My Sister Jodie Read online

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  My Sister Jodie

  www. kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

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  Also available by Jacqueline Wilson Published in Corgi Pups, for beginner readers: THE DINOSAUR’S PACKED LUNCH

  THE MONSTER STORY-TELLER

  Published in Young Corgi, for newly confident readers: LIZZIE ZIPMOUTH

  SLEEPOVERS

  Available from Doubleday/Corgi Yearling Books: BAD GIRLS

  THE BED & BREAKFAST STAR

  BEST FRIENDS

  BURIED ALIVE!

  CANDYFLOSS

  THE CAT MUMMY

  CLEAN BREAK

  CLIFFHANGER

  THE DARE GAME

  THE DIAMOND GIRLS

  DOUBLE ACT

  DOUBLE ACT (PLAY EDITION)

  GLUBBSLYME

  THE ILLUSTRATED MUM

  JACKY DAYDREAM

  THE LOTTIE PROJECT

  MIDNIGHT

  THE MUM-MINDER

  SECRETS

  STARRING TRACY BEAKER

  THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER

  THE SUITCASE KID

  VICKY ANGEL

  THE WORRY WEBSITE

  Collections:

  THE JACQUELINE WILSON COLLECTION

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  JACQUELINE WILSON’S SUPERSTARS

  includes THE SUITCASE KID and THE LOTTIE PROJECT

  Available from Doubleday/Corgi books, for older readers: DUSTBIN BABY

  GIRLS IN LOVE

  GIRLS UNDER PRESSURE

  GIRLS OUT LATE

  GIRLS IN TEARS

  KISS

  LOLA ROSE

  LOVE LESSONS

  Join the official Jacqueline Wilson fan club at www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk

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  DOUBLEDAY

  London•New York•Toronto•Sydney•Auckland This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Adobe ISBN: 9781407043333

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  MY SISTER JODIE

  A DOUBLEDAY BOOK 978 0 385 61012 4

  Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books A Random House Group Company

  This edition published 2008

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  Copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2008

  Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2008

  The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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  For Trish

  With special thanks to Natasha West and Annelies Hofland

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  ‘I told you so!’ said Mum triumphantly.

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  1

  Jodie. It was the first word I ever said. Most babies lisp Mumma or Dadda or Drinkie or Teddy. Maybe everyone names the thing they love best. I said Jodie, my sister. OK, I said Dodie because I couldn’t say my Js properly, but I knew what I meant.

  I said her name first every morning.

  ‘Jodie? Jodie! Wake up. Please wake up!’

  She was hopeless in the mornings. I always woke up early – six o’clock, sometimes even earlier. When I was little, I’d delve around my bed to find my three night-time teddies, and then take them for a dawn trek up and down my duvet. I put my knees up and they’d clamber up the mountain and then slide down. Then they’d burrow back to base camp and tuck into their pretend porridge for breakfast.

  I wasn’t allowed to eat anything so early. I wasn’t even allowed to get up. I was fine once I could read.

  Sometimes I got through a whole book before the alarm went off. Then I’d lie staring at the ceiling, 7

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  making up my own stories. I’d wait as long as I could, and then I’d climb into Jodie’s bed and whisper her name, give her a little shake and start telling her the new story. They were always about two sisters. They went through an old wardrobe into a magic land, or they went to stage school and became famous actresses, or they went to a ball in beautiful long dresses and danced in glass slippers.

  It was always hard to get Jodie to wake up properly. It was as if she’d fallen down a long dark tunnel in the night. It took her ages to crawl back to the surface. But eventually she’d open one eye and her arm went round me automatically. I’d cuddle up and carry on telling her the story. I had to keep nudging her and saying, ‘You are still awake, aren’t you, Jodie?’

  ‘I’m wide awake,’ she mumbled, but I had to give her little prods to make sure.

  When she was awake, she’d sometimes take over the story. She’d tell me how the two sisters ruled over the magic land as twin queens, and they acted in their own daily television soap, and they danced with each other all evening at the ball until way past midnight.

  Jodie’s stories were always much better than mine. I begged her to write them down but she couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘ You write them down for me,’ she said. ‘You’re the one that wants to be the writer.’

  I wanted to write my own stories and illustrate them too.

  ‘I can help you with the ideas,’ said Jodie. ‘You can do all the drawings and I’ll do the colouring in.’

  ‘So long as you do it carefully in the right 8

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  colours,’ I said, because Jodie nearly always went over the lines, and sometimes she coloured faces green and hair blue just for the fun of it.

