The Worry Web Site (5 page)

But then I watched
The Monster
. I wonder if you've seen it? It's been a
big
talking point at our
school. Heaps of kids go on about how great it is and say it's the scariest film ever, ever, ever. Some kids say it didn't scare
them
one bit. I think they're fibbing. I bet they haven't seen so much as the trailer.

I got to see it on Saturday. Mum and Judy had gone up to London because she had a music exam and then they were going shoe shopping afterward. I was supposed to go too but I made a fuss. I
hate
listening while Judy plays her violin. She sounds like chalk squeaking on a blackboard. I have to put my fingers in my ears and then Judy says I'm putting her off deliberately. And shoe shopping is
soooo
boring, unless you're looking for something cool like soccer cleats or sneakers.

So I stayed at home with Dad and Michael. Michael had his friend Luke round. They usually go into Michael's room and try to access rude things on the Internet,
I
know. But Dad was outside washing and polishing the car, which takes him forever, so Luke casually produced the video of
The Monster
from his backpack.

“Fancy watching a bit, Mike?”

“Wow!” said Michael, eyes goggling. “You bet!”

“I'm watching too,” I said.

“There's no way
you're
watching, baby,” said Michael. He tried to push me out of the living room while Luke slotted the video into the machine.

“There's
every
way I'm watching—or I'll tell Dad,” I said.

I don't
like
being a telltale but when you have bossy big brothers and sisters you have to use any means at your disposal to get your own way.

So I won. I watched
The Monster
. Well, nearly half of it. Then we heard Dad coming back inside the house so we switched over to a sports program, sharpish.

You have no idea how appalling
The Monster
is. Far, far, far,
far
worse than you can ever imagine. I kept on telling myself it was just a silly old film. It wasn't a
real
monster. But it looked so real when it rose up out of the river, sickly green, oozing slime, and semitransparent so you could see all its horrible heart and liver and lungs and long long coils of intestines, some of them hanging
out
and spurting terrible sludgy streams of poo.

Luke whooped with laughter, but it was very high-pitched. Michael started biting his nails. The Monster started oozing up out of sinks and baths and even
toilets
. It devoured everything—dogs, cats, babies in buggies, screaming schoolchildren, frantic mothers, fighting fathers. The Monster even swallowed this huge fat man and you
saw
him being digested inside it, getting covered in bile, bits disintegrating before your very eyes.

Luke stopped laughing. Michael nearly bit his fingers right off. I stared at the screen helplessly, unable to move. The Monster seemed to ooze right out of the television set into my head. It was there, pulsing inside my brain, ready to ooze its way into my dreams.

They are the worst nightmares ever. I don't know what I'm going to do. I start feeling vaguely sick at teatime. I go out in the garden and play afterward but all the time I'm kicking a soccer ball about or running up and down with my skipping rope I'm thinking about the Monster. When I'm watching television It's there too, slithering into Central Perk and nibbling Phoebe and Rachel and Monica like sweets.

Then Mum starts nagging that it's time for bed and the Monster is lurking on the stairs, in the bathroom, under my bed. Dad comes to read to Judy and me but the Monster paces the corridors of Hogwarts too, munching Harry Potter into mincemeat.

After Dad tucks us up and puts the light out I whisper to Judy, desperate to keep her awake. I talk about all the boy bands she's currently nuts on and the new boots she wants in Bertie's and the boy on the bike who waves to her every morning and whether this means he really fancies her. This is all terminally boring, boring, boring but it means Judy
will keep chatting to me. But no matter how I try to keep the conversation going, eventually she starts mumbling nonsense and then she sighs and gives a little snore. She is asleep, dreaming about boys and bands and bikes and boots.

I struggle to stay awake because I know what
I'm
going to dream about. I hear Michael go to bed. Sometimes I even hear Mum and Dad go to bed. I play the silliest games to stop myself sleeping. I go through all my favorites.

Hero: David Beckham, soccer superstar.

Friend: Holly, and Lisa's OK too.

Hobby: soccer.

Teacher: Mr. Speed.

Color: anything but slime green.

