Kids Jacqueline Wilson Cookie

ISBN 13: 9780552558310

Cookie

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( 4.196 valoraciones por Goodreads )
 
9780552558310: Cookie

A wonderful tale of family life, friendship and cookies from the mega-bestselling Jacqueline Wilson.
     
Beauty Cookson is no beauty.  She's a plain, timid girl who constantly feels inferior to the super-confident, snooty girls at school.  Worse than the teasing in the playground, though, is the unpredictable, hurtful criticism from her father. Beauty and her meek, sweet mother live in uneasy fear of his fierce rages, sparked whenever they break one of his fussy house rules.

     Eventually, after an unbearable birthday party and the very real threat of Dad's out-of-control temper, Mum and Beauty run away. Finding themselves in a quiet, idyllic seaside village, their new-found freedom and a moment of culinary inspiration give them a hobby, an income and even a new nickname for Beauty. Can they begin a happier, sweeter life--without Dad?

     A charming, page-turning and heart-warming story from this beloved author. 

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About the Author:

JACQUELINE WILSON is an extremely well-known and  hugely popular author who served as Children's Laureate from 2005-7.  She was been awarded a number of prestigious awards, including the British Children's Book of the Year and the Guardian Children's Fiction Award (for The Illustrated Mum), the Smarties Prize and the Children’s Book Award (for Double Act, for which she was also highly commended for the Carnegie Medal).  In 2002 Jacqueline was given an OBE for services to literacy in schools and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame.  She was the author most borrowed from British libraries in the last decade.

NICK SHARRATT has written and illustrated many books for chidren and won numerous awards for his picture books, including the Sheffield Children's Book Award and the 2001 Children's Book Award.  He has also enjoyed great success illustrating Jacqueline Wilson books.  Nick lives in Edinburgh.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

