Jelly Cooper: Alien

Monday morning and I’m on my way to school. The nightmares have been getting worse and closer together. I haven’t slept properly for three nights. Experts say that you can get hallucinations on day four. I’ll let you know if they’re right.

Humphrey is waiting for me at the corner of Willow Road. As I approach, I can see that he’s noted the pale cheeks, the gaunt face and the dark smudges beneath my eyes. I take a deep breath and prepare myself.

“You look awful.”

That’s Humphrey.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Want to divulge?”

Not if I can help it, I think to myself somewhat unkindly. What can I say? I’m not a very ’I simply must share every single detail of my life with my friends – group hug anyone?’ kind of girl. I shake my head, once.

Humphrey simply raises one well-rounded shoulder and I treasure him for it.

“Whatever,” he shrugs.

Now that’s a friend.

We amble towards school, neither of us in any sort of hurry to get there. I have my personal demons and so does Humphrey. His is called Michael and it plays football.

From out of nowhere, a vision from the nightmare flares before my eyes. My step falters and I almost fall. Humph grabs my arm and staunch resolve not to be such a girl and years of hard-earned emotional armour crumble away leaving just me, naked (so-to-speak) and afraid, which is a new and unwelcome experience.

Humphrey peers at me, eyes troubled.

“OK,” I say, my voice a little shaky (which I immediately hate myself for). “Come over tonight.”

We walk.

“Bring Agatha,” I whisper.

Agatha’s clever. It always pays to have a clever person close by.

Chemistry is the middle science in the Jelly Cooper chart. By that, I mean that it is better than physics (well, everything is) but not as good as biology. Sometimes, chemistry lessons are interesting and fun and sometimes they make me want to drink the suspect blue liquid Mr. Carmichael keeps at the back of the storeroom, just to see what will happen. Maybe I’ll turn into a raving mad thing and tear apart the classroom. That would brighten up the lesson (it would certainly take my mind off things).

Today we’re making liquids change colour and burning stuff, which is both interesting and fun, so no drinking old bluey for me.

Well, I would be burning stuff if my clicky ignity thing worked. I shake it, stick it over the gas and try again.

Click.

Nothing. Great. Everyone else’s Bunsen is burning away and the liquid mix in their jars is swirling mysteriously while my Bunsen sits unlit and my liquid is stagnant and very un-mysterious. I growl and shake the clicky ignity thing with more vigour. It flies from my hand and sails across the lab.

Mr. Carmichael frowns and shakes his head.

Fantastic. Maybe I should go get bluey after all.

I curse under my breath and glare at my failed experiment.

All you had to do was burn you little shi –

The Bunsen burner bursts into flame.

Oh-kay.

I look over my shoulder. No one’s paying attention.

Did my Bunsen burner just light itself?

Timothy Prescott taps me on the shoulder and hands me my clicky ignity thing.

Yup. Looks like it did.

Why do I always get the dodgy warped stuff?

He’s not reading it properly and he’s ruining it.

I don’t like many subjects, but I love English and I love this book we’re studying and Jason Stevens is spoiling it and it’s making me hyperventilate.

Why did Miss Walsh have to pick him, of all people, to read today? I’m starting to have real doubts about the calibre of Seabrook’s English teacher. In fact, I’m beginning to think that Miss Walsh is a thicko. Nothing else would explain how she could pick Jason Stevens to read aloud the bit where Atticus shoots the rabid dog. Who’s she going to ask to read the trial scene – Rhiannon?

If that happens, swear to God, I won’t be able to stop myself doing something really bad.

Unlike now. Look at the restraint I’m showing when all I want to do is grab that book from Jason Stevens’ hands and batter him around the head with it.

Why doesn’t he read it properly? Doesn’t he get how good this book is? Doesn’t it do anything for him?

If he’s not going to read it properly, you’d think he’d at least have the decency to trip over Miss Walsh’s handbag and knock himself out on his way to the deck.

Up at the front of the classroom, Jason Stevens’ foot catches in the shoulder strap of Miss Walsh’s handbag. He tumbles forward and smacks his head on the side of her desk. He drops to the ground like a felled tree. To Kill a Mockingbird flies from his outstretched hand and spins across the floor. It comes to rest against the bin with a soft clang.

Miss Walsh yelps and Gavin Boulder gives Mervyn Winters the thumbs up. It takes the ambulance six minutes to get here. Impressive.

I think I’m going insane.

I tell myself that what happened to Jason Stevens wasn’t my doing. I tell it to myself all the way through South Block, across the netball court, through North Block hallway and into the canteen. My breathing kind of shallow, I scan the room for Humphrey or Agatha, but there’s no sign.

I wish they were here. I need to talk to someone. I need to get rid of this madness in my mind.

My heartbeat’s jumping around all over the place. My head feels a little squooshy too. Wow, there are a lot of people in this canteen. And lots of food and foody smells. And the noise! Like those Caribbean kettle drums. I hate those. Everyone seems to love them though. Can’t understand it. And look, there’s Rhiannon.

Rhiannon.

If I did that to Jason Stevens just for reading wrong –

I didn’t touch him!

- imagine what I could do to Rhiannon just for being Rhiannon.

I’ve got to get out of here.

Dread swills round my stomach. Dread that has been growing in my belly since I left home this morning.

I have to get out of school. I have to get home.

No! Not home.

I hear the sound of my own breath as my lungs fight to draw air against contractions of panic. Something bad is going to happen to my family. I suddenly know it with a certainty that’s terrifying. Something’s coming - something unshakable, unstoppable - and it’s coming for me. My family is in the way of it and me. I don’t think it, whatever it is, is going to like that and I have a horrible feeling that time is running out.

It’s lunch time. I have lessons all afternoon. I need to calm down and breathe deep and get control of this thing and stick out the rest of the day.

I look around for a spare seat.

Rhiannon sees me and the corners of her mouth curl.

I turn and run. I run all the way home.

“Keys. Where the bloody hell are my keys?”

Stood on the doorstep, rummaging in the cavernous depths of my bag, my throat tightens.

I’m tired. So tired that I’m going to burst into tears unless I find my keys, get indoors and into bed in the next thirty seconds. I rest my forehead against the door and close my eyes.

Breathe, Jelly, breathe.

Someone up there takes pity on me and my fingers finally brush the serrated edge of a key. I yank the bunch out of the bag, slam the key in the lock and tumble into the hallway.

I force my feet to take me to my room where I sit on the bed, shaking and trying not to die.