Rebecca Rocks Read online

  ‘I bet we’ll be the only band who sell home-made sweets at their gigs,’ she said happily. And then it was finally time to taste our creation. We carefully cut it into squares and took one each.

  ‘Well, it’s not horrible,’ said Cass after a long pause.

  ‘It’s not quite the same as fudge from a shop,’ I said. ‘But then, that’s because it’s home-made and fresh and made from simple ingredients.’

  ‘Is it meant to taste so … gritty? And crumbly?’ said Cass.

  ‘Maybe that’s what real genuine fudge tastes like,’ I said doubtfully.

  That was when Rachel came in.

  ‘Oh, is it ready then?’ she said, and before we could answer she just grabbed some fudge from the baking tray and shoved a piece into her greedy gob.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said, when she’d swallowed it.

  ‘Hmmm what?’ I said. ‘Hmmm, that’s the most delicious authentic home-made fudge I’ve ever eaten?’

  ‘More like hmmm, I can’t believe you think you could actually sell this,’ said Rachel. ‘You’d get arrested.’ We asked her what was so wrong with it, but she just kept saying it tasted ‘funny’. We were still discussing it when my parents came back.

  ‘I’m home!’ said Dad cheerfully. ‘What’s that nice smell?’

  I looked triumphantly at Rachel.

  ‘It’s lovely fudge which Cass and I have made as a homecoming gift for you,’ I said, not entirely truthfully.

  ‘Aw, thanks, girls!’ said Dad and took a piece. ‘Mmmm!’ He chewed it thoughtfully and then swallowed. ‘Um, it’s very good for a first try. But maybe the next batch could be a bit more … I dunno. Fudgy?’

  I give up. It’s no use trying to impress my family. They don’t know anything about food. Anyway, soon after Dad arrived, Cass had to go home and study, and I had to stay here and study (which is what I’m meant to be doing now), but we are going to try making more fudge as soon as either of our parents will let us take over the kitchen. Which, sadly, probably won’t be until these stupid summer tests are over.

  It’s quite nice to have Dad back, though. He got me the lipstick, too.

  I don’t believe it. That little Mulligan kid who lives across the road from us is back to her old tricks. And by her old tricks I mean staring at me from her bedroom window when I’m trying to work in my own room and making hideous faces at me. She hasn’t done it for a while, and I thought she’d got sick of it at last, but no! This evening I was just sitting there minding my own business and trying to study boring old algebra when I glanced up and saw her staring in at me from across the road. And as soon as she saw me looking at her, she started gyrating from the left side of the window to the right and then back again, staring at me the entire time. I have to admit it was kind of mesmerising for a minute, but then I made a face at her (childish I know, but I was DRIVEN to it) and pulled across the curtain. So now I am writing in the dark even though it’s a lovely sunny evening. What a horrible little freak she is.

  Oh my God. My plan to get Mum to put Mrs Harrington in a book has worked, but not in a good way! What have I done? Today after English Mrs Harrington asked me how the fictional Patricia Alexandra Harrington was coming along, which reminded me that I’d better nudge Mum. So when I came home from school, and Rachel was supposedly studying (but really on the phone to Tom, the boyfriend), I said, very casually, ‘So, did you name a character Patricia Alexandra Harrington like I suggested, then?’

  Mum looked a bit surprised that I was asking about her work unprovoked, but also quite pleased.

  ‘I actually did!’ she said. ‘So thanks for that.’

  I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  Mum laughed. ‘You’re not usually so enthusiastic about inspiring my books!’ she said.

  ‘Well, this is different,’ I said. ‘The last time I didn’t realise I was doing any inspiring. And I didn’t want to be inspiring anyway. This time it was my idea.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway, thanks.’

  ‘So, what’s she like?’ I said. ‘The Patricia Alexandra Harrington in the book?’

  ‘Well, she’s the teacher in the local school,’ said Mum. ‘And the kids from her school come into the bakery where the heroine works.’

