Vicky Angel (10 page)

It's Vicky herself who's giving me grief. Every time a teacher stops and tries to have a quiet word she behaves outrageously. Sometimes I have to bend my head and hide behind my hair to stop laughing.

Sometimes I feel like crying. Madeleine is being ever so kind to me, especially now poor Sam is keeping his distance. She's spotted I'm not doing any work so she keeps offering to let me copy hers. Then at break time she snaps her Kit Kats in half and shares with me.

“No, Maddy, please. You have it all,” I say, but she won't listen.

“I shouldn't be eating chocolate at all,” she says, punching her own plump tummy. “I'd give anything to be really thin like you, Jade.”

She's mad. I hate my knobbly wrists, my sharp elbows, my bony knees. It's so embarrassing having a flat chest and no hips at all.

“Yeah, you look a sight,” Vicky jeers. “But you're marginally better than that pink blancmange. Why do you want to hang out with all these
pudding
people? Get rid of her!”

“I don't know how,” I say out loud without thinking.

Madeleine blinks at me. “Well, I suppose I could diet, couldn't I? I really need to. My sister brought me these incredible trousers on Saturday and yet they're really just a bit too tight. They're OK if I sort of suck in my breath. Hey, do you want to come round tonight and give me your honest opinion, Jade?”

“Just tell her her bum's so big she shouldn't wear
any
trousers,” Vicky shouts.

“I'm sorry, Maddy. I can't.”

“How about tomorrow after school?”

“No, I have to go straight home.”

“Well, what about Saturday? Jenny and Vicky Two and I were thinking of going swimming. Do you want to come?”

I think of a turquoise pool and swimming up and down. It seems such a soothing idea that I nod before I can stop myself. But Vicky won't have it.

“You're not going swimming with that lot! What's the
matter
with you?”

I know what the matter is.

“So you'll come?” Madeleine says, smiling.

“No. No, I can't. I'm sorry, I've got to go. Please don't keep asking me to do stuff, Maddy. I can't.”

“I'm only trying to be friendly!”

“I know. But—but—I can't be friends with you,” I say, and I brush her away.

I feel so bad. It's terrible the next day at break. Madeleine turns her back on me and eats her chocolate all herself. I try to think of some way I can explain but she goes off to join Jenny and Vicky Two for a hairdressing session before I get a chance.

Fatboy Sam is lurking nearby too, but when I look in his direction he sticks his nose in his latest Terry Pratchett science fiction book and diverts himself in Pratchett's Discworld.

“You're not
disappointed
?” Vicky says, giving me a thump, though her hand glances off me like a shadow. “Get a grip, Jade!”

I feel Vicky has
me
gripped, even though her
hands have no strength. I trail indoors and hide in the loos. I want to hide from Vicky too but she follows me in.

“Vicky! Wait
outside
!” I try to push her.

“You can't push
me
around,” says Vicky.

I try slamming the door on her but she walks straight through it and ends up practically sitting on my lap.

“Can't you leave me alone just for a minute?”

“Watch it now. I'll clear off altogether.”

“Why do you always have to be so
difficult
?”

I can't remember if Vicky was always as bad. She always got her own way, but she wasn't so relentless. We had fun together, we always had such a laugh …

“Oh yes, being dead is one
big
belly laugh,” says Vicky.

“Stop reading my thoughts!”

“Stop reading mine!”

“I wish you weren't so fierce. You're so angry with everyone now. Even me.”

“But it's not fair! You're alive and I'm dead. Why does it have to be this way round?” She dives right through me and back again, making me shiver. There's a scary moment when she seems to blot out my brain, taking over my mind altogether.

“Stop it. I hate it when you do that.”

“It's OK for you. You're safely anchored in your skinny little body. I hate having to
drift
.”

“What about when you kept away? You know, after your funeral. Where did you drift
to
?”

“I hung round my mum and dad for a bit. And then …” Vicky looks oddly embarrassed. “If you must know I tried …” She gestures in the air.

“Going up?”

“You sound like you're in a lift! Yes. I went up.”

