Sleepover Girls Go Gymtastic!. Fiona Cummings

      “An icky, gooey, horrible change!” giggled Rosie.

      All the time we were fooling around, Fliss was stretching elaborately in the hallway, totally oblivious to us.

      “What’s with her?” Frankie asked, when Lyndz and I had finally picked ourselves up.

      “I don’t know,” Rosie shook her head. “She was like that all the time in the class. She wasn’t paying any attention at all.”

      “Yeah,” Lyndz whispered, as we crept into the lounge. “I thought Mrs Weaver was really going to lose her rag at one point. It’s like she’s on another planet. Planet Gymtastic!”

      “Planet TV Star more like,” Frankie moaned. “That’s all she went on about today. It’s like everything else has just gone out of the window. And that’s really weird because until you told us about that competition, Kenny, she’d been driving us all crazy by stressing so much about the SATs.”

      “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed. “But now it’s like she’s forgotten all about them.”

      “Maybe she’ll be OK once we’ve started practising,” Lyndz suggested. “You know, maybe it’s something she needs to get out of her system.”

      “Hey guys, shouldn’t we be getting on with planning our routine?” asked Fliss, sticking her head round the door. “I mean, I know what I’m going to do for my bit, but we’ve got to get the rest of you looking decent as well, haven’t we?”

      We all burst out laughing and chased her into the garden.

      Now when Lyndz had said that she was useless at gymnastics, she wasn’t joking. You know when babies do that thing where they look as though they’re going to do a forward roll, then collapse at the last minute? Well, Lyndz was just like that. And the more Fliss tried to encourage her to do a cartwheel, the funnier it got. First she just ended up doing strange, lopsided little bunny hops. Then she kicked Fliss in the arm as Fliss tried to help Lyndz’s balance. And finally she ended up sprawled on her back in Dad’s compost heap.

      “Aw yuck, Lyndz, you stink!” Frankie held her nose.

      “Sorry, hic, guys!” Lyndz gulped. “I, hic, told you I wasn’t, hic, any good at this kind of, hic, stuff!”

      “You’ll get there Lyndz, it’s just a matter of practice,” Rosie reassured her, as she rubbed Lyndz’s back to get rid of the dreaded hiccups. “Anyway Kenny, why don’t we have a look at your factsheet now? There might be a few suggestions on moves which would be suitable for Lyndz.”

      “Good idea, Batman!” I agreed, racing up to my bedroom for the paper.

      It did have some really helpful suggestions in it. And it described how in gymnastics the most important thing is the quality of the shapes you make with your body.

      “There you go, Lyndz!” I grinned. “You could just stand at the back and make shapes. Like this!” I stood up and spread myself out like a starfish, then crouched down and stuck one arm in the air. The others doubled up in hysterics. Except Fliss.

      “I don’t think it means that at all,” she sniffed. “But look, the bit about music is in bold type – that must be important.”

      “It says that ‘gymnasts should choose music which enables them to express different emotions. Each move should be in tune with the music, and one move should move seamlessly into another.’ Well, that’s all right then!” I said, pulling a face. “What kind of music ‘expresses different emotions’?”

      “It doesn’t, hic, mean classical music, does it?” wondered Lyndz. “I mean that, hic, would just put the icing on it if we had to, hic, prance around to that.”

      “They mean show tunes,” Fliss announced smugly. “Gymnasts usually perform routines to songs from big musicals like Phantom of the Opera or Miss Saigon. Mum’s got loads of CDs from shows, I’m sure she’ll help us to pick some out.”

      “No way!” I told her firmly.

      The others backed off. They knew what was coming. We were winding up for another Kenny and Fliss showdown.

      “You and your mum might like show tunes Fliss, but the rest of us don’t,” I continued. “I couldn’t even recognise a song from Miss Saigon if it bit me on the bottom. And just because other gymnasts use music like that, doesn’t mean that we have to, OK?”

      “I was only trying to help!” Fliss said huffily. “I want us to win this competition, that’s all.”

      “Well so do I,” I told her. “And that’s why we’re not going to tell our parents about the competition just yet. We’re going to win this by doing things our way, OK?”

      “OK,” the others agreed.

      But I could see by the look in Fliss’s eyes that things weren’t OK. Far from it. I’d never seen her looking so defiant before. It was almost like she was a different person.

      The hairs pricked up on the back of my neck and a shiver crept down my spine. I knew then that this whole competition thing was going to bring us nothing but trouble. What I didn’t know was just how much.

      

      “Fliss has turned into a power-crazed freak!” Frankie flopped down on the lawn next to me. We were at her place after school, practising our gymnastic moves.

      “She’s just been having a right go at me because I couldn’t hold my handstand long enough,” Frankie carried on. “I told her that it’s easy for her with her short little legs. Mine are so long it’s like trying to balance two drainpipes up there!”

      “What did she say?”

      Frankie put on her ‘prim Felicity Proudlove’ voice. “‘You must practise, practise, practise Frankie. I’ve got my work cut out as it is trying to get Lyndz to look half-way decent.’”

      We both dissolved into giggles.

      “Poor Lyndz!” I chortled.

      We both squinted into the distance, where Fliss was demonstrating to Lyndz how she wanted her to kneel, lift and stretch her left leg behind her then move into a forward roll. But every time Lyndz tried to follow her instructions, Fliss found something to complain about.