Step by Wicked Step Read online

  She’d better be careful, I thought. She’d better watch out. Or this time she’ll hear a bit more than she was expecting.

  She started off carefully enough. She perched herself neatly on the end of Hetty’s bed.

  ‘I hear there’s a bit of a problem between you two.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said warily.

  ‘Hetty says you’re not talking to her.’

  ‘I’m talking.’

  ‘Not properly, she says.’

  I turned away.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to talk to Hetty all the time,’ I said. ‘After all, I’m not used to sharing a bedroom with someone who isn’t family.’

  ‘Hetty is family.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ I said. ‘Not to me. Not really.’

  I turned back and saw that Lucy was suddenly looking very nervous. She hadn’t realized I was going to break the rules and say exactly what I thought, for once.

  ‘She is your stepsister,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s my stepsister. But you and Dad at least got to choose one another. You two decided that you wanted to live in the same house and share a room. Hetty and I have just been shoved in together. We didn’t get to choose. We’re just expected to pretend to get on, so it suits everyone else.’

  Lucy said slowly:

  ‘But don’t you think that’s true for pretty well everybody in the world? After all, you don’t even get to choose your own parents, really, do you? It’s only chance.’

  I couldn’t believe it! I could not believe it. Here I was, trying to explain how I feel about having to share a room with someone I don’t really like, who isn’t even family. And Lucy’s not even listening! She’s sitting there thinking up stupid arguments to try and beat me down!

  That’s different!’ I snapped at her. ‘Quite different! And you know it!’

  She went bright red. She knew that I was furious. Rattled, she tried another tack.

  ‘And I didn’t choose you, either,’ she pointed out. ‘But I still try to get along with you.’

  Then, suddenly realizing this might have sounded pretty nasty, she added hastily:

  ‘And your dad didn’t choose Sophie or Hetty, either. But he tries to get along with them. We both try.’

  ‘So you should!’ I said rudely. ‘After all, it was you two who made things turn out this way, not me and Hetty and Sophie.’

  And then, to spite her, I added:

  ‘Or my mum.’

  That got her. You could see she was willing herself not to jump up and slap me. And I’m not even sure she would have got a grip of herself in time, except that, just at that moment, the door handle gave a little creak as it began to turn. Both of us saw it. It was unmistakable. I thought at first that it was Hetty the Pain, come back to gloat. But when the door opened a crack, both of us could see from the height of the shadow behind it that it wasn’t Hetty at all. It was my dad.

  We heard his soft intake of breath.

  ‘Whoops!’

  And the door closed again. He’d obviously sensed that there was trouble brewing, and rather than come in and help us sort it out, he’d just decided to stay safely out of things, as usual.

  I wasn’t in the least surprised. And neither was Lucy. But she was really irritated, you could tell. And past bothering to hide it.

  ‘That’s right!’ she hissed scornfully at the door. ‘Creep away! Leave it all to the Wicked Stepmother, as usual!’

  Maybe I should have been more careful. But I was irritated, too. It just popped out.

  ‘Nobody forced you to marry him.’

  She turned on me.

  ‘No,’ she said icily. ‘Nobody forced me. And if I’d had the faintest idea what I was getting into, I wouldn’t have done it in a million years!’

  I was astonished. And I must have shown it, because Lucy added sarcastically:

  ‘No need to look so surprised. When was the last time you heard any of your friends saying they want to be a stepmother when they grow up? Never, that’s when. And I can tell you why. Because it’s not a life anyone in her right mind would choose!’

  ‘Better than being a stepdaughter,’ I muttered bitterly. ‘Or a stepsister.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ she said, stung. ‘Well, I don’t think you can claim to have put too much of an effort into being either. You show up here twice a month. You don’t take the slightest interest in anyone or anything around you. You sneak up to your bedroom as soon as you reckon you can get away with it, and only bother to come down to eat. I cook your meals for you. I change your sheets. I clean your room. I even wash your clothes. And you never even bother to thank me for any of it.’

