Free Girls in Tears by Jacqueline Wilson Page B

nightie things and a token evil old crone who ended up sinking under a sea of snakes. I thought it was
dire
but Russell lapped it up. He got irritated with me when I moaned and sighed and snuffled. He lectured me for ages afterward, telling me about this cult comic strip the film was based on.
    “You should take an interest, Ellie, seeing as you want to do illustration when you’re older. Graphic novels are where it’s all happening. No one wants twee little picture books about girly mice.”
    I was so insulted—on my mum’s behalf as well as mine—that I marched off without even giving him a kiss goodnight. Not that he’d have wanted one anyway. My lips are all chapped and my nose is red and very runny, enough to douse the desire of even the most impassioned boyfriend. Which Russell
is
.
    I just don’t get boys. One minute he’s looking down on me, lecturing me about everything, expecting me to tell him he’s wonderful. The next minute he’s looking up to me, treating me like the most amazingly exciting girl in the world just because I have two breasts, appendages stuck on the front of half the world’s population, for God’s sake.
    I wish he could be a real
friend,
like Magda and Nadine. Though Nadine isn’t always a
friendly
friend now. She’s always been a bit moody, right from when she was little. Thank goodness Magda is always happy-go-lucky and fun to be with. She can go on about boys and makeup and clothes a bit
too
much, but basically you couldn’t get a better friend.
    She brought me some of her mum’s special lime cheesecake yesterday to cheer me up. I protested feebly about the megamillion calorie content.
    “It’s lime, Ellie. Lots of vitamin C. Very very good for colds. This cake is
medicinal,
so blow the calories.”
    So I did. I must admit I felt a lot better with a tummy full of cheesecake. Magda’s mum is such a brilliant cook. Anna used to be OK, but for the last couple of months she hasn’t really cooked anything, just heated stuff in the microwave. Still, how can she spend time cooking now she’s so busy with her designing? It’s OK for Magda’s mum. She runs the restaurant with Magda’s dad. Cooking is part of her career, so there’s no conflict.
    There’s still every kind of conflict between Dad and Anna. I can hear them downstairs at breakfast now, and Eggs is yelling too.
    I’m not getting up. I
can’t
get up. I’m too ill. Much much much too ill.
    I pull the duvet over my head and curl up in my dark little lair, breathing heavily. I’m having a little doze when there’s a knock on the door. I peek out of the duvet. It’s Anna with a tray: orange juice, coffee and a croissant and a little bunch of grapes.
    “For the invalid,” says Anna.
    “You’re a darling,” I say thickly, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. There’s a letter on the tray too. “What’s that?”
    “Isn’t it Russell’s handwriting?”
    “No, his is more twirly.” I open the envelope. I unfold the letter. I find my glasses. I read the letter. By the time I get to the end, the sheet of paper is vibrating because I’m trembling so much.
    It’s only from Nicola Sharp, the brilliant illustrator who does all those funny Funky Fairy picture books! I used to have a full set of all the Rainbow series. When I was four I thought UltraViolet the coolest little fairy ever and wanted all my clothes to be purple, right down to my socks and knickers.
    Dear Eleanor Allard,
    I’m one of the judges in the children’s cartoon competition. I have to make it plain straightaway that you
haven’t
won—we haven’t even had our final judges’
meeting yet. And I’m afraid your entry can’t be short-listed because it arrived a week after the closing date,
without an entry form. Now I don’t think this matters
in the slightest, but the company sponsoring the competition is being incredibly strict about this and insists
your entry (and a host of other latecomers too) must be
declared ineligible.
    Normally I’d