Girls in Tears Page 2

  It's been worse since we started secondary school. Nadine had the first period, the first kiss, the first serious boyfriend. Liam is a total jerk but he is good looking and he's eighteen. They broke up because Nadine found out all the bad things about him – but she still seems to think about him wistfully. Until today.

  'I've met this incredibly glorious super-cool guy! He's like my ideal dream man, Ellie, just so ultra-perfect I almost feel I've made him up.' She raises one eyebrow at me. She does it perfectly. She's insinuating that some people tend to fantasize about boyfriends and end up telling their friends whopping great lies. Some people – like me. I got a bit carried away before when Nadine announced she was going out with Liam. Plus my other best friend Magda's so drop-dead gorgeous she can always get any boy she wants. I felt so left out that I started spinning them this tale about Dan, an extremely irritating boy I met on holiday in Wales, making out he was Mr Perfect. Then, when I started, I couldn't stop. Oh, it's such a wondrous relief not to have to do that any more. I don't have to pretend about Russell. And now ... I look down at my hand. I spread my fingers wide.

  'Ellie? Are you listening to me?' Nadine asks. 'And why are you wearing that tacky freebie kids' ring?'

  My head jerks as if she's slapped me. I take a step backwards, unable to believe she's said it. Nadine's my friend. How can she hurt me so? I stare at her until her white face and long black hair start to blur.

  'Ellie? Ellie, what is it? Are you crying?' Nadine says.

  'No, of course not,' I insist, as a tear rolls down my cheek.

  'Oh, Ellie, what have I said?' says Nadine, putting her arm round me.

  I try to wriggle away but she hangs on. 'No, come on, tell me. I don't get it. Why are you suddenly acting like I've done something terrible? You can't be upset because I teased you about the ring.'

  'You said it was tacky,' I mumble pathetically.

  'It is tacky,' says Nadine. 'Natasha's worn hers for days and her finger's gone all green. I told her she'd get gangrene and that her whole arm would go bad unless she had her finger chopped off immediately. Natasha pretended to be scared and told Mum and cried. Well, she was just pretending, not real tears – not like you, Ellie.' Nadine reaches out and very gently wipes away the tear.

  'Natasha's got a ring like mine? Silver, with the little loveheart design?'

  'It's not real silver, dopey. You didn't buy it, did you? It was taped onto the front of this new kids' magazine, Lovehearts.'

  'No, I didn't buy it,' I whisper. 'Russell gave it to me.'

  It had been so romantic. Russell came round to my house last night. We're not really supposed to see each other on Thursday nights, just Friday and Saturday, because of boring old homework in the evenings, and Russell has to get up horribly early every morning to do his paper round.

  His paper round. So. He didn't go out and choose my ring specially. He saw it in the newsagent's when he was collecting the papers for his round and ripped the freebie ring off one of the kids' comics.

  'Russell gave you a Lovehearts comic ring?' says Nadine. She doesn't say any more. She doesn't need to.

  I don't like her tone one little bit. She's never really liked Russell. I can't help wondering if she's just a weeny bit jealous. Nadine always seems to get wild, weird boys who treat her like dirt. Russell is kind and artistic and intelligent. He treats me like a person, a real friend. He's never tried to talk me into going too far with him. Nadine has often implied that he's a bit wet, or even suggested that he can't really fancy me. It's not that at all! He can be ever so passionate. In fact, last night it was a real struggle not to get too carried away when we were up in my bedroom.

  Russell made out to Anna that he'd come round to lend me his oil pastels for my Art project. Well, he had, but then we slipped upstairs to my bedroom. Anna was so busy coping with Eggs and cooking supper and working on the new bunny series for her designer knitwear that she didn't even notice.

