Read Online Bridesmaid Blitz by Sarah Webb - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Webb
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frying pan, and a cloud of intense black smoke is filling the room.
Dave grabs the handle and whips the pan off the ring. “Open the back door, Amy,” he hollers. “Quick!”
As soon as the door is open, he runs outside and douses the flames with the garden hose. I look around for Alex, to make sure he’s all right, but I can’t see him. I’m just getting worried when he reappears from the hallway, holding his red fire truck.
“I Fireman Sam,” he shouts in his little toddler voice, running toward the back door. “I save you, Daddy.”
I laugh so hard I give myself a stitch.
Early on Saturday afternoon, Shelly walks into my attic den in Dad’s house. She’s puffing and panting from climbing all the stairs, and her hands are wrapped around her massive preggers tummy. “I feel a bit funny, Amy,” she says.
“Probably indigestion. You had two Big Macs for lunch and loads of chips.” (Shelly is addicted to Macky D’s — it’s one of the few things that makes her normal.)
She thinks for a second. “You’re right. I should stop worrying. That’s exactly what it is. What are you watching?”
“YouTube.”
Shelly peers over my shoulder. “Who on earth is that? Someone famous? Nope, don’t recognize him.”
I pause the film and flip my laptop closed. I hate backseat viewers, especially the Shelly variety. I’ve been checking out a TED lecture about symmetry by an English math guru named Marcus du Sautoy. My math teacher gave me the details — not during class, thank goodness, but afterward. (My math fixation is not something I want to publicize.)
TED is an organization dedicated to the spreading of new ideas. They have some really interesting people on their website talking about all kinds of things, from black holes and climate change to robots and even spaghetti sauce (seriously!). It beats the other lame
Jackass
-inspired falling-off-a-chair/swing/bike/skis clips you normally find on YouTube.
“There’s no need to hide the screen, Amy. I’m not spying on you. I’m just —” Shelly breaks off and rubs her stomach. “This indigestion’s getting really nasty. I don’t really feel all that great.” She clutches the edge of my desk. “Do you mind if I sit on your bed for a second? It really hurts. Maybe I should lie down.”
That’s all I need — Shelly-cooties all over my pillow. Then I notice her face. It’s pale except for her cheeks, which are glowing like two clowns’ noses, and I feel a bit sorry for her.
She sits on the side of my bed and starts to rock backward and forward. Suddenly, a dark stain appears on my blue duvet cover. It spreads rapidly outward, like an inkblot, then there’s a splash on the wooden floor. Gross! What is that?
Shelly gives a scared squeak. “I’m leaking, Amy.”
“Shelly! Tell me you didn’t wet yourself.”
“Of course not. My bladder’s not
that
bad.
Eoi, moi Gawd
— maybe it’s my waters.”
“Nah,” I say, thinking that Shelly must be what happens when D4s grow up. (Scary biscuits!) “It can’t be.” Then something else occurs to me. “But that pain you’re having . . . maybe it’s not indigestion . . . maybe you’re having contractions.”
Shelly gasps. “You mean the baby’s coming? But it’s not due yet.”
I shrug. “I guess it might be coming early. Evie came early too. Mum’s waters broke in Tesco. She was morto! But don’t panic; it takes ages. Mum cooked dinner and hung the washing up before she went to the hospital to have Evie. Have you been to the special classes?”
“Yes, but our teacher went so fast it was hard to take it all in. Plus, Art knows everything, so I haven’t bothered with any books. If I need to know something, I just ask him.”
I try not to laugh. Dad’s clueless about babies — always has been, according to Mum.
“I’m not due for six whole weeks,” she says. “Ow, ow, ow. It really hurts.” She scrunches up her face, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes.
Then it
Dave grabs the handle and whips the pan off the ring. “Open the back door, Amy,” he hollers. “Quick!”
As soon as the door is open, he runs outside and douses the flames with the garden hose. I look around for Alex, to make sure he’s all right, but I can’t see him. I’m just getting worried when he reappears from the hallway, holding his red fire truck.
“I Fireman Sam,” he shouts in his little toddler voice, running toward the back door. “I save you, Daddy.”
I laugh so hard I give myself a stitch.
Early on Saturday afternoon, Shelly walks into my attic den in Dad’s house. She’s puffing and panting from climbing all the stairs, and her hands are wrapped around her massive preggers tummy. “I feel a bit funny, Amy,” she says.
“Probably indigestion. You had two Big Macs for lunch and loads of chips.” (Shelly is addicted to Macky D’s — it’s one of the few things that makes her normal.)
She thinks for a second. “You’re right. I should stop worrying. That’s exactly what it is. What are you watching?”
“YouTube.”
Shelly peers over my shoulder. “Who on earth is that? Someone famous? Nope, don’t recognize him.”
I pause the film and flip my laptop closed. I hate backseat viewers, especially the Shelly variety. I’ve been checking out a TED lecture about symmetry by an English math guru named Marcus du Sautoy. My math teacher gave me the details — not during class, thank goodness, but afterward. (My math fixation is not something I want to publicize.)
TED is an organization dedicated to the spreading of new ideas. They have some really interesting people on their website talking about all kinds of things, from black holes and climate change to robots and even spaghetti sauce (seriously!). It beats the other lame
Jackass
-inspired falling-off-a-chair/swing/bike/skis clips you normally find on YouTube.
“There’s no need to hide the screen, Amy. I’m not spying on you. I’m just —” Shelly breaks off and rubs her stomach. “This indigestion’s getting really nasty. I don’t really feel all that great.” She clutches the edge of my desk. “Do you mind if I sit on your bed for a second? It really hurts. Maybe I should lie down.”
That’s all I need — Shelly-cooties all over my pillow. Then I notice her face. It’s pale except for her cheeks, which are glowing like two clowns’ noses, and I feel a bit sorry for her.
She sits on the side of my bed and starts to rock backward and forward. Suddenly, a dark stain appears on my blue duvet cover. It spreads rapidly outward, like an inkblot, then there’s a splash on the wooden floor. Gross! What is that?
Shelly gives a scared squeak. “I’m leaking, Amy.”
“Shelly! Tell me you didn’t wet yourself.”
“Of course not. My bladder’s not
that
bad.
Eoi, moi Gawd
— maybe it’s my waters.”
“Nah,” I say, thinking that Shelly must be what happens when D4s grow up. (Scary biscuits!) “It can’t be.” Then something else occurs to me. “But that pain you’re having . . . maybe it’s not indigestion . . . maybe you’re having contractions.”
Shelly gasps. “You mean the baby’s coming? But it’s not due yet.”
I shrug. “I guess it might be coming early. Evie came early too. Mum’s waters broke in Tesco. She was morto! But don’t panic; it takes ages. Mum cooked dinner and hung the washing up before she went to the hospital to have Evie. Have you been to the special classes?”
“Yes, but our teacher went so fast it was hard to take it all in. Plus, Art knows everything, so I haven’t bothered with any books. If I need to know something, I just ask him.”
I try not to laugh. Dad’s clueless about babies — always has been, according to Mum.
“I’m not due for six whole weeks,” she says. “Ow, ow, ow. It really hurts.” She scrunches up her face, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes.
Then it
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