The Worst Thing About My Sister Read online

  I also had Jumper, my big black and white Dalmatian dog. Dad won him for me at a fair. Jumper wasn’t very good at lying down in a relaxed kind of way. His legs stuck straight down and he wouldn’t cuddle. Still, he made a very good guard dog for my Marty Den. I also had Basil the boa constrictor. I’d made him myself out of Mum’s old tights and sewn a ferocious face at one end. Then there was Polly the parrot – she was cardboard, but very brightly coloured and fantastic at flying. I had an entire shoe box stable full of plastic horses as well, so the bottom bunk got very crowded.

  Sometimes I made all my animals budge up so that Mighty Mart herself could sleep in the bottom bunk. She had to reduce her superpowers considerably to squeeze herself down to a suitable size, and even so her hands and feet stuck out right into my room, but that didn’t matter a bit. She loved to laze on my bunk bed and tell me about all the exciting places she’d visited. Occasionally, when I couldn’t get to sleep, she’d lift me onto her shoulders the way Dad used to carry me when I was little, and we’d open up my bedroom window and fly out into the night together on a big adventure.

  I wasn’t up to any adventuring just now, lurking under my bunk beds in the dust. I decided I would hide there until the day after Alisha’s party – but it was getting near supper time and Dad always went out for fish and chips on a Friday night. I heard the front door and then smelled a wonderful savoury chippy smell, and I couldn’t contain myself.

  I rushed downstairs without thinking. Mum grabbed hold of me and marched me right back up again just because I had grey dust all over me. Even in my hair actually. It did look a bit eerie, like those men who paint themselves silver and then stand like statues down the shopping centre on Saturday. I wondered if I could have a shot at posing like a statue, because people gave them lots of money. I stood motionless in the bathroom for quite a while, practising. By the time I’d had a wash and brushed the fluff out of my hair my fish and chips were nearly cold.

  ‘Goodness, who are you?’ said Dad as I came into the living room. ‘Now let me think … Didn’t we once have another daughter besides Melissa? Long, long, ago. What was she called? Maisie? Matty?’

  ‘It’s me, Marty. Dad, don’t be daft,’ I said, tucking into my chips. I shook lots of tomato sauce on top. Red is my all-time favourite colour.

  ‘Stop it, Martina, you’re using half the bottle!’ said Mum. ‘Have you stopped sulking now?’

  ‘Anyone would sulk if they were told they had to go to Alisha’s party,’ I said. I didn’t like the way Mum was looking at me, her eyes squinting, her head peering this way and that.

  Halfway through supper she went for her tape measure and started measuring me!

  ‘Why are you doing that? Stop it!’ I said.

  ‘Hold still!’ said Mum, moving the tape about.

  ‘You’re not going to make something for me, are you?’ I asked, my voice croaky with fear. ‘Oh, Mum, it’s not a dress, is it?’

  ‘I want you to look lovely at the party,’ said Mum.

  ‘But, Mum – not a dress! I can’t wear a dress. Nobody wears dresses to parties nowadays.’

  ‘Alisha does.’

  ‘Yes, well, Alisha is so pathetic maybe she will. But no one else does, I swear. You wear just ordinary stuff – jeans and tops, maybe skirts sometimes, but never ever dresses. Tell her, Melissa. Even you wouldn’t wear a dress to a party, would you?’

  Melissa chewed a chip daintily, her eyes bright. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Mum. Marty needs a proper party dress – a really frilly one with smocking and embroidery – a pink party dress,’ she said.

  ‘Stop it!’ I howled, almost in tears.

  That’s the worst thing about my sister. She never misses a chance to wind me up.

  ‘Hey, hey, calm down, Curlynob. Melissa’s only joking,’ said Dad, putting his arm round me. He looked at Mum. ‘And you’re joking too, aren’t you, Jan?’

  ‘No I’m not! Stop making a silly fuss, Martina. I know you don’t like pink, though it would really suit you. But I think I will go for blue – maybe a deep cornflower. I’ve seen some lovely silky stuff in the market.’

  I moaned despairingly and started thumping my head on the table.