  Russell and I sat a little self-consciously on the edge of my bed. He demonstrated how to use his oil pastels, though I've actually had similar crayons since I was about seven. Then he sketched out suggestions for my vegetable still life – shiny red peppers next to yellow corn-on-the-cob with deep purple aubergines as contrast. It looked very artistic but I rather wanted to arrange the vegetables into a portrait. I could do a face out of tiny new potatoes with startling chilli pepper lips and mangetout eyes, and then have corn-blonde hair with a bow of baby carrots.

  I was pretty proud of this original idea but when I told Russell he was rather crushing. He told me about some ancient Italian artist who'd done this centuries before. Maybe I'd better stick to a straight still life after all. Anna hasn't got any mangetout or peppers anyway. All the vegetables she could find were some big baking potatoes, a very yellow cauliflower, forgotten at the back of the fridge, and a family size pack of frozen peas. I defy even old Archiwhatsit to feel inspired by this sad little selection.

  Anyway, I couldn't help feeling a little bit irritated with Russell when he showed me the way he thought I should arrange my composition – but I was also very aware of his warm body next to me. I loved the intent look on his face, the little furrow on his forehead, his two front teeth just resting on his full lower lip, the peachiness of his cheek ... I couldn't help stroking it and he turned to me and kissed me. The sketchbook fell to the floor, the oil pastels rolled right across my bedroom carpet, but we barely noticed.

  We soon stopped sitting upright. "We just naturally sank down on my pillow, so there we were, lying in each other's arms. We weren't technically in bed together, but definitely on the bed. It felt a little weird with my girly clutter all around and my old teddy lolling behind us on the pillow. I closed my eyes and concentrated on Russell.

  I couldn't close my ears, though. I heard the front door slam – Dad home at last, very late. Anna shouted something and Eggs started wailing – not exactly the most romantic of background noises. Then we heard Eggs clumping upstairs, thump thump in his little-boy lace-ups. We sprang apart in case he was about to come charging straight through the door.

  He didn't, thank goodness, but Dad might come rushing up if he found out I was in my bedroom alone with Russell.

  'Sorry! My family seem horribly in evidence,' I said, running my fingers through my wild hair.

  'It's OK, Ellie. I understand,' said Russell. He started playing with my hair too, teasing a strand out straight and then letting it spring back into a curl.

  'It's hopeless hair,' I said.

  'I love it,' said Russell. 'I love you, Ellie.' He looked at me, smiling. 'Which reminds me! I've got a little present for you.' He felt in his pocket and brought out a tiny round package of pink tissue. I thought ring right away. Then I thought, No, don't be so ridiculous, Ellie, of course it couldn't be anything as incredibly exciting and romantic as a ring when you haven't been going out with Russell that long and it isn't even your birthday or Christmas. It'll be something sweet but silly, like a chocolate in the shape of a heart or a tiny badge with I LOVE U or a minuscule teddy for a lucky mascot. But it wasn't any of these things. It was a ring, a beautiful delicate silver ring with a heart design.

  'Oh, Russell!' I said, stuck for further words.

  'Put it on, then.'

  I didn't know which finger to try. It looked pretty small, so maybe the little finger. Besides, if I tried my ring finger Russell might think I was taking it far too seriously, acting almost as if we were getting engaged.

  'You put it on for me,' I said.

  Russell reached out and slipped it straight on my ring finger.

  It meant so much to me. I vowed I would never take it off. But now, when I ease the ring up my finger towards the first joint, I see the skin underneath has turned a dirty shade of green.

  'Oh dear, you'll have to have your finger chopped off too,' says Nadine, very gently.

  'Oh well, I don't care even if it is a freebie ring. It still means all the world because Russell gave it to me,' I say stoutly.


  It does – but I'd so loved the thought of Russell taking some of his savings and going to some jewellery shop and carefully choosing a special ring for me. It's another thing entirely if he just spotted the ring on the cover of a kids' comic and ripped it off.

  'Well, that's great,' says Nadine. 'Anyway, let me tell you about this guy. Oh good, there's Magda. I can tell the two of you together . . .'

