“Fruit gums for stained-glass windows and marshmallows for window ledges and Toblerone for a gable,” I spelt out endlessly. It took forever but Lisa nodded at each word and calmly went on painting.
“That's so great, Natasha. If only you could paint too. What if we strapped a brush to your hand?”
“Too shaky.”
“How about your mouth?” Lisa gently put the end of her paintbrush in my mouth and then tried to push me nearer the desk where a piece of paper was set out. I saw Wendy step forward to help with the wheelchair but Mr. Speed stopped her.
I tried hard, clenching my teeth. I know lots of people with severe disabilities use their mouths. Some really little kids at my special school can operate anything with a wriggle of their lips. But I find it incredibly difficult. It took me years to learn to drink with a straw, for goodness' sake. I'm hardly going to paint Mona Lisas with my mouth.
I had several goes but I kept dropping the stupid brush the minute it touched the paper. I thought Lisa would quickly get fed up with this lark but she was incredibly patient. I was the one who spat the brush out deliberately in disgust.
“Try again, Natasha,” said Mr. Speed.
I knew he'd been watching us.
“You try,” I said with my machine. You can get away with being a bit cheeky when you've got disabilities.
“OK, I'll have a go,” said Mr. Speed.
He sat in front of the piece of paper, stuck a paintbrush in his mouth, dabbled it—with difficulty— in a pot of pink paint and then tried to paint with it. He was too jerky and the paint much too runny. It spattered everywhere. Wendy was standing too near. A spray landed on her nose, like pink freckles. Lisa and I fell about laughing. I almost did it literally, flopping sideways in my chair. Wendy was a good sport, laughing too as she hauled me upright.
“ 'Orry, 'orry,” Mr. Speed mumbled, his mouth still full of paintbrush. He had another go, frowning ferociously with concentration. He kept blotching, but by his fifth piece of paper he'd managed a lopsided daisy.
He removed the paintbrush and flourished his painting. Lisa and Wendy clapped and I pressed “well done” on my talk machine. Mr. Speed presented the painting to Wendy, apologizing more coherently for spraying her with paint. Wendy went as pink as her freckles.
I caught Lisa's eye. She winked. We both giggled. Was there something going on between Wendy and Mr. Speed?
Wendy was all too happy to stay behind with me after school. We sometimes popped round other days too.
My mum and dad were thrilled that I'd made a new friend.
“Ask Lisa if she wants to come to tea,” said Mum.
So I did, though I was a bit worried about it. Sometimes kids are happy to be your friend at school but they don't want to be real tell-you-everything-come-to-my-sleepover friends with someone like me. But Lisa looked really pleased. So Wendy drove us both home in the special adapted car and Lisa met my mum and my dad and my big sister, Lois. I felt a bit bothered because they all baby me a bit, especially my dad. He always fusses round me, chucking me under the chin, tickling me, treating me like a fairy princess.
“My dad's a bit daft,” I said with my voice machine when Lisa and I were in my room.
“Your dad's lovely,” said Lisa. She looked strangely sad. But she smiled again as she peered all round my room. “Your room's so fantastic, Natasha!”
My room would be the front room or dining room in most people's houses, but it's my bedroom because it's downstairs so it saves Mum or Dad hauling me up and down every day. I didn't want it all frilly and little-girly. I've got deep navy carpet and curtains and a navy-and-white-checked duvet and a white table the right height for my wheelchair and a big white bookshelf unit with loads of brightly jacketed books and white bowls containing my cactus collection. There's a big crystal mobile hanging near the windows so there are rainbow sparkles on the white walls whenever the sun shines.
“Oh, I had one little crystal hanging up where we used to live,” Lisa said, touching the mobile very gently with one finger. “But someone broke it when we moved.”
“I know a shop where––” I started to say with my voice machine, but Lisa was shaking her head.
“No, I don't want another. It wouldn't be the same.” Her voice went wobbly. “Nothing's the same anymore.”
I didn't say, “Tell me.” The voice machine would bark it out like a robot order. I just looked “Tell me” with my eyes. Lisa came and sat beside me and started telling me all this sad, sad, sad stuff about her dad and how he drinks all the time now and hits her mum. Lisa cried a little. I wished I could reach out properly and give her a cuddle. My arms went flailing wildly all over the place, but Lisa understood. She grabbed one of my hands and we held on to each other tightly.
