a bit,” said Mr. Speed. He struck a silly pose. “I've never found it a deterrent.”
“But you're having problems now, Mr. Speed?
“Indeed I am, Greg. In the presence of a certain lady I go all red and shuddery and yucky, to quote these expressive words on the Web site.”
“And do you think this lady will be your girlfriend, Mr. Speed?”
“Alas and alack, her heart belongs to another,” said Mr. Speed. “So my heart is broken!” He thumped himself on the chest and groaned. He didn't mean it. He's always carrying on like that. He's a bit nuts if you ask me.
“However,” Mr. Speed said, with emphasis, “the lovelorn boy with the current worry on the Web site should not be downhearted. It looks like his lovely little lady friend is making it particularly plain that she cares for him.”
I blinked. I backtracked through his speech. He talks in such a funny way that this is necessary sometimes.
“You mean you think I—he—is in with a chance?” I said excitedly.
“Definitely. She couldn't be making it plainer. What more do you want, lad? Does she have to stand on a desktop and proclaim her love to the entire class?”
I thought about it.
“I'd quite like that,” I said.
“Mmm, so would I!” said Mr. Speed, laughing. “But I don't think she'll be quite as bold as all that.”
“So you think she'd maybe sit next to this boy on the school trip?”
“You bet. He should just ask her,” said Mr. Speed.
So I did.
I couldn't quite get up the courage until we were all set to go and Mr. Speed was taking attendance. Then I very gently nudged Holly with my shoe.
She turned round, sighed elaborately, and started undoing one of my new laces.
“Don't, Holly, please! My mum will go berserk. I had to nick these laces out of our Sarah-Jane's Irish dancing shoes.”
“Well, quit kicking me, then,” Holly said through her teeth.
“I'm not kicking, I'm attracting your attention.”
“Oh yeah?” said Holly. She looked straight into my eyes. “Why?”
I went red and shuddery and yuckety-yucky but I looked straight back at her and said it. “Will you sit next to me on the bus?”
“OK,” said Holly, like it was no big deal at all. Then she grinned.
I felt I was shooting straight through the classroom ceiling up into the bright blue sky.
Then Mr. Speed told us to line up for the bus. Everyone surged forward, out of the classroom, along the corridor, out of the door, across the playground, out of the gate to where the school bus was waiting. But I hung back with Holly, grinning and grinning at her. And she grinned back.
Mr. Speed was herding everyone onto the bus. He called to us to hurry up. Then he caught hold of me.
“Here's your chance, boy,” he said, and he propelled me forward, up the big steps and onto the front seat— ne
xt to Samantha!
“Hi, Greg,” she said, smiling at me. “I've saved this seat for you.”
I stared at her in horror.
“But I'm sitting next to––”
“Samantha!” commanded Mr. Speed. He seized me by the shoulders and sat me down on the front seat beside her. “Don't be bashful, lad,” he whispered in my ear. “Take this golden opportunity.”
“But Mr. Speed, you've got it all wrong,” I wailed. “I don't like Samantha.”
Mr. Speed was hurrying up and down the bus aisle checking on purses and packed lunches and sick bags and didn't even hear me.
But Samantha did.
She looked amazed. Then appalled. Her blue eyes went all watery. I felt horrible.
“I didn't mean I don't like you, Samantha. Of course I do. You're ever so nice, but it's just there's this other girl I like better.”
I seemed to be making it worse.
“Well, I don't like you,” she said. “Get off this seat! I wouldn't sit next to you if you went down on your knees and begged.”
“Fat chance,” I said. I jumped up—but Mr. Speed rushed past and gave me a shove down again.
“Up and down, up and down, like a jack-in-thebox,” he said. “Sit still, Greg.”
“But I don't want to sit next to Samantha, Mr. Speed!”
“He's certainly not sitting next to me!”
Mr. Speed stopped, hands on hips. He breathed in deeply. This is generally a warning signal.
“Well well well! I was under the impression I was the teacher and you were the pupils, but I've obviously got that entirely wrong, because here you are giving me the orders.” He paused ominously. “Are you the teacher here, Gregory?”
“No, Mr. Speed.”
“What about you, Samantha?”
“No, Mr. Speed.”
“Then, my goodness, I must be the teacher. And I say sit down in your seats and do not utter another word or I will sit on you myself.”
I didn't utter a word to Samantha and she didn't utter a word to me for the entire journey. We weren't on speaking terms.
I tried kneeling on my seat to see Holly. I tried to attract Holly's attention. I failed. I attracted Mr. Speed's attention instead. This was a big mistake.
He made me stick with him all the way round the museum, while all the others were allowed to ramble around in little groups having fun. I called after Holly but she stared straight past me as if she couldn't even see me.
“You're an exceptionally aggravating boy, Gregory,” said Mr. Speed. “Why do you have to be so fickle with your affections? First you declare undying love for Samantha and yet when I give you the opportunity to sit next to her you behave totally offensively and transfer your affections to Holly.”
“I never,” I mumbled despairingly.
“That sounds ungrammatical but heartfelt,” said Mr. Speed, peering at me. “Explain yourself, lad.”
“It was Holly all the time, Mr. Speed. You got it all wrong.”
“I got it all wrong, did I?” said Mr. Speed.
I wondered if I was in for another lecture, but he was shaking his head. “Sorry, lad. I obviously jumped to the wrong conclusions. The old bionic glasses went all smeary on me. I'd better not try to play Cupid again.”
But he did!
After we'd trailed all round the museum we went into a special room where a lady got out this big trunk of Victorian clothes and we all had to dress up and look daft. Mr. Speed put on a top hat and a funny false mustache and then unearthed a pair of button boots from the bottom of the trunk.
