Luke whooped with laughter, but it was very high-pitched. Michael started biting his nails. The Monster started oozing up out of sinks and baths and even toilets. It devoured everything—dogs, cats, babies in buggies, screaming schoolchildren, frantic mothers, fighting fathers. The Monster even swallowed this huge fat man and you saw him being digested inside it, getting covered in bile, bits disintegrating before your very eyes.
Luke stopped laughing. Michael nearly bit his fingers right off. I stared at the screen helplessly, unable to move. The Monster seemed to ooze right out of the television set into my head. It was there, pulsing inside my brain, ready to ooze its way into my dreams.
They are the worst nightmares ever. I don't know what I'm going to do. I start feeling vaguely sick at teatime. I go out in the garden and play afterward but all the time I'm kicking a soccer ball about or running up and down with my skipping rope I'm thinking about the Monster. When I'm watching television It's there too, slithering into Central Perk and nibbling Phoebe and Rachel and Monica like sweets.
Then Mum starts nagging that it's time for bed and the Monster is lurking on the stairs, in the bathroom, under my bed. Dad comes to read to Judy and me but the Monster paces the corridors of Hogwarts too, munching Harry Potter into mincemeat.
After Dad tucks us up and puts the light out I whisper to Judy, desperate to keep her awake. I talk about all the boy bands she's currently nuts on and the new boots she wants in Bertie's and the boy on the bike who waves to her every morning and whether this means he really fancies her. This is all terminally boring, boring, boring but it means Judy will keep chatting to me. But no matter how I try to keep the conversation going, eventually she starts mumbling nonsense and then she sighs and gives a little snore. She is asleep, dreaming about boys and bands and bikes and boots.
I struggle to stay awake because I know what I'm going to dream about. I hear Michael go to bed. Sometimes I even hear Mum and Dad go to bed. I play the silliest games to stop myself sleeping. I go through all my favorites.
Hero: David Beckham, soccer superstar.
Friend: Holly, and Lisa's OK too.
Hobby: soccer.
Teacher: Mr. Speed.
Color: anything but slime green.
But no matter which rainbow hue I choose this sickening slime green oozes over it and I'm dreaming the Monster is coming to get me. I dream it every single night.
I waited to see if anyone typed in anything helpful on the Worry Web Site. There were heaps of comments. Everyone said they had nightmares too. I counted. There were thirty. That meant every single person in the class. No, wait a minute. I didn't comment on my own worry.
Mr. Speed saw me scrolling down the screen, recounting.
“I'm glad to see you practicing your math as well as your IT skills, Claire.”
“Thirty! It is. Someone's messing about, commenting twice,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Speed. “Not if we count the entire class, pupils and teacher.”
“Did you put a comment, Mr. Speed?”
“Now, you know perfectly well all contributions to the Worry Web Site are strictly confidential,” said Mr. Speed.
I read them with great interest, trying to work out which was his.
I dream I've lost my old teddy Cuddle and I search everywhere and once I woke up and I still couldn't find him because he'd fallen out of bed and I cried.
I imagine Mr. Speed crying for his teddy. Perhaps not.
I have awful nightmares too. Last night I dreamt about my mum and it should have been lovely but she turned into a wicked witch and cast a spell on me so I couldn't talk.
I don't know if Mr. Speed has still got a mum but I can't ever imagine him not talking, even in his dreams.
My biggest nightmare is dreaming that I'm with my dad and it's all happy, happy, happy at first but then he starts getting cross with me and my little brother and my mum so he storms off and I wait and I wait but he doesn't come back.
That's quite definitely Samantha. So what did Mr. Speed put?
Aha!
I have this terrible nightmare that my feet develop throbbing bunions overnight and so I have to give up my brilliant career as a Premier-League soccer player and retrain as a TEACHER!!!
I looked Mr. Speed up and down.
“That's your nightmare, isn't it, Mr. Speed?”
“The Worry Web Site insists on anonymity,” said Mr. Speed.
“Yeah, but I know it's you! You weren't really a Premier-League soccer player, were you?”
