Vicky Angel

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  DELL YEARLING BOOKS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor's degree from Marymount College and a master's degree in history from St. John's University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.

  Vicky's my best friend. We're closer than sisters. They call us the Twins at school because we're so inseparable. We've been best friends ever since we were at nursery school together and I crept up to Vicky at the water trough and she pulled a funny face and then tipped her red plastic teapot and started watering me. Vicky got told off for being mean to me but I didn't mind a bit. I just stood still in the sudden downpour, honored at her attention. Mum was cross because my gilt hairslides went rusty but I didn't care. Vicky hadn't said anything but I knew we were now friends.

  We stayed friends all the way through primary school and then we both went on to Downfield. Even Vicky was a bit quiet that first day in Year Seven when we didn't know anyone else. We know everyone now in Year Nine and they're all desperate to be Vicky's friend but we mostly just stick together, the two of us. We're going to be best friends for ever and ever and ever, through school, through college, through work. It doesn't matter about falling in love. Vicky's already had heaps of boyfriends but no one can ever mean as much to us as each other.

  We walk to school together, we sit next to each other all day, and after school I either hang out at Vicky's or she comes home with me. I hope Vicky asks me round to her place today. I like her home far more than mine.

  It's time to go home now but we're checking out this big notice on the cloakroom door about after-school clubs. We've got a new head teacher who's fussed because Downfield is considered a bit of a dump and so he's determined we're all going to do better in our exams and get involved with all these extracurricular activities.

  “It's bad enough having to go to school,” Vicky says. “So who's sad enough to want to stay after—like, voluntarily?”

  I nod out of habit. I always agree with Vicky. But I've just read a piece about a new drama club and I can't help feeling wistful. Ever since I was little I've wanted to be an actress. I know it's mad. I'm not anyone special. No one from our housing development ever gets to do anything glamorous or famous, and anyway, even the richest, prettiest, most talented kids can't make a living out of acting. But I just want to act so much. I've never been in anything at all, apart from school stuff. I was an angel in the Nativity play way back in Year Two. Vicky got to be Mary.

  Miss Gilmore, who's head of English and drama, had us all in Toad of Toad Hall when we were in Year Seven. I so wanted to be Toad, but Miss Gilmore chose Fatboy Sam. Typecasting. Though he was good. Very good. But I have this mad, totally secret idea that I could have been better.

  Vicky and I were just woodland creatures. Vicky was a very cute squirrel with an extra-fluffy tail. She did little hops everywhere and nibbled nuts very neatly. She got a special cheer and clap at the end. I was a stoat. You can't be cute if you're a stoat. I tried to be a very sly sinister stoat, lurking in the shadows, but Miss Gilmore pushed me forward and said, “Come on, Jade, no need to be shy.”

  I didn't get a chance to explain I was being sly, not shy. I tried not to mind too much. Even Dame Judi Dench would find it hard to get a special cheer if she had to play a stoat.

  I didn't want to be an animal. I wanted to play a person. When I'm at home on my own—when Vicky's busy and Mum's at work and Dad's asleep—I parade round the living room and act out all the soaps or I'll do Claire Danes' lines in Romeo and Juliet or I'll just make up my own plays. Sometimes I'll act people I know. I always end up acting Vicky. I close my eyes and think about her voice and when I start saying something I sound just like her. I stay Vicky even when I open my eyes. I can feel her long thick bright hair bouncing about my shoulders and my green eyes are glittering and I'm smiling Vicky's wicked grin. I dance up and down the room until I catch sight of myself in the big mirror above the fire-place and see my own sad pale skinny self. A ghost girl. I always feel much more alive when I'm being Vicky.

  “Come on, Jade,” Vicky says, tugging at me.

  I'm reading the Drama Club notice one more time. Vicky's getting impatient.

  “You're not interested in that weirdo club, are you?”

  “No! No, of course not,” I say, although I'm extremely interested and Vicky knows I am. There's a little gleam in her green eyes like she's laughing at me.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Well, maybe I am interested,” I say. I know I shouldn't always let her walk all over me. I should try standing up for myself for once. But it's hard when I'm so used to doing what Vicky wants. “You wouldn't join with me, would you?” I ask.

  “You've got to be joking!” says Vicky. “Miss Gilmore's running it. I can't stick her.”

  Nearly all the teachers think Vicky wonderful, even when she's cheeky to them, but Miss Gilmore is often a bit brisk with Vicky, almost as if she irritates her.

  “I know Miss Gilmore's dead boring,” I agree tactfully. “But it could be fun, Vicky. A real laugh. Go on, please, let's. I bet you'd get all the best parts.”

  “No. I wouldn't. Not necessarily,” says Vicky. “I don't like acting anyway. I don't see the point. It's just like playing a silly kid's game. I don't get why you're so keen, Jade.”

  “Well … it's just … Oh, Vicky, you know I want to be an actress.” I feel my face flooding scarlet. I want it so badly I always blush when I talk about it. I look awful when I go red. I'm usually so white that the sudden rush of blood is alarming, and a terrible contrast to my pale hair.