“What was it like?”

“I didn't really
get
anywhere. I just wafted about in this sort of nothingness. I started to feel I wasn't
me
anymore.”

“Isn't that what's supposed to happen?”

“Search me. I don't know anything about all this stuff. I never even went to church or anything. Maybe if you want to get to heaven you have to know about it. Will you find out for me, Jade?”

“How? I mean, you don't get the
Lonely Planet Guide to Heaven,
do you?”

“I don't even know if there
is
a heaven. People believe all different stuff. How about angels? Let's look them up on the Internet.”

I let her drag me off to the library. I do my best to access angels. There are thousands of references flying around in cyberspace, but most seem to be dippy accounts of angels appearing in unlikely places like launderettes to help old ladies load their washing or skipping out of the blue on top of multistory car parks to save potential suicides from jumping.

“Is this my role in death now?” says Vicky. “Helping old dears wash their knickers and yanking nutters back to safety? Not very glamorous, is it?”

I try to find more upmarket angels. I have to go way back in history. I find some weird stuff about someone called Enoch who was an eyewitness to three hundred angels in the midst of the heavens.

“So what were they doing?” Vicky asks, squinting over my shoulder.

“Singing.”

“And?”

“Just singing. With sweet and incessant voice.”

“Oh dear, how boring,” Vicky sighs. “Oh well, I'd better practice.”

She throws back her head and starts bellowing her version of the Hallelujah chorus.

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! What very silly boring lyrics! Hallelujah!”

“Shhh! Do shut up, Vicky!” People are staring. Then I realize. They can't hear her. They can only hear me.

Two Year Sevens sniggering in the biology section nudge each other and screw their fingers into their foreheads. A couple of Year Elevens look concerned. Mrs. Cambridge is staring too, peering over the library counter to see what's going on.

“You nut!” says Vicky. “You're bright red in the face, did you know that?”

I try to ignore her, staring at the computer screen. A host of angels smile at me serenely, gold
halos at an angle like straw boaters, white wings sensibly folded so they don't get entangled, feet hidden by their gold-encrusted hems.

“Angels, Jade?”

Oh God! Mrs. Cambridge is standing behind me.

“I'm doing this project,” I mumble.

Mrs. Cambridge pauses.

“Jade, are you having any counseling?”

“Sorry?”

“Bereavement counseling.”

I shake my head. I don't even know what it is.

“I think it would be a good idea. Maybe we should have suggested it earlier. Would you like me to have a word with your mum and dad?”

I nibble at my lip. I know what Mum and Dad think of counseling.

“They'll think I'm in trouble at school.”

“No, no, of course you're not in any trouble. We just want to help.” Mrs. Cambridge bends down so her head is on a level with mine. “Can
I
help, Jade? I know it must be so hard for you, having to do all the everyday ordinary things without Vicky.”

I can hardly tell her I still do everything
with
Vicky. She obviously thinks I'm barking mad as it is. She keeps glancing worriedly at the little row of angels on the computer.

“Do you think Vicky's gone to heaven?” she asks, going red herself.

“No, Mrs. Cambridge.”

“It's certainly hard imagining Vicky as an angel,” she says, smiling.

“Cheek!” says Vicky over her shoulder.

I will myself not to look at her. I try to concentrate on what Mrs. Cambridge is saying. She still seems set on this counseling idea.

“I'm OK, Mrs. Cambridge, really,” I insist.

M
rs. Cambridge is persistent. There's a ring at the door at half past seven, just as my favorite soap is starting.

“Who on earth is that?” Mum says crossly, gathering up our supper trays.

My plate is still full.

“Oh, Jade, why aren't you eating? You're getting anorexic! It's the doctor's for you if you don't watch out. Ted, get the door.”

“You're already on your feet,” says Dad, not shifting from the sofa.

“You lazy lump. Jade, you go. And if it's those useless kids selling dusters tell them we don't want anything, right?”

It's not kids. It's Mrs. Cambridge, though I hardly recognize her. This time she's in a tracksuit and T-shirt, her hair loose and damp, hanging way past her shoulders.