  ‘You can’t have it both ways!’ I snapped. ‘Either I’m “family” –’ (and here I made sure my lip curled) ‘–or I’m not. And family don’t have to go round thanking you for doing the cleaning and the cooking.’

  ‘Hetty can manage it.’

  ‘Oh, Hetty!’ I scoffed. ‘Oh, of course! Hetty the Perfect! Hetty the Perfect Pain!’

  She went bright red.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Be as nasty as you like. But I know which I’d choose: a child who knows how to behave, or one who doesn’t.’

  I scowled.

  ‘I know how to behave.’

  ‘Do you?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You insist you’re not “family”’ (and here she imitated my scornful voice) ‘but you certainly have no idea how to behave as a guest. You sit and take. You never stir yourself to offer to help with anything. And in all the time that you’ve been coming, you’ve never so much as offered me a daffodil picked off a council roundabout!’

  Now it was my turn to be stung.

  ‘I gave you a present for your birthday. And for Christmas.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Oh, yes! Soap! And then more soap! Leftovers from your mother’s gift drawer, I suppose.’

  I hate it when she mentions Mum.

  ‘Don’t do that, please!’

  ‘Do what?’

  She seemed genuinely astonished.

  ‘Make snide remarks about my mother.’

  ‘Snide remarks?’ She stared. ‘You have the nerve to call that a snide remark? You, who’ve just called my daughter a Perfect Pain! Now who’s trying to have it both ways?’

  I can’t stand it when people sneer at me. I just go mad.

  ‘She is a pain!’ I yelled. ‘A total pain! Just like her sister! In fact, if you want to know, I can’t stand either of your ratty, squabbling children!’

  Lucy went deathly white. But I kept on.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ I bellowed, ‘I can’t stand anything about this house. I don’t like the people in it – except my dad. And even he’s too busy making sure he doesn’t show me any special favours to spend much time with me!’

  I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears of rage.

  ‘There’s nothing to do here,’ I sobbed at her angrily. ‘There isn’t even any point in going out because I don’t have any friends round here. So I’m just stuck upstairs in that boring little bedroom, twiddling my thumbs, because all of my own stuff is back at the other house.’

  ‘But you could –’

  ‘I can’t!’ I screamed at her. ‘You think I can, but I can’t! Mum doesn’t like me bringing my things round here. She won’t admit it. But whenever she notices that something is missing, she just keeps on and on at me about it until I bring it back!’

  ‘I didn’t know –’

  ‘Nobody knows!’ I yelled at her. ‘Nobody ever asks! How would you like it? How would you like any of it?’ I wiped my tears away angrily with my sleeve. ‘Being packed up every other week, and forced to sit and be polite to someone else’s boring family!’

  I clenched my fists and stamped.

  ‘Not even close family! Half the time, when I’m here, I have to sit and listen to Sophie and Hetty’s doddery old relations droning on and on!’

  That got her.

  ‘Now, listen! I’ve to
ld you this before. Sunday is the only day when Nana and Grandpa can –’

  ‘I don’t care!’ I howled at her. ‘Why should I care? They’re not mine. They sit in their armchairs trying to think of more boring things to say to me, to try and cover up the fact that they’ve just sneaked Sophie and Hetty some money, and not given anything to me!’

  Lucy went scarlet. She hadn’t realized that I’d noticed that.

  ‘You see?’ I crowed. ‘You’re going on at me to act like family and not give you boring old soap for Christmas. Why aren’t you on at them? I see the presents they give Sophie and Hetty. I see the poky things they give to me. But I don’t blame them. In fact, I think they’re right. We’re not a normal family. It’s only you who keeps on trying to pretend we are. It’s you who keeps trying to have it all both ways!’

  And then, to my amazement, Lucy lost her temper back.

  ‘I’m not the only one who wants it both ways!’ she shouted, sizzling with rage. ‘When it comes to that, I can assure you that your family walks off with the bronze, the silver and the gold!’