But no matter which rainbow hue I choose this sickening slime green oozes over it and I'm dreaming the Monster is coming to get me. I dream it every single night.

I waited to see if anyone typed in anything helpful on the Worry Web Site. There were
heaps
of comments. Everyone said they had nightmares too. I counted. There were thirty. That meant every single person in the class. No, wait a minute.
I
didn't comment on my own worry.

Mr. Speed saw me scrolling down the screen, recounting.

“I'm glad to see you practicing your math as well as your IT skills, Claire.”

“Thirty! It
is
. Someone's messing about, commenting twice,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Speed. “Not if we count the entire class, pupils and teacher.”

“Did
you
put a comment, Mr. Speed?”

“Now, you know perfectly well all contributions to the Worry Web Site are strictly confidential,” said Mr. Speed.

I read them with great interest, trying to work out which was his.

I dream I've lost my old teddy Cuddle and I search everywhere and once I woke up and I still couldn't find him because he'd fallen out of bed and I cried.

I imagine Mr. Speed crying for his teddy. Perhaps not.

I have awful nightmares too. Last night I dreamt about my mum and it should have been lovely but she turned into a wicked witch and cast a spell on me so I couldn't talk.

I don't know if Mr. Speed has still got a mum but I can't
ever
imagine him not talking, even in his dreams.

My biggest nightmare is dreaming that I'm with my dad and it's all happy, happy, happy at first but then he starts getting cross with me and my little brother and my
mum so he storms off and I wait and I wait but he doesn't come back.

That's quite definitely Samantha. So what did Mr. Speed put?

Aha!

I have this terrible nightmare that my feet develop throbbing bunions overnight and so I have to give up my brilliant career as a Premier-League soccer player and retrain as a TEACHER!!!

I looked Mr. Speed up and down.

“That's
your
nightmare, isn't it, Mr. Speed?”

“The Worry Web Site insists on anonymity,” said Mr. Speed.

“Yeah, but I
know
it's you! You weren't
really
a Premier-League soccer player, were you?”

Mr. Speed crumpled a piece of paper into a ball.

“Haven't you read about Speedy of United in all your soccer annuals?” He dropped the paper ball and then aimed a nifty kick at it. Only it wasn't nifty. It wasn't even a kick. He missed it altogether.

I shook my head.

“You should have seen me
before
my bunions,” he said. “So, Claire, we'll do a swapsie. You know my worst nightmare. Tell me yours.”

“Oh, it's—it's stupid,” I mumbled.

“But scary?”

“Very, very scary.”

Mr. Speed looked at me carefully.

“You look like a little panda. Dark circles under the eyes. Are these nightmares so bad they stop you sleeping?”

“I don't
dare
sleep.”

Mr. Speed raised his eyebrows. “So tell me all about this nightmare. You can remember it?”

“I can't ever forget it,” I said. “It's about this monster made out of green slime and––”

“Say no more!” said Mr. Speed. “I got the video out last week. Yep. It's seriously scary. Do Mum and Dad know you've watched it?”

“No!”

“Ah. I
see
!”

“You won't tell, will you, Mr. Speed?”

“Let's see if we can radically edit your nightmare. Then we won't have to tell.”

“What do you mean? You can't edit nightmares. They just happen. And it's horrible.”

“I know it's horrible, Claire. But maybe you can control it, change it around a little bit. You've made it up inside your head, haven't you? It's like a story you've written in your sleep. OK, let's look on it as a first draft. Now you need to rewrite it. Change the scenario. You've got to get the better of this monster.”

“You mean flick my fingers and go zap and the
Monster dies?” I said sarcastically. “I don't think it would work.”

“No, probably not. It sounds a bit too powerful to be zapped into oblivion just like that. But you can be powerful too, Claire. What are your strengths, eh?”

I frowned at him.

“I'm good at soccer. But that's no use, not when it comes to the Monster.”

“Maybe it is. Kick a soccer ball at him. Aim right where it hurts. Make him double up.”

“Mr. Speed, in the film the Monster defeats a whole
army
.”

“But this is the Monster in your head. He defeats whole armies, yes—but he's
very
wary of small girls with soccer balls.”

