The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones Read Online Free
Author: Susie Day
Mum has the baby, and it is a literal peanut. She wheels it around in a pram, and takes it on funfair rides, as if it is a normal-sized normal-shaped baby with a face and arms and legs, and no one says a word.
I like it. Itâs quiet, and doesnât take up space.
I wake up with Milly the mouseâs worn ear pressed against my cheek, and a clanging twisting feeling, like Iâve done something bad. Forgotten-PE-kit bad. Argument-with-Grace, everyone-hates-me bad.
Then I remember. It was my birthday yesterday, and I thought I saw another me. A grown-up, brilliant, teenage me.
All in my head. Nothingâs changed at all. Why didnât Grace tell me thirteen isnât just a thing that happens to you overnight, without you having to do anything?
Why didnât I work it out myself? Iâm brainy. I got As in Science and Maths and DT and Art and a B in English even though Miss Kitchener says I need to take a less literal attitude towards poetry. (I donât, though. Poetry is stupid. If you think someone is nice you can just tell them theyâre nice, you donât have to go on and on about how their hair is like a tinkling stream and put âO!â at the beginning of all your sentences.)
But Iâm not just brainy. I know Iâm not bright and shiny like Dad or Tiger or Mum, but Iâm not terrible. I have interests. I have extra-curricular leisure pursuits. I like Pixar films and Parma Violets. I am gradually wallpapering the entire surface of my bedroom with perfectly tessellating photographs; one wallâs half done already, and, in patchwork, a corner of the slopey ceiling over my bed. I wake up every day to see the same two pictures: me and Grace poking out our tongues, and a close-up of Tigerâs left eye, huge like a wet pebble. When I grow up I would like to find a cure for peanut allergy, and take pictures for magazines.
And thereâs all the rest. Iâm bigger on the inside. I worry about the future and exams and university fees and jobs and, you know, dolphins in tuna nets. And who Iâll be, and why. Iâve been the boring parts of a teenager for years already. Iâve just been waiting for my outsides to catch up, so everyone else can see it.
But last night, it didnât happen. And I donât know how to fix it.
I make a little moany noise of misery, then clamp Milly to my mouth. Tigerâs not normally visible to the human eye before ten; wake her any earlier and sheâs all snarls.
I roll over and hang my head off the bunk to check, wrinkling my nose at the flotsam of books and clothes sheâs managed to spread over the tiny floor space already. Itâs AS level results day in four weeks. From the number of books, I think sheâs planning a few resits. I donât need a ladder to get down from the top bunk; I could fashion my own out of Cliffs Notes and knickers.
(All my stuff should be on the floor too. Thirteen-year-olds are messy. Why am I not suddenly uncharacteristically messy?)
Tigerâs not there. I can see the covers have been slept in, but sheâs gone. I look at my watch: half past seven. Maybe Penkerry makes everyone go peculiar.
I toss and turn in the narrow bunk for a bit, but Dadâs snores keep thrumming through the cardboard wall. Eventually I give up on sleeping, flip over, and tug out the bag thatâs wedged behind my pillow.
My birthday presents. They donât exactly cheer me up. Tiger got me Haribo, and a clockwork mouse for the Great Mouse Army that lives on my bookshelves at home. Mum and Dad got me a camera, like they promised. All mine, so I donât have to keep begging to borrow Mumâs digital.
This oneâs called a Diana, and itâs new but made to look old: plasticky, junk-shoppy. Itâs got a huge squarish flash that snaps on to the top, like an old cartoon. It even uses film, so thereâs no screen to see the picture you just took â and the prints are supposed
I like it. Itâs quiet, and doesnât take up space.
I wake up with Milly the mouseâs worn ear pressed against my cheek, and a clanging twisting feeling, like Iâve done something bad. Forgotten-PE-kit bad. Argument-with-Grace, everyone-hates-me bad.
Then I remember. It was my birthday yesterday, and I thought I saw another me. A grown-up, brilliant, teenage me.
All in my head. Nothingâs changed at all. Why didnât Grace tell me thirteen isnât just a thing that happens to you overnight, without you having to do anything?
Why didnât I work it out myself? Iâm brainy. I got As in Science and Maths and DT and Art and a B in English even though Miss Kitchener says I need to take a less literal attitude towards poetry. (I donât, though. Poetry is stupid. If you think someone is nice you can just tell them theyâre nice, you donât have to go on and on about how their hair is like a tinkling stream and put âO!â at the beginning of all your sentences.)
But Iâm not just brainy. I know Iâm not bright and shiny like Dad or Tiger or Mum, but Iâm not terrible. I have interests. I have extra-curricular leisure pursuits. I like Pixar films and Parma Violets. I am gradually wallpapering the entire surface of my bedroom with perfectly tessellating photographs; one wallâs half done already, and, in patchwork, a corner of the slopey ceiling over my bed. I wake up every day to see the same two pictures: me and Grace poking out our tongues, and a close-up of Tigerâs left eye, huge like a wet pebble. When I grow up I would like to find a cure for peanut allergy, and take pictures for magazines.
And thereâs all the rest. Iâm bigger on the inside. I worry about the future and exams and university fees and jobs and, you know, dolphins in tuna nets. And who Iâll be, and why. Iâve been the boring parts of a teenager for years already. Iâve just been waiting for my outsides to catch up, so everyone else can see it.
But last night, it didnât happen. And I donât know how to fix it.
I make a little moany noise of misery, then clamp Milly to my mouth. Tigerâs not normally visible to the human eye before ten; wake her any earlier and sheâs all snarls.
I roll over and hang my head off the bunk to check, wrinkling my nose at the flotsam of books and clothes sheâs managed to spread over the tiny floor space already. Itâs AS level results day in four weeks. From the number of books, I think sheâs planning a few resits. I donât need a ladder to get down from the top bunk; I could fashion my own out of Cliffs Notes and knickers.
(All my stuff should be on the floor too. Thirteen-year-olds are messy. Why am I not suddenly uncharacteristically messy?)
Tigerâs not there. I can see the covers have been slept in, but sheâs gone. I look at my watch: half past seven. Maybe Penkerry makes everyone go peculiar.
I toss and turn in the narrow bunk for a bit, but Dadâs snores keep thrumming through the cardboard wall. Eventually I give up on sleeping, flip over, and tug out the bag thatâs wedged behind my pillow.
My birthday presents. They donât exactly cheer me up. Tiger got me Haribo, and a clockwork mouse for the Great Mouse Army that lives on my bookshelves at home. Mum and Dad got me a camera, like they promised. All mine, so I donât have to keep begging to borrow Mumâs digital.
This oneâs called a Diana, and itâs new but made to look old: plasticky, junk-shoppy. Itâs got a huge squarish flash that snaps on to the top, like an old cartoon. It even uses film, so thereâs no screen to see the picture you just took â and the prints are supposed
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