“Hi, Jade. I've been to my health club, and
I thought I'd just pop in and see you on my way back.”

“Oh.” I appreciate that this response is inadequate. I don't know what to do. I don't want to ask her in. It'll be so embarrassing, especially with Dad spread out all over the sofa still in his pajamas. But I can't keep her standing here on the balcony. The rubbish chute is blocked again so potato chip bags and chocolate wrappers are blowing round her ankles, and there's a nasty smell.

“Jade,
is
it them boys?” Mum calls.

“No, Mum. It's Mrs. Cambridge,” I whisper back into the dark flat.

“
Who?
”

Mrs. Cambridge is pretending to be deaf. I look over her shoulder and there's Vicky turning cartwheels in thin air, having a great laugh at my expense. Then Mum joins me, looking baffled.

“This is Mrs. Cambridge, Mum,” I say. “You know, from school.”

“What have you been up to, Jade?” Mum frowns at Mrs. Cambridge. “It's not really her fault, whatever it is, she's had a lot on her mind. She's taken Vicky's passing very badly.”

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Cambridge says earnestly. “That's why I've popped round. So we can chat about it.” She looks hopefully at the flat behind us.

“You'd better come in, though you'll have to excuse us. We weren't expecting company.” Mum
shows Mrs. Cambridge into the flat, shaking her head at the peeling wallpaper in the hall. “We're getting it done. My husband keeps promising to make a start on it,” she mumbles, pushing past into the living room.

Dad is still sprawling, making all the sofa cushions slump, his pajama jacket half open showing his grubby undershirt.

“Ted!” Mum says.

Dad slides straight, covering his chest, feeling the bristles on his face.

“I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me. I'm on nights. I'll go and get shifted now.”

“No, please, if you've got a moment, Mr. Marshall. Mrs. Marshall. I'd like it if we could talk for a few minutes.”

Dad's looking baffled.

“It's Mrs. Cambridge from the school—you know, we met at the funeral,” says Mum. “She's Jade's teacher.”

I see Dad fit a phantom smart hat on Mrs. Cambridge's head. He sits up even straighter.

“I'm not actually Jade's form teacher. I just take her for French,” says Mrs. Cambridge, sitting down on the edge of the sofa.

“Yeah, well, she's not that great at parley-vousing,” says Dad. “Takes after me, don't you, Jade? Bit thick when it comes to brainbox work.”

“No, no, Jade's very good at French,” says Mrs. Cambridge.

This is news to me. The highest I've ever come
in French tests is fifth or sixth, and the one we had last week was disastrous.

“I came second from bottom in our last test,” I say dully.

“Jade!” says Mum. She glances at Mrs. Cambridge. “I did French Advanced Placement. And Spanish. I've often thought of going to evening classes to extend my vocabulary, like.”

“That's a good idea,” says Mrs. Cambridge. “Jade, I know you've done badly just recently, but heavens, that's only to be expected. It must be so tough on you now, without Vicky.”

“Vicky didn't help her, you know,” says Mum. “It was Vicky always copying off our Jade. She did all her homework for her. I always used to think she was a right little mug.”

“I didn't, Mum. We did it together.”

“Like two peas in a pod, Jade and Vicky. She was a lovely girl, little Vicky,” says Dad, and there are tears in his eyes.

“Oh, we all know you were sweet on her,” says Mum sharply. She turns to Mrs. Cambridge. “Would you like some coffee? We've got filter as well as instant. Or tea?”

“Well, thank you. A cup of coffee. Instant will be fine.” Mrs. Cambridge looks at me. “Perhaps you could make us all a cup of coffee, Jade?”

I can see this really irritates Mum. “Use the filter coffee, Jade. You know how to use the machine, don't you? And best cups. And open a new packet of biscuits, not the ones in the tin.”

I nod, not really bothering to take any of this in. Mrs. Cambridge doesn't even want a cup of coffee, she just wants a ploy to get me out the room. So they can have this little chat about me.