The Worry Web Site (8 page)

I'd planned to make Lauren's the last story in the book but it ends so sadly that I decided to add one more story myself, just to try to end things on a happy note.

So here is Lauren's wonderful prizewinning Worry Web Site story.

Jacqueline Wilson

Type in your worry:

I …

I think …

Oh, this is useless. I could type in a thousand worries if I had to, but I can't find one un-stupid enough to put in. I do that. Make up words from somewhere. I make lots of things up, fantasy things, like creatures and magical people so I can disappear into my own world whenever I like.

I don't need to disappear anywhere at home, though; I've got my mum. She's the best mum in the world. Sometimes I draw her with flowing black hair and piercing blue eyes, trapped in a tower waiting for a prince to come and rescue her. My mum is beautiful,
and she's trapped. Stuck in a flat with me and the wicked wizard who spends all our money on beer and cigarettes.

The wicked wizard is my dad. We only see him at teatime and in the morning now. He's out all night at the pub. My mum keeps saying that he'll change. He never will.

I remember when I was little, and we all used to sit on their big bed and he used to read to me. My favorite was
The Ugly Duckling
. I can remember my mum reading the swan's parts in a smooth soft voice, and Dad doing the ugly duckling and the ducks' parts in funny high-pitched voices that made me giggle. I loved that room. It had a nice musky smell. We had to move when I was seven because Dad got a new job. That's when he started changing.

He was always late home, and then he went straight to bed. He stopped playing games with me and Mum. He didn't talk anymore, only shouted.

I missed my old school and my best friend, Sarah. We used to be inseparable. The teachers would rush up to us before break times and ask us to keep the kindergarten classes under control, because we were one-hundred-percent reliable. We kept them occupied by doing this little comedy routine. Their favorite was the “she's behind you” routine. Sarah stood in front
and said, “I wonder where Lisa could be”—and just then I'd run past behind her and pull funny faces. The classes would all point and shout, “She's behind you!” Then I'd hide again. They loved that.

When I came to my new school I didn't fit in. Some of the girls tried to talk to me but I wouldn't talk to them. I really wanted to make some friends but whenever someone talked to me I remembered Sarah and felt guilty.

The boys ignored me until we did soccer in PE (girls vs. boys) and we won 6–3. I scored five goals. Then all the boys picked me for their soccer team and reckoned I was dead sporty. They picked me for other teams, like baseball and basketball, but soon I realized I couldn't hit a baseball with a bat the size of Calcutta and I couldn't score a basket if they paid me.

Mrs. Bryn shouted at me a lot for being behind in class and not doing homework. I was glad to move up to Mr. Speed's class.

Mr. Speed was great at cheering me up. He helped me catch up with my work and make friends. It felt great.

But one day after I'd been to Claire's house, I came home and my mum was crying. She said that she'd just banged her arm and bruised it. I hugged her tight and told her she'd be all right. She had hurt her face too, but
it didn't cross my mind what might be going on until I went to bed. It was just as I fell asleep that I understood that my dad—the same squeaky duckling, imaginary games, laughing, smiling dad that I had loved with all my heart right up until the point he changed—could be hurting my mother.

I was afraid to leave my mum in the morning, so I started coughing like crazy, and she tucked me up on the sofa. I pretended to be asleep and heard my dad shouting and my mum trying not to let him wake me, which made him shout more.

I opened my eyes in time to see him hit Mum and leave. My body froze. As soon as the door closed I rushed to my mum's side.

The next day when he came back he was all lovey-dovey, looking for forgiveness. I expected Mum to turn him right away, but she let him in! He still lives with us, and he's being nice so far. He'll snap any second now.

Type in your worry:

I'm starting to get spots.

After all, there are some things you don't want people to know.

Type in your worry:

I wish I could take part in the concert.