  ‘Yeah, you told me about that before,’ I said. ‘So what sort of a person is she? Is she, I dunno, funny? Does she become the heroine’s best friend?’

  ‘Oh no, quite the opposite,’ said Mum. ‘She’s the baddie! Well, sort of the baddie.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, she doesn’t want her students going into the shop at lunch because she thinks they’re eating too many cakes and buns so she starts a campaign against Lily, the heroine, and tries to destroy the business,’ said Mum. ‘It’s turned into a good little subplot − it’s added another problem for Lily to overcome.’

  This was terrible. This was not what I wanted at all. What will Mrs Harrington think when she reads the book and sees that the baddie is named after her? She’ll be horrified. She might even think it was all some sort of mean joke! I mean, I know she’s really annoying and everything, but she’s just annoying, she’s not actually evil. I wish she wasn’t my English teacher, but I don’t actually want to wreak a terrible revenge on her. Also, if she thinks I’ve been encouraging my mother to do something so nasty, English classes will be even worse than they already are.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I said. ‘Maybe she could be nice instead and encourage all the kids to eat cakes in, you know, moderation.’

  ‘Thanks, Bex,’ said Mum. ‘But I don’t think that would be a very interesting plot line, unlike having a villain who’s trying to destroy the heroine’s business.’

  ‘I think it’d be very interesting!’ I said. I thought for a moment. ‘And it would give a positive message about healthy eating,’ I added in a very saintly voice.

  ‘Who’s writing this book, you or me?’ laughed Mum. ‘I do appreciate your input, love, but I’d rather have Patricia Alexandra Harrington as a villain, thanks.’

  I told her I thought she was making a terrible mistake, but she wasn’t convinced. Oh God. I’ll just have to keep working on her and try and change her mind.

  Everyone is very excited about the summer camp. Ellie is particularly relieved because it has given her an excuse not to go to the summer programme her mother was suggesting. Ellie’s mum is a mystical hippie type, and she wanted Ellie to go to some sort of Inner Goddess camp in Leitrim.

  ‘It would be three weeks of writing poems about periods,’ said Ellie. ‘And drawing pictures of our inner goddess.’ She shuddered.

  But in fairness to Ellie’s mother, she wasn’t going to force Ellie to go to Inner Goddess Camp against her will, especially now there’s another summer school she actually wants to attend. Ellie is hoping to hone her art skills and further her dream of being a costume designer. Her mother actually approves of this, because she herself is always weaving fabric to make her own cloaks and other such dramatic garments. So it’s all worked out quite well.

  Of course, Karen and Vanessa are going on about the camp too. They spent most of lunchtime telling poor old Caroline and Alison about various acting techniques which they plan to learn. (I know this because they were speaking so loudly everyone in the entire classroom could hear them whether we wanted to or not. Which I certainly didn’t.) It was both boring and irritating, which is the worst of all combinations.

  ‘I suppose we shouldn’t be too annoyed with them,’ said Alice. ‘I mean, if it wasn’t for them we wouldn’t know anything about the camp. We should really be thankful to them.’

  Just then we heard Vanessa say, very loudly, ‘I bet there’ll be some agents there. I bet this will be our chance to get discovered. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ said Karen. ‘My boyfriend Bernard was saying the same thing.’

  Cass and I looked at Alice.

  ‘Oka
y,’ said Alice. ‘Maybe we can just try and ignore them instead.’

  But while I’m looking forward to the summer camp, I have more pressing problems right now. Mostly the summer tests, of course, but also the fact that there has been no luck trying to persuade Mum to change Patricia Alexandra Harrington into a goodie. In fact, quite the opposite.

  ‘I don’t know why you want me to change her!’ said Mum. ‘She’s working very well as she is. In fact, there was something about that name that somehow made the character come together. She’d been a bit vague before that. But once I had that Patricia Alexandra Harrington name, it was like she turned into a real person.’

