a bit of exercise.
Either that, or she’d discovered that old Tubby Scumbag had gone and got her dear little angel to visit a site with her, which would never surprise me. She is certainly up to SOMETHING.
So, anyway, I braced myself for trouble, thinking either way I’d be the one to get the blame, I mean I always am. Leastways, that’s how it seems to me. Of course I may just have a persecution complex, but I doubt it. I don’t IMAGINE these things. Well, but hooray! This time it wasn’t anything to do with me. Wonders will never cease. For once in my life, I haven’t done anything wrong.
All it was, was the little angel’s mum wanting to know if the little angel could come round on Saturday and play with the computer. UNDER SUPERVISION. Natch! Mum said, “I told her that would be all right. It seems there’s some special chatroom she wants to visit … something to do with books?”
“Bookworms,” said the Scumbag.
“Well, that sounds harmless enough. But her mum wants to be there with her.”
“Really?” said Dad.
“She’s read all these scare stories … people pretending to be what they’re not.”
The Scumbag said that didn’t happen in the bookroom. “Everyone just talks about books. Children’s books. Grown-ups don’t read children’s books.”
I said, “So what?”
“So they wouldn’t be able to talk about them,” said my little clever clogs sister. I pointed out that they might be able to talk about Harry Potter, everyone can talk about Harry Potter, but she said Megan wouldn’t want to.
“She’s not into Harry Potter. She’d want to talk about H.C.”
Mum said, “Who’s H.C.?” but at this the Scumbag went all silly and dissolved into giggles.
“I can understand her worries,” said Mum (referring, I suppose, to Mrs Hooper). “Megan’s her only child, and it can’t be easy, bringing a child up on your own … but I do think she keeps her a bit too wrapped up in cotton wool.”
“Or maybe we’re being a bit complacent?” suggested Dad.
“But they’ve got to learn,” said Mum. “How are they going to learn if they’re never allowed to take any responsibility? We’ve already been through this, haven’t we, Annie?”
“Yes,” said the Scumbag, with a big saintly beam.
“You never give your address to anyone, do you?”
“No way!” said the Scumbag, beaming brighter than ever.
“Or your telephone number?”
“Mum, I wouldn’t!”
“You see? Annie KNOWS,” said Mum. “Poor little Megan’s still a total innocent. She could never be left on her own, she’d get into all sorts of trouble. Anyway, they’re coming round Saturday morning, then you’re off to her party in the afternoon. Have you got her a present yet?”
“Working on it,” said the Scumbag.
“Well, don’t leave it too late. What are you going to buy?”
The Scumbag said she wasn’t going to BUY anything.
“You mean you’re making something?” said Mum. “That’s nice!”
So then the Scumbag giggled again, for absolutely no reason whatever as far as I could see. That is what makes me suspicious. She is being all secretive and over-excited about something. I notice these things! With Mum and Dad, it’s like they’re wearing blindfolds.
Another thing that makes me suspicious. A few minutes ago I angrily hammered on her bedroom door demanding to know what she’d done with my heated rollers that she keeps snitching. She actually APOLOGISED. Which come to think of it is quite suspicious in itself. The Scumbag saying sorry!!!
“I forgot,” she said. “I put them in my cupboard.”
While she was getting them out of the cupboard (but what cheek to put them in there in the first place!) I happened to glance down at some drawing she was doing.
“What’s this?” I said. “Is this Megan’s birthday present?”
“It’s her birthday card.”
“Weird kind of card,” I said. She’d drawn this picture of a sticklike child on her knees, and a woman wearing a halo round her head, with a speech bubble coming out of her mouth saying, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! “What’s it meant to be?”
By way of reply, the Scumbag picked up a felt tip pen and wrote H.C. in big bold letters with an arrow pointing to the woman.
“Who is H.C.?”
She wouldn’t tell me. All she did was giggle again. Definitely something going on! But I have washed my hands. It’s the parents’ job to know what their children are up to.
I could hardly wait to get round to Annie’s the next day! I was, like, jigging up and down with impatience all the time Mum was getting ready. Usually in the mornings she just grabs her bag and that’s that, we’re off! Today, wouldn’t you know it, she suddenly decides her shoes are killing her and she’s got to change into different ones. Then while she’s changing her shoes she notices this teeny little hole in her tights, and instead of sticking it up with nail varnish, which is what she’d normally do, she has to take the tights off and find herself a new pair.
I felt like screaming, “Mum! Who’s going to see them?” I mean, she works in an office, sitting at a desk. No one’s going to notice holes in her tights! Specially not ones you’d need a magnifying glass to find. But Mum likes to keep herself looking nice. She’s always very neat. Unlike Annie’s mum, who looks like a haystack! A very soft, comfortable sort of haystack; but still a haystack.
“What’s the matter?” said Mum, as I stood in her bedroom doorway, wrapping one leg round the other. “Do you want to go to the toilet?”
I said, “Muuum!”
“Well, what are you jigging about for?”
“It’s late,” I said. “You’ll be late for work!”
Mum’s never late for work; she’s a very punctual sort of person. “It’s nearly half-past nine,” I said.
“That’s all right,” said Mum. “I don’t have to be in till ten … stocktaking on Thursday, right? Late night. So I get a ten o’clock start the rest of the week! What’s your rush, anyway?”
“Got things to do,” I said.
“Oh! I suppose you want to talk to Annie about Saturday?” Mum laughed. “Come