I thought Mr. Speed was just being silly to cheer me up. He
did
make me feel a bit better when I was at school. But when I went home I started worrying again.

I got into bed with Judy and hung on to her tightly. I tried very, very, very hard to stay awake— but eventually the duvet started turning slime green and I was dreaming and the Monster was there, oozing all over me.

I screamed and ran. The Monster was right behind me, reaching out, ready to slide his glistening
tentacles round my neck. I tried running faster, speeding along. That made me think of Mr. Speed. I looked down and there was a soccer ball at my feet. I was kicking it as I ran. I nudged it up into the air, caught hold of it, turned, and threw it right at the Monster's middle.

The ball got bigger. The Monster got smaller. Much, much smaller. It doubled up, wailing. It rocked itself, oozing lots of slime.

“There! That's shown you, you horrible Monster. Don't you dare come worrying me anymore!”

The Monster groaned. It was shrinking rapidly now. It limped away, whimpering.

I kicked my soccer ball high in the air and then caught it in triumph—

“Ow! My head! Get
off
, Claire,” Judy yelled.

“Oops! Sorry. I thought it was a soccer ball,” I said, giggling.

“Look, get back to your
own
bed.”

“OK,” I said. I jumped out and climbed under my own duvet.

“You're all right, then?” Judy whispered. “Look, come back with me if you get that nightmare again. Just don't bash me about the head again, OK?”

“I'm fine, Judy, really,” I said, yawning. “Shhh! Let's go to sleep now.”

I cuddled down under the duvet and slept
properly. I didn't have the nightmare about the Monster. I had a funny dream about soccer. Mr. Speed and I were on the same team. Mr. Speed ran in a funny hobbly way because of his bunions but he managed to pass the ball to me—and I scored a brilliant goal.

Type in your worry:

I am useless at everything.

That's it. And it is dead depressing to be me. I am William. I can't always spell it properly when I write in pencil. But it's OK on the computer because it does a wiggly red line under the word if you've spelt it wrong. Almost every word I tap out ends up with wiggly red lines.

I feel as if
I
am all wrong and there is a wiggly red line under me. You can change your spelling (though sometimes I have to try for
ages
and I have to ask someone helpful like Holly or Claire) but I can't change me. I wish I could.

I am bottom in the class. I am useless at
everything. I can't add up or take away or multiply or divide. I can't make up stories. I can't remember history or geography. I can't do computers. I can't draw. I just do pin men. Sometimes I draw lots of pin men and they are all laughing at a stupid little pin boy.

My mum and dad don't laugh at me. My mum cries and my dad shouts. My brother says I am thick. He is younger than me but he's clever. His name is Richard. Sometimes Dad calls him Rich.

Dad sometimes shortens my name too. He calls me Willie. They call me that at school sometimes too. It is
awful
having a name that sounds rude and makes people giggle.

Mr. Speed called me Wee Willie Winkie today. I nearly cried.

“It's just a nursery rhyme, William,” said Mr. Speed. “Oh, don't look so stricken, lad. Here. You call
me
a silly name.”

I blinked at him.

“Go on, be a devil. Think up something really silly.”

I swallowed. “Mr. Silly Speed?” I said.

Mr. Speed sighed. “You're not overendowed with imagination, are you, lad?”

I hung my head.

“Cheer up!” said Mr. Speed. He ruffled my hair.
“There!” He wiped his fingers on my bangs. “That's better. My fingers were very sticky.”

I felt my hair worriedly.

“I'm
joking
, William,” said Mr. Speed.

The bell went for lunch. My tummy gave a loud rumble.

“If the bell failed us, your stomach would act as a little alarm clock—
gurgle, gurgle
whenever it's lunchtime. What greater use is that?” said Mr. Speed. “I like a boy with a healthy appetite.”

I wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He seemed to change his mind on lunch duty. It was fish fingers and baked beans and chips, and if you finish first you get seconds. So I went gobble, gobble and stood up quick, ready to dash back to the serving hatch.

“My goodness, William, take it easy!” said Mr. Speed. “Sit down and
chew
. You've got your entire plateful stuffed in your mouth! You'll choke to death, lad.”