Read Wonderland for Free Online Page B

sigh.
    “The till was short today. Mrs. Hickman might have stolen —”
    “Alfie!” Dad snaps.
    “What? She might have.”
    “Mrs. Hickman didn’t steal anything. It’s a mistake. That’s all.” I can feel Dad’s eyes on my dress. I think of Stella. Then immediately feel guilty. Stella hasn’t even been in the shop. And she wouldn’t. And Mrs. Hickman is always getting change wrong.
    “So, Jude. Going to tell me what you’re wearing?”
    “A dress,” I say out loud. And in my head,
Duh.
    “New, though. Where’d you get the money?”
    I look at him. Trying to see inside, like she can with me. “Are you accusing me of stealing?”
    “No. I just asked. It’s not like you to buy stuff like that, is it?”
    “I’ve got money. From Gran.” I stab a sweet-corn kernel with my fork.
    But he won’t give up. “So, who’d you go with? Shopping, I mean.”
    And for one minute I want to tell him. Because I know he wants me to have a friend. But not one like her. And I remember last time. Dad shouting. Telling her to go away.
    “No one,” I say. “Just me.”
    I fork a prawn and put it into my mouth. Willing it to stay down. Waiting for him to challenge me. But the phone rings and I’m saved. Maybe my fairy godmother does exist after all.
    “We’ll talk about this later.” He goes into the hallway, taking his glass with him.
    “Whatever,” I say, and push my plate away.
    “Dad, Jude whatevered you!”
    “Shut up, Alfie.” I kick at his legs.
    But he’s too fast. My foot arcs into nothing.
    He is staring at me still. Fascinated. Thinking.
    “Were you with Stella?” he asks.
    I look at him blankly. How does he know? Then I remember. I told him she was back, that day in the dunes. I nod.
    His face lights up with the lie I have told. “But you said you were on your own.”
    “You wouldn’t understand.” I push a kernel across the table and watch it roll silently onto the floor. “He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t like her. She did some stuff.”
    “What stuff?”
    “Just stuff . . .” So much stuff. And I shouldn’t tell him. But I want someone to know who she is. How incredible she is. Why I want her, need her. “Like . . . she painted the toilet red.”
    “Really?”
    I nod. She did. And the bath. One Sunday when Dad was in the top field with a calving. Stella was delighted. Said it was like peeing into blood. But Dad went spare. Made me scrape it all off.
    “What else, what else?”
    But I don’t answer. I’m listening to Dad on the phone, talking about shop awnings. God, the glamour of it. And I think about London and Stella kissing that guy outside the Rocket. And I remember Mum telling me she once kissed some pop star at the Palais. Because she could. And I want to get out of this town, out of this life, like never before. The need is overwhelming.

THE LETTER arrives on Saturday. Exams over, the long summer stretches out before me. I’m behind the till, making minimum wage, Stella sitting beside me, flicking through
Vogue
and passing judgment on society.
    The cowbells tinkle. Stella looks up.
    “Oh, my God. What does she think she’s wearing!” she whispers.
    It’s Mrs. Penleaze. Forty-something. No makeup. Hair scraped back in a lank ponytail. Anorak, despite the heat, and flowery skirt.
    “She looks like a bag lady.”
    I let out a snigger and Mrs. Penleaze looks at me, frowning. I turn it into a cough and smile at her, elbowing Stella to shut her up. Mrs. Penleaze goes back to her agonizing decision between baked beans and Spaghetti Hoops.
    “Go on. Take a risk. Get the hoops,” whispers Stella again.
    “God, Stella. Pack it in.”
    “Well. Anyone would think she was on
Deal or No Deal
the way she’s dragging it out. It’s not like it’s a life-changing decision.”
    “Maybe it is for her,” I say. “Maybe she’s never had spaghetti before.”
    Stella flashes me a lipstick smile. And I know what she is going to say. “OK. Dare.”
    “No way.” I shake my