Mega Sleepover 3

Next day, Mrs Weaver, our class teacher, said that anyone who intended to enter an act for the charity show had to tell her by the following day.

Frankie put her hand up. “Can we tell you now, Mrs Weaver?” she asked.

“Of course, Frankie,” Mrs Weaver replied.

I looked round. I could see everyone was bursting with curiosity. Especially the M&Ms. Emma’s eyes were just about popping out of her head and Emily’s ears were flapping like Dumbo the elephant’s.

“We don’t want everyone to know, though. We want to keep it a secret,” I said.

Mrs Weaver smiled and said, “I see. Then write down what you want to do and give it to me.”

Frankie tore a page out of her general notebook and started scribbling. She folded it up and passed it to Mrs Weaver, who unfolded it and started to read it.

My heart was racing. Please don’t give the game away, PLEASE! I begged her silently, trying to use telepathic powers to get through to her.

Well, they’ll never write an X-Files story about me, because my extra-sensory powers are obviously nil. The next moment, Mrs Weaver put her foot right in it by saying to Frankie, “So there’s you, Felicity, Laura, Lyndsey and who’s the fifth girl? I can’t read your writing.”

The five of us looked at each other in panic.

“It’s me,” Rosie squeaked.

“Rosie Cartwright,” said Mrs Weaver, writing it down.

I saw the M&Ms exchange excited glances. Emma gave Emily a big smirk.

Emily - The Goblin, as we call her - nudged The Queen (that’s Emily), who in turn nudged Banana, alias Alana Palmer. Then she said nastily, “I hope you don’t think you’re going to be the Spice Girls. We’re going to be the Spice Girls. That was our idea. They pinched it, Mrs Weaver.”

Kenny gave a gasp and jumped to her feet. “We never did!” she said. “Don’t tell porkies!”

I jumped up, too. “We decided days ago. We’ve already been practising!” I said.

Mrs Weaver waved her hand. “Now, now, girls, stop arguing,” she said. “There can be more than one Spice Girls act, and may the best one win!”

Emma, my personal worst enemy since yesterday when I’d spilt water down her stupid neck, turned round. She screwed up her face and her horrid, blobby nose so that she looked like a squashed tomato, poked out her tongue at me and said, “See?”

I pulled a face back.

“So I take it you and your friends want to be the Spice Girls, too?” Mrs Weaver said.

“Yes please, Mrs Weaver,” replied The Goblin, in her most sucking-up tones. Creep! She’s just pathetic.

“And who else will be singing with you?” asked Mrs Weaver.

The M&Ms nudged their slave, the slimy Banana, and she put her hand up.

I looked at Rosie. She was giggling. “They’ve only got three Spice Girls,” she said.

“I’ll join you, if you like.”

We all stared as Regina Hill spoke. Even the M&Ms stared. Regina hasn’t been in our class for long. Her family have only just moved to Cuddington from London and we don’t know much about her, especially as she’s rather quiet. So everyone was amazed when she spoke.

“Can you sing?” Emma asked her.

You could have knocked me down with a King Cone when Regina began to sing Summer Nights from Grease, all perfectly in tune. She had an awesome voice.

My eyes met Frankie’s. Then I looked at Fliss, Kenny and Rosie. Everyone had the same look on their faces. Hate, pure hate.

“It’s not fair!” I said at break.

“We decided to be the Spice Girls first,” Frankie said crossly.

“They’re just pathetic copy-cats,” said Rosie, flicking her brown fringe.

“Yes, they are,” Fliss added.

“Reggie-Veggie’s got a good voice, though,” I said.

“Reggie-Veggie! That’s a good name for her,” said Frankie, with a loud snort that made us all laugh. “What kind of a vegetable do you think she is?”

“A carrot,” Fliss said promptly.

“Well, she is long and thin - and her hair is kind of reddish,” I agreed. Before today, we’d thought she was really pretty and she’d seemed quite nice, but she’d certainly turned into a carrot now that she’d become a friend of the M&Ms.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Frankie said gloomily.

We looked at her and shook our heads. We’d never felt so depressed.

“If they’re going to sing, we can’t get away with only miming. We’ll jolly well have to sing, too.”

“Oh, no!” Kenny wailed.

“Oh good,” said Fliss. “I think I sing better than Reggie-Veggie!”

We knew she wanted us to pay her compliments, but we were all fed up so nobody did.

Fliss went into a sulk and got her Banana-In-Pyjamas toy out of her bag. Her aunt in America sent it to her. Bananas In Pyjamas are very popular in America, according to Fliss’s aunt. Personally, I think dressed up plastic bananas are stupid. Give me a toy pony any day. Better still, a real one.

