It feels weird to have my feet all out in the bark and woods. At first it hurts to think about all the little jagged sticks and bits of twig and stone cutting the soles of my feet, but then I just have to get used to it and be a freed-up Amazonian wild beast.
Leila beats her mouth like a Native American. ‘W-a-a-a-a—a-a-a-a—a-wa-a-a-a—a-a-a-a!’ And I copy her too. I take my hair out all loose and let it fly . . . just like Leila. ‘Climb a tree!’ she says.
I gulp, but OK, I will, and I do, and I start using my hands and feet to jostle into all the peggy grooves and knots in the bark and clamber up. My legs scratch a bit and scuff, but I don’t care as we climb up and up and up and up. Using our arms to wind and grip, to tangle and lift. I feel like an ape! Like the best monkey in the jungle!
‘Shout anything!’ Leila orders.
‘Anything?’
‘Yeah, anything . . .’
‘ROOOOOOOAAAAARRRRRRR!’ I shout.
‘HA!’ she laughs. ‘That was good!’
‘That’s Angrosaurus rex.’
‘Who is that?’
‘She’s my alter ego. She’s the other side of me,’ I explain.
‘Sick! I wish I had an Angrosaurus rex,’ Leila says. I sense she’s impressed by me.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve not been a very good friend to her. I’ve kept her locked up for a while.’
‘Never mind. Well, let’s unleash her!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I promised myself I wouldn’t be dramatic this summer. It’s a challenge our head of year gave us all.’
‘Who’s your head of year?’
‘Mrs Hay.’
‘Oh, that old handbag. She’s like something from a black-and-white film. She’s all right though.’
‘Yeah, we have Mr Yates as our teacher . . . but not any more – that will be a shame, he’s really nice.’
‘Would he say you were dramatic?’
‘Yes! I think everybody would.’
‘Well, not me. I think your Angrosaurus rex isn’t you being dramatic, Darcy, it’s you being yourself!’ She bends over the tree backwards, letting her long hair fly free. ‘As long as you’re not hurting anybody you’re doing nothing wrong.’
And before we know it we are two rambling, wild, free Angrosaurus beasts, liberated in the forest. We roar and run and tumble. We shout and scream and sniff and be creatures. Our arms hang free, our fingers stretched out into the summer’s day. Our feet are stomping and crashing! Elbows whacking, mouths open, faces scrunched up and tongues out like MMMUUUUAAAAHHHH!! We are set free in the wild where nothing matters. Where we don’t have to answer to anything. With nature on our side. Where our shadows are monsters, with thorned spiked backs and ginormous teeth and jagged ears and terrifying claws!
GROWLING. HOWLING. PROWLING. SCOWLING.
RUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOARRRRRR!
Until we pop out on the path. We find ourselves out of the foresty-type bit of the park and just on the actual path. And we are roaring in the face of a dog walker. Who jumps at us and then holds her chest. ‘Ah, sorry, you made me jump,’ she pants, all breathless. ‘I was scared for a second. What am I like? Jumping at two little girls?’
‘Sorry,’ we mumble. ‘We didn’t mean to scare you.’ We totter off with our heads held low in embarrassment. But sniggering and laughing, we begin to run. Smiles wrapped around our faces.
Leila turns to me and says, ‘That was my best day of the holidays so far!’
And I want to say, ‘Me too.’ But I don’t have to. I think that’s evident in the way my cheeks ache from smiling and the new twinkle in my eye.
‘That was quick!’ Mum says, all surprised when I walk in the door. I rush to the kitchen to get a drink, I am PARCHED. ‘Did you have fun?’
‘Yep,’ I say in between furious gulps of squash.
‘You look like you had a good run around,’ Mum says.
I did. I ran around. And around. And around. Like the big Angrosaurus-rex child that I am.
And I feel so grateful. That I have a friend like Leila. Somebody that I don’t have to see ALL the time, but whenever I do we can just pick up from where we left off. Where we can ramble to a place where, for once, no words are needed.
Chapter Twenty
I flip the postcard round. It’s of a sunshiny beach looking all so blissful and peaceful. I think it’s quite rude that postcards don’t come in envelopes. Not very private, are they? If I worked in a post office I’d be reading the backs of everybody’s postcards all day. Like, I’d make it my main job. Be a brilliant way to spend your day.