Mr. Speed crumpled a piece of paper into a ball.
“Haven't you read about Speedy of United in all your soccer annuals?” He dropped the paper ball and then aimed a nifty kick at it. Only it wasn't nifty. It wasn't even a kick. He missed it altogether.
I shook my head.
“You should have seen me before my bunions,” he said. “So, Claire, we'll do a swapsie. You know my worst nightmare. Tell me yours.”
“Oh, it's—it's stupid,” I mumbled.
“But scary?”
“Very, very scary.”
Mr. Speed looked at me carefully.
“You look like a little panda. Dark circles under the eyes. Are these nightmares so bad they stop you sleeping?”
“I don't dare sleep.”
Mr. Speed raised his eyebrows. “So tell me all about this nightmare. You can remember it?”
“I can't ever forget it,” I said. “It's about this monster made out of green slime and––”
“Say no more!” said Mr. Speed. “I got the video out last week. Yep. It's seriously scary. Do Mum and Dad know you've watched it?”
“No!”
“Ah. I see!”
“You won't tell, will you, Mr. Speed?”
“Let's see if we can radically edit your nightmare. Then we won't have to tell.”
“What do you mean? You can't edit nightmares. They just happen. And it's horrible.”
“I know it's horrible, Claire. But maybe you can control it, change it around a little bit. You've made it up inside your head, haven't you? It's like a story you've written in your sleep. OK, let's look on it as a first draft. Now you need to rewrite it. Change the scenario. You've got to get the better of this monster.”
“You mean flick my fingers and go zap and the Monster dies?” I said sarcastically. “I don't think it would work.”
“No, probably not. It sounds a bit too powerful to be zapped into oblivion just like that. But you can be powerful too, Claire. What are your strengths, eh?”
I frowned at him.
“I'm good at soccer. But that's no use, not when it comes to the Monster.”
“Maybe it is. Kick a soccer ball at him. Aim right where it hurts. Make him double up.”
“Mr. Speed, in the film the Monster defeats a whole army.”
“But this is the Monster in your head. He defeats whole armies, yes—but he's very wary of small girls with soccer balls.”
I thought Mr. Speed was just being silly to cheer me up. He did make me feel a bit better when I was at school. But when I went home I started worrying again.
I got into bed with Judy and hung on to her tightly. I tried very, very, very hard to stay awake— but eventually the duvet started turning slime green and I was dreaming and the Monster was there, oozing all over me.
I screamed and ran. The Monster was right behind me, reaching out, ready to slide his glistening tentacles round my neck. I tried running faster, speeding along. That made me think of Mr. Speed. I looked down and there was a soccer ball at my feet. I was kicking it as I ran. I nudged it up into the air, caught hold of it, turned, and threw it right at the Monster's middle.
The ball got bigger. The Monster got smaller. Much, much smaller. It doubled up, wailing. It rocked itself, oozing lots of slime.
“There! That's shown you, you horrible Monster. Don't you dare come worrying me anymore!”
The Monster groaned. It was shrinking rapidly now. It limped away, whimperi
ng.
I kicked my soccer ball high in the air and then caught it in triumph—
“Ow! My head! Get off, Claire,” Judy yelled.
“Oops! Sorry. I thought it was a soccer ball,” I said, giggling.
“Look, get back to your own bed.”
“OK,” I said. I jumped out and climbed under my own duvet.
“You're all right, then?” Judy whispered. “Look, come back with me if you get that nightmare again. Just don't bash me about the head again, OK?”
“I'm fine, Judy, really,” I said, yawning. “Shhh! Let's go to sleep now.”
I cuddled down under the duvet and slept properly. I didn't have the nightmare about the Monster. I had a funny dream about soccer. Mr. Speed and I were on the same team. Mr. Speed ran in a funny hobbly way because of his bunions but he managed to pass the ball to me—and I scored a brilliant goal.
WILLIAM'S WORRY
Type in your worry:
I am useless at everything.
