Don't Even Think About It Read Online Free

jumper, so I can bring it back after school tomorrow and swap it for something that doesn’t look like it was bought by someone who has NO IDEA what thirteen-year-old girls are wearing these days.
    And I might be able to trade the book token for cash with Mary Sullivan, who always has her nose stuck in a book.
    Dad’s cooking is as bad as ever. Last night we had potatoes with hard bits in the middle of them, andburnt fish fingers. Even I can do fish fingers without burning them. Tonight we’re going out for a Chinese, thank goodness.
    I wonder if Dad would let me have some wine, now that I’m thirteen. It can’t taste any worse than the sherry I swiped from the sitting-room cabinet last month. God, that was BAD. It must have been past its sell-by-date, or something.
    I got half a bottle of White Musk perfume from Bumble – I told him what I wanted and gave him half the money, because it’s a bit dear. Bumble is great at lots of things, but he’s useless at buying presents.
    Last year he gave me a yellow Eminem baseball hat, which just goes to show. My best friend since we were four years old, and he gets me a hat in my least favourite colour. I HATE yellow anything – yellow buildings, yellow flowers, yellow cars. The only yellow things I like are the sun and bananas. Oh, and corn on the cob. And the yellow bit of a boiled egg, as long as it’s soft and runny.
    Anyway, I had to wear the Eminem hat a few times so Bumble’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt – mostly around the house – and then I pretended that I’d left it in the garden and the Wallaces’ cat next door had peed in it, and I couldn’t bring myself to wear it again after that. He believed me, of course. Bumble’s nice like that.
    So this year I was taking no chances. I love White Musk. It makes me feel sexy and dangerous. Pity it makes Bumble want to throw up, but you can’t have everything.
    Bumble’s name isn’t really Bumble, of course – it’sBen. When he was small someone shortened it to B, and then later someone else changed it to Bumble Bee, and now it’s just Bumble. He doesn’t mind; he’s very easy-going.
    Granny Daly sent me a new hairbrush, which I thought was quite a good present for someone with hair that you can actually brush, unlike mine which is too curly for anything except one of those big wooden combs.
    By the way, in case you’re wondering, I have reddish brown hair, just longer than my shoulders, and dark blue eyes and zillions of freckles, and a dimple in my chin that I absolutely HATE. I’m 156 centimetres tall and I wear size 38 shoes and my teeth are almost perfectly straight, with a tiny gap between the front two that’s great for spitting through, and I have no boobs yet, and I’m Eminem’s biggest fan, and I can’t bear Britney, and I think Colin Farrell is the sexiest man on the planet.
    My favourite food is pizza – but I eat most things – and one of my biggest fears is getting stuck in a lift halfway up a skyscraper. And you’ve already figured that I’m an only child, and my parents are split up. So now you know.
    I’ll offer the hairbrush to Bumble’s brother’s girlfriend, whose hair sure could use a bit of brushing. She might trade me one of her bangles for it – they’re really cool, and she has loads.
    I got a fiver from Marjorie Maloney, a neighbour across the road, but that’s only because she has her eye on Dad since Mam left. She pestered us the firstmonth, knocking on the back door at least twice a week with casseroles, and lemon meringue pie, which is one of the few foods I hate, and asking Dad if he’d have a look at her iron – probably broke it on purpose – and offering to take me shopping for clothes and stuff. As if.
    A few times we pretended to be out, but she just came back half an hour later, so we gave that up. The Wallaces’ cat next door got a lot of leftover casseroles for a few weeks. He loved the tuna ones, but he turned up his nose at the chicken, probably