One
I turned on the television. I timed it perfectly. The music was just starting. I saw the cartoon picture of Sam and Lily spinning around, Sam waving, Lily delicately nibbling a carrot. They whirled faster and faster while a voice sang, “Who do you want to see?”
Little children piped up: “Sam and Lily in the Rabbit Hutch!”
I sang it too, but very quietly, just mouthing the words. There was only Mom at home and she was out in the kitchen. She wouldn’t mind a bit if I wanted to watch a baby show like Rabbit Hutch but I still felt embarrassed about it. Imagine if some of the really mean, snooty girls at school, Skye Wortley or Emily Barrington or Arabella Clyde-Smith, came barging through our front door and caught me watching a TV show for five-year-olds. They teased me enough anyway. I could hear them screaming with laughter over Beauty and her little bunny-wunny friend in the Rabbit Hutch.
I shut my eyes tight.
“Hey there!” said a soft gentle voice from the television.
I opened my eyes. There was Sam smiling at me, the real man, not the funny cartoon picture of him. I smiled back at him. I couldn’t help it. He had such a lovely funny grin. His brown eyes shone and he ducked his head a little so his soft shiny brown hair flopped across his forehead.
“How are you doing?” Sam asked.
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
He nodded and then looked down at Lily. He was holding her close against his chest. He needed both hands because there was a lot of Lily. Her lop ears brushed the collar of Sam’s checked shirt, while her back paws dangled past the belt of his jeans. Sam held her firmly so she felt safe. She relaxed against him, slowly blinking her blue eyes. She knew he would never ever drop her.
“I wonder what you’ve been doing today?” said Sam, looking at me.
“School,” I muttered.
“Which one?” Sam asked.
“Lady Mary Mountbank. I started there last year,” I said, sighing.
“Is it that bad?” said Sam sympathetically.
I considered. It wasn’t all bad. Rhona Marshall had asked me to her birthday party. She’d given my arm a special squeeze as she gave me the pink invitation card and said, “I do hope you can come.”
I liked Rhona a lot, even though she was best friends with Skye. Rhona never ever joined in the horrible Beauty routine. She just looked embarrassed and raised her eyebrows at me and once she whispered, “Take no notice.” This was sweet of her, but how could I help noticing when they were chanting stuff right in my face.
Miss Woodhead had been kind to me too. She especially liked my Roman project. I know this sounds as if I’m showing off, but she said I was a joy to teach. She said it quietly just to me and I went bright pink I was so pleased. But one of the others heard her and by break time half the class were muttering it and then making vomit noises. Skye made such loud vomit noises she nearly made herself really sick all down her school skirt. That would have been great.
I didn’t have time to babble all this to Sam so I just shrugged my shoulders. He’d understand.
“Lily likes her school,” he said. “But her lessons are easy-peasy. One lettuce plus one carrot plus one cabbage equals one big bunny snack! Just so she doesn’t get too fat I’ve made her a new rabbit run in the garden. Do you want to go and do your exercises, Lily?”
She nodded.
“Shall we go and watch her?” Sam asked.
I nodded.
Sam carried Lily outside into the garden and gently lowered her into her new run. He’d put carrots and cabbages and lettuces at the very end of the run. Lily spotted them straight away and took off like a greyhound, her ears flapping.
“Would you run like that if your mom put your dinner at the end of the garden?” Sam joked.
Mom and I often did eat in the garden, special picnics. Sometimes we even put our coats and scarves on and wrapped blankets around us and had winter picnics.
“You bet, Sam,” I said.
Mom always made us magic picnics. She didn’t cook anything, she didn’t ever really cook, but she made each picnic special. She sometimes chose a color theme, so we’d have bananas and pineapple and cheese pasties and custard tarts and lemonade, or tomato quiche and apples and plums and KitKats and raspberry juice. Sometimes she’d choose a letter of the alphabet and we’d have sausages and sandwiches and strawberries and shop-bought sponge cake carefully cut by Mom into an S shape.
When I was little she’d lay places at the picnics for my dolls and teddy bears, or she’d let me dress up in my Disney princess dress and she’d serve everything on the best china and curtsy every time she spoke to me.
I loved loved loved my mom. Sam understood. He said the word mom softly, knowing it was a special word.
“I wonder if you miss your mom, Lily?” said Sam, squatting down beside her.
Lily nibbled a lettuce leaf, not really listening.
“Remember when you were really little, Lily, just a weeny newborn-baby rabbit?” said Sam.
He looked at me. “Do you know, she was only this big,” Sam said, cupping his hands and holding them only a little way apart.
I cupped my hands too, imagining a little fluffy baby Lily quivering under my embrace.
“Do you remember when you were just a weeny newborn-baby person?” said Sam. “I bet you weren’t much bigger. Do you have a photo of you when you were a little baby?”
I nodded. Mom still had that photo inside her wallet, though it had got creased and crumpled. Dad had the same picture in a silver photo frame on his big desk at work. It was so embarrassing. I was big and bald and I didn’t even have a diaper on. My belly button was all taped up and you could see my bottom.
“I bet you looked cute then,” said Sam, chuckling.
I didn’t smile back at him. I nibbled my lip miserably. I didn’t look remotely cute when I was a baby, but at least I was cuddly. Mom said she held me all day and half the night too, she was so happy to hold me. She said she cried because she was so thrilled she’d got a little girl.
Dad cried too.
Most dads don’t cry, especially very very very tough dads like mine. My dad actually cries a lot. He cries at films on the television, even children’s cartoon films like The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast. He cries at the news on television, when a little child is rescued in an earthquake or when a man with artificial legs runs in a race. He cries heaps whenever his favorite wins on The X-Factor or Star Search. He said I was his little star with that special X-factor the day I was born. He scooped the newborn-baby me out of Mom’s arms and cradled me close.
“Just what I wanted! A little girl at last,” he crooned. “And such a beautiful little girl too, with those chubby cheeks and big blue eyes. Just wait till your hair grows, my darling. I bet you’ll be a little blonde like your mom. You’re going to turn into a perfect beauty.”
Then he let out such a yelp I started crying.
“I’ll take her, Gerry,” Mom said anxiously.
“Beauty! Don’t you get it? That’s her name, our little sweetheart’s name! We’ll call her Beauty,” said Dad. “Isn’t that a great name for her, Dilly?”
Mom promised me she thought it was an awful name, but you didn’t dare argue with Dad, even in those days.
I was christened Beauty. It’s a ridiculous name. It would be a silly show-off shallow name even if I just magically happened to be beautiful. But I am so not beautiful. I don’t take after Mom, I take after Dad. I am small and squat, with a big tummy. My blue eyes turned green as gooseberries when I was still a baby, and you can’t really see them anyway because I have to wear glasses. My hair’s mousy brown, long and lank. Mom tries to tie it up with clips and ribbons but they always fall out. You can see why Emily and Arabella and Skye tease me so. I am a laughingstock because of my name.
I wasn’t laughing. I had silly baby tears in my eyes now, safe with Sam and Lily.
“Hey, don’t cry,” said Sam.
I sniffed, ashamed. “Not crying,” I mumbled.
It seemed to be raining inside my glasses. I poked my finger up and tried to make it work like a windshield wiper.
“Why don’t you clean them on the corner of your T-shirt? Your glasses will get all smeary wiping them like that,” Sam said softly. “So what are you not crying about?”
“My silly name,” I sniffed. “Beauty!”
“I think Beauty’s the most special name in all the world.”
“No it’s not. And it doesn’t suit me,” I said tearfully. “Skye Wortley at school says I should be renamed Plug Ugly.”
“Silly old Skye,” said Sam. “I expect she’s so mean because she’s jealous of you.”
“Oh, Sam, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say something stupid,” I said. “As if someone like Skye would ever be jealous of me. Skye’s got lovely long, wavy, fair hair and big blue eyes—sky blue—and she’s clever and she’s great at dancing and she’s got Rhona as a best friend and—and—”
“Well, you’ve got sand-colored hair and great green eyes and you’re even cleverer than Skye and who cares about dancing and you’ve got Lily and me for your best friends,” said Sam.
“Truly? You and Lily are really my best friends?
“Absolutely definitely, aren’t we, Lily?” said Sam, bending down and scratching her head. She stopped nibbling the cabbage, looked up, and nodded her head so vigorously her ears flapped forward.

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