The Worry Web Site (2 page)

“Feel free to tip her off your lap whenever you get tired. She does tend to go on and on,” I said.

Miss Morgan didn't seem to mind a bit. I sometimes wished I could climb on her lap and chatter too, just like Hannah. Miss Morgan used to be my favorite teacher in the school—even better than Mr. Speed.

Dad met Mr. Speed and Miss Morgan when he came to Parents' Evening. Dad said that Mr. Speed was very pleased with my progress and that he said I was a very good, sensible girl and the little star of his class. I twinkled. Dad said that Miss Morgan was very pleased with Hannah too and that she said she was very lively and loving. If Miss Morgan had said
Hannah was very good or sensible she would be a terrible fibber.

“Mr. Speed's smashing, isn't he, Dad?” I said happily.

“Yes he is,” said Dad. “Miss Morgan's rather special too, isn't she?”

Dad took to coming into Hannah's class with us every morning even though it made him late for work. Then Miss Morgan came round to our house with some special wax crayons for Hannah (big mistake: remember Snow White's stepmother's purple robe) and some rainbow metallic pens for me. The next Saturday, surprise surprise, we just happened to bump into Miss Morgan in the children's library. We all chatted for a bit and then we took Hannah to the swings and
then
we all had lunch in McDonald's. Before we knew what was happening we were seeing Miss Morgan every single Saturday and sometimes Sundays too.

I didn't mind a bit at first. I know this makes me the most seriously stupid, dumb dolthead but there you are. Even poor William would have twigged what was going on—but I thought Miss Morgan was
my
friend. And Hannah's too, of course. I didn't
dream
that she was there because of our dad.

Miss Morgan is as pretty as a princess. Our dad doesn't look a bit like a handsome prince. Well, not
the ones in my fairy-tale book. They don't wear baggy T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms and fluffy socks with holes in the toes. Though Dad got all dressed up in a suit on Friday night.

“I'm going out, girls. I've asked Auntie Evie up the road to baby-sit.”

“We don't need Auntie Evie. She fusses too much,” I said, pulling a face. “
I'll
baby-sit for Hannah, Dad.”

“I know you're just like a little mother to Hannah, love, but I'd feel happier if Auntie Evie was here to keep an eye on things,” said Dad, tying the knot in the funny
Simpsons
tie Hannah and I gave him last birthday. He only wears his tie if he's going somewhere really special.

“Are you going out somewhere posh with your mates from work, Dad?” I asked.

“No, love,” said Dad, sprucing his hair in the mirror. “Why does it always stick straight up?”

“Maybe you need some hair gel, Dad.”

He peered in the mirror, his head at an odd angle. “You don't think I'm going thin on top, do you, Holly?”

“Yeah, like you're almost totally bald,” I said, teasing him. “Leave it out, Dad, you've got lovely thick hair.”

“You're a great little kid, Holly,” said Dad, giving me a hug.

“So where
are
you going, Dad?”

Dad looked in the mirror rather than at me. “I'm taking Jenny out for a meal.”

“Jenny?”

Dad went red.

“You know. Miss Morgan.”

I stared at him. Hannah bounced up.

“A meal? Can we come too? Can we go to McDonald's?” Hannah begged.

“No, no, you wouldn't want to come, Hannah. We're going to this Italian place.”

“I like Italian food. I like spaghetti,” Hannah insisted.

“Well, maybe you and Holly can come with us another time. But this is a meal just for grown-ups,” said Dad.

“It's a
date
,” I said. I spat the word out as if it was deadly poison. “You and Miss Morgan. You're going
out
with her!”

“You don't mind, do you?” said Dad. “You
like
Jenny—Miss Morgan.”

“We
love
her,” said Hannah. “Oh, Dad, is she your girlfriend now?”

“Well — sort of,” said Dad, positively beet red.

“Oh, great, great, great!” Hannah shouted. “Here, Dad, why don't you marry Miss Morgan and then she can be our mum!”

“Not so fast, Teeny Tiny Girlfriend,” said Dad, and he picked Hannah up and swung her round and round. Her feet flew out and her left Pokémon slipper clunked me straight on the head.

I made a lot of fuss though my head didn't really hurt a bit. It was inside me that was hurting. My dad—and Miss Morgan!

