The Taming Of The Tights. Louise Rennison

her. For an eleven year-old she’s quite strong.

      Big black clouds were tumbling in again from Grimbottom and in the distance we could see lightning crackling. There was a rumble as we set off up the back path.

      We reached the old tree with its branch that we sit on. Ruby pulled her coat round her and shouted above the gathering wind. “It’ll start pouring down in abaht five minutes so ‘go fetch!’ Matilda.” And Ruby flung a stick for Matilda to chase.

      Matilda lay down like a splayed chicken.

      Ruby said, “Oh, you!!! That’s not ‘go fetch’, is it? That’s lying down and dying for England!!!”

      Ruby went running off into the bracken to get the stick, shouting, “And then you can start telling me abaht snogging and stuff, Lullah!”

      Matilda’s not interested in stick fetching. She knows a stick is not a biscuit so why would she want to fetch it?

      Gosh, it was wild up there with the lowering sky and the trees bending in the wind and the moors stretching off.

      I sat down on the branch and snuggled into my anorak and put my hood up. I was sitting on the branch that HE had sat on.

      I could feel his warm presence even through my anorak.

      Alex the Good.

      I was sitting where Alex the Good sat.

      In a way, I was sitting on his knee.

      Alex, Alex the Good. Ruby’s gorgey older brother.

      I’ve got a bit of a crush on him. Even though he thinks I’m just a schoolgirl, he’s always nice to me. Really specially nice to me.

      He’s not like the Hinchcliff brothers, Seth, Ruben and the other brother. Whose name I will never mention again. But the one who waved a dead rabbit’s paw. That one.

      Yes, Alex is always nice to me, encouraging me to fill my tights. Not like Dr Lightowler the drama tutor who says, “Seeing you onstage makes me feel physically sick.”

      Mmmmmm, Alex.

      It was sunny when I last saw him, he was up here looking out to the moors. Like Mr Darcy. Only not in pantaloons and a ruffled shirt. He saw me and said, “Hey, Lullah!” and hugged me.

      In a proper huggy way. I felt myself melt. I don’t mean I actually melted, I just mean … anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I melted or not. It was just me and him in Brontë country. Where Em Brontë wrote Withering Tights. It was a perfect opportunity for him to kiss me.

      But then ‘she’ came wafting out of a field like a, like a twit. A twit in a floaty dress. He introduced us: “Meet Candice, she’s at college with me.” Then he kissed her on the lips.

      Do boys like twits in floaty dresses? I haven’t asked Cousin Georgia that. She’s told me some number one rules that they do like. Boys, I mean.

      Like when you want them to like you, you have to have ‘sticky eyes’. Not eyes with glue on, just eyes that do ‘looking up, looking down and then just looking, full-on looking at them’.

      Georgia said you mustn’t accidentally do sticky eyes when a boy says something so stupid you are staring at him in disbelief. Because they will get the wrong impression and think that you actually like them. In an ‘I fancy you’ way.

      Another top tip Georgia says is that boys like you to say nice things to them and praise them for stuff. Even if they unexpectedly do a back flip or something.

      You have to say, “Golly, that’s the best back flip I’ve ever seen.”

      I said to Georgia, “No fool would believe that you really liked people doing back flips.”

      Georgia said, “Boys will. If you say something nice to them and give them praise, they are like jelly boys and you can do anything with them.”

      My brother Connor thinks he is the world’s top farter. Which he probably is, but I’m not going to give him praise for that. Otherwise he’d do it all day.

      He does do it all day.

      I’ve got a photo from Georgia to remind me of her. I’ve stuck it in my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary. It’s of her and her Ace Gang sitting in one of those big teacups that go round and round at fairgrounds. They’re supposed to be for tiny toddlers. In fact, there were some little children in the background crying.

      On the back of the photo it says, Send us the latest on the D. B. C. of H. Yours sincerely, A Friend. And some other friends. In our cups.

      Georgia wants the latest on the D. B. C. of H who is Cain. He’s so awful I call him the Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite. But there won’t be anything to tell Georgia because I won’t be having anything to do with him.

      EVER again.

      Whoever he is.

      And if I do see him, I’m going to make it clear that what happened, you know, the accidental snogging incident on the moorland path, was …

      You know.

      Erm, an act of madness brought on by low blood sugar.

      Ruby and Matilda came bounding back. Suddenly there was a loud growling in the gorse. Ruby said hoarsely, “Maybe it’s a wild otter from Skipton? Gone mad. Say something to it. Calm it down.”

      What do you say to otters?

      Do otters go mad?

      I said, “Ruby, how can it be a wild otter gone mad? You’ve just made that up.”

      Ruby said, “It’s still rustling about, going to rip our throats out though, isn’t it? Make friends with it.”

      Make friends with an otter? I called out shakily, “We come in peace, we mean you no harm.”

      Cain’s big black dog bounded out with its tongue lolling. Cain calls his big black dog ‘Dog’.

      Matilda shuffled behind Ruby and me. Dog thought she was playing a hiding game. His favourite. He barked and then rushed to one side of us. Matilda quickly toddled round the other side. But then Dog unexpectedly changed direction and he came up behind and started sniffing her bottom.

      Ruby shouted into the dark moors, “Cain! I know you’re out there, stop messing abaht and come and get yer bloody dog. It’s got its nose up Matilda’s bum!”

      Oh Dear Mother of Baby Jesus.

      The Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite.

      He was here.

      What should I do?

      I must be very cool with him.

      Which is not going to be easy with my anorak hood up.

      But nothing happened. There was no noise except the wind whistling and Dog sniffing.

      Ruby shouted again, “Come on Cain, stop messing about.”

      But the moors were silent.

      Then Dog cocked his ear as if he could hear something we couldn’t and bounded off.

      It started to pelt down, and we ran and stumbled down the hill, almost blinded by the rain.

      By the time we got back to The Blind Pig, the rain was thunderous, pounding on the roof like it would break through. We got dried and had our supper in the back room. The Iron Pies were still ‘rehearsing’. Well, shouting and banging.

      We went up the two flights of stairs and snuggled into bed in Ruby’s room high up in the attic. Matilda was tucked up at the bottom of the bed and Ruby put a little nightcap on her head. She almost immediately nodded off. Oooooh, she is sweet.

      She reminds me of the owlets. Not her big puggy face and snoring, just the general feeling of lovey-doveyness.