Free The Worry Web Site by Jacqueline Wilson

pink.
    “She can't hear, can she?” said William. “She can't
speak
.”
    It seems to me that it's old William who has the disability—a
mental
one. But I suppose he can't help it. Same as I can't help looking funny. William's right about that. My mum says I've got a lovely smile and my dad says I'm his Pretty Princess and Wendy says I've got beautiful blue eyes—but they are simply being kind. Mr. Speed says I have lovely long hair. He gently pulls my plaits and calls me Rapunzel. I quite like this. I like my hair too. But I know pretty hair doesn't stop me looking weird. Well, not unless I turned into a real Rapunzel and grew it down to my ankles and covered myself with it, like a great furry hood and coat.
    I'd like that. I could stay hidden inside. You're always so
obvious
if you have a disability. You can't hide behind the other kids or creep to a corner of the classroom. You're always on display in your big wheelchair, often with your helper beside you. You can't whisper secrets when you have a voice machine. You can't
have
secrets.
    I had to get Wendy to tap in my worry on the Web site as I can't reach the computer keys properly. And when I wanted to look at the replies I couldn't just wait for an appropriate moment and nip across and have a quick glance. I had to get Wendy to maneuver my wheelchair in and out between the desks and then click on all the right places on the screen.
    I waited until after school when everyone had gone home. Mr. Speed was still there, but he pretended not to notice what Wendy and I were doing. He was trying to construct some kind of fairy-tale carriage out of cardboard boxes for the concert. He was doing his best with gold paint and old baby-buggy wheels but the audience might have to be kind and use their imagination. A girl called Lisa was painting scenery in a corner. She nodded to me shyly and then went on with her work. She seemed much more artistic than Mr. Speed. She'd painted an all-purpose fairy-tale land with princesses with long golden hair and pink enchanted castles and wicked wizards swigging from their own bubbling cauldrons.
    That's another thing I can't do. Paint. I know exactly how I want to do it in my head but it won't come out like that on the page. My hand just jerks and it all splodges. I won't even try now.
    Mr. Speed saw me staring at Lisa's scenery.
    “It's good, isn't it, Natasha?”
    “Very, very, very good,” I said with my voice machine. Wendy thought my finger had gone into spasm by the third “very” and went to help me. I shook my head at her impatiently. Then I felt mean. It is so hard to have a helper all the time when you don't
want
to be helped.
    Lisa looked up and smiled.
    “Thank you,” she muttered, and carried on.
    “The class members who lack specific talents are all in this mini-pantomime at the end of the concert. That's what all this scenery is for. Oh lordy, this
wretched
concert,” said Mr. Speed. He pressed down too hard on his fairy carriage and it collapsed. Mr. Speed said a very rude word and then put his hand over his mouth. “I hope you girls didn't hear that,” he said.
    Lisa giggled. I giggled. Wendy giggled too.
    “Why do I get involved year after year?” said Mr. Speed. “It's just one big worry.”
    “Type your worry into the Web site!” I spoke slowly.
    Mr. Speed waited patiently and laughed when I was finished. “Teachers aren't allowed to have worries,” he said.
    He glanced ever so casually at the screen.
    “What sort of comments has the latest worry attracted? I believe someone wants to be in the concert?”
    “You know the someone is me,” I said.
    “You're not daft, are you, Natasha?” said Mr. Speed.
    William
is
daft. He had typed in:
    Why cant you bee in the consat? I am in it and I amuseless at sining and dansing and stuff. But I am dooing cungring triks.
    I blinked.
    “What?”
    “I think the lad means ‘conjuring,’ ” said Mr. Speed. “I've helped him work out a routine with young