The Worry Web Site Read online

  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