“I know a lad who's into fancy footwear,” he said. “Here, Greg, put them on.”
They were nearly the right size but I couldn't get them buttoned up at all. They were far too fiddly.
“You need a buttonhook,” said the museum lady, producing this weird metal pointy thing with a bone handle.
“Aha! Let's pop this mobcap and pinny on you, Holly. You can be young Master Gregory's nurserymaid,” said Mr. Speed. “Button the lad into his boots, then, girl.”
“Certainly, Mr. Speed,” said Holly. She seized the buttonhook as if it was a surgical instrument.
I didn't like the look of her grin at all now!
“Keep still, now,” she said, and she went prod, prod, prod. And I went “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Don't be a silly baby, Master Gregory,” said Holly.
“OW! Cut it out, Holly! You're prodding right into my leg,” I protested.
“Good,” said Holly, under her breath. “Why did you go and sit next to that stupid Samantha?”
“I didn't want to! It was all Mr. Speed's fault. He made me. You know what he's like.”
“I know what you're like,” said Holly.
I swallowed. I took a very deep breath. I went all red and shuddery and yuckety-yuckety-yucky.
“But do you know who I like?” I said.
Holly looked at me, twiddling the buttonhook.
Then she grinned. I grinned back.
Guess who I got to sit next to on the bus going home!
And guess who is now my girlfriend!
Holly !
CLAIRE'S WORRY
Type in your worry:
I have this nightmare. It's really, really scary. I don't know what to do. I dream it every single night. Does anyone else have nightmares or am I the only one?
I've had bad dreams before. I've dreamt I've been walking to school and suddenly I'm just wearing my knickers and everyone starts staring and pointing and giggling. I always feel silly going to school the next day, as if it had really happened!
I've also had a falling dream. I'm at the top of this very long escalator and I suddenly trip and I go tumbling down and down and down — until I wake up with a start.
Then there's that dream when I'm having a huge row with my sister, Judy, in our bedroom. She's bigger and bossier than me but I bash her with my pillow and she falls flat on her bed. She doesn't move. I think she's just pretending she's hurt to scare me but my pillow feels strangely heavy and when I look inside I find it's full of rocks.
These are all pretty horrible dreams but they're not too bad. I don't think about them all the time. I can make sure they don't really happen. I can check I'm wearing my school uniform, avoid all escalators, and stop bashing Judy with my pillow. Well, I do still have pillow fights with her but they're mostly in fun. I have a quick pummel of the pillow first to make sure it's totally rock-free.
But now I'm having this new nightmare. I dream it every night. It's awful.
I've tried getting into Judy's bed. She moaned and fussed and said I was squashing her. It didn't work anyway. I still had the nightmare. I woke up screaming. Judy woke up too.
“What are you playing at, Claire? You woke me up! Hey, are you crying?”
“No,” I sobbed.
“Yes, you are,” said Judy. She suddenly put her arms round me. “Shall I get Mum?”
“No!”
This is the trouble. I can't tell Mum or Dad. They will say it's all my own fault. And I suppose it is.
You see, I secretly watched this ultrascary video. Mum and Dad are quite strict about what films we're allowed to see. Especially me. I don't know what's the matter with me. I've always been so stupid. When I was a really little kid I sometimes got scared watching cartoons! There's a bit where horses gallop wildly in Beauty and the Beast that made me have bad dreams. I used to wake up crying that the horses were after me. My big brother, Michael, used to neigh and make galloping noises just to get me going.
Mum got fed up getting up to go to me in the night so ever since she's been very picky over what I'm allowed to watch. I kept telling her and telling her that I wasn't a silly baby anymore. I was furious when she let Michael and Judy watch Titanic but she wouldn't let me.
“Of course you can't watch it, Claire. You'd dream you were drowning and then you'd wet the bed,” Michael chortled.
I hated being left out. I knew silly old movies couldn't scare me anymore. Or so I th
ought.
But then I watched The Monster. I wonder if you've seen it? It's been a big talking point at our school. Heaps of kids go on about how great it is and say it's the scariest film ever, ever, ever. Some kids say it didn't scare them one bit. I think they're fibbing. I bet they haven't seen so much as the trailer.
I got to see it on Saturday. Mum and Judy had gone up to London because she had a music exam and then they were going shoe shopping afterward. I was supposed to go too but I made a fuss. I hate listening while Judy plays her violin. She sounds like chalk squeaking on a blackboard. I have to put my fingers in my ears and then Judy says I'm putting her off deliberately. And shoe shopping is soooo boring, unless you're looking for something cool like soccer cleats or sneakers.
So I stayed at home with Dad and Michael. Michael had his friend Luke round. They usually go into Michael's room and try to access rude things on the Internet, I know. But Dad was outside washing and polishing the car, which takes him forever, so Luke casually produced the video of The Monster from his backpack.
“Fancy watching a bit, Mike?”
“Wow!” said Michael, eyes goggling. “You bet!”
“I'm watching too,” I said.
“There's no way you're watching, baby,” said Michael. He tried to push me out of the living room while Luke slotted the video into the machine.
“There's every way I'm watching—or I'll tell Dad,” I said.
I don't like being a telltale but when you have bossy big brothers and sisters you have to use any means at your disposal to get your own way.
So I won. I watched The Monster. Well, nearly half of it. Then we heard Dad coming back inside the house so we switched over to a sports program, sharpish.
You have no idea how appalling The Monster is. Far, far, far, far worse than you can ever imagine. I kept on telling myself it was just a silly old film. It wasn't a real monster. But it looked so real when it rose up out of the river, sickly green, oozing slime, and semitransparent so you could see all its horrible heart and liver and lungs and long long coils of intestines, some of them hanging out and spurting terrible sludgy streams of poo.
The Worry Web Site Page 3