  ‘Martina! Stop being so silly and melodramatic. Any other little girl would be absolutely thrilled at the idea of a lovely party dress. You would be, wouldn’t you, Melissa?’

  ‘Well …’ I was in such deep despair that even my sister took pity on me. ‘Actually, Mum, Marty’s right – no one wears that sort of pretty dress to parties now. The dress you made for Alisha is lovely, but it’s more like a bridesmaid’s dress. She’s going to look a bit weird if she wears it to her party. And Marty’s going to look even weirder, trust me.’

  ‘It’s a dance party. It’s being held at Alisha’s dancing school. Alisha’s mum told me all about it. It’s going to be like a very junior prom.’

  ‘Dancing! Oh, there won’t be dancing, will there?’ I said, even more horrified. ‘Not pointy-toes, prancing-about ballet dancing? I can’t go, Mum.’

  I looked at Dad. ‘Dad, please, I don’t really have to go, do I? Imagine how you’d feel if you had to wear a silly dress and do ballet dancing.’

  ‘Give the kid a break, Jan,’ said Dad. ‘You know what our Marty’s like. Maybe other little girls would like it, but it’ll be torture for her.’

  ‘I think she’ll probably enjoy herself when she gets there. And she won’t have to do any dancing – though I wish she would. It would be so good for her – give her a little grace, instead of forever clumping about in those awful Converse boots. Ah! We’ll obviously have to get you a proper pair of shoes for the party, unless your school ones will do. No – they’ll spoil the whole effect.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, if Marty’s having new shoes can I have some too? I’d really like some heels, just little ones. All the other girls in my class have got really high-heeled shoes. I’m the only one going around in baby shoes with soles as flat as pancakes,’ Melissa said.

  ‘Don’t you start, Melissa. You’re not wearing high heels at your age. They’re very bad for growing feet. And we can’t afford for you to have another pair of shoes. I’ve only just bought you those silly furry boots you were so desperate to have.’

  ‘They’re winter boots. And it’s not fair – why should Marty have new shoes when she doesn’t even want them, especially if you say you can’t afford to buy me any,’ Melissa said, throwing down her knife and fork.

  ‘Now, now, you womenfolk!’ said Dad. ‘Let’s all just enjoy our fish and chips and stop all this argy-bargy. Jan, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve got your wires crossed. Marty doesn’t want to go to a party, so it seems mad to force her. Then she won’t need a new dress or shoes, so why not use the money you’d spend on them to give Melissa her heels – little ones. Simple.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, yes!’ Melissa and I said joyfully.

  ‘It’s not simple,’ said Mum. She looked at Melissa and me. ‘I’m sorry, girls. I need Marty to go to the party.’

  ‘Why? Just because you don’t want to upset Amanda Evans and her unfortunate podgy daughter?’ said Dad.

  ‘I need someone looking pretty as a picture at that party,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve tried my best with Alisha’s dress, but it really doesn’t suit her, poor girl. But if I run up a little dress for Martina and tidy her up a bit and keep her clean, she’ll do me proud.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’ I protested bitterly.

  ‘She’ll act like a little model for me, don’t you see? Some of the other mothers might want their daughters to have a similar party dress. It would be really good for business,’ said Mum.

  ‘But – but you haven’t really got a proper business,’ said Dad.

  ‘Not yet – but I’d like one,’ said Mum. She paused. ‘And it would be a help.’

  She said it very gently, but Dad flushed and looked miserable. Mum meant that he wasn’t earning any money from his business. It wasn’t his fault, he was really trying hard to make it a
success. I couldn’t bear it when his face went all droopy like that. None of us could.

  ‘I think these fish and chips have gone cold,’ Mum said quickly. ‘How about we leave them and I make us all pancakes instead?’

  Mum’s pancakes are our all-time favourite thing, though she doesn’t often make them because she’s too tired and too busy. It was a clever suggestion because we all three cheered up. Mum let us choose our own toppings. I had strawberry jam and sliced peach and chopped nuts and whirly cream. Then she gave us all a second pancake!

  ‘It wouldn’t be possible to have thirds, would it, Mum?’ I said when I had cleared my plate twice over. I’d had to undo my jeans and I could barely move, but it still seemed worth asking, just in case.

