Read Online Vicky Angel by Jacqueline Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
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Lives and the Stages of Grief and Life Must Go On. He certainly goes on and on and on. I eat a chocolate biscuit to distract myself but something's gone wrong with my swallowing since Vicky died. I swallow all the time, gulp gulp gulp, it drives me crazy, but when I've got a mouthful of food I can't get my swallowing organized properly. I end up having a choking fit, spraying Mr. Failsworth with chocolate biscuit crumbs. I don't think he'll have me back for another little pep talk in a hurry.
Mrs. Cambridge has been giving me little talks too, but they're more like private chats. She says she understands exactly what I'm going through and that it must hurt horribly. She's being kind, I suppose. But how can she understand? And it doesn't hurt the way I thought it would. It's not sharp all the time. It's dull dull dull. I want it to hurt
more
. I can't even seem to cry now.
I heard Mum whispering to Dad, saying I was getting over it better than she'd thought, going to school and acting almost like normal.
It's scary that I've been replaced by this Zombie Brain and no one else has noticed.
The worst thing of all is that Vicky isn't here. I try and try and try to conjure her up. Nothing. Sometimes I pretend and talk to her but I know I'm doing it. It's just like an imaginary game and it won't work because I'm too old for Let's Pretend.
I don't know how to get her back. I sometimes think about going to join her, as she wanted. I think about ways but it's all so difficult. I'm not brave enough to go to the top of the multi-story car park and jump off. Besides, if you smatter yourself into little pulpy pieces maybe you stay that way in your afterlife. I've thought of hanging but the only ropes I can think of are the ones in the school gym and Mr. Lorrimer is always bouncing around in his trainers, keeping an eye on things. I'm not very good at knots anyway.
There are pills but that's hopeless at the moment because of my swallowing problem. It would take all day to manage an overdose. There's no guarantee I could be with Vicky anyway. Maybe she's disappeared for good now she's cremated.
I wish she'd been buried so I could go to her graveside. She'd have liked a grave with a white marble angel.
I try standing outside the school for ages in case she might be hovering where the car hit her. You can't walk on the pavement because it's knee deep in flowers, big new bunches on top of oldwilting ones. There are teddies and bunnies and little windmills and lots of letters. Some are smudged into blue blurs because it's rained since Vicky died, but others are in special plastic folders to keep their messages intact. There are photos of Vicky too, cut out of the local newspaper and mounted on card and bordered by glitter stars and sticker hearts. I stare at all these paper Vickys and they smile back mockingly.
“Talk to me!” I mutter. “Please, Vicky. I'll do anything. Anything at all. Just come back and talk to me.”
A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn round. It's Mr. Lorrimer. Oh God. Vicky's sent him.
“Poor Jade,” he says, patting my shoulder. He sees my horrified expression. He whips his hand away as if I'm a red-hot radiator. He's obviously scared I think he's touching me up.
“Well, I'll—I'll leave you in peace,” he says, starting to back away.
“Mr. Lorrimer—” My voice comes out as a croak. I can't believe I'm going to say this.
He pauses anxiously.
“Mr. Lorrimer, I've been thinking. I really would like to join your Fun Run Friday Club.”
He looks surprised. As well he might.
“I know I'm useless at running.”
“I wouldn't say that,” he says kindly, though it's exactly what any sane person would insist.
“It's just that Vicky wanted to join, and—”
“I see,” he says. “Well, I think it's an excellentidea, Jade. Please come along next Friday. You'll be very welcome.”
“Even though I won't be able to keep up with anyone?”
“It's not about racing. It's about having fun running.
Mrs. Cambridge has been giving me little talks too, but they're more like private chats. She says she understands exactly what I'm going through and that it must hurt horribly. She's being kind, I suppose. But how can she understand? And it doesn't hurt the way I thought it would. It's not sharp all the time. It's dull dull dull. I want it to hurt
more
. I can't even seem to cry now.
I heard Mum whispering to Dad, saying I was getting over it better than she'd thought, going to school and acting almost like normal.
It's scary that I've been replaced by this Zombie Brain and no one else has noticed.
The worst thing of all is that Vicky isn't here. I try and try and try to conjure her up. Nothing. Sometimes I pretend and talk to her but I know I'm doing it. It's just like an imaginary game and it won't work because I'm too old for Let's Pretend.
I don't know how to get her back. I sometimes think about going to join her, as she wanted. I think about ways but it's all so difficult. I'm not brave enough to go to the top of the multi-story car park and jump off. Besides, if you smatter yourself into little pulpy pieces maybe you stay that way in your afterlife. I've thought of hanging but the only ropes I can think of are the ones in the school gym and Mr. Lorrimer is always bouncing around in his trainers, keeping an eye on things. I'm not very good at knots anyway.
There are pills but that's hopeless at the moment because of my swallowing problem. It would take all day to manage an overdose. There's no guarantee I could be with Vicky anyway. Maybe she's disappeared for good now she's cremated.
I wish she'd been buried so I could go to her graveside. She'd have liked a grave with a white marble angel.
I try standing outside the school for ages in case she might be hovering where the car hit her. You can't walk on the pavement because it's knee deep in flowers, big new bunches on top of oldwilting ones. There are teddies and bunnies and little windmills and lots of letters. Some are smudged into blue blurs because it's rained since Vicky died, but others are in special plastic folders to keep their messages intact. There are photos of Vicky too, cut out of the local newspaper and mounted on card and bordered by glitter stars and sticker hearts. I stare at all these paper Vickys and they smile back mockingly.
“Talk to me!” I mutter. “Please, Vicky. I'll do anything. Anything at all. Just come back and talk to me.”
A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn round. It's Mr. Lorrimer. Oh God. Vicky's sent him.
“Poor Jade,” he says, patting my shoulder. He sees my horrified expression. He whips his hand away as if I'm a red-hot radiator. He's obviously scared I think he's touching me up.
“Well, I'll—I'll leave you in peace,” he says, starting to back away.
“Mr. Lorrimer—” My voice comes out as a croak. I can't believe I'm going to say this.
He pauses anxiously.
“Mr. Lorrimer, I've been thinking. I really would like to join your Fun Run Friday Club.”
He looks surprised. As well he might.
“I know I'm useless at running.”
“I wouldn't say that,” he says kindly, though it's exactly what any sane person would insist.
“It's just that Vicky wanted to join, and—”
“I see,” he says. “Well, I think it's an excellentidea, Jade. Please come along next Friday. You'll be very welcome.”
“Even though I won't be able to keep up with anyone?”
“It's not about racing. It's about having fun running.
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