Mr. Speed is organizing a concert. The whole class keeps going on about it. William is fussing because he can't do anything. Everyone else is singing or playing a musical instrument or reciting a poem or dancing. I can't sing or play or recite or dance. But people don't expect me to be able to perform. I can't even walk or talk. But it's OK. I manage. I use a wheelchair. It's electric and powerful so sometimes I can muck about chasing the other kids. I have a special speaking machine too. My fingers work in a shaky sort of way so I can press the right button and words get said. Not always
the words I
want
. I can't say
rude
words when I'm cross unless I spell them out laboriously. I usually choose to say short easy words because it's so much quicker.

It makes me sound a bit simple. I know I look it. But I'm NOT. I go to a special school but we have proper lessons, math and English and science and stuff just like everyone else. And one day a week I go up the road and round the corner to Mapleton Junior High to see what it's like in an ordinary classroom.

Only it's not the slightest
bit
ordinary. They have this really wacky teacher, Mr. Speed. I wasn't sure I liked him at first. He leaps about a lot and shouts and uses weird long words. The teachers and helpers at my special school walk carefully and talk quietly and use words everyone can understand. I got a bit nervous when he came near me at first. My arms jerked about more than usual and I shrank down even smaller than usual. Most people think I'm younger than I am because I'm quite little. They treat you like a baby anyway if you use a wheelchair.

But not Mr. Speed.

“Hello, Natasha,” he said, straight to me. Lots of people look at Wendy, my helper, even though they're talking to me.

I made my machine say hello back. Mr. Speed told the class about my talking machine and asked if I'd
say hello to them too. I did. Then I added, “Let's make friends.” This was artful. I knew they'd all go, “Aaah!” and say yes. You need to get children on your side. Sometimes they can be
sooo
mean. They can call you Spaz and Dummy and the Veggie. You can't have thin skin if you have a disability. Sometimes I've had to have skin like a
rhinoceros
to stop all the rude remarks hurting me.

But Mr. Speed's class were all good to me right from the start. Almost
too
nice. The girls begged Wendy to let them push me around and they treated me like a doll, fussing with my hair and fiddling with my chair strap and speaking very loud and very s–l–o–w–l–y. The boys waved at me a bit nervously, keeping well clear of my wheelchair—in case I leapt up and bit them? They were all ever so polite, though —apart from William. He didn't mean to be rude. He isn't that sort of kid. He just stared and stared and stared at me, as if I was an extraordinary television program. The pretty girl, Samantha, gave him a little nudge and whispered to him not to stare so.

“Why?” said William.

“Because it's rude,” Samantha hissed.

“But she looks so
funny
,” said William.

“Shhh!” said Samantha, going pink.

“She can't hear, can she?” said William. “She can't
speak
.”

It seems to me that it's old William who has the disability—a
mental
one. But I suppose he can't help it. Same as I can't help looking funny. William's right about that. My mum says I've got a lovely smile and my dad says I'm his Pretty Princess and Wendy says I've got beautiful blue eyes—but they are simply being kind. Mr. Speed says I have lovely long hair. He gently pulls my plaits and calls me Rapunzel. I quite like this. I like my hair too. But I know pretty hair doesn't stop me looking weird. Well, not unless I turned into a real Rapunzel and grew it down to my ankles and covered myself with it, like a great furry hood and coat.

I'd like that. I could stay hidden inside. You're always so
obvious
if you have a disability. You can't hide behind the other kids or creep to a corner of the classroom. You're always on display in your big wheelchair, often with your helper beside you. You can't whisper secrets when you have a voice machine. You can't
have
secrets.

I had to get Wendy to tap in my worry on the Web site as I can't reach the computer keys properly. And when I wanted to look at the replies I couldn't just wait for an appropriate moment and nip across and have a quick glance. I had to get Wendy to maneuver my wheelchair in and out between the desks and then click on all the right places on the screen.

I waited until after school when everyone had gone home. Mr. Speed was still there, but he pretended not to notice what Wendy and I were doing. He was trying to construct some kind of fairy-tale carriage out of cardboard boxes for the concert. He was doing his best with gold paint and old baby-buggy wheels but the audience might have to be kind and use their imagination. A girl called Lisa was painting scenery in a corner. She nodded to me shyly and then went on with her work. She seemed much more artistic than Mr. Speed. She'd painted an all-purpose fairy-tale land with princesses with long golden hair and pink enchanted castles and wicked wizards swigging from their own bubbling cauldrons.