  ‘You don’t want to end up looking like Alisha, do you?’ said Mum, which shut me up quick.

  I hoped that somehow or other Mum would forget all about the dreaded dress for Alisha’s party. I sat up in bed that night drawing Mighty Mart swooping all over the city, going zap-zap-zap with her finger. All the people in the street and in their cars and at the windows of their houses had blank faces with open mouths because Mighty Mart had wiped their memories clean and they couldn’t remember a single thing.

  But she couldn’t manage to wipe my mum’s memory. She got started on the dreaded dress the very next day – and she bought me silly little blue pull-on satin slippers.

  ‘Mum! They’re like ballet shoes!’ I moaned.

  ‘They’ll go beautifully with the blue silk. They were selling them cheap in the market. I got you a new pair of white socks too – and a new pair of knickers in case you leap about and disgrace me. All your underwear is grey!’

  My face went grey too at the thought of this wretched party. Alisha was going on and on about it at school. She didn’t invite my special friend Jaydene, the lucky thing. She did invite Katie and Ingrid, the worst girls in the class. The girls who pick on me. They whisper silly things about me and call me Freak and Weirdo. I don’t give a fig – I can take care of myself. If I wanted to, I could zap them just like Mighty Mart. Still, I don’t want to go to a party with them. Especially not wearing a frilly blue dress.

  When Saturday morning came, I burrowed down under my red-and-white checked duvet and Wilma Whale. When I was simply roasting, I scribbled red crayon across my cheeks. Then I went padding into Mum and Dad’s bedroom.

  ‘Mum! Dad! I don’t feel very well,’ I said in a sad, croaking voice.

  ‘Stop trying it on, Martina,’ said Mum, without even opening her eyes.

  ‘I’m not trying it on, I’m ill – look, I’m all flushed.’

  Mum opened one eye and groaned. ‘What have you done? It’s going to take hours rubbing that red stuff off your face.’

  ‘It’s not red stuff. It’s me! I’ve got a terrible fever. Feel my forehead. And yet I’m shaking too – see?’ I said, quivering piteously.

  ‘Come here and have a cuddle before you keel over,’ Dad said, reaching out an arm.

  I snuggled into bed between them, though Mum made me lie on my back so my cheeks wouldn’t rub off on their pillows.

  ‘You really don’t want to go to this wretched party, do you, Curlynob?’ said Dad, patting my head.

  ‘It will be torture from beginning to end,’ I declared dramatically, which made him chuckle. ‘Especially if I have to wear that blue monstrosity,’ I added.

  ‘Hey, hey, no need to be cheeky now. Your mum’s spent ages making that dress, sewing till her hands are sore,’ said Dad.

  ‘I didn’t ask her to,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you in it,’ said Dad.

  ‘So you can have a good laugh,’ I mumbled.

  ‘The laugh will be on you, Martina, because you’re going to look lovely,’ said Mum. ‘Now, if you’re staying in this bed, settle down and keep quiet while we all have a little doze.’

  I wore my own pow! T-shirt and comfy jeans and tartan Converse boots all morning, but straight after lunch I had to go and have a bath, for goodness’ sake, and then stand looking foolish in my new knickers and socks and silly little satin slippers while Mum brushed my curls until it felt as if I had grooves in my scalp. She wanted to stick a blue ribbon in my hair, but thank goodness my curls were so springy it kept falling out, so she gave up on that idea.

  The blue dress felt very slippery as she pulled it over my head. Maybe that would fall off too. But it stayed on, gripping me tight round my waist.

  ‘It’s a perfect fit,’ Mum said.

  She was whispering as if we were in a museum. She circled me as if I were an exhibit. Her eyes were shining.

  ‘Oh, Martina!’ she said. ‘You really do look lovely, darling. See!’ She took me gently by my blue silk shoulders and steered me in front of the mirror.

  I looked terrible. I didn’t look like me any more. I’d turned into some simpering soft ultra-girlie girl in the most elaborately awful silly-frilly dress. I looked like the crinoline lady in my great-gran’s bathroom who keeps a spare toilet roll under her skirt.

  ‘I can’t go looking like this! They’ll all laugh at me,’ I said.

