Girls in Tears Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the coffee table are laid out with geometric precision. If Russell’s dad and his girlfriend, Cynthia, ever have any children they are in for a big shock. If we let Eggs loose in this room for ten minutes heaven only knows what havoc he’d wreak.
    “It’s beautiful,” I say politely, setting my grubby rucksack gingerly on the pale carpet.
    “It’s boring, like a display in a furniture shop,” says Russell. “It’s not a
home
.”
    Just for a moment he stops being my big boyfriend who’s two years ahead of me at school. He looks like a lonely little kid, his head hanging down, his hair falling in his eyes. I go to him and put my arms round him. I just want to comfort him, to show him I know what it feels like having to fit in with your dad’s girlfriend.
    He misinterprets my gesture. His hands go round my waist and he pulls me tightly against him and starts kissing me. His hands are in my hair, his finger stroking my ear, and then he very gently nibbles the lobe and starts kissing my neck down at the very sensitive part where it meets my shoulders. Then his hands are carefully unbuttoning my school shirt. . . .
    “No! Don’t, Russell. Don’t do that, please don’t.”
    It feels so wonderful—but I’m a bit scared. I don’t want to go too far. And what if Russell’s dad or Cynthia comes home early and discovers us thrashing around on their splendid cream sofa?
    “We could go to my room,” Russell whispers in my ear.
    “No! Look, I’ve told you . . . I don’t want to,”
    “You
do
want to,” says Russell.
    “Yes, OK, of course I do—but I’m still not going to.”
    “Even though we love each other?” Russell says, taking my hand and kissing the ring on my finger.
    “Even so,” I say, wriggling away from him and trying to smooth my clothes and compose myself, though I’m hot and trembling and I love him so much that I don’t want to be sensible in the slightest. . . .
    I do go to his room. I say it’s just because I want to see what it’s like. It’s fascinating, not scrubby schoolboy at all—no mess of old socks and tacky mags and congealed snacks. Russell’s room is ultra-hip and cool, with cream blinds and dark brown carpet and a guitar and a soul singer poster. He’s got a fantastic sloping desk and high white stool with a spotlight overhead, and the most amazing paints and pastels and colored pencils and a stock of sketchpads and drawing books and some sweet working drawings of a little cartoon elephant. It’s a variation of my own little Ellie Elephant, which I draw all over my school jotter and squiggle beside my name when I write letters.
    “It’s my Ellie Elephant!”
    “Well, it’s
an
elephant,” says Russell.
    There’s a pink leaflet paper-clipped to the top drawing. I have a peer at it, though Russell is trying to pull me away, lifting my hair and kissing my neck insistently. It’s an art competition for children, but there’s a section for teenagers, too. You have to invent your own cartoon character. The winner has a proper animation made of their work and it will maybe be shown on television. And Nicola Sharp is one of the judges! She’s my all-time favorite children’s illustrator—I love her Funky Fairy books.
    “Oh wow, Russell! Why didn’t you tell me about the competition? I want to go in for it too.”
    “You’re too late, Ellie. It’s past the closing date. I’ve already sent mine off.”
    “So what cartoon character did you invent?”
    “Well, obviously . . . ,” says Russell, indicating all the little elephants.
    “But that’s
my
character!” I say.
    “No it isn’t. You draw your Ellie Elephant with much bigger ears, and you don’t do the trunk so wrinkly, and the expression’s totally different.”
    “Not really. Look, that’s
exactly
how I do my Ellie Elephant when she’s happy, sort of kicking her leg up sideways and her trunk high in the air,” I say, stabbing at his drawing pad with my finger.
    “Well, that’s the