I asked if I could go to a different school. So’s nobody would know who I was.”
“Well, that’s OK.” Millie said it bracingly. “Who’s going to find out? Not like your dad’s a pop star or anything. And I don’t expect,” she added, “that people like Zoe are going to listen to a bit of music all full of holes!”
That made me smile a bit, in a watery kind of way.
“She hasn’t got the brain for it,” said Millie.
I said, “Neither have I. It’s all loud and tuneless and horrible.”
“Apart from the holes.”
I agreed. “The holes are OK. They’re quite peaceful.”
“Sing me one,” said Millie. “How do they go?”
“Like this.” I let my mouth fall open.
Millie giggled. “Like this?”
We sat there in solemn silence, our mouths agape, gobbling like goldfish, until in the end we both collapsed.
“Did I stay in tune?” said Millie.
I said, “No! I think you must be tone deaf.”
We collapsed all over again.
When we’d recovered Millie said, “So are we all right now? I mean, it doesn’t really matter me knowing about your dad. Does it?”
I said, “I s’pose not. It’s just…” I hesitated, wondering how much I could confess without sounding totally pathetic.
“Just what?” said Millie.
It all came out in a sudden rush, “It’s just I didn’t want you meeting Charlie!”
“Your sister?” Millie sounded surprised. “The one that’s totally useless?”
I said, “Well, she is totally useless cos Mum runs round after her all the time, but she’s like always being picked for the school play and getting into hockey teams and being asked to loads of parties and having a zillion boyfriends, and I wouldn’t mind,” I wailed, “except people seem to think I ought to be like her and then they find I’m not and they look at me like I’m just rubbish!”
“Oh, that is so nonsense,” said Millie. “We wouldn’t be friends if you were rubbish. I don’t make friends with rubbish people! I only make friends with people I find interesting. People that are funny, and clever. Like you!”
Nobody had ever said that to me before. Funny? And clever?
“You say these funny things,” said Millie. “Like about my dad being the cream of the cream. And you are clever, cos who got an A for her last bit of homework?”
I’d only got an A cos we had to write about our favourite place in all the world, and I’d written about Cornwall, where I’d once gone on holiday all by myself with Gran. Millie had said that her favourite place was home, and she had got an A*. She was always getting A*.
“Honestly,” she said, “I only like clever people. Otherwise I find them boring. I suppose I shouldn’t say that, really. I’m always saying things I shouldn’t say. But know what? I don’t care! And I don’t think you ought to care either. Not about your silly sister or your dad. It’s like you said at the beginning of term, about concentrating on just being you. ”
“Yes.” I nodded humbly. “You’re right.”
Millie cackled. “I’m always right!” She sprang up and bounced over to my bookshelves. “I’ve got a game you can play with books. D’you want to try it? What you do, you pick a book and you read bits of it out loud, without saying any of the characters’ names, and the other person has to guess what book it is. I invented it,” said Millie, “with a friend I had at primary school, only she’s at Winterbourne now, so we don’t hardly see each other. Anyway, you’ll be better at it than she was cos you’ve got all these books. She practically only read Harry Potter and the Rainbow Fairies . Shall we give it a go?”
I said, “Yes, let’s!”
Not being mean or anything, but I was glad Millie wasn’t seeing her friend any more. I wanted her to be my friend. Just the two of us together.
“I promise,” she whispered, as we parted company the next day, “I won’t breathe a word about your dad!”
I got back from school on Monday afternoon
“Well, that’s OK.” Millie said it bracingly. “Who’s going to find out? Not like your dad’s a pop star or anything. And I don’t expect,” she added, “that people like Zoe are going to listen to a bit of music all full of holes!”
That made me smile a bit, in a watery kind of way.
“She hasn’t got the brain for it,” said Millie.
I said, “Neither have I. It’s all loud and tuneless and horrible.”
“Apart from the holes.”
I agreed. “The holes are OK. They’re quite peaceful.”
“Sing me one,” said Millie. “How do they go?”
“Like this.” I let my mouth fall open.
Millie giggled. “Like this?”
We sat there in solemn silence, our mouths agape, gobbling like goldfish, until in the end we both collapsed.
“Did I stay in tune?” said Millie.
I said, “No! I think you must be tone deaf.”
We collapsed all over again.
When we’d recovered Millie said, “So are we all right now? I mean, it doesn’t really matter me knowing about your dad. Does it?”
I said, “I s’pose not. It’s just…” I hesitated, wondering how much I could confess without sounding totally pathetic.
“Just what?” said Millie.
It all came out in a sudden rush, “It’s just I didn’t want you meeting Charlie!”
“Your sister?” Millie sounded surprised. “The one that’s totally useless?”
I said, “Well, she is totally useless cos Mum runs round after her all the time, but she’s like always being picked for the school play and getting into hockey teams and being asked to loads of parties and having a zillion boyfriends, and I wouldn’t mind,” I wailed, “except people seem to think I ought to be like her and then they find I’m not and they look at me like I’m just rubbish!”
“Oh, that is so nonsense,” said Millie. “We wouldn’t be friends if you were rubbish. I don’t make friends with rubbish people! I only make friends with people I find interesting. People that are funny, and clever. Like you!”
Nobody had ever said that to me before. Funny? And clever?
“You say these funny things,” said Millie. “Like about my dad being the cream of the cream. And you are clever, cos who got an A for her last bit of homework?”
I’d only got an A cos we had to write about our favourite place in all the world, and I’d written about Cornwall, where I’d once gone on holiday all by myself with Gran. Millie had said that her favourite place was home, and she had got an A*. She was always getting A*.
“Honestly,” she said, “I only like clever people. Otherwise I find them boring. I suppose I shouldn’t say that, really. I’m always saying things I shouldn’t say. But know what? I don’t care! And I don’t think you ought to care either. Not about your silly sister or your dad. It’s like you said at the beginning of term, about concentrating on just being you. ”
“Yes.” I nodded humbly. “You’re right.”
Millie cackled. “I’m always right!” She sprang up and bounced over to my bookshelves. “I’ve got a game you can play with books. D’you want to try it? What you do, you pick a book and you read bits of it out loud, without saying any of the characters’ names, and the other person has to guess what book it is. I invented it,” said Millie, “with a friend I had at primary school, only she’s at Winterbourne now, so we don’t hardly see each other. Anyway, you’ll be better at it than she was cos you’ve got all these books. She practically only read Harry Potter and the Rainbow Fairies . Shall we give it a go?”
I said, “Yes, let’s!”
Not being mean or anything, but I was glad Millie wasn’t seeing her friend any more. I wanted her to be my friend. Just the two of us together.
“I promise,” she whispered, as we parted company the next day, “I won’t breathe a word about your dad!”
I got back from school on Monday afternoon
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