I tried to think what it must be like to be Lisa. My dad has a can or two of lager when he watches soccer on the television but I've never seen him drunk. He did come back acting a bit silly after his office party. He came into my room to kiss me good night—but he was just funny-drunk, singing songs to me and pretending to tie my plaits into tangles.
I can't ever imagine Dad hitting anyone. He's never once smacked Lois or me, even if we were really naughty, and he'd never hit Mum. He teases her a little bit if she gets bossy but she just laughs. I don't think I could bear it if I had Lisa's dad.
I couldn't tell her all this on my laborious machine. I just held on to her hand and she squeezed it tight.
“You won't tell anyone, will you, Natasha?” she said without thinking.
“As if!” I said with my machine, and we both laughed a little shakily.
“Did you tell Mr. Speed?”
“No!”
“Maybe you could put it on the Worry Web Site?”
“Maybe. Hey, I saw you putting something on the Web site, Natasha. What did you put? Or is it private?”
“No. It was silly. The concert. I wanted to be in it. Like sing? Dance? Ha ha.”
“I'm not in it either. I didn't feel like it so I said I'd paint the scenery.”
“But you could be in it.” I couldn't say it with the right emphasis but she understood.
“Yes, I suppose I could be the all-singing ever-dancing Lisa and warble and twirl and sing—?”
“Don't worry, be happy!”
Lisa laughed.
I said it again, hitting the “worry” word on my keyboard several times to make it sound like a funny little chorus.
Lisa looked at me.
“Do that again.”
I did.
“And you can keep on doing that? It doesn't hurt your hand, does it?”
“No, but it hurts my ears,” I said. “It sounds weird.”
“It sounds perfect! Natasha, we'll do a song together at the concert. We can make up the verses, something about Mr. Speed's Web site—and then we can sing it. I'll do the verses and each chorus is—?”
“Worry worry worry worry!”
That's just what we did! The concert was soooo cool. The fairy-tale pantomime was great and everyone admired the spectacular scenery. But it was the star turns that went down really well. Holly and her little sister did a dance together wearing wonderful embroidered new dresses—they looked so cute. Greg sang a song about falling in love. He might have meant it to be serious but he kept rolling his eyes and clutching his heart and everyone got the giggles.
William and Samantha were the real surprise. I was getting nervous because it was nearly our turn and I so badly didn't want to let Lisa down. But I laughed so much at William mucking up his tricks and Samantha raising her eyebrows and tossing her hair and doing it for him that the tight feeling in my tummy disappeared. Everyone cheered and cheered William and Samantha. William's dad whistled and clapped like crazy and Samantha's dad was in tears. Samantha ran off the stage straight into his arms.
“Thank goodness my dad isn't here,” Lisa muttered to me. She had a little wave at her mum as she pushed me onstage.
Everyone went quiet and still. I knew t
hey were all tense because of me. People who squirm around in wheelchairs don't usually perform onstage.
But once we got started it was OK. This is our Worry Song:
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Have you got a worry messing up your head?
Do you feel in a flurry?
Do you wish you could stay in bed?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Do you have a secret fear?
Do you hate the way you look?
Do you shed a secret tear?
Seek the answer from a book?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Can't find a solution?
Can't get to sleep at night?
Do you worry about pollution,
starving people, men that fight?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Do your worries make you blush?
Are you scared to spit it out?
Do you blurt it in a rush?
Are you cast down in doubt?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Do you wet the bed?
Does your dad shout at your mum?
Do you scream inside your head?
Does the pain make you numb?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Do you fuss about a spot?
Do you feel you are too fat?
Do you talk a lot of rot?
Do you feel a total prat?
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Well, you know what to do
when your worries get you down.
The Worry Web Site's here for you—
It will smooth out that frown.
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
Your friends will show they care
With comments frank but fond.
It helps us all to share,
and Mr. Speed will wave his magic wand
To stop you going—
Worry worry worry worry
Worry worry worry worry
WORRY!
I said it was OK. It was more than OK. We were the glitter-girl stars of the show!
Mr. Speed really does seem to be able to work magic because nearly everyone's worries have been sorted out. Even Mr. Speed's. He sat hand in hand with Wendy throughout the entire concert!
Published by
Dell Yearling
an imprint of
Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Copyright © 2002 by Jacqueline Wilson
“Lisa's Worry” copyright © 2002 by Lauren Roberts
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eISBN: 978-0-307-54968-6
February 2005
v3.0
Jacqueline Wilson, The Worry Web Site
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