  “I quite fancy being on television—but as myself. Can you see me as a TV presenter, eh?” Vicky starts a wacky telly routine, using the end of her tie first as a mike and then turning it into a little kid's puppet, making it droop when she tells it off for being naughty.

  I can't help laughing. Vicky's so good at everything. I think she really could get on television. She could do anything she wants. She'd have no trouble at all making it as an actress.

  “Please, Vicky. Let's join the Drama Club,” I say.

  “You join the silly old Drama Club.”

  “I don't want to join by myself.”

  I always do everything with Vicky. I can't imagine joining anything independently. It wouldn't be the same.

  “Don't be so wet, Jade,” says Vicky. “You go. We don't always have to be joined at the hip.” She gives her own hip a little slap. “Stop growing, you guys,” she says. “I'm curvy enough now, right? And as for you, Big Bum!” She reaches round and gives her bottom a punch. “Start shrinking straight away, do you hear me?”

  “You've got an absolutely perfect figure and you know it, so stop showing off,” I say, giving her a nudge. Then I slip my hand through the crook of her elbow so we're linked. “Please please pretty please join the Drama Club with me?”

  “No! Look, you wouldn't automatically join anything I wanted to go to, would you?” says Vicky, tossing her hair so that it tickles my face.

  “Yes I would. You know I would. I'd join anything for you,” I say. />
  Vicky's eyes gleam emerald.

  “Right!” She looks up at all the notices for clubs. “OK, OK. I'll go to the dopey old Drama Club with you if … you'll join the Fun Run Friday Club with me.”

  “What?”

  “There! That's settled. So it's drama on Wednesdays after school and fun running on Fridays. What a starry new social life!” says Vicky.

  “You are joking, aren't you?”

  “Nope. Deadly serious,” says Vicky, and she whips out her felt pen and writes her name and mine on the Drama Club list and for the Fun Run Club too.

  “But I can't run. You know I can't run,” I wail.

  I've always been useless at all sports. I especially hate running. I get a stitch the second I've started and my heart starts banging and I get terribly out of breath and I can't keep up with the others. I've always been last in every race.

  Vicky is good at running. She wins races when she wants but once or twice hangs back and jogs on the spot to keep me company. Sometimes she even takes my hand and pulls me along.

  She takes my hand now, tugging me after her.

  “Come on, let's get out of this dump,” she says.

  “Vicky! Look, I've got to cross my name off. I can't run to save my life and you know it.”

  “Don't get in such a state, Jade,” Vicky says, and she flicks her finger under my chin. It's only play but it stings quite sharply. “This is fun running. Fun—like you're not meant to take it so seriously.”

  I can't help taking it seriously. I see a picture of myself lumbering along last, beetroot-red and sweaty, while Vicky bobs about at the front with all these boys who really fancy themselves and keep flexing their muscles and flicking back their hair.

  “I'm not going fun running,” I say, and I pull my hand away. I scratch our names off both lists and then stomp out of school and across the playground. Vicky dances round me, mocking. I hate it when she's like this.

  “Lighten up, Jade,” says Vicky.

  I don't feel light. I feel truly dark. Why does it always have to end up like this? Vicky always has to get her own way. If we do anything for me then somehow it gets twisted round so that Vicky still wins.

  She's being especially annoying now, tickling me here and there, tweaking my hair, poking my mouth to try to make me smile.

  “Don't go all moody on me,” she says, as we go out the school gate.

  “Oh, Vicky, give it a rest,” I snap.

  She takes her schoolbag and swings it at me. She's intending to miss, we both know that, but I deliberately don't dodge out of the way so it catches me hard on the hip. It really hurts.

  “Oh, Jade! Why didn't you get out of the way?” says Vicky, rubbing my hip.

  “Get off,” I say, slapping her hands away. “I see. You hit me with your schoolbag and it's my fault?”

  “God, I'll take a swing at your head in a minute. You've no idea how pompous you sound,” says Vicky, laughing at me.

  I can't laugh at myself. Not even when Vicky pulls a silly face, crossing her eyes and sticking out her pink pointy tongue.

  “Grow up, Vicky!”

  “Who wants to grow up?” she cries

  and she's in the road

  and then

  and then

  a car

  a squeal of brakes

  a scream

  a S C R E A M

  silence.

  I can't take it in. It's not happening. It's some crazy dream. All I need do is blink and I'll wake up in bed and I'll tell Vicky.

  Vicky Vicky Vicky Vicky Vicky

  I'm running to her.

  She's lying in front of the car, facedown. Her long red hair is hiding her. I kneel beside her and touch her hand.

  “Vicky?”

  “Do you know her? Oh God, is she…?”

  It's the driver, a man in a gray suit with a gray face. He's sweating with shock. He bends too, and then tries to lift her.

  “Don't touch her!” I can't bear his hands on her but he misunderstands.

  “Yes, of course, she might have spinal injuries. Oh God, I can't believe it. I was just driving along—I was going slowly, only about twenty, if that, but she just ran straight in front of me—”

  “Call an ambulance!”

  “Yes! Yes, a phone—” he looks round wildly. “My mobile's in the car—”

  “It's all right, we've dialed 999,” says a woman, running out of a house. She puts her arm round me.