  Good lord. What have I done?

  Anyway, I will keep trying to change her mind, but, in the meantime, I have more to worry about than Mrs Harrington’s book stardom. I’m feeling quite nervous about those tests now. I keep telling myself that it’s only the second-year summer tests and they don’t mean anything, but I can’t help it. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, remembering all the things I haven’t studied yet − which seems to be nearly everything. This doesn’t even make sense, considering my parents have been practically locking me in my room and making me study for weeks, but I’m starting to worry that nothing has gone in. I keep staring at a periodic table, praying for it to stick in my mind before the science test next week but it doesn’t seem to be working.

  I can’t even escape my worries when I’m asleep − last night I had a dreadful dream that I was doing my German exam and John Kowalski appeared and started telling me that he’d just got a part in a big West End production of King Lear and that I was wasting time on school. And, actually, turning up at my exam and distracting me by going on about himself is the sort of thing he would definitely do.

  Oh my God. What if Dream-John is right? What if I really am wasting my time on German verbs and scientific elements? Maybe I should drop out of school and concentrate on the band instead. We haven’t had a practice for ages what with exams and the various difficulties of getting out to Alice’s house. Maybe I should drop out of school and become our full-time manager! Maybe that is where my true talents lie!

  I am not going to drop out of school and become a full-time manager. I think I was just having a wobbler. Actual real-life John was wrong about so many things, so it is very unlikely that my own dream version of him has any wisdom to impart. Also, it would be crazy to drop out of school. Not least because I’m not even fifteen yet, so it would be illegal. And, of course, my parents wouldn’t let me. And also, even though I have a lot of faith in Hey Dollface, I think I should probably keep my options open about the whole going-to-college thing.

  Also, all my friends would still be in school. It’d be pretty boring being at home without them. Right, back to the periodic table I go.

  I tried to write some poems this evening when I was taking a break from my hideous studies, but I don’t think it’s really working. I used to think that my misery over Paperboy moving to Canada fuelled my creative powers, and it seems that I was right! Not that I don’t have lots of problems, of course, but they don’t seem to be the sort of problems that inspire poetry. I mean, what sort of poem could I write about exams and annoying teachers? Maybe I should try a haiku. They are the easiest sort of poems to write because they are only seventeen syllables long and they don’t have to rhyme.

  Mrs Harrington

  Why do you love my mother?

  I wish you did not.

  Hmmm, that wasn’t that bad, actually, if I say so myself. But still. I just don’t feel the old, I dunno, fire. I know I said it was quite relaxing having no boy problems to think about, and it is, but sometimes I can’t help wishing something exciting would, you know, just happen. If only to give me something to write about.

  Maybe I could write some poems about being a bit bored. But they might be a bit boring.

  Studying. AGAIN. I feel like I can’t remember a life when I didn’t have to sit in my room staring at books full of stuff I can’t remember. I can’t wait until I spend an entire day just lazing around doing nothing. Cass has escaped her books for a few hours and has gone into town to meet Liz, but that’s only because her parents have gone to a christening and taken her little brother so they can’t check up on her. But I am stuck here, trying to avoid looking up at the window because that horrible little Mulligan is back there taunting me. Why hasn’t she got anything better to do than sit in her room and annoy her innocent neighbours? I mean, why hasn’t she got friends?

  Oh my God, she does have friends! Or at least one friend, who is in her room right now making faces and dancing at me! And now they’ve turned around and are shaking their bums at me! One annoying child mocking me was bad enough, but two of them is just too much. Surely this is against the law? Maybe I could go to the police.

  Mum says children dancing around in their own rooms isn’t against the law. I think it should be, though.

  ‘Just ignore her!’ said Mum. ‘She’s only little.’

  Easy for her to say, her study is the other side of the house. I bet if she had to look at some annoying little brats waggling their bums at her when she was trying to write about Lily Fitzsimons, she’d think differently about all this.