And then I look up. As if by magic, his little freckly ginger sunburnt face is smushed up against the living-room window. Condensation puffing up against the glass and the print of his face. I scream in a delayed-reaction kind of way. Will! I run out to let him in. Lamb-Beth is pawing and circling his legs, and he scoops her up and props her over his shoulder.
‘You’re back!’ I laugh.
‘I am!’
‘But I only just got your postcard.’
‘Yeah, that’s the thing about postcards.’
‘I was worried about how to write you back so it’s good you are here.’
‘What would you write in the postcard back to me? What’s new with you?’
‘We’ve moved house and Donald has a really good operatic singing voice.’
‘Your new house is well nice!’ Will smiles, so impressed. ‘And you, what you been doing?’ he asks me, patting Lamb-Beth’s back.
‘Not much,’ I flump. ‘I’ve been sticking to my challenge though.’
‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘What did you choose in the end?’
‘Not to be dramatic.’
‘Yeah, right! Ha-ha! Naaa! No way!’
‘Yes way!’
‘I just DO not believe for a second that you’ve kept that up.’
‘YES I HAVE!’ I feel my voice raise, but I have to hold it . . . but, OH MY GOD! I WANT TO ANGROSAURUS-REX SPLURGE MAD ALL OVER EVERYWHERE AND PUNCH WILL IN THE HEAD FOR DOUBTING ME AND SHOUT AT HIM ‘DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD THIS HAS BEEN FOR ME? YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COME BARGING BACK TO LONDON AND START TELLING ME THAT I CAN’T DO SOMETHING!’ RRRRRRUUUUUUUUOOOOOOAAAA . . .
But for some weird reason, I don’t. I just stay calm and breathe deep. Being Angrosaurusy is SO exhausting and childish and I am so passed that in my older age.
‘I have been very proud of myself, to be honest. I’ve been really holding it together like an absolute, actual pro,’ I say.
‘Whoa.’ Will raises his brows. ‘Normally you would have shouted at me then. I am impressed,’ he says. ‘Can I see your room now?’
‘Sure.’
We begin to climb up. Will lives in a small flat with his sister Annie where everything is lovely and close. I begin to get a bit nervous to show him my room because I don’t want him to mention how high up and separate it is from everything else and draw attention to it being a bit scary, even though I’m much morer used to it that I once was. But suddenly, as we climb up the stairs, I begin to feel excited to show him my room, proud almost. I see the light coming down the way it always does, and its lovely woody treehouse smell, so familiar. So mine.
‘WOW!’ Will gawps. ‘All this is yours?’
‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Like it? I LOVE it!’
He looks around, and it feels like he’s a hologram, like he’s almost not really here. Like this beautiful bedroom isn’t mine and how I’ve needed Will to be here to take it all in – mad how seeing somebody you love in a new space reassures you that it belongs to you and makes you feel safe.
‘It’s so sick – look at the beams, the wood, the view . . . bet you’ll write some mad stuff up in here!’
I feel happy. Why does having the approval of someone mean so much more when it’s come from someone you care about?
And just when we are about to go back down the staircase we see Lamb-Beth at
the top of the stairs . . .
‘Did you bring her up?’ I ask Will.
‘No. She just followed me up.’ He smiles. ‘Didn’t you, Lamb-Beth?’ He pats her softly on the head and she does a lamb purr. ‘Is she allowed?’
‘Yeah, course, it’s just . . . she’s never been able to do that before. The stairs were too steep. And she can now.’
‘I think if your bedroom was in space, Darcy, she would find a way of getting up there!’
Before I know it . . . I can smell chocolate everywhere in the house. YUM! An afternoon treat!
‘Oooo,’ I sniff. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Mum’s making Mud Pie.’ Poppy hurtles in, shrieking.
‘What’s Mud Pie?’ I ask, running down to the kitchen. ‘Smells delicious.’
‘It’s this new recipe I found in a magazine – doesn’t it smell good?’ Mum answers, leaning over a brown bowl.
‘Yeah!’ we all say, and Hector does this funny stupid chocolate dance.
‘It will be ready soon, so why don’t you guys go and watch TV for a bit while it cooks – it won’t be made any quicker with you lot peering over my shoulder.’
We all go into the living room and pile up on the couch. I am so glad to have Will back. I have made him a friendship bracelet from Poppy’s kit. It’s orange and yellow with a brown thread running through it, but I don’t want him to think it’s anything to do with love so I probs might not give it to him just exactly right now.
