Girls in Tears Read online

  But they don't.

  I walk off by myself. I stay by myself all day. Nadine and Magda go round in a little huddle, arm in arm. I keep thinking about the end of school and what I'm going to do then. What if Russell is waiting at the school gate? Waiting for Magda.

  I decide I'll rush right past him without so much as a glance in his direction.

  It's a huge relief to see he's not there. But as I walk home by myself I start to wonder. Maybe he should have been there? Why wasn't he? Is he too gutless? He can't be concerned with hurting my feelings, not after he's spent half of Saturday night on the stairs with his tongue down Magda's throat.

  Why did he do it? Why didn't he go out with Magda in the first place? Why did he go out with me and make me fall in love with him?

  I feel so lonely. One of the Year Eleven girls is walking hand in hand with her boyfriend in front of me. She smiles up at him. He bends forward and gives her a quick kiss. I close my eyes. It hurts too much to look.

  I run all the rest of the way home. I have this mad fantasy that Russell might be there, waiting for me. He doesn't really want Magda, he wants me back, he simply didn't want an embarrassing public encounter outside the school in front of everyone, especially not in front of Magda herself.

  But he's not waiting at home. No one's home. Anna's seeing some work people and she's taken Eggs with her. I'm all on my own but this time it's awful. I wander round the house restlessly, unable to settle in any room. The house is horribly quiet, so much so that I jump at every creak of the floorboards and gurgle of the pipes.

  I make myself a coffee and nibble at a biscuit – and then another and another. I eat the whole packet, even though I start to feel sick. I wonder for a moment about making myself sick, but I clench my fists and bang them together, furious with myself. I'm not going to do that to myself ever again. I don't care if I feel fatter than ever. I'm not going to go back on that ridiculous diet. I'm over all that. I don't care if I'm a sad fat lump and Magda is a sexy curvy dreamboat. Well, I do care, of course I do, but I can't change me into Magda and if she's what Russell wants then I just have to accept it.

  I can't accept it. What is he playing at? Why didn't I talk to him on Sunday when he phoned? At least he could have given me some kind of explanation. I'd have known where I stood.

  So why don't I phone him now?

  No. Let him phone me.

  He did phone me. I wouldn't speak to him. But I could phone him now. He'll be on his own.

  Phone him phone him phone him.

  I stand in the hall, pacing up and down – and then I do it.

  The phone rings and rings and I don't think he's going to pick up, but just as his answerphone starts up he says, 'Hello?'

  The answerphone is still talking – and someone else is talking in the background too. They're saying, 'Is it Ellie?'

  My heart turns over. It's Magda.

  She's gone home with Russell.

  Oh God, I can't stand it. I slam the phone down without saying a word. I run up to my room and fling myself on my bed and cry and cry. I can't kid myself any more. It wasn't just a silly drunken kiss at the party. They've started seeing each other.

  The phone rings downstairs. Russell must have dialled 1471 and will know it was me. Oh God, why did I try to phone him? They'll be having a right laugh at me now. No, they're not like that. I know they're not really hateful. They'll be feeling guilty and worried about me. That's why they're phoning now. They feel sorry for me. That's the bit that's really torturing me. I can see them standing together by the phone, shaking their heads, conferring about poor old Ellie and how best not to hurt her feelings . . .

  I punch my pillow, hating Magda, hating Russell, hating myself.

  I feel so scared and sad and lonely. I want my mum. If only she were still alive. I love Anna now, we're just like big sister and little sister, but she's not the same as a real mum. Not my mum.

  I'd give anything in the whole world for her to be here now, sitting beside me, scooping me up in her arms, rocking me gently and stroking my hair, whispering Myrtle Mouse stories in my ear . . .

  I stop crying and go and get my mum's Myrtle Mouse book. Mum's Myrtle is different from my Myrtle. Mum's mouse is little and cute and gentle. She's coloured in soft, sweet pastel shades and her stories are soft and sweet too, little tales for toddlers. My Myrtle is done in brightly coloured felt tip, vibrant purples and royal blue and moody jade and stinging emerald. Her adventures are equally colourful, big bold melodramas. She's totally different – but I still can't honestly say she's original.

  I take Nicola Sharp's wonderful letter and read it through again. I've already read it so many times it's a wonder the ink hasn't faded. I get out my sketchpad and write my address in my best nearly-italic handwriting. I draw a picture at the top of the page of Myrtle Mouse as an artist, wearing a big smock with a bow and wielding a large paintbrush.

  I write to Nicola Sharp, telling her that I was absolutely thrilled to get her letter. I draw Myrtle leaping up in the air over a tiny moon.

  I tell her just how much it means to me. I draw Myrtle in bed with the letter clasped to her chest.

  Then I tell her I feel terribly guilty. Myrtle hangs her head, her whole body drooping, even her ears and tail. I explain that I based my Myrtle on some stories my mum wrote and illustrated for me long ago. Mum could never develop them herself because she died, so I've taken Myrtle over, but I can't really take the credit for her invention.

  I finish by saying I'm very very sorry for wasting her time, and tell her truthfully just how much I love her own illustrations. I draw Myrtle engrossed in a big Nicola Sharp nursery rhyme book, waving to the mice on the 'Hickory Dickory Dock' page. Then I sign my name, stick the page into a big envelope and address it.

  Nicola Sharp won't be interested in me now she knows I've just copied my mum but it makes me feel a bit better to tell her the truth.

  Most of the time I'm writing the letter and drawing Myrtle I can forget how unhappy I am. I might not be an artist yet but I will be one day. I shall lose myself in my work. I won't bother with boyfriends. I maybe won't even have any new girlfriends either. I shall live all by myself and illustrate all day and create wonderful picture books.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Girls cry when

  they wake up

  and remember

  Fifteen

  Girls cry when

  they wake up

  and remember

  I can't face school today. My cold is nearly better but I blow my nose constantly and cough into my cornflakes at breakfast.

  Dad pats me on the shoulder absent-mindedly. 'You seem a bit droopy, Ellie. Still, you'll soon perk up when you get to school and see Magda and Nadine.' Then he remembers. 'Oh dear, of course. Still, you'll make it up soon, you always do.'

  Anna looks at me sympathetically the minute Dad leaves for college. 'He can't seem to help being tactless. Still, he's obviously got other things on his mind.'

  I wince at the bitterness of her tone. 'Anna . . . ?'

  But she shakes her head slightly and glances at Eggs, who is listlessly making a little cowboy out of the cornflakes packet gallop across the wide prairie of the kitchen table.

  I cough again – and again. 'I've got this cough . . .' I say unnecessarily.

  Anna sighs, waiting.

  'And a pain in my chest. And my head's really hot. I feel totally lousy, honestly.'

  'I still think you ought to go to school,' says Anna.

  'Oh, please don't make me, Anna. Feel my forehead. I'm sure I've got a temperature. I ache all over. I just want to go back to bed.'

  'So do I, Ellie,' says Anna wearily, rubbing her eyes. 'But I just happen to have a mountain of work to see to. I'm supposed to go up to London again but God knows what I'm going to do about Eggs. I daren't ask Nadine's mum again, not after last time.'

  'Look, if I don't go to school I can stay in bed this morning and then I'll try to perk up around lunchtime and do some homew