  Exams start tomorrow. I am totally panicky. I don’t think I have done enough work. I know my parents forced to me to study every night over the last few weeks, but when I look back now I seem to have spent quite a lot of that time writing in my diary. Oh dear.

  I have reached a stage where I am basing my studying on what day each exam is on. For example, maths is tomorrow, but history is on Thursday, so I need to concentrate on maths tonight (obviously) and then I will have three more evenings to get various bits of history done. But of course I can’t spend all those nights on history because I have other exams too. Like Irish, and German, which are both on Wednesday. Oh God.

  Right, I’m going back to work now to try and remember some geometry … stuff. I can’t even remember the words for bits of maths now. Oh dear. I have a feeling I won’t be writing in this diary much until it’s all over.

  I hate exams. I am halfway through exam week, and I have forgotten everything I ever knew. Cass feels the same way, but Alice keeps telling us that we know more than we think.

  ‘You did manage to answer all the questions, didn’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know if I answered them very well.’

  ‘But you actually could answer them,’ she said. ‘I mean, there was nothing you absolutely couldn’t say anything about?’

  She is right. But I still don’t feel very confident. I am going to go and read some stuff about Martin Luther and hope that some of it sticks in my mind.

  I’m free! I’m free! I’m on my holidays! I can’t believe it. I can do anything I like! Anything at all! We had the last tests yesterday (English, not too bad), and then a bunch of us – me, Cass, Alice, Ellie and Emma – all went into town and got delicious burgers and chips. I think we might have drunk too much coke because we were all a bit hyper. And Alice ate too many onion rings and felt quite sick. But she recovered eventually. She is off with Richard today, and Cass is meeting Liz, who is going off to the Gaeltacht on Monday morning. But we are having a band practice tomorrow, and afterwards Cass is calling over to my house to stay the night, because we can do that sort of thing on a Sunday night during the holidays. (Alice can’t come because she has to be up early on Monday to go on one of her family’s regular visits to some random relations.) So, in the meantime, I have a whole day of freedom to myself.

  I can’t actually think of anything to do.

  I think I will just go and sit in the garden and read for a bit. The one good thing about the summer is that, even if you are a bit bored, you can be bored in the sun. Which is nice.

  I am still bored. I’m just not in the mood for lying in the sun and reading. It is very unfair. For ages I’ve been dreaming about being able to just lie around and read, and now I can do it, I don’t a
ctually feel like it. I said this to Mum, and she said that life was often like that, and, if I was really bored, I could help her clean out under the stairs.

  I should have known better than to say I was bored to Mum. Parents never understand that if you’re bored, doing something horrible like going through ancient boxes of old wellies will just make you even more bored. I think I will sneak out and go for a walk around the block and listen to my iPod. At least some fresh air and exercise will do me good.

  Still bored. I give up. I might as well help Mum sort out boxes of wellies. How has my life come to this?

  The wellies that still fit members of the family (one pair each) have been matched up neatly under the stairs. The rest are in a bin bag ready to be thrown away. That is today’s greatest achievement, which says something about how boring my life is at the moment. I actually feel a bit bad about just chucking the wellies away − after all, I have spent two years hearing Miss Kelly go on about the importance of looking after the environment and not adding to giant landfill dumps. But I don’t think a charity shop would want our manky old wellies with holes in them. And Mum said she didn’t think there is anywhere that recycles wellies. There probably should be, though.

  Band practice today! Luckily my mum and dad were going to some garden centre out in Malahide and said they’d drop me and Cass off at Alice’s on the way there. It was great to be able to practise without having to worry about exams or school stuff. (I still have the nagging worry about Patricia Alexandra Harrington in Mum’s book, but it’s easier to forget about that now I know I don’t have to see Mrs Harrington on Monday. So I just won’t think about it for a while. I have a feeling that this is not actually a very sensible attitude to life’s problems, but it’ll do for now.)