  She jabbed at the counterpane with her finger.

  ‘You take your mother! She expects me to do everything for you while you’re in this house. Everything! But do I get any support from her? I do not! And if there’s anything that annoys her, who gets the blame? Your father? No. Me, of course. I’m in the perfect trap. I cannot do a single thing right, down to something as simple as taking you to the cinema. If I buy your ticket, I’m trying to bribe you or lure you away from her. And if I don’t, I’m unspeakably mean and I’m favouring my own children. Whatever I do, I simply cannot win!’

  Now she was jabbing with another finger.

  ‘Then there’s your dad. He wants it both ways too! So long as I pretend that everything’s fine, then your dad’s perfectly amiable. He’s all smiles. But if I say anything, it’s very different. If I say a single word about your lack of manners in this house, or your mother’s continual criticism, or the fact that he hasn’t got the guts to speak to either of you about the things that make life difficult for Sophie and Hetty and me, then all of a sudden it’s as if I’m the problem, not you three! He puts this look on his face as if to say: “If Lucy didn’t get so worked up about all these little matters, everything would be fine.”’

  And now she was pointing at me.

  ‘And as for you! I thought you were supposed to be an intelligent girl! But you still manage to walk round this house as if you sincerely and honestly believed that, without me and Sophie and Hetty, everything in your life would be hunky-dory!’

  She threw up her hands.

  ‘Go on, then. Carry on. I’m used to it. Go on, all three of you, treating me as if I’m the only problem in your lives. Keep on telling yourselves that, if it weren’t for the Wicked Stepmother, everything would be fine. Carry on living in your dream world!’

  I don’t know what it was about her calling it a dream world that so annoyed me. But I was furious.

  ‘You’re the one in the dream world!’ I shouted. ‘Playing Happy Families, and expecting everyone round you to play it too! Well, I won’t play. Why should I? You know I’m only here because I don’t want to hurt my dad’s feelings by saying I don’t want to come here any longer.’

  Lucy’s face crumpled.

  ‘Oh, Pixie! How I wish –’

  ‘Stop it!’ I yelled. ‘Just stop it! You can’t make things right by wishing them. You know that! That’s just as silly and hopeless as me wanting you to get run over by accident, so Mum and Dad can get back together, and buy our old house back again! It isn’t going to happen, and you ought to know it!’

  All the blood in her face had drained away. And when she spoke, her voice was just a tiny croak.

  ‘I have to keep trying,’ she told me. ‘Can’t you see? This is my home. This is my family. If everyone’s unhappy, there’s no point. Everything’s spoiled.’

  And she burst into tears.

  ‘Everything’s spoiled anyway,’ I told her.

  And I started crying, too.

  She put her arms out, and I went to her. I couldn’t help it. We sat together on the bed, both of us crying our eyes out. She stroked my hair. And then something curious happened. There was a tap on the door, and Dad was there, cautiously poking his head round with an ‘Are you two scrappers ready for a cup of tea now?’ look.

  But Lucy just said to him coldly:

  ‘Please go away.’

  Maybe she thought that he was interrupting. But I don’t think so. I think she was just fed up with him forever staying out of things, and not facing up to what was bothering everyone, and only creeping in when he thought the trouble was over, and it was safe.

  And I felt the same. Dad could have done so much more to make things easier for all of us. He could have made an effort to find out what was difficult for me, and help me explain to Mum and to Lucy. He could have stuck up for me when I was right (and maybe even for Lucy when I was wrong). But instead he just got on with his own selfish, quiet life, pretending he didn’t notice things, or leaving them for Lucy, and never trying to sort out any of the horrible, horrible mess he’d made by changing all our lives for ever.

  Lucy was trying hard enough. Why couldn’t he?

  So I stuck up for her.

  ‘Yes, go away.’

  He didn’t need telling twice. He disappeared. And Lucy squeezed me tight.

  ‘Better?’

  I sniffed.

