The Bex Factor Read Free Page A

there’s no such thing as destiny. Bad stuff just happens.
    What does she want, anyway? I thought she was just some random girl I could spend a random hour with. I even thought it might be a nice break from the same old same old. But that was before I
knew she was Kyle McCrory’s sister.
    The main thing is not to panic. I mean, just because her brother’s a certified psycho who needed five policemen to drag him down from the science block roof, doesn’t mean she has to
be a complete headcase. But I’d feel a whole lot happier if I knew what she was playing at. So I search the room for clues.
    It’s got that girlie smell of fresh towels and apple shampoo, and the floor is so tidy you could actually walk across it. If you ask me, you’d have to be out of your mind to want
Rihanna looking down on you 24/7, but I guess that’s pretty normal too. So’s her CD collection: a couple of OK albums and a whole load of what Curtis Morgan calls ‘R&B
lite’.
    Even so, I’m quietly shitting myself when the door bursts open, and I have my second near heart attack in under ten minutes. ‘I haven’t touched anything, promise.’
    ‘Hold her, will you?’ barks a voice I don’t recognise. ‘I’m desperate.’
    She’s what Curtis Morgan would probably still describe as a ‘hot chick’ in baggy sweat pants and a stain-splattered hoodie. She practically rugby passes me a pink blanket with
a warm squidgy thing inside, before rushing back into the hall screaming, ‘Oi, Bex, get a bloody move on. I’m gagging for a poo.’
    Suddenly there’s this rank smell in here, and even though my head is telling me to get the hell out, my legs won’t seem to budge.
    Which makes it all the more chilling when the warm squidgy thing starts moving. And making this noise, like a cartoon duck in a liquidiser. And . . . OH MY GOD. IT’S A BABY.
    I don’t do babies. They can’t talk, they stink of puke and they wouldn’t know an Xbox if it bit them on the bottom and whistled the theme tune from Family Guy . At least
my legs seem to have rediscovered the art of motion. But only in circles. So I stagger round the room, vainly hoping for someone to rugby pass the smelly thing back to.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    I can’t believe I’m actually pleased to see her. ‘It’s a . . . baby.’
    ‘You don’t say,’ says Bex. ‘Here, give her to me.’
    I hand over the wailing stink-bomb. The wailing stops. ‘I don’t understand. What’s it . . . ?’
    ‘She’s my sister’s lurve child,’ says Bex, taking the baby’s hand and waving it at me like a puppet. ‘Her name’s Yasmin. Gorgeous, isn’t
she?’
    ‘Yes . . . I s’pose.’
    Bex looks much better in jeans than her school uniform. I can’t help noticing some new curvy bits. ‘How about a smile for your Auntie Bex?’ she coos.
    I’m just wondering why the female of the species gets so gooey about this sort of thing when I remember what Dad said about girls off council estates who get pregnant on purpose so they
can claim more benefits. ‘I think I’d better go.’
    ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Bex, holding the baby above her head and whizzing it towards me like an aeroplane. ‘I want to ask you a big favour.’
    Suddenly it all clicks. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m putting two and two together and making a fish. I mean, first she tells me what a great guitarist I am, and then she lures me
back to the Dogberry Estate and bounces a baby in my face. Maths isn’t really my subject, but it all adds up.
    ‘What kind of a favour?’ I ask, trying not to sound like I’ve figured it out.
    ‘It’s OK if you don’t want to, yeah? Look, I know it probably feels a bit weird . . . considering we’ve only just met and everything, but I was just wondering if
—’
    ‘Cheers, mate, you’re a lifesaver.’ Jogging Pants Girl is leaning in the doorway looking a bit like a model from one of Mum’s catalogues.
    Bex looks furious. ‘Do you mind, Natalie? We’re