Don't Even Think About It (3 page)

I haven’t told you about Ruth Wallace yet, have I? Although I think I’ve mentioned the Wallaces a few times. They live next door to us, and Ruth is twelve, just a few months younger than me, and she’s got brown hair and glasses and a grey cat, and an older brother called Damien. Oh, and she’s in a wheelchair.

She doesn’t go to my school, so I hardly ever meet her during the week. A white van collects her every morning at ten past eight – I hear it from my bedroom when I’m getting up – and drops her back every afternoon around four.

You can see other kids in the van. One boy waves at everyone the way very little children wave, just flapping his fingers, even though he’s about my age. He smiles all the time too. Another girl is hunched over in her wheelchair and never looks up. All you can see is the back of her neck.

Ruth’s dad takes his daughter out to the van every morning and waits while they lower the ramp at the back. Then he wheels her on and kisses her goodbye, and he stands, waving, while the van drives off. In the afternoon, her mam comes out, when the van driver sounds the horn, and she wheels Ruth back inside.

And if I could choose a person to live beside, anyone at all in the whole world, Ruth Wallace would be my very last choice.

Now let me explain, because I know how horrible that sounds. You’re probably wondering how I can be so mean to my poor disabled neighbour. Well, let me tell you about Ruth Wallace, and then you can decide who the mean one really is.

She lies in wait for me every Saturday in her wheelchair. She sits just inside her gate until she sees me, and then she wheels herself out onto the path and says whatever nasty thing she’s been thinking up for me – that I stink, or that my top is horrible, or that I need to use spot cream.

Sometimes she tries to trip me up with her wheels, which is a bit pathetic, because I can easily hop out on the road and dodge around her.

Listen, I’m not making this up. I wish I was, but I’m not. Ruth Wallace is a nasty, cruel person, and I’m the only one who knows it, because, for some reason, she’s as nice as apple pie to everyone else. She smiles and looks fragile and says ‘Hello’ in an innocent little girly voice that makes me want to puke, and they all call her poor Ruth and pat her hand and tell her she’s a great girl, and all the time I know what she’s like, but I can’t
tell anyone, because, of course, they wouldn’t believe me.

‘Ruth, nasty?’ they’d say in surprise. ‘Why, Liz Jackson, how can you say such a thing? Ruth is so sweet and fragile, and extremely friendly too,’ or something like that. That’s what they all think, you see.

Ruth wasn’t always disabled. Apparently, she got some disease like meningitis when she was only two or three, and she almost died, and since then she hasn’t been able to walk. Which is all very sad, of course, but I still don’t see why she should be so mean to me. I mean, I didn’t make her sick. I didn’t take away her legs. Not that her legs are gone – they’re still there – but you know what I mean.

I’ve told Bumble what she’s like, because I knew he’d believe me. He thinks Ruth is probably jealous of me being able to walk, and that’s what makes her so nasty. When I pointed out that everyone else can walk too, and she’s nice to
them
, Bumble said, ‘Well, she probably picked you to be mean to because you’re handy, living right next door.’

Sometimes I wish Bumble didn’t always have an answer for everything.

Ruth’s brother Damien is nice, not a bit like her. He’s almost sixteen, so I don’t hang around with him or anything, but he always smiles and says hello. I wonder what he’d say if he knew what kind of a sister he has.

Today Ruth was waiting for me, as usual, when I came home from town. I could see a bit of her hat poking up from behind the hedge – she always wears a hat, every single day – and my heart sank. I walked quicker, but of course out she came.

She said ‘Hello Liz’ in a really sickly sweet voice. I didn’t look at her, just kept going. And as I passed her, she belted me on the back of the legs with a stick she’d been hiding down the side of her wheelchair. That’s what I mean by nasty. For no reason, she just lashed out. It really stung too – I had a red stripe on my legs for about an hour afterwards. But as usual, I said nothing.

Poor Ruth, my foot. She wasn’t abandoned by her mother, was she? I bet that’s worse than being in a wheelchair. Well, maybe not worse, but definitely as bad, in a different way. At least she has her two parents around.