  But Nadine's voice tails away as we both stare at Magda.

  Her eyes are almost as red as her dyed hair. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  Chapter Three

  Girls cry when

  their pets die

  Three

  Girls cry when

  their pets die

  Magda never cries. I cry – heaps! Not just when I'm sad. I often cry watching videos. I can even be reduced to tears by cartoons. I just have to think of Mrs Jumbo and little Dumbo desperately twining trunks and my eyes prick.

  I cry when I'm frightened too. If a teacher shouted at me in primary school I'd start blubbing. I try not to be so pathetic now but I still hate it when people yell at me.

  I cry at sentimental stuff too – little kittens and babies and choirboys singing solos. Nadine sniffs at my stupidity. She hates anything little and fluffy and cute. Still, she can do her fair share of wailing and weeping when she wants. When she finally broke up with Liam she howled for hours and hours. She'd play all these sad songs about breaking up, lying in her black bedroom weeping waterfalls.

  But Magda's always so bouncy and bubbly. She's just not the mournful sort. Anyway, she wouldn't want to smudge her mascara. Magda wears makeup every day, even at school (though we're not allowed to). Magda's the sort of girl who'd stop to do her make-up and style her hair even if there were fire alarms blaring like crazy and flames licking at her door.

  She's not wearing any make-up today. It doesn't even look like she's brushed her crimson curls.

  I forget Russell and his ring.

  Nadine forgets her new Mr Wonderful.

  We rush to Magda. I put my arm round her waist. Nadine pats her gently on the back.

  'What is it, Magda?'

  'Come on, Mags, tell us.'

  'I've killed her!' Magda wails. She puts her tousled head on my shoulder and sobs.

  Nadine and I look at each other, mouths open.

  'Who have you killed, Mags?' Nadine asks.

  Nadine herself is always threatening to kill people. She mainly keeps her death threats in the family. Her little sister Natasha is her victim of choice, but when she's in serial-killer mode she mutters darkly about her mother, her father, her nan, even her aunts. But Magda's never seemed remotely homicidal.

  'My darling little Fudge,' Magda howls.

  Fudge? For one mad moment I imagine Magda attacking a box of fudge with a hammer . . . and then I get it. Fudge is her hamster. OK. Was her hamster. Magda went out with this boy Greg at the beginning of Year Nine. He was seriously into breeding hamsters – well, all rodents: mice, white rats, gerbils, anything small and twitchy with whiskers. Magda said his bedroom was like Hamelin before the Pied Piper. When Greg's favourite hamster Honey had babies he offered one to Magda. This was Fudge. For a few days Magda obsessed about her new little furry friend. She told Nadine and me all about Fudge's feeding and toileting and sleeping arrangements.

  Fudge did a lot of sleeping. Magda hadn't understood that hamsters are basically nocturnal. She expected Fudge to sit up, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (well, that's always been beyond her, obviously), ready to learn tricks. Magda hoped Fudge would learn how to beg, to wave a paw, to clean her whiskers on command. But Fudge wouldn't pay attention when Magda tried to train her. She hurtled into the depths of her loo-roll play tunnel and lurked there, refusing to co-operate.

  Magda got fed up pretty quickly. She gave up hoping that Fudge had star quality as a performing hamster. She stopped talking about her. I'd completely forgotten she even had a hamster.

  'Anyway,' Magda went on, 'I sat next to old Greg on the bus and he started chatting me up again. I wondered about getting back with him. I know he's not very special—'

  'You can say that again,' says Nadine, rolling her kohl-rimmed eyes (she ignores the no make-up at school rule too).

  'Yes, but I'm not exactly overwhelmed with boyfriend opportunities at the moment,' says Magda, sniffling.

