Darcy Burdock Book 3 Page 8

  ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOO,’ Dad says. ‘Darcy might run away again with her little witch’s hat and twinkly fairy Tinkerbell talcum powder!’

  ‘Shut up, Dad!’ I laugh and re-read it again. I can’t help but think this cookie was intended for Will, as he is being so secretive about what will happen now his dad has reappeared. I think he is holding something back. ‘Now your turn, Will,’ I say.

  There’s only one cookie left, shining like a big fat YES.

  ‘We didn’t leave you much choice, did we? Sorry, Will, our manners are appalling! What are we like?’ says Mum, smiling, but Will is used to us and is part of the family anyway.

  ‘If an awkward moment arises, resort to humour.’ Which makes us all laugh even more, because if there’s one thing my family can ace, it is giggling our way out of tricky situations.

  We hear a BEEP BEEP HONK outside the house which means it’s Annie pulling up to get Will. My heart sinks. I feel sick. And empty. It’s like even though Will is here, he isn’t here here. If that makes sense.

  ‘Aargh, Annie!’ Will hops up and goes to put his shoes on and starts thanking my parents and saying goodbye.

  ‘We didn’t get to talk properly, I hope everything’s OK,’ I say as I let him out.

  Will looks sad again. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  I nod but I know it isn’t. I can’t even tell you why it isn’t. But I just know. Annie waves at me from the window of her car and I close the door on them.

  Poppy is in her bedroom now, with Pork, planning her Friday night sleepover that Pork apparently demanded. I go in and flop dramatically onto the bed. I look up at the ceiling. I stare at the light bulb until my eyes go numb, then I close my eyes and can see the white light bulb silhouette on the insides of my eyelids everywhere I look. I do this over and over and over again.

  Poppy lies next to me for a bit. ‘I’m not cuddling you if that’s what you’re expecting,’ she informs me.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting a cuddle.’

  ‘OK, good.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Did you know, Darcy, that because you are now in Big School, you will soon catch spots?’

  ‘Catch spots?’ I ask; I never heard of this before.

  ‘Yeah, you’ll catch them from all the greasy teenagers. Timothy told me.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I nod. ‘Timothy does seem like a person that would know this.’

  ‘But it’s OK, I’ve got your back, you have my full support. I’ve been inventing, like, in my head obviously, so when the time comes, and you’re covered in disgusting grotesque spots, we’ll be prepared.’

  ‘How?’ I turn to face her.

  ‘You just get the grater, the Parmesan grater, you know, the smaller one for the top of pasta?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And you just scratch it all over your face.’

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’ Poppy looks at her nails as if she’s a beauty guru.

  ‘Doesn’t it shred your skin?’

  ‘No, because the spots are like ten centimetres tall and so it just shaves them down. It’s like filing a nail.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I am satisfied. ‘That’s a good idea, actually.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In my brain I am thinking, YOU IDIOT, POPPY! AS IF you would EVER cheese-grate YOUR FACE?! WHAT A STUPID IDEA. But maybe I’ll leave her in ignorant bliss.

  I brush my teeth with the wretched spicy toothpaste and get ready for bed. I keep burping up Chinese food. Gross. Lamb-Beth is snoring on the pillows. I put my fortune-cookie message on my pin board where I keep all my precious things: pictures I like, letters, postcards, ticket stubs. They are spilling out now, all over the walls. Mum keeps telling me off because the wallpaper is getting ruined, but if I see something and I like it, I want to keep it. Sorry about me, Mum. I pull out my writing book and dig out my new old copy of Sleeping Beauty. I bet when it was on the shelf in the second-hand bookshop it felt like a Sleeping Beauty itself. Something soooo beautifully sleeping, waiting to be picked up.

  I hope that tomorrow everything is good with Will.

  Chapter Twelve

  The first thing I see when I walk into school the next morning is Will talking to Mavis. I go over.

  ‘There she is. Ah, Will, I tell you, you’ve got a good friend there. She was so worried about you!’ Mavis screeches in her Scottish shrill. ‘Poor wee hen.’

  Will looks awkwardly at the floor.

  ‘Have you heard her stories? My goodness, Darcy’s got an imagination! She’s like a living roller-coaster ride!’ I am thinking, How can I unstitch the friendship threads with Mavis now? I’m in too deep. Great.

