difficult some of the moves are to remember, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Not one word about what happened in Dundrum, with Dad and everything. No “How are YOU, Amy? How was YOUR day yesterday, Amy? Sorry for abandoning you for the All Saints and my boyfriend, Amy.” Nothing!
I’m convinced that, despite all her Nora-May talk, Mills is only taking up cheerleading so that she and Bailey can be the “Perfect Couple.” It is further evidence of the Starr Perfection Curse. Which poor Claire also seems to suffer from, by the way.
My clearly deluded friend has been watching too many old American teen movies. You know the ones: where the Quarterback dates the Head Cheerleader. Doesn’t Mills realize that the Quarterback and Cheerleader never end up together? The Quarterback always finds love with the Geek Girl, and the Cheerleader always runs off with the Bad Boy.
Mills may be in for a fall.
I sit back and think for a moment, but I can’t come up with any more “reasons,” so I cross out the number ten at the top and replace it with a four. Looking back over the list, I start to feel bad. Here I am, moaning on about Mills in my diary when Claire is finding it so hard to cope back in Budapest. I need to get my priorities in order. My life is pretty rosy compared to Claire’s at the moment. So I add:
OK, now I’ve got all that off my chest, Diary, I feel a whole heap better. Mills may be annoying sometimes, but I love her anyway, and let’s face it, I’m hardly perfect either. Despite everything, she is the best friend a girl could wish for, and that’s a fact!
I drop my pen, sit back in my chair, and smile to myself, Mills’s aggravating flaws almost forgotten. This diary thing really is great! Talk about cheap therapy!
Later that evening, I’m keeping an eye on Alex in the bath while Mum settles Evie to sleep (which can take a while) and wondering if Mills will visit, like she promised. I feel bad for ranting about her in my diary. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t really mean it. I was just feeling ratty. I vow to rip out the page as soon as Mum relieves me from Alex duty. I can hear her singing to Evie, so she won’t be long.
Evie’s starting to talk now and can even say my name — sort of. She calls me “Mee-mee,” copying Alex, who still calls me this, even though he can say Amy perfectly well now if he wants to. I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute. Alex is “Ahhhh-ex,” but Clover’s name is the funniest. She’s “Oooo-vaaaa,” to which Clover adds, “and out,” making herself laugh like a hyena. “Get it, Beanie? Over and out?” I just roll my eyes at her.
Alex is more troll than toddler, stomping around the house, destroying things. His train obsession is getting worse too. He will only wear Thomas the Tank Engine underpants now. (Mum’s trying to potty-train him at the moment, and there are tiny “Thomas” underpants drying on every heater. Let’s not go there!) But he is megacute, with a puffball of superblond hair, big gooey blue eyes and a funny round potbelly. At the moment, he’s standing up in the bath, covered in bubbles from head to toe, giggling away to himself. He bends down and scoops up some water in his hand, clearly about to chuck it at me.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” I tell him, tipping the water out of his hand. “No! And sit down before you slip, OK?”
“O-K, Mee-mee.”
The doorbell rings downstairs.
“Can you get it, Amy?” Mum calls from Evie’s room. “I’ve nearly gotten her to sleep.”
“No problem.” I look at Alex sternly. “Stay here, buster, and no funny business, understand?”
He nods. “I good boy, Mee-mee.”
I dash down the stairs and swing the door open. It’s Mills, stepping from foot to foot and looking a little awkward.
“Hiya, Mills.”
“Look, Amy, I’m sorry. I was going on and on about tryouts earlier, and I completely forgot to ask you about your dad’s house and to say sorry for not coming to meet you in
I’m convinced that, despite all her Nora-May talk, Mills is only taking up cheerleading so that she and Bailey can be the “Perfect Couple.” It is further evidence of the Starr Perfection Curse. Which poor Claire also seems to suffer from, by the way.
My clearly deluded friend has been watching too many old American teen movies. You know the ones: where the Quarterback dates the Head Cheerleader. Doesn’t Mills realize that the Quarterback and Cheerleader never end up together? The Quarterback always finds love with the Geek Girl, and the Cheerleader always runs off with the Bad Boy.
Mills may be in for a fall.
I sit back and think for a moment, but I can’t come up with any more “reasons,” so I cross out the number ten at the top and replace it with a four. Looking back over the list, I start to feel bad. Here I am, moaning on about Mills in my diary when Claire is finding it so hard to cope back in Budapest. I need to get my priorities in order. My life is pretty rosy compared to Claire’s at the moment. So I add:
OK, now I’ve got all that off my chest, Diary, I feel a whole heap better. Mills may be annoying sometimes, but I love her anyway, and let’s face it, I’m hardly perfect either. Despite everything, she is the best friend a girl could wish for, and that’s a fact!
I drop my pen, sit back in my chair, and smile to myself, Mills’s aggravating flaws almost forgotten. This diary thing really is great! Talk about cheap therapy!
Later that evening, I’m keeping an eye on Alex in the bath while Mum settles Evie to sleep (which can take a while) and wondering if Mills will visit, like she promised. I feel bad for ranting about her in my diary. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t really mean it. I was just feeling ratty. I vow to rip out the page as soon as Mum relieves me from Alex duty. I can hear her singing to Evie, so she won’t be long.
Evie’s starting to talk now and can even say my name — sort of. She calls me “Mee-mee,” copying Alex, who still calls me this, even though he can say Amy perfectly well now if he wants to. I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute. Alex is “Ahhhh-ex,” but Clover’s name is the funniest. She’s “Oooo-vaaaa,” to which Clover adds, “and out,” making herself laugh like a hyena. “Get it, Beanie? Over and out?” I just roll my eyes at her.
Alex is more troll than toddler, stomping around the house, destroying things. His train obsession is getting worse too. He will only wear Thomas the Tank Engine underpants now. (Mum’s trying to potty-train him at the moment, and there are tiny “Thomas” underpants drying on every heater. Let’s not go there!) But he is megacute, with a puffball of superblond hair, big gooey blue eyes and a funny round potbelly. At the moment, he’s standing up in the bath, covered in bubbles from head to toe, giggling away to himself. He bends down and scoops up some water in his hand, clearly about to chuck it at me.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” I tell him, tipping the water out of his hand. “No! And sit down before you slip, OK?”
“O-K, Mee-mee.”
The doorbell rings downstairs.
“Can you get it, Amy?” Mum calls from Evie’s room. “I’ve nearly gotten her to sleep.”
“No problem.” I look at Alex sternly. “Stay here, buster, and no funny business, understand?”
He nods. “I good boy, Mee-mee.”
I dash down the stairs and swing the door open. It’s Mills, stepping from foot to foot and looking a little awkward.
“Hiya, Mills.”
“Look, Amy, I’m sorry. I was going on and on about tryouts earlier, and I completely forgot to ask you about your dad’s house and to say sorry for not coming to meet you in
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