Don't Even Think About It by Roisin Meaney Page B

Maybe if I asked her a question she’d have to answer, so I said, ‘How are you feeling?’
    First I thought she wasn’t going to say anything. She blinked two more times, and then she put up a hand – the one without the tube attached – and rubbed at her nose, and then she turned her head away from me so it was facing the wall.
    I snuck a glance at her locker and saw a box of Maltesers and a bundle of Tracy Beaker magazines and a furry white toy cat all sitting on top.
    And then, all of a sudden, she turned back to me and said, ‘It wasn’t because of that.’
    I said, ‘What?’ because I wasn’t sure what she meant.
    ‘It wasn’t because you hit me. You hit like a girl. I was going to have the operation anyway.’
    And then, before I had a chance to say anything, doyou know what she said? She said, ‘I probably deserved it anyway.’ She kept her eyes on my face all the time and she didn’t blink, not once.
    And all I could think of to say to that was, ‘Oh.’ It was a lot to take in:
    It wasn’t my fault that she was in hospital.
    I wasn’t even strong enough to hurt a helpless invalid.
    She didn’t really blame me for hitting her.
    And then I realised something else: she didn’t have to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. She could have said nothing, and let me go on thinking that I was to blame, but she didn’t.
    Which was the first nice thing Ruth Wallace had ever done for me.
    And saying that she deserved it – well, that was almost the same as telling me she was sorry, which was the
last
thing I had been expecting.
I
was the one who was supposed to be saying sorry here.
    Just then, a bell rang in the corridor, and she said, ‘You have to go now.’ And then she closed her eyes, and I waited a minute to see if she’d open them again, but she didn’t, so I turned around and walked out. The girl in the other bed still had her eyes closed, but she probably heard every word.
    And all the way downstairs, I was still trying to get my head around the fact that I had just had my first ever conversation with Ruth Wallace. And nobody had shouted, and nobody had said anything nasty.
    And all the way home, I thought about how I’d been worrying myself sick for the past few days, how I’d tossed and turned in bed every night, waiting forsomeone to find out what a terrible thing I’d done, wondering if Ruth Wallace was dead, or seriously injured.
    Imagine she reads Tracey Beaker, just like me. I wonder what music she listens to – wouldn’t it be funny if she liked Eminem?
    Hit like a girl, indeed. I’d like to see
her
try and hurt someone with a litre of milk.
    But thank goodness that’s all over, and I can concentrate on the next terrifying thing in my life – my first ever date, tomorrow night.
    I think I’m going to throw up.

Late, Friday, 7th January.
    Talk about a disaster.
    It started off OK. Chris was waiting for me at the corner of the cinema block, which was just as well, because I was ready to run home again if he wasn’t.
    He smelt nice, but he looked a bit strange. His clothes were fine – he wore black jeans and a grey shirt, and a leather jacket that looked new – but he had stuff in his hair, some kind of gel, or something, that made it all stick up as if someone had just given him a fright. It was a real pity, because Chris has lovely floppy hair. He probably thought it made him look cool.
    Anyway, I began to relax a bit when I saw him, especially when he smiled. He really has the most gorgeous smile. His dimple is so much cuter than mine, it’s not fair.

    As we walked towards the cinema, Chris began telling me about the digital camera he’d got for Christmas, butI wasn’t really listening, because all I kept thinking was ‘I’m on a date.’ I was half hoping, and half dreading, that he’d try to hold my hand, but he didn’t.
    And then, as soon as we walked into the cinema, it all went horribly wrong, because the first two people we saw were Bumble and Catherine.
    It was