The Worry Web Site Read online

  “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