  Now that Will is back properly I’m sure I won’t even ever need to go to Reception so hopefully Mavis will get the message. The bell rings and I’m grateful. We say our goodbyes.

  Anyway, Will and I get through maths by using the square gridded paper to design our future homes. We want one big shared complex, but not in a love way, all on one level. Do you ever go to restaurants and imagine what you would do if they were your house? How you would lay it all out? I do. I also have a serious severe addiction: it is also almost physically impossible for me to be in a room and not imagine what it would be like if the ceiling was the floor and the floor was the ceiling. I like to lie on my back and pretend to moonwalk across the roof as if it is the ground.

  So Will and I are going to have one big flat house – it might be as long and as wide as a whole floor in our school. I don’t like stairs because sometimes when I go up them Poppy will creep behind me and whisper in my ear, ‘I’m coming to get you,’ and my neck goes all spiky and ticklish and for one quick real sec Poppy isn’t my younger sister but in actual fact a monster or a murderer or something. I also would quite like fruit trees all around the perimeter of my house so that I can walk the entire balcony of my one floor and pluck fruit whenever I feel like it. Fresh mangoes, apples, oranges, peaches. Will might want tangerines, I suppose, and then we can frame all the peel spirals he manages to make.

  I want a bed that’s Goddess size, which is the biggest bed you can get, even bigger than Queen and King and Emperor. It also has sixteen pillows; each pillow has a seam hidden inside with treats sneaked in. Like Maltesers. I want a bubble-bath jacuzzi and a smoke machine. I want a TV that’s a circle shape, and it has to be on the ceiling like I’m looking at the moon. I require spontaneous puddles all over the house that are little mini rock pools with crabs and silver and blue fishes darting about inside. I want one room that is a lagoon with crocodiles and a raft that I can paddle about in that has hourly allocated thunderstorms.

  Annoyingly, Will wants a football pitch and a basketball court and a games room. I let him off because one thing I love (not in a married way) about Will is that he’s really excellent at making dreams feel a bit realistic. He starts working out the dimensions of our house, using a ruler and then multiplying it by loads to figure out what the real plans are. He thinks we will need several million pounds to make the house happen because there will need to be bedrooms for all my family and one for Annie too. Here are some ways we think we will become millionaires:

  Go on a TV quiz show where the prize is money.

  Make fake money out of paper.

  Hope I might be a writer and have books that people can buy.

  If the money doesn’t work just live on the ceilings of rich people and hope they don’t look up.

  Quite realistic, I think.

  It’s lunch time, and Will still hasn’t spoken to me about his dad at all and I don’t like to ask because I don’t want to make him feel weird. When we look at our designs he does that thing again where I think he might cry and this makes me feel so confused. I am finding it hard to navigate this situation: Will is like a maze, a maze that I’m lost in.

  ‘I’ve got a treat!’ His eyes flash and he pulls out two cans of lemonade. Our school has stopped selling fizzy drinks because they say they rot and poison your teeth so it
is an absolute real exciting treat to have the cans. It’s also more of a treat as today’s ‘special’ on the menu was sludgy gross cold mushroom risotto that sticks to the plates like cement. There is nothing special about that. We don’t eat it and the leftovers sit chilling nicely next to us.

  Instead we cheers our lemonades and knock the top of the can three times each because you have to or else it will explode in your face like a burst water vein. Or is it main?

  I wish the lemonade had been chilled before, because it’s sticking to my teeth and making them all go furry like mini panda paws. It’s harder to drink when it’s not cold.

  Olly Supperidge slides over. Annoying. But thank goodness he isn’t with his new girlfriend . . . come to think of it . . . does Will even know about Clementine and Olly? I pretend Will and I are even more engrossed in our conversation, and then I see poor Koala Nicola on the other side of the room eating a ham sandwich, looking sad and sorry for herself, watching me. I don’t want her to think I’m all palled up with Olly these days when I clearly AM NOT. However, I’m also NOT going to whisper any ‘advice’ into Clementine’s ear like what she wants me to do. That’s for sure.

  ‘Hi, Burdockington.’ Olly curls over me like a giraffe or palm tree: what is this ridiculous nickname he has bestowed upon me? ‘When are you going to submit your latest addition to the school magazine?’