  ‘OK, Miss Picky,’ said Jodie. ‘I’ll help you out but that won’t be my rea
l job. I’m going to be an actress.

  That’s what I really want to do. Imagine, standing there, all lit up, with everyone listening, hanging on your every word!’

  ‘Maybe one of my stories could be turned into a play and then you could have the star part.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be an overnight success and be offered mega millions to make movies and we’ll live together in a huge great mansion,’ said Jodie.

  ‘What does a mansion look like?’ I said. ‘Can it have towers? Can our room be right at the top of a tower?’

  ‘ All the rooms are our rooms, but we’ll share a very special room right at the top of a tower, only I’m not going to let you grow your hair any longer.’

  She pulled one of my plaits. ‘I don’t want you tossing it out of the window and letting any wicked old witches climb up it.’ Jodie nudged me. She had started to have a lot of arguments with our mother.

  She often called her a witch – or worse – but only under her breath.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep my plaits safely tied up. No access for wicked witches,’ I said, giggling, though I felt a bit mean to Mum.

  ‘What about handsome princes?’

  ‘ Definitely not,’ I said. ‘It’ll be just you and me in Mansion Towers, living happily ever after.’

  It was just our silly early-morning game, though I took it more seriously than Jodie. I drew our imaginary mansion, often slicing it open like a 9

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  doll’s house so I could illustrate every room. I gave us a huge black velvet sofa with two big black toy pumas lolling at either end. We had two real black cats for luck lapping from little bowls in the kitchen, two poodles curled up together in their dog basket, while twin black ponies grazed in a paddock beside our rose garden. I coloured each rose carefully and separately, deep red, salmon, peach, very pale pink, apricot and yellow. I even tried to do every blade of grass individually but had to see sense after dabbing delicately for half an hour, my hand aching.

  I gave us a four-poster bed with red velvet curtains and a ruby chandelier, and one wall was a vast television screen. We had a turquoise swimming pool in the basement (with our twin pet dolphins) and a roof garden between the towers where skylarks and bluebirds skimmed the blossom trees.

  I printed the title of each of our books in the library in weeny writing and drew every item of food on our kitchen shelves. I gave us a playroom with a trampoline and a trapeze and a jukebox, and one of those machines you get at the seaside where you have to manoeuvre a crane to pick up little furry teddies. I drew tiny teddies every colour of the rainbow, and I had a shelf of big teddies in our bedroom, and a shelf of old-fashioned dolls with real hair and glass eyes, and a splendid rocking horse big enough for both of us to ride on.

  I talked about it to Jodie as if we’d really live there one day. Sometimes I imagined it so vividly it seemed like a real place. I just had to work out which road to take out of town and then I’d round a 10

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  corner and spot the towers. I’d run fast, through the elaborate wrought-iron gates, up to the front door with the big lion’s-head knocker. I’d know how to press the lion’s snout with my finger and the door would spring open and I’d step inside and Jodie would be there waiting for me.

  I wasn’t stupid, I knew it wasn’t really real, but it felt as if it might be all the same.

  Then one morning at breakfast everything changed. I was sitting at the kitchen table nibbling at a honey sandwich. I liked opening the sandwich up and licking the honey, letting it ooze over my tongue, but I did it quickly and furtively when Mum wasn’t looking. She was very strict about table manners. She was forever nagging Jodie about sitting up straight and spooning her cornflakes up quietly without clanking the spoon against the bowl. Jodie slumped further into an S

  shape and clanked until she nearly cracked the china. Mum took hold of her by the shoulders and gave her a good shaking.

  ‘Stop winding me up, you contrary little whatsit,’

  she said, going shake shake shake.

  Jodie’s head rocked backwards and forwards on her stiff shoulders.

  ‘You’re hurting her!’ said Dad, putting down his Daily Express and looking anxious.

  ‘She’s not hurting me,’ Jodie gasped, waggling her head herself, and then she started da-da-da-ing part of that weird old ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ song when everyone bangs their heads to the music.

  ‘Stop that silly row! I suppose you think you’re funny,’ said Mum.

  But Dad was laughing and shaking his own 11

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  head. ‘You’re a right head-case, our Jodie,’ he said.

  ‘Trust you to encourage her, Joe,’ said Mum. ‘Why do you always have to take Jodie’s side?’

  ‘Because I’m my daddy’s girl,’ said Jodie, batting her eyelashes at Dad.

  She was too. She was always in trouble now, bunking off school and staying out late. Mum could shake her head until it snapped right off her shoulders but she couldn’t control her. But Dad could still sometimes make her hang her head and cry because she’d worried them so.