And she has a brother too, which is more than I have. That was another thing I was sorry about when Mam left, that I hadn’t any brothers or sisters, just Dad.

Anyway, that’s the story of my nasty neighbour. The Wallaces’ cat is nice, all lovely soft grey fur. It’s a he – I checked after we had a lesson on cats – and I call him Misty, but that’s not his real name. Of course I can’t ask Ruth what it is, and I’ve never heard anyone calling him anything. Mrs Wallace just says ‘puss, puss’ when she’s calling him.

I suppose I just have to put up with the nastiness from Ruth. It can’t be much fun being in a wheelchair, even though it means never having to mow the lawn, or take out the bins. But it must be hard to see everyone else running around having fun; it must make her feel really sad. And maybe Bumble’s right, maybe she needs someone like me to lash out at sometimes.

I just wish she’d picked someone else, that’s all.

We got a new computer yesterday. Well, not brand new – one they were throwing out from Dad's work – but it's still in fairly good condition. I told Dad it'd be a big help to me for doing my homework, and he kind of snorted and said since when did I become so studious, and I ignored him, naturally.

But it made me think. With a computer you can send e-mails.

And Mam works on a computer all the time now, so she definitely has an e-mail address.

I know we talk on the phone every day, but sometimes it's easier to write things down than to say them. Especially when you want to ask tricky questions like ‘When am I going to see you again?' and stuff like that.

It's been five months since I've seen her. I wonder if she looks the same. I know people don't change all that much in a few months, but still.

Sometimes when I try to see her face in my head I can't, and I have to look at a photo of her to remind myself what she looks like. And that is very scary.

We don't have too many photos of anyone in the house – our camera is embarrassingly old, and nobody is that interested in using it – but we have a video with Mam in it. It's from their tenth wedding anniversary, about five years ago, and some friends of theirs had a surprise party for them in their house, and made a video and gave it to them afterwards.

It says ‘Anniversary' on the side of the cassette, and it's probably still sitting on the shelf behind the telly, along with
The Wizard of Oz
and
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
and Dad's Laurel and Hardy collection, and a few others.

We watched the anniversary video a lot at the start – or at least I did. It was like eavesdropping on Mam and Dad when they were out at night, and I loved it. Mam wore a blue dress with see-through sleeves, and her hands flew up to her face when they walked in the door and all their friends shouted ‘Surprise!'. She and Dad looked really happy in the video. They kissed when their friends drank a toast to them.

I might be able to watch it again sometime, but I think I'll stick to the photos for now.

In case you're wondering, here's a description of Mam:

She has short, stubby fingers that she hates – she always told me I was lucky I got Dad's hands. She wore a silver ring like a bit of rope on her left little finger, and she smelt of the almond body lotion she put on every morning.

I wonder if she still smells the same. I wonder if her hair is longer, and if she still puts in the red colour every three weeks.

I wonder if she remembers what I look like.

You are not going to believe this. My father has just gone out with Marjorie Maloney.

Remember her? Lives across the road, dyed black hair, stinky perfume, tight skirts that show her knickers. Breaks her iron so she has an excuse to call over to Dad, and bakes lemon meringue pies that nobody wants.

When Dad told me that he was going out with her this evening, I was sure he was joking. I just looked at him and began to smile, and he said quickly, ‘No, really, we are. Just to the cinema, and straight back. Two and a half hours at the most. Will you be OK on your own, or will I get someone to come around?’

I couldn’t believe it. He was serious. After all the times we used to hide in the sitting room when she came knocking on the door with one of her yukky casseroles. I thought he felt exactly the same about her as I do.

I was so mad I could hardly talk. I managed to say, ‘I don’t need a babysitter,’ and then I turned and went upstairs, and he had the good sense not to follow me. He called up a few minutes ago to say he was going, and that he’d leave his phone switched on just in case. (Of course HE has a mobile phone, not like some people who’ve been BEGGING for one for
months
.)

I didn’t bother answering him, just turned up Eminem.

I am MAD AS HELL. How DARE he go out with Marjorie Maloney? What if somebody sees them?