Fliss started creating a little wedding veil for the banana, out of a piece of paper tissue. She’s mad on weddings. All her toys and stuffed animals have been married at least twenty times each, to different partners. It’s about time she started giving them divorces, not weddings.

I decided to cheer her up. “Of course you sing well, Fliss. We all know that.”

“Perhaps we ought to give up on being the Spice Girls and think of something else,” said Rosie.

“What? Give up? No way!” said Frankie. “We’re not going to let ourselves be beaten by the M&Ms, are we?”

Nobody answered.

Frankie sat down on the concrete of the playground. Her bottom just missed a piece of chewing gum. She pulled a notebook and pen out of her black nylon shoulderbag. We all sat round her as she wrote two headings on the page.

The first heading said, Us. The second said, The M&Ms.

“Right,” she said. “Now, think of all the reasons why our Spice Girls group is better than theirs.”

“We’re better than them at everything!” I said.

“We can sing,” said Fliss.

“We’re the greatest,” said Rosie.

“They’re ugly,” said Kenny, and we all fell about.

“Now tell me why they’re worse than us,” Kenny said.

“They’re ugly,” said Kenny again.

When we’d stopped laughing for the second time, I said, “And pathetic.”

“And copy-cats, weeds and nerds,” said Fliss.

“Is this war?” asked Frankie.

“This is WAR!” we all agreed.

That night I told my mum about it. Maybe I chose a wrong moment. At the time, she was battling with a curtain that had got stuck in one of the holes inside the washing machine.

“Mm, dear. Help me with this, could you?” was all she said.

I got my head inside the machine. A corner of the material was jammed. I had a hair grip in my pocket, from my last trip to the swimming baths. I always used grips to pin my hair under my swimming cap.

I poked the grip down the hole to loosen the bunched-up material, and promptly lost it.

“Oh, that’s just wonderful!” said Mum sarkily. “That’s going to rattle round in there forever, now. I’ll hear it every time I use the machine.”

“If I use one of the fridge magnets, I might be able to get it out,” I said.

I thought it was a brilliant suggestion.

Mum didn’t seem to agree. “Don’t you go magnetising my washing machine, Lyndsey. It’s all metal in there. Every zip will stick to the drum and I won’t be able to get anyone’s jeans out,” she said.

I had a mental image of Mum and me, each hauling on a jeans’ leg, trying to pull it out of the machine. I started laughing. Then my hiccups started.

“Oh, per-lease! Not those again,” said Mum.

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and looked so weird that I laughed and hicked even harder.

“Sor-hic-ry,” I apologised.

Mum was still tugging at the curtain. Suddenly, it came free and she fell over and landed on her bottom on the floor. I roared with laughter, it was so funny.

She gave me a hurt look. “How do you know I haven’t broken anything?” she said.

“You haven’t got any bones in your bottom,” I pointed out.

I should have remembered that Mum knows all about anatomy, as she teaches childbirth classes.

“I might have cracked my coccyx!” she said, which made me screech so much, I nearly had an accident. But it cured my hiccups, it really did.

I wandered out to the workshop to find Dad. I told him about what the M&Ms had done to us.

“You’ve just got to be better than them,” he said, and started to sing Tina Turner’s, Simply The Best. Now, Dad really can’t sing, so I put my fingers in my ears. When I took them out again he was saying a very rude word because he’d dropped his paintbrush and the pot he was painting got a big green squiggle all down it.

“Never mind. Make it look like a piece of seaweed,” I suggested.

“Seaweed? It was meant to be a leaping panther,” he said grumpily

If that green blob was meant to be a panther, then I’m a Brussels sprout! Still, I said nothing. I didn’t want to upset his artistic temperament. Besides, I needed to ask for extra pocket money, to make up for what I’d had to give Stu!

Then I remembered a really important question I had to ask.

“Dad,” I said. “Do you know where I can get a karaoke tape of the Spice Girls’ songs?”

“Haven’t a clue,” he said. He was being a real grump-pot. I knew his runny green panther had something to do with it.

So I rang Kenny. We’d all agreed to ask our parents about karaoke tapes and report back to her.

“You were my last hope, Lyndz,” she said sadly. “Have you asked Stu?”

I wouldn’t have thought of asking my rotten brother if the sky was blue, because I knew I’d never get the right answer. But everything was hanging on it. “I’ll report back later. Roger. Over and out,” I said.

Stu’s so-called ‘band’ was driving everyone in our house crazy. I’d seen various band members arrive and when I went up to my room, I could hear them thumping about in the attic. There was a twang and a crash, as if the guitar fell over, then a sound as if someone had dropped the drums.

