by Lorna Read
Contents
Have you been Invited to all these Sleepovers?
Uh-oh, I can see Frankie looking at me. Well, looking’s hardly the word. She’s glaring like Fliss’s neighbour, Mr Watson-Wade – Mr Grumpy, as we call him – does, when he thinks we’ve thrown crisp packets into his pond.
I know what that look means. It means I’ve got to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, cross my heart a billion, trillion, zillion times and hope to die before Andy – that’s Fliss’s mum’s boyfriend – discovers that his guitar is really a cardboard cut-out and my brother Stuart discovers why his saxophone won’t make a sound any more!
I’m a Libran and everybody knows Librans don’t like telling lies. We’re the ones who believe everybody should play fair. We’re always trying to keep the peace – but ‘peace’ is a dirty word in our house at the moment. At least, since Saturday night.
It wasn’t all our fault. It was partly Dad’s, for not converting the attic properly.
He’s always doing weird things to our house, like moving the doors around and building extra rooms. I shouldn’t be surprised to wake up one day and find out he’s double-glazed me!
I’m Lyndz, by the way. That’s short for Lyndsey Marianne Collins. I’m one of the five members of the Sleepover Club.
The others are Laura McKenzie, known as Kenny. She’s Frankie’s best friend. There’s Francesca Thomas, Frankie for short, and Fliss. Fliss’s full name is Felicity Sidebotham (please don’t laugh, it’s not fair. Anyway, she pronounces it Side-both-am).
The last person to join our gang was Rosie, alias Rosie Maria Cartwright. It was my idea that she should be allowed to join, because she was new to the area, and new to school, and didn’t know anyone.
Well, we had to rescue her from the dreaded M&Ms, didn’t we? Just imagine if she’d got into the clutches of our worst enemies! The Goblin – that’s Emily Berryman, one of the M&Ms – might have twitched her stupid splodgy nose and turned her into a toad or something.
Quick! I’ve just noticed Frankie isn’t looking. Let’s run out into the garden and hide in the shed, otherwise she’ll want to tell you everything as usual, and I won’t get a turn.
Mum calls our shed the summerhouse, now that Dad’s fixed a completely gross verandah on the front, with a wonky railing. Mum’s put some old chairs in and painted them streaky blue. Mediterranean blue, she calls it. It looks more like what happened in Rosie’s living room when it was being painted and Jenny, her dog, wagged her tail all over the wet wall.
Right. Now listen up, as my Canadian cousin Ryan would say. He sent us a tape with his voice on at Christmas and “listen up” was his fave expression. “Hey, listen up, the snow’s fifteen feet deep outside our door.” Well, if the snow was that thick all round the house, the only sound you’d hear would be from up above, anyway. You’d be walking round lop-sided, with one ear raised to the ceiling, listening up for the rescue helicopters!
But it’s me who needs rescuing right now, so stop slurping that Slush-Puppy and popping that bubble-gum and I’ll tell you what you really want to know.
Oh no, I’ve done it now! Tell me what you want, what you really, really want… That’s a bit of Wannabe, by the Spice Girls. And that, unfortunately, is where the whole thing began.
Oops! I’ve got hiccups now and when I hic, I really, really hic. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have made me laugh. What you’ve got to do for me now is press your thumbs very hard into the palm of my hand while I hold my breath.
There, it’s worked. Not a hic in sight (or sound). As I was saying, we – the Sleepovers, that is – are crazy about the Spice Girls at the moment. In a few weeks or months, we might be crazy about somebody else, but right now, Spice is nice as far we we’re concerned.
Sometimes we sneak into the studio at school when it’s empty at dinnertime. We love to dance, and sometimes Dishy Dave the caretaker plays the piano for us. He’s really good. He plays all these pop songs by ear. Well, with his fingers, actually. Oh no, don’t make me hiccup again! We asked him if he knew any Spice Girls songs and he did. He said he really likes them, too, and he’d got their video.
He asked us what our favourite Spice song was and we had a big argument. Fliss and I love Mama. Kenny’s fave is Wannabe and Rosie and Frankie think Love Thing is brilliant. Dave decided Mama was the easiest for him to play, because it’s slow.
The studio’s got mirrors on the walls so that dancers and gymnasts can watch themselves performing. We all struck Spice Girl poses and sang the words. Kenny can sing quite loud, though she often goes flat. Fliss and Rosie have got soft, whispery voices, but at least they’re in tune.
Frankie sounds like a crow with laryngitis. No wonder she wrote in her Sleepover diary a while back that she’d given up wanting to be a pop star when she grew up and wanted to drive a taxi instead!
As for me, I think I’m a good singer. Yes, I know I sound as if I’m boasting, but I was given a solo to sing in the Nativity show last Christmas and Mrs Weaver would never have given it to me if she thought I sounded like Mary and Joseph’s donkey. (Frankie does.)
Dave thought we were good. “That’s great! You sound just like them,”