  ‘I’ll submit when I’m ready,’ I say sharply. Will raises his brow protectively. Across the room, Koala Nicola’s ears are visibly pricking up like a dog’s.

  ‘Cool. I’d like you to come to a meeting. A school magazine meeting. We’ve had a little, er . . . shall we say . . . team . . . switch-around.’ He coughs in awkwardness. ‘And an addition to the team too. I’m really excited about the magazine growing and expanding. Chuffed, to be honest.’ He talks like such a vile bank person or politics man off the TV. I can’t stand him.

  As if on cue Clementine walks into the canteen, and I can tell she doesn’t like seeing us talking ONE bit. To be honest, I don’t like it either. She screw-faces at me from across the room. Completely raging.

  Olly looks round as he sees I’ve got distracted. He waves a hand to Clementine and says to me, ‘So, you gonna put pen to paper or you just going to waste your life bonding with Mavis? Or has she been dumped now that your lover boy’s back in town?’

  I bite my tongue. He is being extra nasty to show off to Clementine, and knowing that I want to have a lovely day with Will.

  Not THIS. I want Will to open up and talk to me and be normal and to just drink my can of lemonade and everything to be good again.

  ‘I’m on it,’ I say, to make him leave me alone. I’m not actually on anything. Suddenly I picture myself like a hopeless toad on a lily pad. I see Will confused as to why Clementine is here too. He obviously doesn’t know the dreaded news then. That all evils have joined forces in a mission to destroy THE WORLD. Clementine and Olly are boyfriend and (sick) girlfriend. BLEUGH!

  Olly stares at our cans of lemonade, disgusted.

  ‘You know rats wee on those, don’t you?’ he sniffs.

  ‘On what?’ Will speaks up this time. His patience has gone.

  ‘The cans. In the factories the rats run wild and wee all over the cans and they don’t get washed either, they just get used and used and re-used and used again. They just go round and round recycling rats’ wee over and over. So with your lemonade you’re also getting mouthful after mouthful of old rancid aged rat wee. Yum yum, tasty.’

  ‘What you trying to say, Olly?’ Will shoves his lukewarm can of drink into my hand and stands up quickly.

  ‘No way, this is hys-ter-i-cal.’ Olly laughs sarcastically. ‘You’re not actually trying to size me up, are you, William Hopper?’

  ‘I asked you a question.’ Will is so angry he is as purple as an octopus, the same colour he always flushes when he’s panicked or embarrassed or stressed. Just to think Will USED to fancy Clementine. I am forever grateful nothing ever came out of THAT little hiccup.

  Other kids in the canteen stop and turn and stare at the face-off between Will and Olly. Clementine huffs and pouts and then grips Olly’s side.

  ‘Will, sit down, leave him, stop it,’ I whisper-say.

  ‘They’re not worth it, baby,’ Clementine hisses, and this makes me really cross and Will surprised. BABY? BABY? You are only allowed to say baby if you are a member of an American boy band – everybody knows that! Koala Nicola is staring at us with a face that’s a mixture of worry with deep pleasure.

  Olly can’t leave it alone though and goes, ‘Makes sense though, doesn’t it, William, eh? It’s no wonder you’re such a misfit – anybody who gets brought up by their sister is bound to be slightly dysfunctional.’

  Everybody stands about, blinking. Stunned, in total silence.

  Will is so angry; his heart is thudding like a tribe of warriors. He is so mad. He is so Angrosaurus rex. The world is about to pop: Will is like a pot on boil. He is either going to murder Olly or cry. Both will be horrible for him because he will either be in actual or social prison.

  But suddenly a ham sandwich comes flying through the air and smacks Olly on the back of the head with a slap. Koala Nicola to the rescue! ‘Enough!’ Koala Nicola says firmly.

  ‘What?’ Olly coughs, his pride knocked out of his head with the weight of a ham sandwich.