That's it. And it is dead depressing to be me. I am William. I can't always spell it properly when I write in pencil. But it's OK on the computer because it does a wiggly red line under the word if you've spelt it wrong. Almost every word I tap out ends up with wiggly red lines.
I feel as if I am all wrong and there is a wiggly red line under me. You can change your spelling (though sometimes I have to try for ages and I have to ask someone helpful like Holly or Claire) but I can't change me. I wish I could.
I am bottom in the class. I am useless at everything. I can't add up or take away or multiply or divide. I can't make up stories. I can't remember history or geography. I can't do computers. I can't draw. I just do pin men. Sometimes I draw lots of pin men and they are all laughing at a stupid little pin boy.
My mum and dad don't laugh at me. My mum cries and my dad shouts. My brother says I am thick. He is younger than me but he's clever. His name is Richard. Sometimes Dad calls him Rich.
Dad sometimes shortens my name too. He calls me Willie. They call me that at school sometimes too. It is awful having a name that sounds rude and makes people giggle.
Mr. Speed called me Wee Willie Winkie today. I nearly cried.
“It's just a nursery rhyme, William,” said Mr. Speed. “Oh, don't look so stricken, lad. Here. You call me a silly name.”
I blinked at him.
“Go on, be a devil. Think up something really silly.”
I swallowed. “Mr. Silly Speed?” I said.
Mr. Speed sighed. “You're not overendowed with imagination, are you, lad?”
I hung my head.
“Cheer up!” said Mr. Speed. He ruffled my hair. “There!” He wiped his fingers on my bangs. “That's better. My fingers were very sticky.”
I felt my hair worriedly.
“I'm joking, William,” said Mr. Speed.
The bell went for lunch. My tummy gave a loud rumble.
“If the bell failed us, your stomach would act as a little alarm clock—gurgle, gurgle whenever it's lunchtime. What greater use is that?” said Mr. Speed. “I like a boy with a healthy appetite.”
I wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He seemed to change his mind on lunch duty. It was fish fingers and baked beans and chips, and if you finish first you get seconds. So I went gobble, gobble and stood up quick, ready to dash back to the serving hatch.
“My goodness, William, take it easy!” said Mr. Speed. “Sit down and chew. You've got your entire plateful stuffed in your mouth! You'll choke to death, lad.”
“But—I—want—seconds—Mr.—Speed!”
“William! Close your mouth! Good lord, lad, you're spraying half-masticated morsels all over us. Watch out, Samantha. We'll have to issue you with protective clothing if William carries on chomping with such abandon.”
I had to wait and chew until my mouth was empty. It wasn't fair. Half the other boys got to the hatch before me. Greg got the last portion of extra chips.
I looked at Mr. Speed.
“Don't look so reproachful, lad, I can't stand it. OK, OK. My concerns for your digestion have done you out of a few chips––”
“A whole plateful, Mr. Speed!”
“I haven't had my lunch yet. Stay behind and I dare say I'll donate a chip or two to you.”
He gave me all his chips—yummy, yummy, yummy!
“Slow down! You don't have to cram them all in together, William. I marvel at the capacity of that mouth of yours. Now, how are things at home, lad?”
I shrugged. I wouldn't have known what to say even if my mouth wasn't full of chips. I mean, home's home. What is there to say about it?
“Mum and Dad OK?”
“Mmm,” I said, swallowing.
“And how are you getting on with your brother?”
I didn't say anything but I must have pulled a face.
“That bad, eh?” said Mr. Speed, laughing.
He lowered his voice. “What about the little bed-wetting problem?”
I looked round nervously. Mr. Speed had stopped everyone calling me Wetty Willie but I didn't want them reminded.
“It's heaps better, Mr. Speed. Mum took me to the doctor, like you said, and I got this medicine.”
“Great! So things are looking up, William?”
“I suppose.”
“But you still feel a bit — useless?”
I stared at him. Mr. Speed is magic. I wondered how on earth he knew. He could have read it on the Worry Web Site but you're not allowed to sign your name so he couldn't possibly work out it was me.
“You're not useless, William.”
“I am, Mr. Speed.”
