Читать книгу You Won’t Believe This - Adam Baron - Страница 14

I had bad dreams. They seemed to last all night, though when I woke up they ran off like kids playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. Their place was taken by Veronique and I blinked at her. She was kneeling by my bed. With her face washed. And she was dressed. She even had her hair tied up.

‘Where’s your piano?’ she asked.

I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s next to the Ferrari.’

‘Where’s that, then?’

‘It was a joke,’ I said, which made Veronique sigh because jokes are the ONE thing she’s not good at. They’re like apostrophes are to me. Marcus Breen is always getting her. We were in the lunch queue on Friday and he poked her in the ribs.

‘Look under there,’ he told her. Veronique frowned.

‘Under where?’

‘There!’

‘Under where?’ Veronique asked again, and Marcus sniggered.

‘You said “underwear”!’ he said.

‘I know, and you won’t tell me. Under WHERE?’

Marcus really burst it and Veronique asked why he was laughing.

‘No reason. What does a dog do when it’s hot?’

‘Pants.’

Marcus nearly went blue. I thought he was going to choke to death. When he’d recovered, he said that a teacher has five boys in her class, all named Will.

‘To tell them apart she calls the first one Will A, the second one Will B, and so on. So what’s the fifth one called?’

Veronique was about to answer, but luckily we got to the front of the queue and Mrs Stebbings dolloped out the curry.

Anyway, when I explained that we didn’t have a piano, Veronique stared like I’d said we didn’t have a sofa.

‘But my exam’s a week on Saturday! I didn’t get to practise last night because of Nanai. And I always practise on Thursday mornings because it’s fencing after school so I can’t play tonight. Or I can, but I’ll stay up late so I won’t be able to get up early the next morning. And that means—’

‘Calm down,’ I said, shoving the duvet aside and reaching for the art box.

After what Veronique had told me last night, I wanted to do all I could for her. I was upset about Nanai myself but she wasn’t my grandmother, was she? It was bound to be worse for Veronique and I couldn’t imagine what she must be feeling. So, downstairs, I got some sheets of paper and Sellotaped them to the kitchen table. Veronique told me where the keys all went and I drew a piano. Veronique said there should be pedal things underneath, so I got my wellies. She told me she was going to play a piece called the ‘Four Seasons’, which I was excited about – but it turned out it had nothing to do with pizza. It was still good, though – better than her piece in assembly, actually, because it was quiet and I could listen to it and Harry Potter on Mum’s phone at the same time. I recommend this kind of piano and would like to suggest to all classical musicians that they think a bit more about the people who may have to be sitting close to them when they’re playing.

I hoped that getting to practise would cheer Veronique up. But it didn’t, much, so I had another idea – I gave her the phone to call her dad.

‘So?’ I asked, after she’d hung up.

‘The doctors can’t find anything wrong with her.’

‘Brilliant!’

‘I suppose.’

‘What do you mean? Nanai’s not a doctor, is she? They’re bound to know better than her, aren’t they?’

‘I suppose,’ said Veronique again, and then Mum appeared, her eyes going wide as Frisbees to see me standing there.

The reason for Mum’s reaction was that I am normally just a tiny bit reluctant to get out of bed in the morning. Schooldays especially. Mum says it was the same when I was being born, only getting me out of bed is even more painful than getting me out of her.

‘Gas and air!’ she shouts, yanking at my duvet. ‘Get me the gas and air!’

It’s not my fault, though. It’s bed. At night you complain about having to get into it, but – magically – by the morning it’s become this perfect thing you don’t want to get out of. A quick splash of the face followed by a bowl of Weetabix are NOTHING compared to it.

‘Veronique,’ Mum said, ‘can you come over every night?’

I soon wished the same thing, because it wasn’t Weetabix for breakfast that morning like I normally have: Mum made scrambled eggs. On a Thursday! Then Veronique fed Kit-Kat and, because we hadn’t really thought what we’d do with him that day, Mum called Veronique’s dad and asked him to take Kit-Kat back to their house again.

He met us at the top of the school steps and told us again about Nanai. They’d done this test and that test, but they couldn’t find anything wrong.

‘That’s great,’ Mum said. ‘Such a relief. Though Veronique’s welcome any time. With Kit-Kat of course. What a sweet hamster.’

‘Oh, he’s not a hamster,’ Veronique’s dad said with a frown. ‘He’s a—’

‘GERBIL!’ I shouted.

‘Really?’ Mum said. ‘I could have sworn you said … Anyway, he’s adorable.’

‘And very good at Subbuteo,’ I added.