Jean Ure - Secret Meeting

I said, “Nothing could be more exciting than a new Harriet Chance.”

“Oh, no?” said Annie. “Wanna bet? I’ll find something, don’t you worry!”

“Not like last time,” I begged. For my last birthday she’d given me this long blonde wig and some spooky black eyelashes and plastic fingernails, “to make you look glamorous!” I did look glamorous. It was brilliant!

Mum didn’t approve, of course, but I sometimes think that my mum is just a tiny bit old-fashioned. Certainly compared to Annie’s. But she didn’t really mind, she let me dress up for my birthday party and paint the plastic fingernails purple. Unfortunately, I turned out to be allergic to the glue that stuck the eyelashes on, and next morning when I woke up my eyes were all swollen like footballs.

It wasn’t Annie’s fault, but I had to go to the doctor and get some special cream and couldn’t leave the house for three whole days. Well, I could have done, but I was too embarrassed. This is the sort of thing that just always, somehow, seems to happen with Annie.

“I don’t want more eyelashes!” I said.

“Not going to get more eyelashes.”

“I don’t want anything with glue. ”

“It won’t be anything with glue! I’m going to think of something really special … hey!” Annie tiptoed over to the door (we were in her bedroom at the time) and peered out. “D’you want to go on the computer?”

I hesitated. “You mean … go to that site you told me about?”

Slowly, I shook my head. I would have liked to, I would really have liked to, but I’d promised Mum.

“When you’re round at Annie’s, I don’t want you playing with that computer. I want you to give me your word!”

When Mum said “playing with the computer”, what she really meant was chatrooms. She’d heard all these stories about middle-aged men pretending to be young boys, and girls going off to meet them, and they had scared her. They scared me a bit, too, though as I said to Mum, “I wouldn’t ever go and meet anyone.” Mum said she didn’t care, she wanted me to promise her.

I do sometimes think Mum tends to fuss more than other people’s mums. I suppose it is because I am all she has got, now that Nan is in a home. I don’t remember what it was like when Dad was with us; I was too young. Perhaps it was after he left that Mum got nervous. Well, not nervous, exactly, but not wanting me to do things like go into chatrooms. Annie’s mum and dad let her do pretty well whatever she wants. She even had her own computer in her bedroom. I didn’t have a computer at all! Mum had always promised me one for when I was fourteen. She said we’d find the money somehow. I didn’t really mind not having one. Not usually, I didn’t. Not when I had all my Harriet Chances to read! Just now and again I thought that it would be fun and wished Mum didn’t have to “count every penny”. But I knew it was a worry for her.

“Megs?” Annie was standing poised, with one finger on the mouse. She had this impish grin on her face. “Shall I?”

I muttered, “You know I’m not allowed into chatrooms.”

“’Tisn’t a chatroom!” said Annie. “It’s a bookroom. Wouldn’t go into a chatroom. ” She looked at me reproachfully. “I know you’re not allowed into chatrooms. ”

I was still doubtful. “So what’s the difference?”

“This is for bookworms ,” said Annie. “You just talk about books, and say which ones you like, and write reviews and stuff. Honestly, you’d love it! It’s your sort of thing.”

It was my sort of thing; that was what made it so tempting. But I was quite surprised at Annie visiting a chatroom for bookworms. It’s not her sort of thing at all! I mean, she does read, but only ’cos I do. I don’t think, probably, that she’d bother with it if it weren’t for me.

“What books do you talk about?” I said.

“Oh! Harriet Chance. Everyone talks about Harriet Chance. I’m only doing it,” said Annie, “’cos of this project thing.”

She meant our holiday task for English. We all had to review one of our favourite books and write a bit about the author. There are no prizes for guessing who I was going to do … Harriet Chance! I just hoped Annie didn’t think she was going to do her, too.

I said this to her, and she said, “Well, I won’t if you don’t want me to, but who else could I do if I didn’t do her?”

“Anyone!” I said. “J.K. Rowling.”

“I can’t do J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter’s too long.”

“So do something short … do Winnie the Pooh. ”

“Oh. Yes.” She brightened. “I could do that, couldn’t I? I love Winnie the Pooh !” She then added that even if she didn’t do Harriet Chance, half the rest of the class probably would. “There’s more people that talk about her books than almost anyone else.”

“That’s because she’s a totally brilliant writer,” I said.

“Yes, and it’s why you ought to visit the bookroom, so you can see for yourself,” said Annie. “Look, it’s ever so easy, all I have to do is just—”

“ Annie Watson, you fat little scumbag, I hope you’re obeying the rules ?”

Annie dropped the mouse and spun round, guiltily.

It was her sister, Rachel, who’d crept up the stairs without our hearing. Rachel is four years older than Annie and me. She always house-sits when it’s school holidays and her mum and dad are at work.

“I saw you!” she said. “You were going to use that computer!”

“I’m allowed!” shrieked Annie.

“You’re not allowed to go on the Net. Not when Megan’s here. You know that perfectly well.”

“Wasn’t going to go on the Net,” said Annie.

“So what were you going to do?”

“I was going to … write something. For school.”

“Like what?”

“Our project,” said Annie. “F’r English.”

“ Fringlish ?”

“Book reviews!” roared Annie.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. They are bright green, like a cat’s, and very beautiful. Rachel herself is rather beautiful. While Annie is little and plump, Rachel is tall and slim. This is because of all the work-outs she does, and the games of hockey that she plays (instead of sitting in the stationery cupboard, trampling on the stationery).

They both have black hair, but Rachel’s is thick and straight, like a shiny satin waterfall, while Annie’s is all mad and messy, with some bits curling in one direction and some bits curling in another.

I have often thought that I should like to have a brother or sister, if my dad hadn’t gone and left us before he and Mum could get round to it, but I’m not sure that I’d want a sister like Rachel. She is just sooo superior. Like she reckons anyone in Year Seven is simply beneath her notice. Like small crawling things in the grass; just too bad if they get trodden on. On the other hand she was supposed to be supervising us, so maybe it’s not surprising if she came across a bit bossy.