Free Vicky Angel by Jacqueline Wilson

Sam puffs.
    “Yeah, who wants muscles?” I say as the others streak past us effortlessly.
    Our walk slows to a crawl by the third lap of the field.
    “You look as if you both need winding up,” says Mr. Lorrimer, jogging past. “Come on, stride out, both of you—and then we'll try a little run.”
    “I feel more like a little lie-down,” Sam gasps.
    “Try exercising your legs more and your tongue less,” says Mr. Lorrimer.
    He jogs off into the distance.
    “Do you think he was a nerdy fatman like me in his youth?” Fatboy Sam puffs. “And then he joined a Fun Run Club and pow, he turned into Super Speedy Fitman?”
    “Definitely,” I say dryly. Literally. I've no spit left in my mouth. All the moisture in my body is oozing out of my pores. Oh God, I hope my deodorant's working. I feel disgusting. Thank goodness I'm only walking with Fatboy Sam. And he's in a worse state than I am. He's glistening like a strawberry Jell-O, and no matter how many times he mops his forehead with his hankie he stays molten.
    Three fitness freaks in Year Ten flash past and say something cruel about whales. They all crack up laughing. Sam laughs cheerily too.
    “Moby Dick, that's me,” he says, and mimes spouting through his blowhole.
    The boys laugh again and speed off.
    “You're always clowning, Fatboy.”
    “Better to have them laughing with me, not at me.”
    I look at him. Not the big red Jell-O, but the boy inside.
    “I get it,” I say softly. “Sorry … Sam.”
    He grins at me.
    “I'm afraid I'm going to wipe that smile off your face,” says Mr. Lorrimer, already lapping us. “You're both well and truly warmed up now. Try half a lap of running.”
    “Can't we have a bit of a rest first?” Sam suggests.
    “Then you'll have to warm up again!” says Mr. Lorrimer. “Come on, both of you. Run a little. Nice easy pace.”
    Sam screws up his face as he starts. I clench my fists and try to force it.
    “No, you guys. Relax. Don't grit your teeth. Loosen up. Float!”
    “Oh, sure, I'm built for floating,” Sam gasps, keeling this way and that.
    “Try to run straight, Sam. Straight bodies too. Don't scrunch up so you're even smaller, Jade. Run tall.”
    He jogs effortlessly beside us, practically marking time, while we lumber and gasp.
    “I can't breathe!” Sam moans.
    “Yes you can! As long as you can talk you're doing fine.”
    I can't even manage that. I gurgle and groan until Mr. Lorrimer takes pity on us and lets us walk for a bit.
    “This is meant to be good for us?” I pant.
    “I am definitely having a heart attack,” says Sam.
    “Well, don't count on me to give you the kiss of life.”
    “I know an easier way of losing weight—cutting off both my legs. And it would hurt less,” says Sam, rubbing his legs. “I'm sure I've got shin-splints.”
    “I haven't got a clue what that is, but
I've
got stress fractures,” I say.
    We soldier on, fantasizing injuries. It's still pure torture but it's good to have someone to groan along with. Vicky always streaks ahead and shows off—
    “Jade? What is it? Have you got a stitch?”
    I shake my head, unable to explain.
    “Is it Vicky?” Sam asks delicately.
    I stare at him in surprise. I didn't expect him to understand. It's weird. I'm starting to
like
Fatboy Sam.
    Maybe it's because we're both so hung up on Vicky. I don't know where she is. I thought she'd fly along with me. She's the only reason I'm making a fool of myself fun running. Maybe she'll be waiting for me by her flowers.
    I shower quickly and rush off. There are more fresh flowers, tight pink rosebuds and lots oflilies, large and white and waxy, with their overwhelming funeral smell.
    “The local florist must be having a field day,” Vicky says, landing at my feet right in front of me so I have to stop dead.
    She laughs.
    “Stopped dead
by
the dead. Or undead, I suppose.
Is
that what they call spooks? It's like being an ethnic minority. There's so many nasty names.”
    “You're not a spook.