Read Online Girls in Love by Jacqueline Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
Tags: Fiction
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the other boys. He asks all Anna’s questions about parents and drink and drugs and insists that he will be waiting outside at twelve to take us home.
“Like Cinderella. Only ball gowns aren’t what they used to be,” he says, giving my T-shirt another nervous glance.
He looks a little reassured when we draw up outside Adam’s house, one of those cozy mock-Tudor jobs with a little goldfish pond and a garden gnome in a little red plaster cap and matching bootees. There’s a car parked in the drive.
“Ah. At least his parents
are
at home,” says Dad.
“Cool subterfuge,” Magda breathes in my ear.
But guess what? It’s not subterfuge at all. Adam’s mum comes to the door, in a pastel sweater and leggings, holding one of those big plastic plates with little sections for nuts and crisps and twiglets. “Ah! You two are . . . ?”
“I’m Magda and she’s Ellie,” says Magda faintly.
“And you’re friends of Adam’s?”
“Well, I’m a friend of Greg. And he’s a friend of Adam,” says Magda. “And Ellie’s
my
friend.”
I don’t
feel
like being Magda’s friend, not after tonight!
This is not a rave-up. This is a terrible embarrassing nonevent. Adam is a boy who looks almost as young as Dan even though he’s in Year Eleven. He’s a little weedy whatsit with an extremely protuberant Adam’s apple (appropriate), which bobs up and down when he talks.
For a long terrible while it’s just Adam and Magda and me in the living room, with Adam’s mum bustling in and out offering us party nibbles and some ghastly punch that’s got about one tot of red wine to every gallon of fruit juice. Damp shreds of maraschino cherry and tinned mandarin orange lodge against my teeth whenever I try to take a drink.
Adam hisses that his parents decided against their weekend break because his dad has a shocking cold. We hear frequent explosive sneezing from upstairs. I don’t think there are going to be any heavy bedroom sessions tonight, somehow.
Greg turns up eventually. Magda gives him a hard time, whispering furiously in his crimson ear.
One more boy arrives half an hour later. He’s clutching a can of lager and boasts that he’s had a few already. He keeps belching. Adam finds this funny and swigs from the can too when his mum is out of the room.
I would sooner go out with Dan than these two.
I would sooner go out with
Eggs
.
Why doesn’t anyone else come???
After endless awful ages there’s another knock and it sounds as if there’s a whole crowd of boys outside but when Adam’s mum goes to the door there’s a whole load of spluttering and mumbled excuses and someone says they’ve come to the wrong house and they all charge off.
So we are left. Five of us. We are the party. And I don’t drink and I don’t take drugs and I don’t dance and I don’t go up to a bedroom with a boy. I don’t even
talk
to a boy.
I just sit there at the first and worst party of my life.
nine parties
1. IDEAL “I WISH” PARTY: just me and Dream Dan . . .
2. MY BEST LITTLE-GIRLY PARTY: when my mum was still alive and she fixed a rainbow party with red strawberries and orange juice and yellow bananas and green jelly and blue-iced birthday cake and indigo blueberry crème brûlée and violet cream chocolates and there were rainbow balloons and she hung crystals up at the windows so there were rainbows all over the room when the sun shone.
3. MY BEST BIG-GIRL PARTY: my twelfth birthday when I had an ice cream party with all different varieties, and ice cream soda and a big ice cream birthday cake.
4. NADINE’S BEST PARTY: when I stayed over on her birthday night when we were little kids and we played Vampire Barbie and smeared red Smartie dye all over our Barbies’ mouths and made them manically attack all baby Natasha’s fluffy toys.
5. MAGDA’S BEST PARTY: when her mum and dad took us al to Planet Hollywood and then to a Brad Pitt movie.
6. FUNNIEST PARTY: Eggs’s christening party, when he wouldn’t
“Like Cinderella. Only ball gowns aren’t what they used to be,” he says, giving my T-shirt another nervous glance.
He looks a little reassured when we draw up outside Adam’s house, one of those cozy mock-Tudor jobs with a little goldfish pond and a garden gnome in a little red plaster cap and matching bootees. There’s a car parked in the drive.
“Ah. At least his parents
are
at home,” says Dad.
“Cool subterfuge,” Magda breathes in my ear.
But guess what? It’s not subterfuge at all. Adam’s mum comes to the door, in a pastel sweater and leggings, holding one of those big plastic plates with little sections for nuts and crisps and twiglets. “Ah! You two are . . . ?”
“I’m Magda and she’s Ellie,” says Magda faintly.
“And you’re friends of Adam’s?”
“Well, I’m a friend of Greg. And he’s a friend of Adam,” says Magda. “And Ellie’s
my
friend.”
I don’t
feel
like being Magda’s friend, not after tonight!
This is not a rave-up. This is a terrible embarrassing nonevent. Adam is a boy who looks almost as young as Dan even though he’s in Year Eleven. He’s a little weedy whatsit with an extremely protuberant Adam’s apple (appropriate), which bobs up and down when he talks.
For a long terrible while it’s just Adam and Magda and me in the living room, with Adam’s mum bustling in and out offering us party nibbles and some ghastly punch that’s got about one tot of red wine to every gallon of fruit juice. Damp shreds of maraschino cherry and tinned mandarin orange lodge against my teeth whenever I try to take a drink.
Adam hisses that his parents decided against their weekend break because his dad has a shocking cold. We hear frequent explosive sneezing from upstairs. I don’t think there are going to be any heavy bedroom sessions tonight, somehow.
Greg turns up eventually. Magda gives him a hard time, whispering furiously in his crimson ear.
One more boy arrives half an hour later. He’s clutching a can of lager and boasts that he’s had a few already. He keeps belching. Adam finds this funny and swigs from the can too when his mum is out of the room.
I would sooner go out with Dan than these two.
I would sooner go out with
Eggs
.
Why doesn’t anyone else come???
After endless awful ages there’s another knock and it sounds as if there’s a whole crowd of boys outside but when Adam’s mum goes to the door there’s a whole load of spluttering and mumbled excuses and someone says they’ve come to the wrong house and they all charge off.
So we are left. Five of us. We are the party. And I don’t drink and I don’t take drugs and I don’t dance and I don’t go up to a bedroom with a boy. I don’t even
talk
to a boy.
I just sit there at the first and worst party of my life.
nine parties
1. IDEAL “I WISH” PARTY: just me and Dream Dan . . .
2. MY BEST LITTLE-GIRLY PARTY: when my mum was still alive and she fixed a rainbow party with red strawberries and orange juice and yellow bananas and green jelly and blue-iced birthday cake and indigo blueberry crème brûlée and violet cream chocolates and there were rainbow balloons and she hung crystals up at the windows so there were rainbows all over the room when the sun shone.
3. MY BEST BIG-GIRL PARTY: my twelfth birthday when I had an ice cream party with all different varieties, and ice cream soda and a big ice cream birthday cake.
4. NADINE’S BEST PARTY: when I stayed over on her birthday night when we were little kids and we played Vampire Barbie and smeared red Smartie dye all over our Barbies’ mouths and made them manically attack all baby Natasha’s fluffy toys.
5. MAGDA’S BEST PARTY: when her mum and dad took us al to Planet Hollywood and then to a Brad Pitt movie.
6. FUNNIEST PARTY: Eggs’s christening party, when he wouldn’t
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