‘Would you rather lick a dog poo or every time you farted confetti blew out of your bum?’ I ask Will.
‘You’re not allowed to say bum!’ Poppy tells me off. ‘I’ll tell Mum!’ Even though she says bum all the time, she’s being annoying and winding me up for no real reason.
‘Why not? It’s a body part!’
‘Confetti.’ Will nods.
‘Would you rather—’
‘I don’t want to play this game any more, it’s so boring,’ Hector decides even though he’s not involved. ‘Want to get trapped in the sofa bed?’
‘Sure.’
We trap Will in the sofa bed and he obviously loves it and laughs his head off like a maniac, and so do we as we sit on top giggling.
‘KIDS!’ Dad shouts. ‘MUD PIE!’
We all scramble clumsy wumsy through to the kitchen where all the Mud Pies are laid out. I can’t tell you how delicious the whole smell is. I feel so excited to eat it. All gooey wooey chocolaty and comfort warmy in our tummy. Oh my, I could LIVE in this smell. I do a food dance – I can’t help it.
All the bowls are fulled hugely to the top. White bowls loaded generously with the dark, dense, damp cake and the shiny sauce.
‘Darcy, yours is that one,’ Dad says, pointing to the big one at the end.
‘My one? Why can’t I just have any one?’
‘Because . . . well . . . because you’ve been so good at your no-drama challenge we thought you deserved an EXTRA-LARGE portion!’
‘NOT FAIR!’ Poppy sulks.
‘YEAH!’ Hector joins in, folding his arms, grunting.
‘It is fair. Darcy’s done well.’
HAVE I? No, I HAVE! I HAVE DONE WELL!
Dad continues, ‘You made a promise to yourself that you weren’t going to be dramatic and you have stuck to it, which I know has been really hard. You’ve not been over the top about anything and we are proud of you. All those little silly things that would usually wind you up – you’ve just let them go. Well done.’ Dad lifts his spoon, cheersing to me.
‘HA!’ YES, that’s right! Extra-large portion for me! JEALOUS!
‘Speech!’ yells Will.
‘Oh, all right!’ I say, secretly LOVING that Will yelled ‘SPEECH!’ I’ve always wanted to give a round-the-table speech, you know. ‘I mean, it wasn’t easy,’ I begin, like I’m collecting an award, ‘but now I am a real hippy and I live a life of simplicity, peace and harmony. I am as quiet as the gentle breeze, floating like a feather, so chilled out like a deck-chair of a person . . . and I couldn’t do this without the support of my own self and dedication to a goal. Thank you. You may eat!’
Everybody tucks in. I can see all their faces, melty chocolate all tasty. I dip my spoon in. Mine doesn’t look quite so nice and tasty up close. Still, pudding is allowed to look ugly – it’s not about the presentation, it’s about how it – tastes – why does mine taste – all—? Wait a second . . .
I scrunch my nose up, all disgusted. Everybody else is complimenting Mum about how yummy and scrumptious the Mud Pie is. Will has already nearly finished his bowl. Am I missing something? Mine is all coldish and grainy and earthy and soily and my mouth tastes all horrid, and when I look up Dad is laughing his head off. And just at that moment a big, fat, juicy, pink worm wriggles out of the ‘Mud Pie’.
‘Tricked you!’ Dad laughs.
‘You didn’t?’ Mum gasps in horror at him. ‘What did you do?’
‘I switched Darcy’s Mud Pie for . . .’ He can barely contain himself – he is laughing SO SO HARD he can’t really string any words together. His face all creases up all squished, and he is laughing so hard he is snorting and wheezing and gone all red. ‘ACTUAL MUD!’ he shrieks.
Everybody gasps at me. Poppy. Hector. Mum. Will, and even Lamb-Beth, who has probably done a wee at one time on this mud.
‘Your teeth are all muddy and black!’ Hector shouts.
‘Spit it out!’
‘Gross!’
NO! I spit the fake cake out. All black dribble! I wipe my tongue. I jump up. Scratch my tongue. Yuck! Yuck! Eugh! NO! NO! ‘Dad, HOW COULD YOU?’ Everybody begins to laugh. Not Mum – she is holding it back, too angry at Dad, I think.
