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,” he said. “There’s five of you, too, just like the five Spice Girls. You should start a group,” he said.
So, really, if we’re blaming anybody, we should blame Dishy Dave for getting the ball rolling, the cookie crumbling, the group grouping …
Okay, okay. I know I’m rambling. Please don’t fall asleep, though. I haven’t got a Sleepover planned for tonight. In fact, after last Friday, I don’t think my parents are going to allow one here ever again!!!
Right from the start, it was intended to be our thing. ‘Girl Power’, as the Spice Girls would say. The last thing we wanted was to get mixed up with a gang of horrible, smelly boys, even if some of them were my own brothers.
You should get a whiff of Tom’s room. He’s my second oldest brother, aged 14. Old socks and stale crisps. Steve, who’s sixteen and my oldest brother, smells of zit cream and stinky feet, because he hates having baths.
I once made a sign for Tom’s door. It had a skull and crossbones on it and under it I wrote, NASAL DEATH AREA. He took it down and ripped it up, leaving all the family noses in mortal danger once more.
Fliss and Rosie have got brothers, too, so a few weeks ago I decided to try and find out if all brothers smell, or if it’s just my personal misfortune. Fliss said that Callum, her seven-year-old brother, smells like stink bombs. My little brother Ben smells of wee, and as for baby Spike - well, he often smells of worse, when his nappy needs changing!
Rosie’s got the perfect brother. Although Adam’s got cerebral palsy and is in a wheelchair, he’s fanatical about his appearance. He loves taking showers and having his hair moussed and gelled and the best prezzie you can give him is a really nice spray cologne. I wish my brothers would catch the habit!
It’s not as if nobody ever gives Tom and Stuart any smellies. They’re always getting them for Christmas and birthdays, but the minute they put them on, the scent mutates into Dead Rat or something.
Not that they often use their smellies on themselves. They do stupid things with them instead, like the time Stuart decided our cats’ litter tray ponged and wasted a whole bottle of Dad’s Aramis, trying to freshen it up.
Unfortunately, right in the middle of his spraying activities, Toffee came bounding through the cat flap and caught a full blast. Fudge and Truffle, our other two cats, treated him like an alien and wouldn’t go near him for days, and Buster, our dog, got a sneezing attack whenever Toffee sat next to him.
Anyway, back to that afternoon three weeks ago, which is when it all began…
The bell for the end of dinnertime had rung and we all said a reluctant goodbye to our reflections in the mirror and started to walk back to our classroom.
Fliss was the last one to leave the studio, of course. She just had to pout at herself and toss her ponytail one last time. She gave a high kick through the studio door and lost her balance and nearly fell over. As she tottered around with her arms whirling like windmills, who should stroll past but the lurv of her life, Ryan Scott.
“Hi there, Fliss. They’ll never have you in the Riverdance team,” he said, sniggering.
You should have seen her blush. It was just as if someone had thrown tomato ketchup in her face! Frankie gave me a big nudge and I nearly fell over, too.
“Drunk again, Lyndsey,” said Ryan.
“Oh, run off and play on the M1, won’t you?” said Frankie, in her best “you’re being really bo-ring” voice.
He shrugged and did a big slide round the corner of the corridor, with his hands in his pockets. I was hoping Mrs Lynch would be coming round the corner and he’d go wham, straight into her, but no such luck.
Mrs Lynch is our school secretary and she’s seriously bad-tempered, not like Mrs Poole, our Head. She’s a sweetie, unless you do something really bad, and then she can get you expelled!
“Why did you have to be nasty to him? He’ll think we don’t like him now!” Fliss complained.
“I think you’re a very sad person, Fliss,” Frankie told her, and a row was all set to break out, until Kenny changed the subject. Thank goodness she did. Who wants to talk about boring boys? Especially big-headed posers like Ryan Scott!
What Kenny said was all set to change our lives, though none of us knew it at the time.
“Do you think Dave meant it?” she asked us.
Rosie frowned. “Meant what?”
“About us being like the Spice Girls.”
“I hope so!” said Fliss.
“Stoo-pid!” said Frankie.
“Why