Free Vicky Angel by Jacqueline Wilson Page B

puffing with stupid Fatboy Sam!”
    “I'll stay away from Sam.”
    “
Fatboy
Sam.”
    “Absolutely Grotesquely Ginormous Fatter-than-fat-boy Sam.”
    “Right! That's better,” says Vicky, grinning. “Shall I come back to your house? I'll race you.”
    She spirals up in the air and leaves me way behind.

S o now I know how it has to be. It's not really so very different from the way it was when Vicky was alive. She wanted all my attention then. She's got it now.
    It takes a little while for people to cotton on. Especially Fatboy Sam. He hangs around waiting for me after lessons, he tries to sit next to me at lunch, he's there waiting when I walk home from school.
    “Get rid of that creep!” Vicky commands.
    “I'm sorry, Sam,” I say. Vicky's frowning, furious. I take a deep breath. “Sorry,
Fatboy
. I want to walk home by myself.”
    He stares at me. I feel bad when I see his face. I can't look him in the eye. I stare past him at Vicky's flowers. They're running rampant now, crowding the gutters and clogging the drains so that there's a little flood whenever it rains. Someone started to clear the old rotting bouquetsbut there were violent protests. People meekly cross the road now and walk on the other side so that Vicky's flowers stay unsullied. She's the only one who walks there now, tiptoeing through her tulips, dancing on daisies, romping all over her roses. Sometimes she pauses, reading some of the letters, looking at the photos, bending to touch a teddy. I've seen her cry, mourning herself. Other days she swaggers around counting the tributes, crowing that she must be the most mourned girl in the town, the whole
country
. There's been a one-minute spot on local television. Dad videoed it for me. Whenever I watch it Vicky is there too, admiring herself. But sometimes she's in a mad mood and she kicks the flowers, shuffling and stamping as if they're autumn leaves, reading out, “Vicky, I'll always be dreaming of you,” in a silly scoffing voice. “Well, dream on, darling, I'd never have wasted my breath on you when I was alive.”
    She's in that mood now, pelting Fatboy with phantom teddies and transparent roses. She's yelling obscenities at him, dodging backward and forward.
    “What are you looking at?” Fatboy says.
    “You!”
    “No. It's as if … Do you pretend Vicky's still here sometimes?”
    “No!”
    “Just walk away! Who does that creep think heis? Nosy old Wobbleguts. Say it to him.
Say
it!” Vicky insists.
    So I say it and run past, though I feel so mean.
    “
Why
do we have to be horrid to him, Vic?” I ask when we're nearly home. “He
likes
you. That's why he's hanging round me. To help me. He acts like he understands.”
    “Who cares?” says Vicky. “Honestly. What is it with you and Fatboy? Do you fancy him, is that it?”
    “Don't be stupid.”
    “I'm not the one acting all cow-eyed and crazy whenever that pig comes grunting near me.”
    “Don't! Don't talk about him like that. Why are you so
angry
?”
    “Why? I'm meant to be thrilled that I'm dead, yeah?”
    “OK, OK, keep your hair on.” I look at her, expecting her to send her entire head of hair spinning into space, but she droops suddenly, leaning against me.
    “Sorry, Jade. I don't mean to go on like that. It just gets to me sometimes. Especially when you're chatting to people and I'm stuck with no one to talk to.”
    “You can always talk to me. It's OK, Vicky.” I put my arm round her as best I can. “I don't want to talk to anyone else. Just you.”
    Fatboy Sam seems to have got the message. He doesn't follow me round school or wait for meafterward. When he sees me coming he walks smartly in the opposite direction. Well, as smartly as shambling Sam can manage.
    But there's still the Fun Run Friday Club. He's there and I'm there and Mr. Lorrimer expects us to jog along together. Sam pretends he's having trouble with his trainers and hangs back while I walk on, and then he walks about twenty paces behind me,