“What's up, Big Grown-up Girlfriend?” said Dad. “Is your head really sore? Shall I kiss it better?”

“I'm not a baby. Don't be so daft,” I snapped. “Save your kissing for Miss Morgan.”

Dad looked like I'd thrown a bucket of cold water all over him. He blinked at me.

“I thought you'd be really pleased like Hannah,” he said. “You
like
Jenny, Holly. I don't get it.”

I didn't really get it either. I just knew it was all spoilt now. And
I
carried on spoiling it. We still went out every Saturday, but I mucked it up. I sighed and fussed and moaned in the children's library. Whenever Miss Morgan picked out some book she thought I might enjoy I'd glance at it and give a big yawn and go, “Boring!” So she found picture books for Hannah instead. Dad and Miss Morgan sat squashed together on one of those silly saggy cushion chairs, with Hannah tucked under their chins looking at the pictures in the book. They looked like a real family already.

The girl behind the counter in McDonald's thought they were a family too. Hannah jumped up and said she wanted a giant portion of French fries and
five
ice creams and the girl laughed and looked at Miss Morgan and said, “Perhaps we'd better ask Mum first.”

“She's not our mum,” I said fiercely. When we sat down with our food I thumped my plastic tray so hard my milk shake tipped and trickled all over me, and quite a bit of Miss Morgan too.

“For goodness' sake, Holly, what's the matter with you?” said Dad, mopping at Miss Morgan with his paper napkin. He just let me drip. “You're behaving like a total idiot.”

“You're the total idiot,” I muttered. Not softly enough.

“I've just about had enough of you, showing me up and behaving so badly,” Dad hissed.

“Here, Holly, let's go to the ladies' room and get some paper towels,” said Miss Morgan in a friendly but very firm teacher's voice, so I couldn't quite manage to say no. When we were in the ladies' room she didn't mess around with the milk-shake stains. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes.

“It's OK, Holly. I understand the way you feel.”

“No, you don't,” I said sulkily.

I didn't see how she could understand when
I
didn't have a clue why I felt so bad and was acting bad into the bargain.

“I like your dad—and he seems to like me,” said Miss Morgan.

“Yuck!” I said.

“Yes, OK, it seems very yucky to you. It probably would to me too if I was in the same situation.”

The
really
yucky thing was she was being so niceynicey-nice to me,
sooooo
soft and sweet. It made me feel fiercer than ever.

“I promise you, I'm not trying to take the place of your mum. I know just how much she means to you. She'll always stay your mum—and Hannah's— forever and ever, even though you don't see her anymore.”

“We do
so
see her!” I shouted. “We see her lots and lots and lots, so you can just shut up and stay away from me and my family.”

I rushed into a cubicle and locked the door and wouldn't come out for ages. In fact
Dad
had to come into the ladies' room to get me out and it was dead embarrassing and everyone was staring.

I managed to hold things in until I was in bed that night and then I cried and cried and cried. I tried to cry quietly but I woke Hannah.

“Are you crying because you've been so bad?”
she whispered. She had been awestruck by my behavior.

“I'm
not
crying. I've just got a cold,” I snuffled, blowing my nose.

I really did get a cold the next day and I made such a fuss that Dad let me stay off school. Auntie Evie up the road came to keep an eye on me. When she dozed off watching a soap opera after lunch I crept into the hall and made a phone call—to my mum.

Mum didn't know who I was at first.

Well, she
did
. She just didn't recognize my voice and said, “Who?” suspiciously as if it was someone playing a joke on her.

“It's
me
, Mum.” I paused. I wondered if I was going to have to add, “
You
know. Holly. Your
daughter
.”

“What do you want, Holly? Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. It's Dad.”

“Well, what about him? He's not ill, is he? Because I can't really have you girls to stay at the moment as I'm not too great myself and I'm having all sorts of dramas with Mike and—”

She went on and on and on. Then she remembered.

“Anyway. What about your dad?”

“He's got a
girlfriend
!”

“Has he?” She sounded so casual, as if I'd just announced he'd got a new tie.

“She's a teacher at our school.”

“Oh well. That figures. It's the only way your dad would ever meet anyone.”

I hated the way Mum always sounded so sniffy about Dad, like he was the most boring man on earth.

“Don't you mind, Mum?”

“Well, what's it got to do with me?”