And just then, like the lottery finger coming down and saying, “It’s you!”, I got a fantastic, ginormous, amazing idea as to how the Sleepover Club could beat everyone, especially the M&Ms, and win the school competition…

The only person I managed to get on the phone was Fliss. Everyone else was out.

“We’ve drawn a blank on the karaoke tapes but I’ve thought of something else,” I told her.

“Tell me, tell me,” she squeaked.

I didn’t. Not straight away, anyway. Another brilliant bright idea had dawned.

“Lyndz? Are you still there?” I could hear Fliss saying.

“Yeah,” I answered. Then I said, “I don’t suppose by any teeny-weeny chance that you fancy the idea of a sleepover?”

“Do I? You bet! When?”

“Friday? Saturday? The sooner the better. We’ve got to start practising,” I said.

“The class heats are in two weeks’ time,” she said gloomily.

Talk about dropping a bombshell! I was gobsmacked. Two weeks? We’d never have our act ready by then. Why had nobody told me?

I said those same words to Fliss.

“But Mrs Weaver mentioned it yesterday, just after all that trouble with the M&Ms,” she said.

“I suppose I wasn’t listening. My mind was full of hate. Kill, kill, kill! Death to the M&Ms!” I said dramatically.

“Was that what you rung me about, then? No, not about killing the M&Ms. The sleepover?” she asked me.

“No. I only just thought of that. My other great, earth-shattering idea was about the music to go with our song,” I said.

“I know. You’re going to ask the Spice Girls’ band to play for us, I suppose,” she said.

“Ho, ho. Don’t be a moron,” I told her. “I was listening to Stu and his friends playing the other night and - “

“You’re not going to ask them?” she said. There was pure horror in her voice, as if I’d told her the M&Ms were about to be fried in toad juice and served up to her for lunch.

“Of course not! Can you imagine my big brother even setting foot in Cuddington Primary? It would ruin his street cred for all time! But it made me think, why don’t we accompany ourselves? We could borrow a guitar, and Frankie’s got a keyboard…”

“But none of us can play the guitar,” she pointed out.

“I know four chords. Stu showed me,” I said proudly. “That’s why the sleepover’s got to be held here, so he can teach me some more. Will you tell Rosie and Kenny, and I’ll keep trying to get Frankie. See you later, alligator!”

“In a while, crocodile,” she replied.

“Have a laugh, big giraffe!” I said. It was our latest signing-off game. We kept trying to think of new animals.

“Don’t get smelly pants, elephant!”

I snorted down the phone and laughed so loud, I must have deafened her. When I’d stopped laughing, which took ages, I told her I couldn’t think of any more animals.

“Don’t get fat, tabby cat. ‘Bye!” she said, and rang off.

I stared at the receiver after she’d gone. Then I stared at the Twix bar in my other hand. How did she know I was about to eat it? It’s not as if I’ve got a reputation for pigging out all the time… is it?

I searched the telephone for a tiny hidden camera that could have relayed a piccy of my choc bar, but there wasn’t one, of course. It was just my paranoia at being the fattest of us five friends.

Rosie’s the next fattest, she’s just sort of normal. Kenny is all muscle, Fliss is a natural stick insect, and Frankie is so tall that a few spare pounds wouldn’t show. She’s the luckiest, I think. I hope I grow taller soon.

My next big challenge was to ask Mum and Dad if I could have a sleepover. Although I kept my fingers crossed, I didn’t need to because Mum was great about it.

“You know I love having the house full of girls, instead of horrid, smelly boys,” she said.

I’m glad she agrees with me about boys. It must be because she’s given birth to four of them - and got Dad and our dog to cope with, too!

She repeated another of her favourite sayings: “Girls are far less trouble than boys.”

Though she didn’t know it, she was going to regret saying that…

Next day was Saturday. We had all arranged to go to the library in the centre of Cuddington at the same time, eleven o’clock in the morning.

I’m the furthest away, as I live in Little Wearing, whereas the others live in Cuddington itself. So I had to ask if someone would drive me over.

Dad volunteered, as he wanted to go to the art shop and buy some paints. He probably needed more green, after his accident with the leaping panther. Why paint a panther green, anyway? I suppose that’s what you call ‘artistic licence’.

When Dad dropped me off at the library, saying he’d pick me up in an hour, I could see two familiar bicycles fastened to the rail outside - Kenny’s and Frankie’s. Frankie has a new one. It’s bright green, to go with her vegetarian nature. She eats so much salad that we kid her that she’ll turn green one day. All over, including her hair, just like Dad’s stupid panther.

We met in the music section, by the CD and tape selection.