  He’d never say a bad word against Jodie.

  ‘It’s not her fault. OK, she’s always been a bit headstrong, but she’s basically been a good little kid. She’s just got in with the wrong crowd now, that’s all. She’s no worse than any of her mates at school,’ he said.

  ‘Quite!’ said Mum. ‘Moorcroft’s a rubbish school.

  The kids aren’t taught properly at all. They just run wild. Half of them are in trouble with the police. It was the biggest mistake in the world letting our Jodie go there. She’s heading for trouble in a big way. Just look at her!’

  I thought Jodie looked wonderful. She used to have pale mousy hair in meek little plaits but now she’d dyed her hair a dark orangy-red with streaky gold bits. She wore it in a funny spiky ponytail with a fringe she’d cut herself. Dad said she looked like a pot of marmalade – he’d spread her on toast if she didn’t watch out. Mum said Jodie had ruined her hair and now she looked tough and tarty. Jodie was thrilled. She wanted to look tough and tarty.

  Then there were her ears. Jodie had been begging Mum to let her have her ears pierced. Mum 12

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  always said no, so last year Jodie went off and got her ears pierced herself. She kept going back, so there are five extra little rings up one ear.

  ‘You’ve got more perforations than a blooming colander,’ said Dad.

  Mum was outraged at each and every new piercing.

  ‘Hey, hey, they’re only pretty little earrings,’ said Dad. ‘It’s not as if she’s got a nose-stud or a tattoo.’

  ‘ Yet!’ Jodie whispered to me.

  She’d tried going to a tattoo parlour but they said she was too young. She inked butterflies and bluebirds and daisy chains up and down her arms and legs with my felt pens instead. She looked incredible in her underwear with her red-gold hair and her earrings and her fake tattoos – but her clothes were mostly as dull and little-girly as mine. Jodie didn’t have enough money to buy much herself.

  Mum was in charge when it came to clothes-buying. Dad didn’t dare slip Jodie some money any more. She’d told him this story about her clunky school shoes rubbing her toes sore, so he gave her forty pounds for some new ones. She bought her first pair of proper high heels, fantastic flashy sparkly red shoes, and clacked happily round the house in them, deaf to Mum’s fury. She let me try them out. They were so high I immediately fell over, twisting my ankle, but I didn’t care. I felt like Dorothy wearing her ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz.

  Jodie was wearing the clunky school shoes this morning, and the grey Moorcroft uniform. She’d done her best to customize it, hitching up the skirt as high as she could, and she’d pinned funny 13

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  badges on her blazer. She’d inked little cartoon characters all over her school tie. Mum started on a new nag about the tie, but she interrupted herself when she heard the letterbox bang.

  ‘Post, Pearl. Go and get it, pet.’

  I’m Pearl. When I was born, Mum called me her precious little pearl and the name stuck. I was born prematurely and had to stay tucked up in an incu-bator for more than a month. I only weighed a kilo and was still so little when they were allowed to bring me home that Dad could cradle me in one of his hands. They were very worried about Jodie’s reaction to me. She was a harem-scarem little girl who always twisted off her dolls’ heads and kicked her teddies – but she was incredibly careful with me. She held me very gently and kissed my little wrinkled forehead and stroked my fluffy hair and said I was the best little sister in the whole world.

  I picked up the post. A catalogue for Mum (she wrote off for them all – clothes, furniture, commem-orative plates, reproduction china dolls – anything she thought would add a touch of class to our household) and a letter addressed to Mr and Mrs Wells – Mum and Dad. A proper letter in a big white envelope, not a bill.

  I wondered who would be writing to them. I hoped it wasn’t a letter from the head of Moorcroft complaining about Jodie. I knew she and her friends had been caught smoking once or twice, and sometimes they sneaked out of school at lunch time to go and get chips and didn’t always bother to go back again. Jodie didn’t like smoking, she told me privately; it made her feel sick and dizzy, and she 14

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  also said the school chips were much better than the pale greasy ones in polystyrene pouches from the chippy, but she was trying to keep in with Marie and Siobhan and Shanice. They were the three toughest girls in Jodie’s class. If you kept them on your side, you were laughing.

  ‘Pearl?’ Mum called.

  I fingered the letter in my hand, wondering if I should stick it up under my school sweater until we could steam it open in private. But then Mum came out into the hall and saw the letter before I could whip it out of sight. She barely glanced at the catalogue, even though it was the one for little enamel pill boxes, one of her favourites. She took hold of the letter and ran her finger under the seal.