‘STOP laughing!’ I screech. I rush to the sink and rinse out my mouth. Splatter water everywhere, and then Mum starts to laugh too. Even Mum.
‘You HORRID mean dad, you don’t even deserve to be a dad or have such a lovely precious thing as great as me to be your species of daughter, you absolute HORROR THING!’ I yell. And now everybody is laughing so much. It’s like the angrier I get, the harder they laugh.
‘It was just a joke – there’s a lovely big bowl there for you!’
But it’s too late. I can’t help it. It’s like all the undrama of me has built up over the long days and turned me into a bottle of all-shooked-up fizzy drink and I am ready to just absolutely Angrosaurus-rex vex myself upon the WHOLE ENTIRE PLACE and thrash it all up to dust! HOW DARE HE EMBARRASS AND humili-ATE myself in front of MY family and best friend! Oh, HE WILL REGRET this one, LET ME TELL YOU. I snort. I puff my cheeks out. I go white as a sheet first and then red. I feel myself burning up. Heart beating. Body tensing. My fists clench into balls. My toes roll up. My jaw clenches. My neck tightens. My shoulders stiffen. My brows frown. My face is ready to ROOOOOOAOAOAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!
The Angrosaurus rex cannot stand it any longer. SHE IS READY TO SHOW HERSELF! Suddenly she becomes so mightily powerful and strong and is unable to hold it down any longer! Standing up on her hind legs, she tilts back, takes a big massive deep breath in and lets out the biggest scream of anger-madness-horror of the head-ruining, ripping, wrecking, rioting ROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRR!!!! She clambers through the forest, flinging trees back, springing them back so they snap behind her, the grass bending a path for her to stomp across. The birds flee from the trees. She scoops up the river and knots it into a bow, picks clouds out of the sky and pulls them into puffs like tearing out the stuffing of a teddy bear. STOMP! CRASH! ROOOOARRRR! Knocking down fences, scaring sheep, kicking mud, her claws raking the earth, her teeth gnashing, her tongue whipping, her eyes glaring. Her face screwed up into a tight, clenched ball.
‘I think someone’s tired,’ Mum says.
‘No, I am NOT!’ I scream.
‘Yes, you are. Come on, let’s make you a nice cup of tea and you and Will can have a nice relax on the sofa.’
And Dad gets up. WHERE IS HE GOING NOW WHEN I AM CLEARLY RAGING AT HIM BUT—
‘I DON’T WANT TO!’ I shout
at Mum.
‘What has got into you, young lady?’
‘What’s got INTO me? WHAT’S got out of me, you mean – oh sorry, you must just mean my actual entire personality . . .’ And everybody is suddenly shocked as I take a big deep breath in and open my mouth so wide and show my teeth, and I feel like they are big and oh so fanged, and I close my eyes and screwball up my face and my body all tense and I am ready to . . .
And then Dad comes back in, with a big beaming smile. The broadest biggest smile the world has ever seen, and behind him is Madison, from the workshop. She has her hair all in beautiful plaits and a lovely bright green top on with all her glorious bangles and she smells of woody things and flowers. And in her arms is the most wonderful thing I have ever evened seen.
‘Oh my noodles!’ Poppy shrieks. ‘Darcy, you’re a real writer now!’ she gasps.
Because there, just for me, is the most amazing writing desk the whole world has ever seen.
‘It’s a writing desk – we made it for you at work.’
‘But it’s a no-reason present.’ I am gobsmacked.
Madison shook her head and smiles. ‘I don’t think so. When you came into the workshop that day and then got ill we all felt so sad – we loved having you guys in.’
‘I knew I should have been employed full-time,’ says Poppy (and she’s absolutely correct by the way), but Madison continues, ‘When your dad told us you were unwell and how you’d moved house and had been putting all this pressure on yourself to be “undramatic” we all felt so sorry for you! Your dad is a right drama queen for a boss!’
‘That’s true! And at home!’ Mum laughed. ‘Darcy – Dad and I have both been so amazed at how well you stuck to your challenge. So much has changed this summer and you’ve kept your cool pretty much the whole time. Five weeks ago we thought there was no way on this earth you’d stick to something like this. And it’s not the NO-drama challenge specifically that we care about, it’s that you’ve worked hard at something for yourself. What was a silly throwaway challenge at school has become a real achievement for you and we’re very proud of you.’
Darcy Burdock Page 12