  ‘You really are the giddy limit, Martina. You might at least say “Thank you, Mum.” Any other girl would give their eye teeth to have a dress like this. Wait till Melissa sees you. Melissa! Melissa, come and look at Martina.’

  Melissa came rushing into Mum and Dad’s room. She took one look at me – and burst out laughing.

  ‘You see!’ I said, practically in tears.

  ‘Melissa, stop it! Martina looks wonderful, doesn’t she?’ said Mum.

  Melissa fell on the bed and rolled around, snorting with laughter.

  ‘Shut up! I hate you!’ I said furiously.

  ‘Will you stop that silly sniggering at once, Melissa. I don’t know what’s got into you,’ said Mum. ‘And Martina, I’ve told you before, you don’t hate anyone, especially not your sister.’

  ‘Yes, I do!’ I mouthed at Melissa, who kept right on spluttering.

  ‘We’ll show Dad. I bet you he’ll say you look gorgeous,’ said Mum.

  Dad was actually busy with clients – two elderly ladies who wanted to go on a coach trip. Mum always said we had to leave Dad strictly alone when he was working, but this time she led me straight downstairs and into his office.

  ‘Look at Martina, Harry,’ she said, pushing me through the door.

  Dad looked. Then he staggered and clapped his hands to his eyes.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I’m blinded by your beauty, Marty!’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’

  ‘My, what a little princess!’ said one of the old ladies.

  ‘Such a beautiful dress! You never see kiddies wearing proper dresses nowadays. Oh, she looks a picture,’ said the other one.

  ‘There!’ said Mum triumphantly. ‘Now come along, Martina, I’ll drive you to the dancing school.’

  She steered me into the car and we drove off.

  ‘Crash the car, Mum, then I won’t have to go,’ I muttered.

  ‘Stop it! And don’t wind that window down, it’ll muck up your hair.’

  ‘But I feel sick. Mum, I think I’m really going to be sick.’ I made tentative retching noises.

  ‘Martina Michaels, I have never smacked you in my life, but if you’re deliberately sick all over your beautiful new dress I shall put you over my knee and spank you. Now for goodness’ sake, stop acting up. And smooth your skirt, you’re getting it creased.’

  Mum drove horribly cautiously and carefully, and we arrived at Alisha’s dancing school all in one piece. There were cars parked up and down the road, with flocks of girls getting out to go to the party.

  I felt real sick churning in my stomach. They were all wearing the sort of clothes Melissa likes: puppy and kitten and bunny T-shirts, sparkly tops with hearts, little tight skirts or long ones with ruffles, pink jeans, white jeans – but no dresses, not a single dress anywhere.

  ‘Mum!’ I said, hunching down inside the car. ‘Mum, look a
t them! I can’t go to the party, not dressed like this. They’ll all wet themselves laughing at me.’

  ‘You’re going to the party and that’s final,’ said Mum, practically dragging me out of the car.

  I knew I wasn’t allowed to hate anyone, but I hated Mum at that moment. And I hated all those girls, who gawked at me as Mum frog-marched me into the dancing hall. I especially hated Katie and Ingrid. Katie was wearing a bright pink halter top and matching jeans, showing lots of bare tummy, and Ingrid was in a sparkly vest thing and a tight skirt. They took one look at me and rocked with laughter. I felt my face flushing as violently pink as Katie’s outfit.

  I was all set to run for it, but Mum held me tight, practically dragging me up to the end of the hall. Mrs Evans was standing next to a bony woman with a topknot, who turned out to be Miss Suzanne, the lady who owned the dancing school. And there was the birthday girl herself!

  It was bizarrely comforting to see Alisha prancing around in her lilac dress, because she looked just as ridiculous as me – probably even more so. Her puff sleeves cut into her podgy arms and her skirt stuck up at the front. She was wearing weird white lace tights, so it looked as if she had bandages all over both legs, and she had purple sequin shoes with heels. They were only very little heels, but she wobbled as she walked and her bottom stuck out. Her hair was teased into a grown-up style like a helmet. She was wearing make-up too – pink glossy stuff on her lips and lilac shadow like bruises on her eyelids.