  'I am!' says Nadine. 'Listen, Mags, I was just telling Ellie, I've met this amazing guy. Well, not exactly met him but—'

  But Magda is sobbing so loudly she drowns out Nadine. 'Greg asked me how Fudge was getting on. I said she didn't really do anything. Greg was shocked. He made me feel so mean because I've misunderstood poor little Fudge so dreadfully. I've kept her all loveless and lonely in that cage. It's not even a very special cage. You can get ones several storeys high with slides and tunnels and God knows what, your actual Alton Towers for hamsters, but Fudge's cage is the bog standard basic model, and there she's been, all on her ownio for months and months. Imagine how we'd feel! So Greg suggested she ought to have a bit of a social life. He brought along this very gentle timid little boy hamster. He didn't want anyone too macho to alarm Fudge as she's still a virgin. He said if they got on they could shack up together and Fudge could have babies. But it all went horribly wrong.

  'We decided to introduce them in neutral territory, so we got Fudge out of her cage and I knelt down with her on my bedroom floor while Greg got the little boy hamster out of his pocket and . . . and . . .'

  'And he hated Fudge on sight and attacked her savagely?' Nadine prompts, a little impatiently.

  'No, no, they liked each other. Their little noses went twitch twitch twitch. You could almost see a little cupid hamster flying up above, shooting them in their furry chests with dinky little love-arrows. It was so sweet. Greg and I knelt together watching them, feeling like proud parents. It was like the romance in the air was catching. Well, I must admit I took hold of Greg's hand, but it was just in a matey kind of way. Then he kissed me. Well, he's learned much more about kissing. He's more subtle. He used to attach himself to my lips like a vacuum cleaner and positively hoover—'

  We burst out giggling – even Magda herself, though her eyes are still brimming with tears.

  'And?' says Nadine. 'You got so carried away that you lay down and squashed little Fudge and her furry friend into pancakes?'

  'Do you always have to be so ghoulish, Nadine?' says Magda. 'No! But it was almost as bad. Like I said, we got really carried away, Greg and me—'

  'You didn't do it?' I say.

  Nadine stops fidgeting and stares at Magda. 'Did you, Mags?'

  'Of course not, you idiots! What do you think I am, mad? Greg's still a grubby little schoolboy, even if he is a good kisser. I want my first time to be really really special, with someone who'll make it romantic and beautiful, someone who loves me . . .'

  I think about this very carefully.

  'Someone grown-up and responsible,' says Magda.

  I nod, sighing.

  We have all been side-tracked. We return to thinking of the romance between two young and very irresponsible rodents – a very short-lived romance, obviously.

  'When I eventually pushed Greg away I looked round to see how little Fudge was getting on, but she wasn't there. Greg's little boy hamster was there, looking a bit shifty, like he'd got his paw over and was now wanting to go and join his mates and boast. Fudge had vanished altogether.

  'Greg and I crawled round on our hands and knees calling for her. Greg even wriggled right under the bed and came back clutching this pair of pink knickers I'd lost ages ago. I didn't half go pink then. But there was no sign of Fudge. I saw that my bedroom door was just a teeny bit open – and my heart sank.

  'Greg put his hamster in his pocket and we went looking for Fudge, right along the landing, in Mum and Dad's bedroom, in all my brothers' bedrooms. Not a joyful experience – they're all knee-deep in junk and dead smelly. God knows what we'd find under their beds. Then we got to the top of t
he stairs and I looked down and—'

  'Oh no,' I say.

  'Yes,' sobs Magda. 'There was this sad little furry huddle right at the bottom.'

  'Maybe Fudge thought she was a lemming. They hurl themselves off cliffs, don't they?' says Nadine.

  'Shut up, Nadine,' I say, rocking Magda.

  'I don't think she meant to do it. She just didn't look. One minute she was scampering along the landing, probably in a bit of a daze, having just had her first relationship, wondering if he'd ever call her again or if she was just a one-night stand. Then suddenly she ran out of carpet under her paws, and she started hurtling down and down and down. I hoped against hope she'd still somehow be alive but when I picked her up her poor little head was all floppy and it was obvious she'd broken her neck.'