Vicky Angel Read online

  “Jade? Have you hurt your neck?”

  “It's … just a bit stiff.”

  “And I'm a big stiff and you're not going to get involved with all that dreary drama stuff! That wasn't part of the deal at all! It was because of the drama stuff that—”

  I can't let her say it.

  “I'm sorry,” I hiss at Miss Gilmore, and then I rush off. Vicky runs beside me, doing aerial ladder steps of triumph.

  I run till I turn the corner and then collapse against the wall.

  “What's the matter?” Vicky asks.

  “I feel awful.”

  “You feel awful! What about me?”

  “I know. I'm sorry.”

  “You haven't been acting very sorry. All that huffing and puffing with stupid Fatboy Sam!”

  “I'll stay away from Sam.”

  “Fatboy Sam.”

  “Absolutely Grotesquely Ginormous Fatter-than-fat-boy Sam.”

  “Right! That's better,” says Vicky, grinning. “Shall I come back to your house? I'll race you.”

  She spirals up in the air and leaves me way behind.

  So now I know how it has to be. It's not really so very different from the way it was when Vicky was alive. She wanted all my attention then. She's got it now.

  It takes a little while for people to cotton on. Especially Fatboy Sam. He hangs around waiting for me after lessons, he tries to sit next to me at lunch, he's there waiting when I walk home from school.

  “Get rid of that creep!” Vicky commands.

  “I'm sorry, Sam,” I say. Vicky's frowning, furious. I take a deep breath. “Sorry, Fatboy. I want to walk home by myself.”

  He stares at me. I feel bad when I see his face. I can't look him in the eye. I stare past him at Vicky's flowers. They're running rampant now, crowding the gutters and clogging the drains so that there's a little flood whenever it rains. Someone started to clear the old rotting bouquets but there were violent protests. People meekly cross the road now and walk on the other side so that Vicky's flowers stay unsullied. She's the only one who walks there now, tiptoeing through her tulips, dancing on daisies, romping all over her roses. Sometimes she pauses, reading some of the letters, looking at the photos, bending to touch a teddy. I've seen her cry, mourning herself. Other days she swaggers around counting the tributes, crowing that she must be the most mourned girl in the town, the whole country. There's been a one-minute spot on local television. Dad videoed it for me. Whenever I watch it Vicky is there too, admiring herself. But sometimes she's in a mad mood and she kicks the flowers, shuffling and stamping as if they're autumn leaves, reading out, “Vicky, I'll always be dreaming of you,” in a silly scoffing voice. “Well, dream on, darling, I'd never have wasted my breath on you when I was alive.”

  She's in that mood now, pelting Fatboy with phantom teddies and transparent roses. She's yelling obscenities at him, dodging backward and forward.

  “What are you looking at?” Fatboy says.

  “You!”

  “No. It's as if … Do you pretend Vicky's still here sometimes?”

  “No!”

  “Just walk away! Who does that creep think he is? Nosy old Wobbleguts. Say it to him. Say it!” Vicky insists.

  So I say it and run past, though I feel so mean.

  “Why do we have to be horrid to him, Vic?” I ask when we're nearly home. “He likes you. That's why he's hanging round me. To help me. He acts like he understands.”

  “Who cares?” says Vicky. “Honestly. What is it with you and Fatboy? Do you fancy him, is that it?”

  “Don't be stupid.”

  “I'm not the one acting all cow-eyed and crazy whenever that pig comes grunting near me.”

  “Don't! Don't talk about him like that. Why are you so angry?”

  “Why? I'm meant to be thrilled that I'm dead, yeah?”

  “OK, OK, keep your hair on.” I look at her, expecting her to send her entire head of hair spinning into space, but she droops suddenly, leaning against me.

  “Sorry, Jade. I don't mean to go on like that. It just gets to me sometimes. Especially when you're chatting to people and I'm stuck with no one to talk to.”

  “You can always talk to me. It's OK, Vicky.” I put my arm round her as best I can. “I don't want to talk to anyone else. Just you.”

  Fatboy Sam seems to have got the message. He doesn't follow me round school or wait for me afterward. When he sees me coming he walks smartly in the opposite direction. Well, as smartly as shambling Sam can manage.

  But there's still the Fun Run Friday Club. He's there and I'm there and Mr. Lorrimer expects us to jog along together. Sam pretends he's having trouble with his trainers and hangs back while I walk on, and then he walks about twenty paces behind me, though Mr. Lorrimer keeps gesturing toward him to catch me up. I start running and Sam runs way behind, though he has to jog on the spot when I stop with a stitch.

  “Hey, Jade, what's with you and Sam?” Mr. Lorrimer asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, clutching my side.

  “Bend over. The stitch will go in a minute. What do you mean, nothing? You can't kid me. Have you two had a tiff?”

  “No! Look, he's nothing to do with me, Mr. Lorrimer. He's just Fatboy Sam.”

  Vicky cheers.

  Mr. Lorrimer frowns.

  “Come on, Jade, give the boy a break. I didn't think you'd be one of the name-callers.”

  I feel awful. I care what Mr. Lorrimer thinks of me. I care what Sam thinks of me too. It's just that I care about Vicky more.

  I start running again though the stitch is still there. Mr. Lorrimer runs along beside me. I slow down. He slows too. There's no way I can run faster than him. I can't shake him off.

  “Why do you think Sam joined the club in the first place?”

  “I don't know,” I puff.

  Because he wanted to lose weight? Get fit?

  “Because he wanted to keep you company. He saw your name on the Fun Run list. He knew it would be hard on you without Vicky.”

  “My heart bleeds,” Vicky interrupts rudely. “Puh-lease! Don't you dare soften, Jade. You are not getting stuck with Fatboy Sam.”

  I'm not stuck. He lags behind like a long-distance shadow. Mr. Lorrimer gives up and dashes off. I run. I walk. I run. I walk. Vicky flies and cartwheels, flies and cartwheels. She's having fun. I want to have fun with her. She's the reason why I'm doing this stupid running. But it's not like last week. It's boring.

  “How can you possibly be bored when you're with me!” Vicky says indignantly.

  She won't leave me alone now. She's there all the time. She squashes up beside me in lessons and won't let me listen. When I try to write she seizes the pen.

  “Give it a rest, you sad little swot! It's OK, they're not expecting you to do any proper work. You're still grieving, right?”

  It's Vicky herself who's giving me grief. Every time a teacher stops and tries to have a quiet word she behaves outrageously. Sometimes I have to bend my head and hide behind my hair to stop laughing.

  Sometimes I feel like crying. Madeleine is being ever so kind to me, especially now poor Sam is keeping his distance. She's spotted I'm not doing any work so she keeps offering to let me copy hers. Then at break time she snaps her Kit Kats in half and shares with me.

  “No, Maddy, please. You have it all,” I say, but she won't listen.

  “I shouldn't be eating chocolate at all,” she says, punching her own plump tummy. “I'd give anything to be really thin like you, Jade.”

  She's mad. I hate my knobbly wrists, my sharp elbows, my bony knees. It's so embarrassing having a flat chest and no hips at all.

  “Yeah, you look a sight,” Vicky jeers. “But you're marginally better than that pink blancmange. Why do you want to hang out with all these pudding people? Get rid of her!”

  “I don't know how,” I say out loud without thinking.

  Madeleine blinks at me. “Well, I suppose I could diet, couldn't I? I really need to. My sister brought me these incredib