Dancing Daze Read Online Free PDF Page A

of my pocket, and before I’ve thought it through properly, I stick the memory stick I carry on my key ring into the USB port and copy the whole “Budapest D” file. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, if anything, but something tells me I might just need it. As soon as I’ve copied it, the computer dies. Phew, just in time!
    A few minutes later, Mills walks back into Claire’s room, holding two large glasses of orange juice.
    “The battery went, I’m afraid,” I tell her.
    She hands me a glass and sits down beside me on Claire’s bed. “That’s annoying, but never mind. I can pull the clip up in the morning. It’s probably not on YouTube yet anyway.” She takes a long drink of her juice.
    “Don’t you want to go back downstairs?” I ask her.
    She shakes her head. “I like hanging out in here. I can smell Claire’s perfume.” She picks up a scarf and sniffs it.
    “Mills, that’s a bit weird.”
    “I know, but it makes me feel closer to her. She’s flying back to Budapest on Sunday.” She shrugs.
    “How do you feel now?” I ask carefully. “After the telly interview, I mean. Are you still worried about her?”
    I’m hoping she’ll say yes, as somehow then I won’t feel so bad about reading Claire’s diary. But as I kind of suspected, she says, “No, I think Claire’s fine. It’s just bad stage fright. I can’t wait to see her again at Christmas. And I still can’t believe she was on the
Late Late Show.
”
    She looks so idyllically happy that I can’t bear to burst her bubble, so I nod wordlessly and drink my orange juice. And then as Mills starts talking about what she’s going to wear to the Coast concert — next month! — I zone out, my mind mulling over Claire’s Budapest “trouble.” Maybe I’m overanalyzing things; it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Mills is right that it is just bad nerves. After all, Mills knows her own sister, doesn’t she?
    When I get back to my house half an hour later, I take out my keys to open the front door, and my eyes linger on my memory stick. Claire’s diary. And then I remember how my own diary used to help me make sense of my feelings and get things that were troubling me out of my system.
    Recently its pages have been sadly neglected and not due to any lack of drama in my life, because, boy, do I have plenty to write about! No, I’ve just been too lazy to jot it all down. And I’d be truly horrified to discover that someone had read my diary, especially my little sister’s friend.
    I make two decisions: one, to delete Claire’s file; and two, to write in my diary at least once a week from now on. I’ll make a start tonight and then do some more at Dad’s house tomorrow. I’m often bored there, and it will give me something positive to do.
    As I walk up to my bedroom, I wiggle the memory stick off the key ring. Then I put it in my desk drawer for safekeeping. I’ll delete Claire’s file later. After that, I find my diary, which is hidden behind some books on one of my bookshelves, grab a pen, sit on my bed, and start to write.
    Friday, November 30
    Dear Diary,
    I’m sorry for neglecting you for ages and ages. I do solemnly swear on Shakespeare’s quill that from now on I will write on your hallowed pages at least once a week . . .

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for family life,” Dad says as he drives away from my house on Saturday morning. “Shelly’s sending me up the wall with her moaning, Gracie won’t stop crying, and if Pauline Lame makes one more snide comment about the amount of golf I play, I swear I’ll decapitate her with one of my putters. It’s not natural, sharing a house with your mother-in-law.”
    Pauline Lame is Shelly’s mum, and she’s even scarier than my dad’s new wife, Shelly, if that’s possible. They look almost identical. They both have huge piano-key teeth, orange skin (from dodgy makeup layered on top of the fake tan), and billowing bleach-blond hair. They’re like scary