“No, no, no, William.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Speed. I can't do nothing.”
“Anything. And you can.” Mr. Speed screwed up his face. “You're very good at—”
I waited.
“You're a very good boy, full stop,” said Mr. Speed.
“But I wish I could be good at something, Mr. Speed,” I said.
“Well, perhaps we can give you a bit of extra help with your schoolwork?”
I must have pulled another face.
“Don't look so appalled! OK, OK, we'll try another tack. What about games? We could maybe get Claire to help you with your soccer skills.”
“I'm useless at soccer, Mr. Speed. I always trip myself up when I try to kick the ball.”
“Look, lad, we're not trying to turn you into David Beckham.”
“I had a David Beckham haircut in the holidays. My dad said it would make me look tough. But it didn't work.”
“Never you mind, William,” said Mr. Speed. “We'll make something work for you, just you wait and see. Things are going to start looking up for you, lad.”
So I waited. Nothing much happened in the afternoon. I came bottom in the spelling test. I painted a snail picture all different colors in art. I used too much water and the blue ran into the yellow and the red dribbled all down the page so that it looked as if my snail had had a nasty accident.
My mum got mad at me for getting paint all over my school trousers. Richard and I got into a fight over which of us owned a blue ballpoint. I know it was my pen. But Richard won. So I couldn't do my homework as I didn't have anything to write with. Then Dad came home and Richard and I played catch with him in the garden. Well, Dad and Richard played catch. I played drop.
Then we had spag bol for dinner (I'm not even going to try to spell it all out). It was hotter than I thought so I had to spit my first mouthful out. Mum thumped me and Dad shouted at me for crying and Richard laughed at me for being a baby.
I went to bed. And don't tell anyone but I wet myself because I forgot to take my special medicine.
Things haven't looked up yet.
When I got to school I looked at the Worry Web Site to see if I'd got any comments.
I'm sure you're not useless at everything.
Don't worry, I'm pretty useless at everything too.
I bet you're useFUL, not useLESS.
Things s
tarted to look up quite a bit. I felt so pleased that people didn't seem to think I was useless after all. Though of course they didn't know it was me. Perhaps if I'd put my name they'd have said I was ultra-ultra-ultra-useless. Especially as I can't always spell my name right.
We had another spelling test, which was a bit of a nasty surprise as we only usually have one a week.
“Don't look so downhearted, children. There are going to be two special prizes to spur you on. Two of my very special pens, no less.”
Mr. Speed produced a pen from each pocket like a cowboy whipping out two guns. Mr. Speed's pens are special. They are black and they write with a very fine line. They make the worst handwriting in the world look much neater. Mr. Speed goes crazy if any of us borrow his special pens. But now he was giving away two as prizes—and it wasn't even the end of term.
I wished I was good at spelling. But I am such rubbish at spelling I knew it was absolutely no use hoping to win a pen.
“I want you all to try very hard,” said Mr. Speed, and then he started saying all these words.
There was a lot of sighing and muttering and nibbling of pens. Some of the class whispered.
“I want absolutely no conferring,” said Mr. Speed.
Nobody tried to confer with me anyway. Which is not surprising. I can't even spell surprising.
Mr. Speed told us to have a go at spelling everything, so I did. Even the very, very hard words. I'm not going to write them here—I'll never get them right.
I did lots and lots of crossings out. So many that my paper tore. But it didn't really matter. I knew I wasn't going to do well in the spelling test. I knew I was going to do really, really badly.
I was right. We had to swap papers. Lisa marked mine and I marked hers. Lisa is clever. She got fourteen out of twenty. She is also kind. I didn't get any of my spellings right. She put up her hand to talk to Mr. Speed.
“William's very nearly spelt naughty right, Mr. Speed. And his because has only got one mistake. So could he have a half each for those?”
“Absolutely not,” said Mr. Speed. “A word is either spelt correctly or it isn't. And William's isn't.”
“But that's not very fair, Mr. Speed,” said Lisa.
“Life isn't fair, Lisa,” said Mr. Speed gently.
The Worry Web Site Page 4
