Читать книгу Head Over Heels - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 16

hey don’t sort something out at all.

It’s now mid-March – two entire weeks later – and between exams and revision, jobs and dates, we’ve only just managed to pin down a time that the five of us can actually do.

And it’s right now.

Frankly, I don’t think people really appreciate how much notice is needed to throw a decent sleepover, because I just received this:

J got night off work last minute and I’m out of college early! Drag out the sleeping bags – it’s on! Meet at cafe! Nat xx

And now I’m having a meltdown.

Biologists recently found 300 different species living among the debris floating in the ocean, including puffins, turtles, seals, whales and penguins: all of which have to wade through mountains of human detritus just to get to bed at night.

I know exactly how they feel, because that’s what my bedroom currently looks like.

Books are leaning in mountains against walls, draft essays are scattered, practice equations are crumpled. Paper is pinned over every wall: Excel sheets, schedules, timetables, Post-its.

My wastepaper basket looks ready to explode.

Ditto my dirty laundry.

A bowl of half-eaten tomato soup sits on my dressing table and I’m pretty sure my dog is in the room somewhere too but I couldn’t swear to it.

Also possibly Annabel’s cat.

The only difference between me and the poor puffins is: this mess is mine, which means it’s my responsibility to tidy it up.

In nine minutes flat.

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I charge across the room, pick up an armful of laundry and throw it into the bottom of my wardrobe. “What on earth are you doing?”

She appears in my doorway with Tabby on her hip just in time to see me ram the wardrobe doors shut with my shoulder and stick a biro through the front handles.

It’s probably a good thing she didn’t catch me using the vacuum cleaner to pick up jumpers.

Or shouting “Scourgify!” at the sock drawer.

“Cleaning my bedroom,” I say, grabbing a handful of textbooks and stuffing them on to an already exploding bookshelf. “Did you know that the average desk has 400 times more bacteria than a toilet seat?”

Then I look cautiously at mine.

I think I’m safe: it’s coming up to exam time and there’s so much paper on it I haven’t actually seen the wood in months.

“You’re cleaning your bedroom?” Annabel lifts one eyebrow. “Goodness. No wonder I was so confused. Tabitha, regard this historic event carefully. It may never happen again.”

My sister laughs and waves Dunky, her favourite grey toy donkey, at me.

So I blow her an affectionate kiss.

The minute she’s old enough, I’m going to have to explain the concept of slander. I’ve tidied my bedroom at least twice this year, so Annabel’s insinuation is very unfair.

“Everything needs to be perfect,” I explain, grabbing Winnie-the-Pooh off my bed. “It’s not every day we have people stay over, is it?”

Then I give Winnie a kiss and put him in the box on top of my wardrobe. I don’t want my friends thinking I still spend every night sleeping with a cuddly bear.

Even though he’s the best and I totally do.

“I’m very impressed,” Annabel smiles. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you, sweetheart.”

I nod, quickly lobbing the ‘WELCOME!!!’ banner across the door. “It’s important to make the people you love feel wanted in your home.”

“It is. I’m so glad you’re being mature about this, Harriet.”

I glow with pride. She’s right: I really am.

“It’s going to be so much fun,” I tell her excitedly, kicking my roller-trainers under the bed. “We’re going to spend the whole night examining my book of Interesting Animal Facts and quizzing each other on them. I’ve made a Q and A especially.”

Annabel frowns. “Well … not the whole night. She’ll need to get some sleep.”

Good point. Nat does get grumpy when she’s tired. “OK, we’ll probably be worn out by the choreographed dance routines anyway.”

“Choreographed dance routines?”

“Don’t worry. If there isn’t space in here we can move the break-dancing to the living room.”

“Break-dancing?” There’s a pause while Annabel shifts Tabs to her other hip. “Sweetheart, it’s very kind of you to arrange everything so carefully, but sixty-eight really isn’t as young as you think it is.”

I pause from randomly flicking a duster at the shelves and quickly do the maths in my head. Jasper and India are seventeen, but Nat and Toby are still sixteen.

So 17 + 17 + 16 + 16 =

“I think it’s sixty-six,” I correct as politely as possible.

“Sixty-eight, sweetheart.”

“Sixty-six. You’ve inaccurately added a couple of birthdays.”

“Harriet,” Annabel laughs, heading back towards the hallway, “I appreciate your enthusiasm for both maths and human development, but I know how old my mother is.”

I turn to stare at her blankly – what has that got to do with anything? – and that’s when I hear it. A familiar chug-chug-chug. A sputter-sputter-sputter. A thud-thud-thud.

The sound of an ancient pink VW Beetle, reversing up the driveway.

Apparently the human brain absorbs eleven million bits of information every second, but we only notice forty of them.

Right now you can make that just one.

There’s a loud crunch.

“Yoooohooooo!” a familiar voice calls as I run to my bedroom window and fling it wide open. “Kittens, I’m here early! Goodness, that’s a funny place to put a hydrangea.”

And there – beaming at us from out of the car window – is my hippy, nomadic grandmother.

Bunty.