That's another thing I can't do. Paint. I know exactly how I want to do it in my head but it won't come out like that on the page. My hand just jerks and it all splodges. I won't even try now.

Mr. Speed saw me staring at Lisa's scenery.

“It's good, isn't it, Natasha?”

“Very, very, very good,” I said with my voice machine. Wendy thought my finger had gone into spasm by the third “very” and went to help me. I shook my head at her impatiently. Then I felt mean. It is so hard to have a helper all the time when you don't
want
to be helped.

Lisa looked up and smiled.

“Thank you,” she muttered, and carried on.

“The class members who lack specific talents are all in this mini-pantomime at the end of the concert. That's what all this scenery is for. Oh lordy, this
wretched
concert,” said Mr. Speed. He pressed down too hard on his fairy carriage and it collapsed. Mr. Speed said a very rude word and then put his hand over his mouth. “I hope you girls didn't hear that,” he said.

Lisa giggled. I giggled. Wendy giggled too.

“Why do I get involved year after year?” said Mr. Speed. “It's just one big worry.”

“Type your worry into the Web site!” I spoke slowly.

Mr. Speed waited patiently and laughed when I was finished. “Teachers aren't allowed to have worries,” he said.

He glanced ever so casually at the screen.

“What sort of comments has the latest worry attracted? I believe someone wants to be in the concert?”

“You know the someone is me,” I said.

“You're not daft, are you, Natasha?” said Mr. Speed.

William
is
daft. He had typed in:

Why cant you bee in the consat? I am in it and I am
useless at sining and dansing and stuff. But I am dooing cungring triks.

I blinked.

“What?”

“I think the lad means ‘conjuring,’ ” said Mr. Speed. “I've helped him work out a routine with young Samantha.”

I blinked again.

“Can William
do
conjuring tricks?” Wendy asked doubtfully. She hasn't got to know all the children in Mr. Speed's class—but you can't miss William.

“No, of course he can't. He drops all the cards and fails to pull out the ribbons and he can't produce the toy white rabbit from his cardboard top hat,” said Mr. Speed, chuckling.

I decided maybe I didn't like Mr. Speed after all.

“They will laugh at him,” I said. I can't put expression into my voice machine, but I tried to look disapproving.

“Don't frown at me, madam. They're
supposed
to laugh. William is
deliberately
mucking up his act. He's playing a totally useless conjuror. Well, he doesn't need to try hard, does he? And Samantha is going to get all gussied up in her ballet frock, being his beautiful blond assistant, and
she
will sort him out and do the trick each time.”

I nodded. I looked at another comment on the computer screen.

I wanted to sing a song with Holly but she's doing a dance with her little sister so I've got to sing on my own and my voice goes all wobbly and Mr. Speed shouts, “You're out of tune, lad,” and makes it worse so I don't want to be in the concert.

“Oh dear,” said Mr. Speed, reading over my shoulder. “I do sound a bully, don't I? I'm not really that bad, am I, Natasha?”

“Yes!” I said.

Mr. Speed laughed. Wendy laughed. Lisa looked up from her painting and laughed. I laughed too.

“Is everyone taking part in the concert?” Wendy asked.

“Not quite everyone. Lisa says she doesn't feel like performing. She's come to my rescue with the scenery. And hopefully she might help out with the props too.” Mr. Speed gestured at the remains of his fairy carriage.

I asked Wendy to wheel me over to Lisa so I could have a closer look at her scenery. She parked me beside her and then went to have a little talk with Mr. Speed. Probably about me. People are always having little talks about me and my progress—or lack of it. I'm OK at the difficult stuff. Ten out of ten in all
lessons. I'm just useless at all the easy-peasy ordinary things everyone else takes for granted. I'm trapped in my baby body, unable to do anything for myself. Zero out of ten for walking, talking, going to the loo, combing my hair, whatever.

I like the way Lisa has her hair, short and spiky. It looks seriously cool. Maybe it's time I had
my
hair cut?