happened. It was home time. I was in the playground. Just standing there when …
Veronique does not come up to people. Not even Miss Phillips, whose grammar and spelling she is often known to correct. Miss Phillips thanks her when she does this but I don’t think she really means it. Veronique’s this rare unapproachable genius. She can spell words like ‘piculear’ and ‘sircumstanz’. Her mum’s French so she can speak that and her dad’s Chinese so she can also speak … Satsuma (I think that’s what it is). Or is it Tangerine? Never mind. She’s FIVE whole GRADES ahead of me at piano (she’s on Grade Five). And she’s … No one’s looking, right? I can say it …
REALLY PRETTY. She’s got this long black hair that’s so glossy you can almost see your own face in it and she smells like someone somewhere is eating candyfloss.
I was so psyched by Veronique just coming up like that, that I forgot how I’d managed to get myself into the worst situation of my entire life. Until, that is, she spoke, and my insides slopped over like a badly cooked pancake.
‘Cymbeline, I really hope you win.’
‘Sorry?’
‘On Monday. Against Billy. He lives near us and he’s such an idiot. I hope you smash him,’ she said, smiling at me.
When I didn’t answer, Veronique gave me an odd look and walked off, after which my mum appeared out of the crowd and started to interfere with my hair.
‘Did you have a good day, Champ?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I answered. ‘Perfect. I spent it thinking about how you are, without doubt, the best mother in the entire world.’
‘Ah …’
‘NOT!’
‘Cymbeline? Cym? Is there something wrong?’
‘Nothing YOU can fix,’ I said, and stomped over to the gate, where Billy Lee was smirking at me.
‘See you on Monday,’ he said.
Google search: how to crawl.
Result: baby may spend time rocking forwards and backwards initially but by between eight and twelve months she should be crawling confidently and pulling herself upright.
What? A baby can do it and I can’t? No, wait, that’s not swimming crawling, is it?
Google search: how to swim crawl.
Right, here we go. That looks doable. Swimwell.org says you have to lie in the water face down and move your arms like two windmills. You tilt your head from side to side to breathe. Fine. How hard can it be?
Shut computer.
‘Mum!’ I called from the living room.
‘Yes, Cym?’
‘I need to have a bath!’
I heard a teacup smash on the kitchen floor before she came rushing through.
‘Cym, are you okay? Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘It’s just that, well, you asked to have a bath.’
‘I know, I, er … I just feel that being clean is very important.’
‘Of course. Well, I’m glad you’ve finally woken up to that. But won’t a shower do?’
‘Not on this occasion, no.’
Upstairs, I ran a bath and began. Head down, bottom up. I probably shouldn’t have added the bubble bath, though. Pretty soon I was rubbing my eyes and spitting out mouthfuls of foam. The problem was that it just wasn’t deep or long enough. Or wide enough. My arms hit the sides when I tried to windmill them and I kept banging my head on the end. Swimwell.org had mentioned something called tumble-turns, for swapping round and going the other way. But when I tried one of those I pulled the plug out with my big toe and kicked the bubble bath out of the window.
‘Have you gone mad?!’ Mum screamed, running in. There was more water out of the bath than in it.
‘At least I’m clean,’ I said. Whereupon Mum just shook her head and picked up the shampoo bottle.
‘Eyes,’ she said.
I turned round and let her wash my hair without complaining (much) and when she finished I asked what we were doing that weekend.
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Can we …?’
‘Yes, Cym?’
‘Go swimming?’
Mum went quiet. Then she said, ‘Well, we’ll see. Perhaps. Though I was thinking of taking you to Charlton tomorrow afternoon. Early birthday present.’
‘Seriously?’
Charlton is our local team and the side I will be playing for one day. I’ll be the captain, like Johnnie Jackson is now, though I’ll have to share it with Lance of course as we’re equal. Danny Jones (second best) and Billy Lee (best, grrrr) will be playing for Chelsea in the Premier League so I don’t have to worry about them. The thought of going was brilliant, especially as, being an EARLY birthday present, I would surely get my other special treat AS WELL (more on that later). I thought about my birthday. The fact it was still a whole massive week away was almost like torture. Funny, isn’t it, that the nearer your birthday gets the more it seems like it’s never actually going to come?
‘Thanks, Mum! Did you get tickets?’
‘Not yet. I only just thought of it. I’ll go online in a bit. They don’t sell out.’
‘Fab. What about Sunday afternoon?’
‘For what?’
‘Swimming.’
‘Are they open on Sunday? No, I don’t think they are.’
‘Oh. Well, maybe not Charlton then this weekend. Perhaps we could go next week instead …’
But Mum wasn’t listening. She got me out, plonked a towel over my head, and hurried downstairs. By the time I got there she was smiling up from the computer.
‘Got them,’ she said. ‘West Upper Stand, your favourite.’
‘Thanks,
