Free Vicky Angel by Jacqueline Wilson Page A

You're Vicky.”
    “Little Vicky Angel,” she says, putting her hands together in mock prayer. She turns her head, peering round at her back. “I can't make wings. I keep trying to invent them, lovely rustling feathery ones, but I can't manage so much as a bit of budgie fluff. Oh well. I
can
do the rest. Watch.”
    Her black top and jeans bleach to the snowiest white while her hair lifts to form a perfect golden-red halo. She looks at the flowers beneath her pearly boots and waves her arm in the air. Rosebuds circle her neck, slide up and down on her wrist and stud every finger. White lilies cloak her fragrantly, swaying round her as she moves, regally, just like a real angel.
    Then she suddenly straddles her legs, tosses her head, points one boot and leers.
    “Hey, now I'm Elvis, right? All that white cloak stuff was way over the top. Wonderfully tacky, definitely late Elvis.” She starts a spot-on Presleyimitation, wiggling her hips in her white angel flares and turning the pearl boots into electric blue suede shoes.
    I have to run away before I crack up laughing.
    “Wait for me! Haven't you done enough running today?”
    Vicky swoops above me, kicking off her suede shoes so that they spiral into the air, tearing off her flowers until they flutter like confetti.
    “Where were
you
on the Fun Run? I only did it for you. But you cleared off.”
    “I was there, all set to run with you.
You
were the one who went off, with that stupid Fatboy oaf.”
    “Sam's OK.”
    “Oooh—Sam!”
    “Shut up, Vic.”
    “You can't ever shut me up now. I can go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on—” She's right by my ear, shouting into my head.
    “Stop it!”
    “And on and on and on and on!”
    “You're driving me crazy.”
    “That's what ghosts are supposed to do. And on and on and on and on and on and—”
    “Jade?” A car pulls up beside me, startling me still. I've been shaking my head violently to get away from Vicky's voice. Now the street shakes instead. Everything blurs.
    “Jade, are you all right?”
    It's Miss Gilmore, English and drama. Oh God, I hope I wasn't talking out loud to Vicky. She's standing right beside Miss Gilmore, eyes gleaming, eager to see what happens next.
    “I'm OK, thanks,” I mumble.
    “Would you like a lift home?”
    That sounds a wonderful idea. I'm tired out after all the running. I long to get into Miss Gilmore's car and drive off, but Vicky is glaring at me, shaking her head.
    “It's kind of you, but I'm fine walking.”
    “How are you doing, Jade?”
    I shrug.
    “I thought you read Vicky's ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’ beautifully. It was almost as if you
were
Vicky. You know I've started up this Drama Club? Your name was down for it, but then it was crossed out.”
    “I—changed my mind.”
    “Can't you change it back? I think you'd be brilliant.”
    The word shines in the air—but Vicky is still glaring.
    “I'm not sure, Miss Gilmore.”
    She thinks I'm shy. “Why not come next week, Jade, just to give it a try? Some of the girls in your class come. Madeleine and Sarah.”
    Vicky sighs impatiently. She pushes her way right through Miss Gilmore, emerging weirdly out of her navy sweatshirt and trousers, still in her startlingly fluorescent white. She takes holdof my head with her ghostly hands and tries to shake it to say no.
    “Jade? Have you hurt your neck?”
    “It's … just a bit stiff.”
    “And I'm a
big
stiff and you're
not
going to get involved with all that dreary drama stuff! That wasn't part of the deal at all! It was
because
of the drama stuff that—”
    I can't let her say it.
    “I'm sorry,” I hiss at Miss Gilmore, and then I rush off. Vicky runs beside me, doing aerial ladder steps of triumph.
    I run till I turn the corner and then collapse against the wall.
    “What's the matter?” Vicky asks.
    “I feel awful.”
    “
You
feel awful! What about me?”
    “I know. I'm sorry.”
    “You haven't been acting very sorry. All that huffing and