As if I’d phone him anyway, even if the house was burning to a cinder. Even if a gang broke in and tied me up and robbed the place. (I know I couldn’t phone him if I was tied up, but you know what I mean.)

When I heard the front door closing, I snuck out to the landing and watched him walking across the road to Marjorie Maloney’s house. She came out straight away – was probably watching him too, from
her
landing – and they got into his car and drove off, in full view of anyone who might be watching. She had a red skirt and a black top on, and she was giggling like anything as she was getting into his car. I said a quick prayer that she’d catch her skirt in the car door, but God mustn’t have been listening.

OK, I phoned Bumble, who managed to calm me down a bit. He said Marjorie could easily have asked Dad to go out, instead of the other way around, and Dad would be too much of a gentleman to say no, even if it was the
last thing he wanted to do.

Bumble also said that maybe Marjorie really wanted to see this film, and maybe there was nobody else to go with her, and she didn’t fancy going on her own, so she only asked Dad along to keep her company.

And the more I thought about it, as I was making a peanut butter and banana sandwich afterwards, the less mad I felt. Of course it’s not a
date
, nothing like that at all. Dad wouldn’t do that, not with Mam only gone a few months. No, he and Marjorie are just sort of friends.

He needs friends, right? Just like me and Bumble.

I don’t know what I’d do without Bumble. He’s my rock.

I wonder if Mam would ever go to the cinema with another man. She must be meeting lots of new people over there in the States. I don’t think I want to think about that right now.

Hope the film is a bummer, even if they are only friends.

Well, summer's here, kind of. Bumble had a pair of shorts on him at school today. Pity his legs are so white and skinny. The rest of him is pretty good – nice light brown hair, green eyes, lovely chuckly laugh that just makes you want to join in. No freckles, not even one. He says I have enough for the two of us, and he's right.

Catherine Eggleston and Terry McNamara are officially going out, which shows what kind of taste
he
has. Although I must admit she's only been about half as bitchy as usual, since I didn't tell on her about the note she wrote that time.

I haven't been sent to Smelly Nelly's for over two weeks, which has to be some kind of record. Not that I care, with less than a month of school to go. Chloe Nelligan is still keeping the vampires away – and the rest of us too – with the dreaded garlic breath.

The only other bit of news is not so good, which is why
I've saved it till last.

Tonight Dad and Marjorie Maloney are going out again, to the launch of some dorky book written by someone Marjorie knows. Dad's in the shower now, getting ready.

But they're
not
dating – Dad's just keeping her company, because she's got nobody else and he feels sorry for her. That's the only possible reason he's doing this.
No way
is he interested in Marjorie Maloney – how could he be, after Mam, who's miles prettier and slimmer?

He did look a bit guilty earlier when he told me he was meeting Marjorie. He tried to make it sound like no big deal: ‘By the way, myself and Marjorie are heading out to a book launch tonight, just for a bit.' His back was to me as he spoke, stirring a saucepan, but then he looked around to see how I was taking it. I just nodded, as if I couldn't care less.

Of course Marjorie is acting like my best friend these days, waving at me from across the road any time she sees me. I just ignore her, which makes two people on the road I have to ignore now.

Compared to Marjorie Maloney, Ruth Wallace is a saint. At least she's not trying to get her claws into my dad, just run me over with her wheelchair, or insult me to death.

Bumble's coming over in a while, and we're ordering in a pizza and he's helping me to set up an e-mail account, and I am
not
telling Dad about it. Why should I, when he can just turn around and abandon me any time he feels like it? Bumble says it's dead easy to set
up – all we need is a disk that he's bringing over. I just hope the computer is modern enough.

Dad just called in that he's leaving. I called back ‘Fine.' I am not going to look out the window this time. I hope the book launch is even more boring than the cinema. I didn't ask him about the film they went to, and he didn't mention it either.

Bumble'd better hurry up, or I'll order the pizza without him. My stomach is beginning to complain of emptiness. We usually get a giant pizza with half of it topped with pepperoni and pineapple for me, and half with ham and mushrooms, for both of us. Well, I'd share my half if he wanted, but pepperoni gives Bumble a rash.

He's getting ten more minutes.