“Look what I’ve found!” yelled Kenny, earning a warning frown from the man on the check-out desk.

It was a CD of football anthems. As you know, Kenny’s seriously football mad. But this pointed to her being just plain mad, as well.

“Ugh! You’re not actually thinking of listening to that, are you?” I said. “It’ll do your eardrums in.”

“I find football songs inspiring,” she said mysteriously.

“Oh, get her!” said Rosie.

“Haven’t they got a tape on teaching yourself to sing?” I said.

Frankie was looking very pleased with herself.

“I’ve gone one better than that,” she said.

She waved two books at me. One was called, The Piano: Learn To Play in a Week. The other was called Guitar Made Easy.

“One for you and one for me,” she said.

“I don’t need that,” I said, pointing to the guitar book. “You know I can play some chords.”

“Yes, we’ve heard you,” said Fliss.

She was referring to a time when we’d all been round at her place and Andy, had left his guitar lying around. He only ever got it out when Fliss’s mum was out, as she hated hearing him play and thought guitars made the room look untidy.

I’d picked it up and played my four chords. I thought I sounded brilliant, but when I looked round, they all had their fingers jammed in their ears and were making being sick noises. Call themselves friends? I ask you!

“Let’s get the books out, anyway,” said Frankie. “I certainly need to improve a bit.”

“Don’t forget to bring your keyboard next Friday,” I reminded her. It was only small, so it was easy to carry.

“Friday’s nearly a week off. Couldn’t we have a practice tomorrow?” Kenny said desperately.

Our parents would only ever let us have sleepovers at weekends, so there was no chance at all of us having a proper get-together before then, if Sunday was out.

It looked as if it was, worse luck.

“I can’t,” Rosie said. “We’re going out for the day with my gran and grandad.”

“And I’m going to Alton Towers for Carl and Colin’s birthday,” Fliss said, then waited for our reaction.

A chorus of “You lucky thing!” came from the rest of us.

Then I thought about Carl and Colin, Fliss’s twin cousins. They were a gruesome twosome, the male equivalent of the M&Ms, as they were always poking fun at Fliss and being horrid to her. Maybe she wasn’t so lucky, after all!

You’re in school with me now. It’s dinnertime. Come down the corridor with me. Ssh! Don’t make any noise. Careful, your shoes are squeaking! We don’t want anyone to hear.

Stop! We’re right outside the door of the studio. Can you hear the the din that’s going on in there? How could you miss it? It’s like a load of groaning hippopotamuses - or should that be hippopotami? It’s the M&Ms practising their Spice Girls routine. They’re doing Wannabe and it’s really pathetic.

Let’s push the door open a crack and watch them dancing. They look like hippos, don’t they, as well as sounding like them! Just look at them galumphing about!

They’ve got old Fatty-Bum-Bum with them, which is what we call Amanda Porter. The nickname may sound a bit cruel, but you don’t know Amanda. She’s a horrible person, really nasty to everyone. We wouldn’t care that she bought her dresses from Tents R us, if she was nice with it. But she hasn’t got the niceness gene in her entire vast body. I don’t know which Spice Girl she’s meant to be. There isn’t a Gross Spice, is there?

The only decent one among them is Regina Hill. She’s not only got a good voice, she’s obviously had some dancing lessons, too. Why did she have to offer to sing with them? They’d have been booed out of school if it hadn’t been for her. I wish she could have sung with us. If only the Spice Girls would suddenly add a sixth girl to their group. Then we’d definitely win.

Let’s tiptoe away now, before they spot us. Did you notice who’s playing the piano for them? It’s Dishy Dave. He’s the one who started this whole thing off by saying we were good. I wonder what he thinks of the Hippo Girls? And why didn’t we think of asking him to play the piano for us, instead of deciding to accompany ourselves? It just never crossed our minds, and it’s too late now. The M&Ms really would accuse us of copying them then!

None of us could wait for Friday to come. We were still arguing about which song to do, but we’d more or less decided on Mama, because it was slow. That made it easier for us to sing and play. There was no way my fingers on the guitar could have kept up with the pace of Wannabe!

I was hoping - really desperately hoping - that Stuart would be going out till late, so we could use his room. That’s what happened last time we had a sleepover at my place. His room is much bigger than mine, and he’s got a TV and video in there, so we could have played my Spice Girls video.

When I asked him, though, he said he wasn’t sure what he was doing that night.

“Meanie!” I told him.

“Who owes her big brother loads of money, eh?” he reminded me, with a yah-boo kind of expression on his spotty face. Then he held his hand up, saying, “Pay up and I might be able to afford to go out on Friday.”