  ‘A bit,’ I said. And then I added, because it was true: ‘I wouldn’t want to be a stepmother.’

  She squeezed me again.

  ‘And I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’ She shrugged. ‘But then again, I wouldn’t choose to be all sorts of people. And most of them end up managing somehow.’

  I blew my nose.

  ‘Lucy, what I said about not wanting to come except for not hurting Dad’s feelings, that’s not exactly true. Sometimes, when Mum’s going on at me, I wish I could come and live here all the time. So I can’t hate it that much.’ I blew my nose again. ‘It’s just that, whenever Hetty teases me about my name, or something, I want to go straight home again and never come back.’

  ‘Teases you? About your name?’

  ‘Calls me “Priscilla”.’

  Lucy looked baffled.

  ‘How is that teasing?’

  My tears welled up again.

  ‘Priscilla!’ I wailed.

  She took me by the elbows and shook me gently.

  ‘Priscilla’s a beautiful name,’ she told me. ‘And so is Cilia. I think your parents did a lovely job of choosing what to call you.’

  And somehow, because we’d finished up with Lucy saying something nice about both Mum and Dad, it felt as if the quarrel was over, with no bad feelings simmering away. I dried my tears and blew my nose again. Then I helped Lucy drag Hetty’s bed back over the landing into Sophie’s room.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I kept saying. ‘She can stay with me if she wants.’

  Lucy was firm.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You obviously do mind. So let’s go back to how we were before, and if you ever change your mind, and want Hetty back, all you have to do is tell me.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, pulling the bedcovers straight again. ‘All right.’

  So now we’re back exactly how we were before. Except that everything’s different. I’m not pretending any more. Everyone knows how I feel, and I know how they feel. We’re not just playing Happy Families. (I know that Lucy still hopes we’ll turn into one, but now at least she’s letting us take our time.)

  I’m still not crazy about my stepsisters. Hetty’s a real pain, and Sophie still gets on my nerves. But we’re managing better. For one thing, Hetty no longer yodels ‘Priscilla!’ up the stairs at me. Lucy’s stopped that. And, in return, I come down a lot more often than I did, and try to be more sociable. And if I’m cunning, and bring down my books, I get some help with my homework. When I said that Hetty could explain things, I really me
ant it. I’ve understood a lot of maths for the first time since Hetty went over it with me. Miss O’Dell even told me last week that if I keep on like this, I might move up a set next term.

  And, in return, I frighten Hetty out of her wits. Each bedtime she creeps in and perches on the end of my downie.

  Tell me some more about the ghost of Henrietta Forbes.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything,’ I insist. ‘I’ve told you about the time her ghost appeared at the bus-stop, dripping gouts of blood, with her half-severed arm still clutching her bus pass.’

  She nods.

  ‘And I’ve told you about the time the puppies in the pet shop were found in the morning, stark staring mad, whining frantically and clawing at the bars whenever they were shown her photograph?’

  She nods again. ‘Yes, that was a good one. I could fetch Sophie and you could tell that one again.’

  I shook my head. I hate telling the same story twice.

  ‘Well, what about the time her bloodied corpse was found in the graveyard in the moonlight, sobbing and shrieking and scrabbling at her husband’s grave. Have I told you that one?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘I’m sure I have.’

  ‘No, really, Pix. You haven’t.’

  She bunches up the feet end of my downie, and wraps it round her, ready for a fright. ‘Go on. Tell me the story.’

  It’s better than listening to her read and sniff. So off I go.

  ‘One horrid dark and stormy night…’

  After, she sometimes goes back to her room. But only if Sophie’s there. If Sophie’s gone to sleep over at somebody’s party, or at Nana and Grandpa’s, then Hets has to stay with me. We drag the mattress off her bed, and drag it down the hall.

  Dad hears us giggling, and comes out to watch.

  ‘I simply don’t understand why you two have to go through this performance time and again,’ he grumbles. ‘You’re ruining that mattress. Why can’t you just leave it on Pixie’s floor?’