Freaks Out! by Jean Ure Page A

after him, his nostrils twitching. Food is such a big thing in the life of a dog! But he is very loyal. He settled down to watch as I crawled about on my hands and knees, picking up bits of mixing bowl. Mum was not going to be pleased, but at least I could make sure the floor was nice and dry, so she wouldn’t be able to complain about that.
    I folded Angel’s shawl and wiped her crystal necklace on a sheet of kitchen roll, then took them back upstairs to her room. I put them away exactly as I had found them. No way could she ever suspect I had been there.
    On my way back along the landing I heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive and knewthat Mum and Dad had returned. Rags gave one of his loud, happy barks and went galloping off to greet them, nearly throwing me over as he did so. Angel complains that he’s an ill-mannered yob, but he’s like me, he gets enthusiastic. Not that I was feeling very enthusiastic right at that moment. I was actually tempted to turn round and go hide in my bedroom, but I knew it would only be putting off the evil moment. Mum was bound to discover sooner or later.
    Oops! She already had… She was looking in the pedal bin even as I breezed my way through the kitchen door. I was still hoping that maybe she wouldn’t yet have found out, which was why I chose to breeze rather than slink. If you slink, it makes you look guilty. But breezing didn’t deceive Mum for one second.
    â€œFrankie?” she said. “What happened with my mixing bowl?”
    Immediately assuming I was the one to blame. Not Tom; not Angel. Me.
    â€œI’m waiting,” said Mum.
    â€œI’m really sorry,” I said, “it was an accident.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t imagine you’d done it on purpose! I was just wondering,” said Mum, “what you were doing with it at all? I thought you were supposed to be getting on with your homework?”
    For a minute I had this wild idea of claiming that it was homework, like making something for technology. Trouble was, I couldn’t think what I might be making. Last week we’d done soup, but you don’t need a mixing bowl for that.
    â€œStill waiting,” said Mum.
    I had to tell her something. “I was unblocking my sinuses,” I said. “Like Dad.”
    â€œDad doesn’t go smashing my mixing bowls, and what’s wrong with your sinuses, anyway?”
    I sniffed. “They’re blocked. I’m all stuffed up.”
    â€œRubbish!” said Mum.
    â€œI could have a polyp,” I said. A girl at school had had a polyp. It used to plop in and out of her nose and make you feel sick. She had it removed in the end.
    â€œI don’t see any signs of a polyp,” said Mum. “I hope you’re not turning into a hypochondriac.”
    Whatever that is.
    â€œSomeone who imagines they’ve got things wrong with them when they haven’t,” said Mum. “The only thing wrong with you, my girl, is that you don’t seem to have any sort of control over your movements!”
    I felt like pointing out that that in itself could be a symptom of some kind of fatal disease, and that any normal mother would take it seriously, but I thought perhaps I’d better not.
    â€œI wiped the floor for you,” I said. “It’s dry as can be!”
    She didn’t even praise me for making such a good job of it. I really do wonder, sometimes, if it’s worth bothering.
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    Jem called me later, wanting to know how I’d got on.
    â€œDid you discover anything?”
    I told her no, Tom had come barging in making stupid noises and upset me.
    â€œIt’s a very delicate operation,” I said. “You need absolute peace and quiet.”
    â€œSo are you going to try again?”
    I’d thought about that, but the only other mixing bowl Mum had was a tiny one. Plus I didn’t fancy my chances a second time, creeping into Angel’s room and