The Worst Thing About My Sister Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Sisters

  Reading Notes

  Double Act

  My Sister Jodie

  Quiz

  About the Author

  Also by Jacqueline Wilson

  Copyright

  About the Book

  MARTY and her big sister MELISSA couldn’t be more different – and they just don’t get along. Marty is a messy tomboy and loves animals, snuggling up in her cosy, comfy den and drawing her comics – especially her favourite character, the brilliant Mighty Mart. So living with pink, girlie, super-annoying Melissa has never been easy.

  But things are about to get much worse. When Mum’s new dress-making business takes off, she needs a spare room in the house to use for her sewing. For the first time ever, Marty and Melissa have to share a room – and the girls are soon fighting every single day.

  But when an everyday argument goes horribly wrong, will Marty realize just how much her big sister really means to her?

  In memory of Molly and her sister Isabella – who loved each other dearly

  The worst thing about my sister is she’s such a girl. Well, I’m a girl too, but I’m not a dinky-pinky, silly-frilly girlie girl. Think cupcakes and cuddly teddies and charm bracelets – that’s Melissa.

  She leaves a little pink trail around the house – sparkly slides and ribbons and notebooks. You breathe in her revolting scent long after she’s gone off to hang out at her friends’ houses. She’s not allowed to wear real perfume yet, but she’s got this rose hand cream that smells really strongly. She doesn’t just rub it on her hands, she smoothes it in all over, so she’s always slightly slippery.

  Her lips shine too, because she’s forever smearing on lip gloss. She’s not really supposed to wear make-up yet either, only for play, but she’s got a big plastic bag patterned with pink kittens, and it’s crammed full of eye shadows and mascara and blusher. It used to be just Mum’s old stuff, but now Melissa spends half her pocket money in Superdrug.

  When Melissa was in the loo, I crept into her ultra pink and fluffy bedroom to borrow a pen as mine had all run out. I couldn’t find her school bag – it must have been downstairs by the computer – so in desperation I looked in her plastic make-up bag. I found a brand-new eye pencil with a perfect point and its own cool little sharpener.

  I went back to my Marty Den, sat on my top bunk, and started drawing an amazing new adventure of Mighty Mart. I didn’t mean to use a lot of the pencil. I was just going to do a quick sketch. But then I had this great idea of giving Mighty Mart giant springs in her feet, so she could jump – b-o-i-n-g – over rooftops and lampposts and trees. Drawing all these astonishing feats took up three full pages in my sketchbook – and most of Melissa’s eye pencil.

  Then Melissa poked her nose into my Marty Den, rabbiting on about some missing hairbrush. (I’d experimented gluing it onto the back of a little mangled teddy, turning him into a pretty cool porcupine called Percy.) She failed to spot him snuffling for ants under my bunk beds, but she did see the stub of her eye pencil in my hot little hand.

  ‘You horrible thieving pig!’ she gasped. ‘That pencil was brand-new – and there’s hardly any left now.’

  ‘Well, it’s not very good value then, is it?’ I said, a little unwisely. Maybe I should have said sorry – but she did call me a pig. Not that I actually dislike pigs. I think they’re very cute, and I love scratching their backs with a stick when we go to the children’s zoo.

  Anyway, do you know what Melissa did? She ripped all three pages out of my book and tore them to shreds. I couldn’t believe she could be so hateful. I mean, she could always buy another silly pencil. I might even have paid half out of my pocket money. But I’d spent two whole hours drawing Mighty Mart, and now she was just confetti on the carpet. So I thumped Melissa in the chest. And she slapped my face. And then we were rolling around on the floor, shoving and screaming. I’m a much better fighter than Melissa, but she scratches with her pointy fingernails. I’m fast and furious and I know how to punch properly, but Melissa is a lot bigger than me.

  Perhaps that’s the worst thing about my sister. She’s two and a half years older, and no matter how hard I try I can never catch up.

  I’d have still beaten her, I’m sure of it. If we’d been left to our own devices, Melissa would have ended up as pink pulp, but Mum came running out of her bedroom and barged into my Marty Den to stop us.

  ‘What are you doing? Stop it at once, Martina and Melissa! You know you are absolutely strictly forbidden to fight. You’re not little guttersnipes, you’re girls.’

  She pulled us apart and stood us on our feet. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘Especially today, when Mrs Evans and Alisha are in my bedroom and can hear everything. Alisha’s such a sweet little girl too. You’d never catch her fighting.’

  ‘Alisha’s such a wuss she couldn’t punch her way out of a paper bag,’ I said.

  Alisha is in my class at school and I absolutely can’t stand her. She sucks up to Katie and Ingrid, the two really mean, scary girls. She gives them crisps and chocolates so they won’t pick on her. She loves it if they pick on someone else. Like me.

  I didn’t invite her round to our house. As if! She came round with her mother because our mother was making her a party dress. Mum was starting to become famous for making terrible frilly frocks with smocking and embroidery and a thousand and one prickly net petticoats. She used to make matching dresses for Melissa and me when we were really little. I used to scream my head off and keep my arms pressed tight against my sides to stop her putting one on me. Melissa used to like hers, and would flounce around swishing her skirts in an especially sickening way. Nowadays even she has seen sense and says smocked dresses are babyish and embarrassing, the exact opposite of cool.

  But our dresses became a terrible talking point in our neighbourhood, and other mums still want to inflict frills on their little kids, so Mum’s wondering if she can make a little money out of making dresses. She’s busy designing party dresses and bridesmaids’ dresses and confirmation dresses. So busy she doesn’t always have time to look at what we’re wearing. When we’re not stuck in our rubbish red-and-white check school uniform, Melissa hitches up her skirts and wears tight tops and puts socks in her training bra. She thinks she looks much older, practically a teenager. She is so pathetic.

  I wear my comfy jeans and my pow! T-shirt and my tartan Converse boots. I wear them again and again because they’re my favourite clothes, so I don’t see the point of wearing any others.

  ‘Look at the state of you!’ said Mum. She shook us both and then continued to hang onto my T-shirt, peering at it. ‘For goodness’ sake, Martina, this T-shirt’s filthy!’

  ‘It’s just a little dribble of orange juice when I laughed at the wrong time at supper. It’s so weird when it all comes spouting out of your nose.’

  ‘That was days ago! You know perfectly well you’re supposed to put on a clean T-shirt every day. Have I got to stand over you and dress you like a baby?’ said Mum.

  Melissa sniggered, which was a stupid move.

  ‘I’m very shocked at you, Melissa. You really ought to know better. You’re the eldest. What were you thinking of, fighting with your little sister?’

  ‘She used up nearly all my eye