ELMA
Mrs Lawrence was all excited when the next letters arrived – like letters from stupid, lying penfriends were such a big deal. She handed them out with a big ceremony, as though she was handing out maps to a treasure island or vouchers for trips to Disneyland or something. ‘Here’s your letter, Tara, and what nice neat writing your penfriend has.’ ‘And yours, Ellen. Look, your friend has decorated the whole envelope with tiny flowers.’ ‘Hmm, Elma Davey, looks like your penfriend doesn’t know up from down. Look at the stamp. Poor James Joyce is standing on his head.’ Elma took her letter, and said nothing. OK, so
Luke Mitchell was a big stupid boy, but she didn’t want the teacher and the whole class mocking him. That was her job. She opened the letter and read it quickly. Then she read it again, a bit more slowly. She smiled to herself. Maybe Luke Mitchell wasn’t as stupid as she’d first thought. Still, if he was going to be a brain surgeon, he’d better learn how to tell the truth. She could just imagine him – Mr Smith, now I know why you’re getting headaches: you’ve actually got three brains, and one of them appears to belong to an anteater. Still, that was a clever answer about the racehorses. She knew that Luke had made them up, though, and she wasn’t letting him away that lightly. And he was right about the non-existent baby’s long hair. What could she have been thinking of? No baby would have long blonde hair. Still, she couldn’t change what she’d written. Elma laughed out loud when she got to the bit about Snowball. Luke thought he was so clever, mocking her pet’s name. Whatever would he think if he knew Snowball was a huge fierce Alsatian with a growl that could frighten children two streets away, and breath that could make an oak tree wilt? Suddenly
Elma
felt
a 30
bit
sad.
Christening
Snowball was one of the last things Dad had done, back when he had a sense of humour. That was before the accident. Back when everything was different. It was another horrid day. Evil Josh spent the whole afternoon whispering in her ear and calling her his favourite mean name – Lumpy Gravy Davey. It wasn’t fair. After all, it wasn’t her fault that the gravy on school dinners was always lumpy. OK, so Elma’s mother was the dinner lady, but that was hardly Elma’s fault, was it? Elma was sure that having your mother as dinner lady in your school must be the worst thing ever. It was bad enough when all she had to do was heat up the Turkey Twizzlers. Now, though, when dinner ladies were expected to cook ‘real food’, it made things doubly bad for Elma, because her mother was probably the worst cook in the world. First there was the teasing she got from the other children (and with Evil Josh around, there was always plenty of that). The second bad thing was that her mother always gave her huge portions of everything, so she had to eat more lumpy gravy than anyone else. It was cruelty to children, and there should be a law about that kind of thing. Dad was still in bed when she got home, so once 31
again Elma had to tidy the house and cook the tea. It was after half past seven when Mum got in. She threw herself into a chair, and said, ‘I’m so tired, and my feet are killing me. Make me cup of tea, Elma, there’s a love.’ Elma felt like saying that she was tired too, and that her feet were killing her after doing all the housework and taking Snowball on his walk, and that she still hadn’t started her homework. But she didn’t say any of that. Complaining never changed anything. Even since Dad’s accident, Mum had been doing three jobs. She left the house early in the morning to do her first cleaning job. Then she did the dinner-lady thing, and after that she had another cleaning job. Sometimes Elma thought that having all those jobs wasn’t just about the money. Sometimes she thought Mum worked so much because she couldn’t bear to be around Dad during the day. But how could Elma say that? It would only lead to another big fight, and in the end nothing would change – it never did. So Elma made her mother a cup of tea, and then made her way upstairs to start her homework. Zac was already asleep in bed. He looked cute, sucking his thumb and cuddling his teddy. She 32
would have liked to write to Luke about him, but it was a bit late for that. How could she suddenly invent a six-year-old brother? As far as Luke was concerned, her only sibling was the unusually long-haired Jessica.
Dear Luke Mitchell, Thank you for your letter. It was very interesting. I don’t think I’d like to be a brain surgeon – sounds a bit messy to me – all that blood and gooey stuff. How would you eat your dinner after that? When I grow up I think I’ll just be a pop star or something. Don’t Irish babies have long hair? What about your famous model sister? Was she a bald baby? Trust me, Jessica’s hair is really beautiful. This morning I put it in two plaits, and tied them up with pink ribbons. She looked soooo sweet. That’s very sad about all your pictures of Rocket being stolen. He must have been in the newspaper, though, after winning such a big prize. Why don’t you send me the date so I can look it up on the Internet? Anyway, Mrs Lawrence (my teacher) said we have to tell our penfriends more about our lives, so here goes. 33
My mum is a chef in a very famous restaurant. Every day hundreds of people eat the food she cooks. Some people eat there every single day of the week – they even have their own special tables. She’s especially famous for her gravy – it’s the talk of the town where I live. Our mid-term isn’t too far away either. I’m not sure what we are going to do. Jessica’s a bit young for mountain climbing, so we might just go to Disneyland or somewhere like that. I’m a bit fed up of Disneyland (after all, I’ve been there six times), but it will be nice for Jessica. Must go now and practise my violin. Bye for now, Elma
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