Bad Dreams by Anne Fine Page B

mother . . .
    And that, of course, is when I realized. Splashing to her side, I pulled her round to face me. ‘It’s that necklace , isn’t it?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    Peeling strands of wet hair from across her eyes, she stared.
    â€˜That necklace you’re not wearing at the moment! That’s what’s making you—’
    â€˜Making me what?’
    â€˜You know.’ There was no other way of putting it. ‘ Creepy . You’ve taken it off, and now you’re a different person. No-one would recognize you. Look at you! You’re—’
    But little hands were grabbing at her. She swung around to face a dozen shining wet faces, all yelling.
    â€˜Imogen, come back!’
    â€˜Swing me again!’
    â€˜Don’t go off now!’
    Imogen turned back to me, distracted and torn. ‘That can’t be right,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget everything started years before I was given the necklace.’
    â€˜Yes, maybe it did,’ I said. ‘But—’
    Then something made me stop – right there. Go carefully, I warned myself. If Imogen’s mother can’t see that she once had a totally different sort of daughter – ablaze with life – then she must really have her mind set on this magic stuff. Melly, you might have to sort all this out yourself. Don’t forget Professor Blackstaffe says in his book that ‘knowledge is power’. So maybe it’s best not to give too much away.
    â€˜Oh, right !’ I said. ‘Stupid of me. I’d forgotten you’d already had those visions earlier, when you were younger.’
    She didn’t notice anything suspicious. And anyway, the children were still clamouring. ‘Imogen! Swing me!’
    She picked up the nearest child and swung her round. Quickly, I copied her. ‘Who wants the next go? Queue up! Queue up!’
    As I said, standing in circles shrieking with merriment is not my idea of a good time. But I did stick it for a good half hour, rather than have Imogen even remember what it was that I’d just said before her little friends distracted her.
    Or begin to suspect what it was I was thinking.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    O f course she thought that wearing the necklace had nothing to do with it. Imogen wasn’t a reader. If you don’t read, you don’t get all that practice in picking up clues, and making up pictures in your head of how things must have happened. I’d suddenly imagined her exactly as she’d described herself when she was little, standing by the Christmas tree, sparkling all over because her cousin was hooking every glittery thing that he could find onto her somewhere.
    Every glittery thing . . .
    Then, just a couple of years later, in the very same room, dancing a private princess dance for her mother. She’d have her tutu on, of course. And her pink ballet slippers. But to dress up to look the part, surely the first place she’d have gone was the old jewellery box. With the help of some hairgrips, even the slinkiest of gold chains can be made to look like a tiara.
    And then, last year, on her birthday, what was she given? (Because around then is when she said all this started in earnest.) The very day she took the desk beside me, she’d said, ‘My granny gave it to my mother, and now she’s passed it on to me.’
    I know my mother wouldn’t pass on something like that, unless the day was very special.
    What day’s more special than your birthday?
    â€˜ First, check your working ,’ Mr Hooper says. So, in the changing rooms, I asked her casually,
    â€˜What should I ask for on my birthday?’
    â€˜Melly, your birthday’s not for months .’
    â€˜I know,’ I said. ‘But I like thinking about it. What did you get last year?’
    Her eyes shone with the memory. ‘A trip to London. We saw Copacabana !’
    â€˜Brilliant! What did you