discuss.
When I walked in, he lifted his head up. His face . . . it was not normal. It was not stiff or shaky either. It looked all collapsed.
‘Hey,’ he said, really quietly.
He looked at me. Urk. Argh! Whoa! That look! What was
that
?!
It was too weird and intense – and I guess it was for him too, because he went back to his list. Yes, he was
writing a list
. That would have been a bad sign on any normal day
– plus he’d never, ever said ‘Hey’ to me in his life, so that was pretty weird as well . . . but from the way he looked you could tell he must have been up all night so his
brain was probably completely scrambled. That’s what I decided to think; Simon had been up all night (with Henry!), so best go careful . . . because, as well as the list, the laptop was on
the table. If I could just get him to let me use it, just for a second . . .
‘Hey,’ I replied, ready to be told to get back in my cell. ‘I called . . .’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon.
‘Um . . . Mrs Fitch is—’
‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘Try not to look.’
‘It’s horrible,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Simon, can I please just use the loo? And then please could I get some breakfast? And . . .’ I stopped, thinking now didn’t seem like quite the time to raise the mobile thing.
I’d have to work around to it – plus there was the laptop. I wanted to ask about the internet, but I couldn’t without revealing I’d already been on the other computer
without permission. (That’s how strict he was.)
‘I’m really sorry about last night,’ I said, thinking that might get me one step closer my phone, to my friends, to normal. To the things that counted.
‘It’s OK,’ he said.
Huh?!
‘You don’t have to stay in the front room any more,’ he said.
HUH?!
That was tricky, because I knew I didn’t feel OK even if I didn’t feel
that
not OK, but I knew I didn’t want another zillion hours waiting on my own
with Mrs Fitch dead outside and . . . then I thought about my mum, and Henry. I couldn’t make them sick.
‘I don’t really feel OK,’ I blurted. ‘I don’t feel
bad
bad, not like . . . you know. I just feel a bit bad.’
‘Ru?’ he said. He looked at me, worried, freaking me out. ‘What feels wrong?’
I told him. It annoyed me that he smiled when I said it; he smiled not some massive grin, but a definite flicker of a tired ‘Oh you, you’re so young (and stupid)’ smile. Only
sad-looking, somehow too – and not the usual ‘I’m so disappointed in you (oh you, you’re so young and stupid)’ sad look.
‘What did you have to drink last night?’ he said.
Yee-haa! I was just about to saddle up in outrage, deny I’d had a thing to drink and have a go at Simon for even thinking such a thing, when –
‘Zak made some punch,’ I said. Double blurt. At least I wasn’t to blame.
‘Punch? Oh dear! What was in it?’ he asked.
He was really weirding me out now, because normally if he even slightly suspected illicit activities he’d flip out, and that’d be it: me grounded and scraping poo, wee, woodchips and
hay out of the guinea-pig hutch; I could just see it . . . except I’d actually confessed and he wasn’t going ballistic. Weird.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Cider?’
He was looking at me so strangely I voluntarily blurted out more truth.
‘And gin,’ I said.
Quadruple confession. (A record!) Any minute now I’d be telling him I’d tried a spliff, had lied about the babysitting and was in love with Caspar McCloud, so I ransacked my brain
for something that would make it sound like I wasn’t as bad as some people.
‘Molly got sick on it,’ I said.
Sorry, Mol. Normally that would have been a great rage-deflection tactic, but Simon didn’t seem fussed.
‘I think you’ve probably just got a hangover, don’t you?’ he said, super-calm and gentle. ‘You need to rehydrate – and eat.’
On that we agreed. I grabbed the kettle; didn’t seem like enough water in it
When I walked in, he lifted his head up. His face . . . it was not normal. It was not stiff or shaky either. It looked all collapsed.
‘Hey,’ he said, really quietly.
He looked at me. Urk. Argh! Whoa! That look! What was
that
?!
It was too weird and intense – and I guess it was for him too, because he went back to his list. Yes, he was
writing a list
. That would have been a bad sign on any normal day
– plus he’d never, ever said ‘Hey’ to me in his life, so that was pretty weird as well . . . but from the way he looked you could tell he must have been up all night so his
brain was probably completely scrambled. That’s what I decided to think; Simon had been up all night (with Henry!), so best go careful . . . because, as well as the list, the laptop was on
the table. If I could just get him to let me use it, just for a second . . .
‘Hey,’ I replied, ready to be told to get back in my cell. ‘I called . . .’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon.
‘Um . . . Mrs Fitch is—’
‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘Try not to look.’
‘It’s horrible,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Simon, can I please just use the loo? And then please could I get some breakfast? And . . .’ I stopped, thinking now didn’t seem like quite the time to raise the mobile thing.
I’d have to work around to it – plus there was the laptop. I wanted to ask about the internet, but I couldn’t without revealing I’d already been on the other computer
without permission. (That’s how strict he was.)
‘I’m really sorry about last night,’ I said, thinking that might get me one step closer my phone, to my friends, to normal. To the things that counted.
‘It’s OK,’ he said.
Huh?!
‘You don’t have to stay in the front room any more,’ he said.
HUH?!
That was tricky, because I knew I didn’t feel OK even if I didn’t feel
that
not OK, but I knew I didn’t want another zillion hours waiting on my own
with Mrs Fitch dead outside and . . . then I thought about my mum, and Henry. I couldn’t make them sick.
‘I don’t really feel OK,’ I blurted. ‘I don’t feel
bad
bad, not like . . . you know. I just feel a bit bad.’
‘Ru?’ he said. He looked at me, worried, freaking me out. ‘What feels wrong?’
I told him. It annoyed me that he smiled when I said it; he smiled not some massive grin, but a definite flicker of a tired ‘Oh you, you’re so young (and stupid)’ smile. Only
sad-looking, somehow too – and not the usual ‘I’m so disappointed in you (oh you, you’re so young and stupid)’ sad look.
‘What did you have to drink last night?’ he said.
Yee-haa! I was just about to saddle up in outrage, deny I’d had a thing to drink and have a go at Simon for even thinking such a thing, when –
‘Zak made some punch,’ I said. Double blurt. At least I wasn’t to blame.
‘Punch? Oh dear! What was in it?’ he asked.
He was really weirding me out now, because normally if he even slightly suspected illicit activities he’d flip out, and that’d be it: me grounded and scraping poo, wee, woodchips and
hay out of the guinea-pig hutch; I could just see it . . . except I’d actually confessed and he wasn’t going ballistic. Weird.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Cider?’
He was looking at me so strangely I voluntarily blurted out more truth.
‘And gin,’ I said.
Quadruple confession. (A record!) Any minute now I’d be telling him I’d tried a spliff, had lied about the babysitting and was in love with Caspar McCloud, so I ransacked my brain
for something that would make it sound like I wasn’t as bad as some people.
‘Molly got sick on it,’ I said.
Sorry, Mol. Normally that would have been a great rage-deflection tactic, but Simon didn’t seem fussed.
‘I think you’ve probably just got a hangover, don’t you?’ he said, super-calm and gentle. ‘You need to rehydrate – and eat.’
On that we agreed. I grabbed the kettle; didn’t seem like enough water in it
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