“It's serious. She might end up our stepmother.”

“Oh! Isn't she very nice to you, then?”

“She's —” I couldn't quite tell an outright lie. “She's OK.”

“Then what are you worried about, eh?”

“Well, she
could
turn out horrid. Most stepmothers are. Like in ‘Snow White.’”

“Ah. ‘Snow White.’ I had that fairy-tale book when I was a little girl.”

“I
know
. You gave it to me.”

I can't stand it when Mum forgets things. Sometimes it feels as if she's forgotten all about me. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and missed her but the words wouldn't sort themselves out and while I was still wondering how to say it Mum said, “Well, I've got to go now, Holly. See you. Bye.”

So I put the phone down. I stopped feeling I loved her and hated her for a bit. She said “see you” but she
doesn't want to. She doesn't even like talking to me on the phone much now.

Dad says it's because she feels bad about leaving us. I think maybe
she's
bad.

I take after her now.

I went back to school the next day because it was dead depressing staying at home. My nose was sniffier than ever and so was I. Samantha was showing off her new barrettes, which were like little butterflies, but I simply yawned and said they looked stupid. Samantha said I was just jealous because she had long fair curls and I didn't. I said I didn't care one bit about having long fair curls. (
Big
lie.) Greg said he didn't think long fair curls were all that great and he much preferred
my
hair! Old Greg is going as daft as poor William if you ask me.

Mr. Speed told me to hand the marked homework out and asked me to read aloud to the others and sent me with a message to the headmaster. I bashed the homework books bang on the desks, I read aloud in a bored, flat, can't-be-bothered voice, and I dawdled down the corridor so slowly after giving my message I missed half the lesson.

“I wonder why you're in such a bad mood today, Holly?” said Mr. Speed.

I shrugged and pouted. Mr. Speed imitated me.
He looked so funny I very nearly gave in and giggled.

“Maybe you need a bit of peace and quiet? I know! How about a little computer practice?”

I knew this was a Crafty Ploy. Mr. Speed wanted me to access his Worry Web Site. And I couldn't resist. I typed it in. Remember?

I think I'm going to get a stepmother.

I wish she was wicked.

Comments:

You're nuts!

What is she on about?

How do you know the person with the worry is a girl?

Because it's such a silly girly thing.

You're being dead sexist.

Look, what about his/her PROBLEM?

What problem? Heaps of kids get stepmothers. I've got one and she's OK.

I've got a mum and a dad and a stepmum and a stepdad and it's great at Christmas and birthdays because you get two lots of presents.

Why do you want a WICKED stepmother???

I've GOT a wicked stepmother. You can have mine!

I didn't think these comments particularly kind. Or constructive. There were other even more useless suggestions that I deleted. I sat staring at the screen,
wishing I could delete myself. Mr. Speed saw me and whizzed right over before I could quit the Web site.

“Aha! So you're having a peep at the Worry Web Site, Holly. Hmm. Interesting worry! Have you typed in your comment for this poor soul who wants a wicked stepmother?”

He was trying to kid me that the Web site is ultra-anonymous. But I'm not daft. I gave him a long hard look.

“I'm the poor soul, Mr. Speed. You know it's me.”

“Yes, that's very true, Holly. You've caught me out.”

“
You
haven't put a comment.”

“That's also true. OK.” He leaned over me and typed.

I don't know WHY you want a wicked stepmother. Perhaps you can elaborate?

He waited. I fidgeted.

“
Elaborate
means tell me more,” said Mr. Speed.

“I know. I don't know
how
, though. It's all muddly. It's my dad—and Miss Morgan.”

Mr. Speed's eyes opened wide.

“
Our
Miss Morgan?”

“This is highly confidential, Mr. Speed,” I said hurriedly.

“Mum's the word,” said Mr. Speed, finger on his lips.

So I told him. His eyes got wider and wider, like the dog in the fairy tale with eyes as big as dinner plates.

“Your dad's a very lucky man,” he said eventually. “And I should imagine young Hannah's thrilled. So — how do you feel, Holly?”

“I feel bad,” I said. “And I keep acting bad and then I feel even worse. And Miss Morgan is always so nicey-nicey-nice about it. I want
her
to be bad. If she was really wicked like Snow White's stepmother then I could hate her and be horrid to her and it would be perfectly OK.”