  ‘I said, enough,’ Koala Nicola repeats, stronger this time, and before Olly can answer back Clementine snatches the can of lemonade out of Will’s hand and hurls it into Koala’s face. Most of it covers her and she screams. Will takes this moment to pick up his risotto leftovers and mush them into Olly’s face, and I panic and do the same with mine into Clementine’s. Squeezing it right in so that the rice and sludge smooches out of the sides in clumps and the action is up there with my top-ten favourite moments of my life. I don’t have time to soak the feeling up because the silly canteen lady in the paper hat has started screaming words like ‘detention!’, but louder than her words, rumbling over the whole dining hall are these two words which seem far more inviting:

  FOOD FIGHT!

  I’ve never had any type of fight before – well, maybe when I threw a rubber at Jamie Haddock, but that was in baby school so it doesn’t count. And not a fight with weapons . . . if you can call food a weapon, which I’d say this manky risotto definitely was. But when I look around to see Will and Clementine, goody-goody Koala Nicola and pretty much everybody else in the room chucking yoghurt and muffins and sliced tomato, I can’t just stand by and watch now, can I? I reach for a neglected bowl of noodles next to me, launching them into the air like a grenade of slimy worms.

  A scoop of mashed potato smushes Will right in the eye and I am hiding behind the table, popping up to lob various food items like lighting grenades; an apple core spinning through the air, whacking some boy I always see but don’t know the name of in the shoulder – MAN DOWN.

  A ball of tinfoil skids across the table and taps Chloe from my class on the ankle – Sorry, Chloe. She is a weakling though, so nothing to worry about there, revenge-wise. Risotto hits a few more faces, half a chocolate bar boofs Tony Lyson in the cheek and I duck so he can’t see it was me that made it land there. A handful of salad springs into the air like a firework exploding and a handful of chips confetti the sky, raining down onto some older kids.

  A spinning dry triangle of pizza . . . oooo . . . this is good . . . frisbees into Olly’s face right on the jawbone. Will winks at me. If I could choose a moment to live in for the rest of my days it would be that moment and certainly not the next moment where a jacket potato flies through the chaos and hits me right in the face and my nose begins to bleed. With, yes, BLOOD. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The worst jacket potato filling. Ever.

  An ear-piercingly high-pitched whistle is blown. Will drops the can he is holding and it clatters to the floor in slow motion, spilling its guts into the cheap custard and baked-bean stained carpet.

  I gawp, the sound stops and ever
ything hurts, and I just see Will turn to me and his eyes lower like he’s ashamed and full of regret and worry. Blood rivers into my mouth from the wound caused by the dangerous jacket potato. I try not to cry. I can taste metal.

  Olly walks away because he can sense the shock, swearing because he doesn’t care any more and it’s too late to be worried about getting in trouble. Clementine, who looks like she could have another round, is pacing, foot to foot, fist in mouth, hungry for more. Koala Nicola is crying. Dribbling again. And the rest of the hall are checking their ketchup-stained injuries, bleeding mayonnaise and tartar sauce, oozing gravy.

  The dinner lady in the paper hat stands on a chair to give her monologue of anger. She tells us that she is DISGUSTED and HORRIFIED and NEVER IN HER LIFE OF ALL THE 17,890,462 SCHOOLS THAT SHE HAS WORKED IN HAS SHE EVER and I repeat EVER, SEEN SUCH DEPLORABLE AND DESPICABLE BEHAVIOUR!

  She demands to know who started it, and Clementine has no trouble telling the whole story: all about us fighting and, of course, her favourite part, ‘Then Nicola threw the ham sandwich at Olly’s head and that’s when things got nasty.’

  And Koala Nicola is sobbing more and more and starts telling the lady in the paper hat the whole entire love story like she’s on a chat show, and as though the woman in the paper hat cares that Clementine stole Olly from her.

  Apparently, the five of us (the infernal love triangle plus Will and I) are the ‘instigators’ and have a ‘serious punishment’ ahead of us, and blood is still pouring out my nose and my eyes are watering. The dinner lady says, ‘First things first,’ and points to me. ‘Get this girl to the school nurse!’ But when Will tries to take me she says, ‘NOT YOU! YOU ARE IN DEEP DEEP TROUBLE, I’M AFRAID.’ And that’s when Will drops a bombshell on me that hurts more than any jacket potato.

  ‘I don’t care anyway; today is my last day at this school. I’m leaving. Leaving to live with my dad in the country, so give me whatever stupid punishment you want to because it WON’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE.’