Missing Ellen Read Online Free PDF

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    Dad asked me to help with the weeding today. I thought I’d managed to get out of it when Mum took me into town yesterday , but no such luck. But once I got started I found I wasenjoying it in a funny sort of way. Aunt Pat would say it was therapeutic. I liked the repetitiveness of pulling up the weeds and chucking them into the wheelbarrow. Pull, throw, pull, throw. And I liked looking back at the section I’d just finished, seeing the flowers sort of standing up proudly in a nice clean patch, not competing for space with all those weeds trying to choke them.
    But then Dad had to go and ruin it. He pushed his glasses back on his nose (always a danger sign) and said he thought it was about time we had a little chat. I tried to discourage him by just ignoring him, concentrating hard on a particularly stubborn bit of dandelion root that was trying to choke the pansies. He started saying something about there being a natural process to go through, and it not being a good idea to bottle things up, and so on. That was when I suddenly remembered I hadn’t finished my maths homework, and had to go inside.
    I think Dad fancies himself as some sort of amateur psychologist . Well, he can try his theories out on Jamie if he must. I’d like to see him unravel the mystery of how a little boy’s brain works, and why he thinks vegetables are disgusting, but cutting worms in half with a stone is fun.
    You’re the only person I’d really like to talk to about all this – but then, if you were here, there’d be nothing to talk about, would there?
    Your friend, Maggie.
    As the week went on I got more and more nervous about Friday night. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong.
    The thing was, I just wasn’t the type of person who did things like that. It’s like I was missing the teenage rebellion gene or something. But Ellen had a double dose so I guess we always balanced each other out. Sometimes I used to wonder what someone like her could see in someone like me. Maybe she actually liked the fact that I could usually stop her before she did anything too crazy. Or at least I used to be able to.
    Ellen was completely oblivious to my worrying. She laughed and chatted away as normal when the subject of the school disco came up, catching my eye and grinning when no one else was looking.
    Her giddiness seemed to grow as the week went on. I’d seen her like this before – if she didn’t find some kind of outlet for it, she might possibly explode.
    Wednesday was April Fools’ Day. It was just what Ellen needed. I’d already been treated to salt in my cornflakes instead of sugar by the ever-original Jamie, and Dad had told me there was something stuck to the bottom of my shoe, then fell about the place laughing when I took it off to check. Honestly, he is so juvenile sometimes.
    Ellen’s joke was, of course, a lot more imaginative. She whispered to me on our way into maths, ‘How would youlike to spend this class walking to and from the gym instead of adding x’s and y’s?’
    ‘Sounds like a better option all right,’ I whispered back. ‘What have you got in mind?’
    ‘Wait and see!’ was Ellen’s only response.
    We had Bouncer for maths. He was a small man – half the girls in our class were already taller than him – and he attempted to make up for his lack of height by wearing these shoes with springy soles that made him look like he was bouncing every time he moved around the classroom. He was OK – a bit too earnest sometimes in expecting everyone to be as enthusiastic about algebra as he was – but not one of the worst.
    Ellen waited until everyone was seated and Bouncer was just about to demonstrate a sum on the board, then waved her hand in the air.
    ‘Sir! Sir! I’ve just remembered. Miss O’Neill said could you please excuse us from maths today. She wants us all in the gym. Something about basketball trials, I think.’
    ‘I think you must have got that wrong Ellen,’