  “Are you all right, dear? Come in the house with me—”

  “No, I have to stay with Vicky.” I can't talk properly. My teeth are chattering. Why is it so cold? I look down at Vicky. Her hand is warm but I rip off my school blazer and tuck it round her.

  “The ambulance should be here soon. Here soon. Soon,” the woman says, like she's a stuck record. She gives a little jerk. “And the police.”

  “The police?” the driver gasps. “It was a complete accident. She stepped right in front of my car. I couldn't help hitting her. You saw, didn't you?”

  She saw. There are more people now. They all saw. They saw me, they saw Vicky.

  Vicky. I brush her hair back with my shaky hand. Her face is turned sideways. It looks just the same—not a mark. Her mouth could almost be smiling. She has to be all right. This is one of Vicky's little games. She'll sit up in a second and scream with laughter.

  “Got you! Had you all fooled. You thought I was dead!” That's what she'll say. I give her shoulder a little shake to encourage her.

  “Don't!” says the woman. “Let the poor lamb lie.”

  The driver kneels beside Vicky. He doesn't try to touch her this time but he hangs his head over hers.

  “Is she breathing?” he whispers.

  “Of course she's breathing!” I say. “She's not really hurt. She can't be. There isn't any blood.”

  This is just a crazy freak accident. Any minute now Vicky will open her eyes.

  Wake up, Vicky.

  Wake up, Jade, and find you're dreaming. No, rewind. Back a minute, two minutes, that's all. Back to Vicky laughing at me and then—and then and then and then …

  … and then I laugh back and we link arms and walk home, happy and silly and safe together.

  “Vicky,” I whisper, and I'm crying, nose running as well as my eyes, but what does it matter? “Vicky. Oh, Vicky.”

  I want to tell her so much but the driver is here, these women are crowding round—and there's a siren, the ambulance is here too. More people, someone helping me up, though I don't want to move. I have to stay with Vicky.

  They're moving her, sliding her onto a stretcher, and her arm is limp, her legs drag a little, but she's all in one piece, no broken bits, no marks, she has to be all right….

  “Is she dead?” the woman whispers.

  “She's breathing,” says the ambulance woman. “Thank God, thank God,” says the driver.

  But they're mumbling something, there are more sirens, police, a policeman's talking to me, but I can see Vicky being lifted up into the ambulance.

  “I've got to go with her! I must!” I shout, pushing people out of the way.

  The policeman is still asking me questions. Who is she? Were you with her? Did you see exactly what happened? But I can't think, I can't talk, I can only say one word.

  “Vicky!”

  “She's suffering from shock. We need to take her to hospital and check her over. You'll have to talk to her later,” says the ambulance woman, and she helps me up beside Vicky in the van. Her colleague is examining Vicky, listening, looking, checking her pulse rate.

  “You're Vicky's friend?” she says, barely looking up. “What's your name, love?”

  “Jade.”

  “We're doing our best for her, Jade,” she says as the ambulance starts.

  Long ago, when Vicky and I were at the nursery school, we played what we called the Nee-Naa game, both of us rushing round the room steering thin air with our podgy hands pretending to be ambulances dashing to hospital. Nee-Naa was the sound
of the sirens, of course.

  Vicky's eyes don't even flicker when the siren starts.

  “She can't hear!”

  “Maybe she can. Try talking to her. Come up close. Only watch yourself. We don't want you falling over. You're sure you're not hurt yourself? The car didn't hit you too?”

  “No, I was still on the pavement. Vicky was still talking to me. It was so quick. I … I …”

  I'm shaking all over.

  “There's a spare blanket there. Put it round you.”

  I huddle inside the blanket, pulling the dark gray folds right up over my head. It's as if I'm wrapping my mind up too, smothering it with a blanket, because it's hurting so badly.

  The ambulance woman is checking Vicky's breathing again, opening her eyes, shining a torch.

  I peer in Vicky's eyes too. The gleam isn't there. I don't think she can see me.

  “It's me, Vicky. Jade. Vicky, please be all right. You've got to be OK. Promise me you'll get better. I'll look after you. I'll stay at the hospital. Vicky, I'll do the fun running if you still want, but we don't have to join the Drama Club. I'm probably kidding myself, I'd be useless as an actress. I don't care. The only thing I care about is you. I just want you to be all right, Vicky. You won't die, will you? You can't leave me on my own. I love you, Vic. I love you so much.”

  I want the ambulance woman to tell me I'm crazy, that Vicky isn't going to die, she's just a little concussed, she'll recover consciousness any minute and be as right as rain.

  She doesn't say anything. She carries on checking Vicky while the ambulance hurtles forward, weaving in and out of the traffic. I'm not facing the way I'm going. I start to feel sick, really sick. My legs buckle.

  “Sit down, pet. Take a few deep breaths,” says the ambulance woman, barely glancing at me.

  I can't sit down. I have to be there for Vicky. I need to hold her hand.

  “It won't hurt her, will it?” I say, clasping Vicky's hand tight.

  “No, that's fine. But you really should sit down. We don't want you fainting. I can't cope with two of you at once.”

  “I won't faint,” I say fiercely, though the ambulance is spinning as I speak.