Laura Ellen Anderson - Amelia Fang and the Barbaric Ball

Amelia sighed as a ghost floated solemnly into the room, carrying a tray of something that looked like a pile of big bogies.

It was useless for Amelia to try to speak to her mother about what she wanted. Being a Fang meant countless vampiress etiquette lessons, cobwebbing practice and never-ending preparations for the Barbaric Ball. Sometimes Amelia wished she belonged to a different family.

‘Your Flabbergasting Falafels, Countess,’ said Wooo. He was the most respected ghost butler in all of Nocturnia.

(Contrary to popular belief, vampires don’t actually live on a diet of blood. It gives them very stinky breath!)

‘Thank you, Wooo. That will be all,’ said the countess.

Amelia flapped her wings grumpily and flicked a piece of falafel on to the floor. Her pet pumpkin, Squashy, gobbled it up then bounced on to Amelia’s lap.

‘Hey, Squashy!’ Amelia giggled. ‘Have some more falafel! I know it’s your favourite.’

Squashy waggled his stalk from side to side in agreement.

‘Maybe the king will come to the ball this year?’ said Amelia through a mouthful of sour spinach.

‘Not likely,’ said Countess Frivoleeta. ‘He hasn’t stepped outside the palace since the fairy incident .’ She looked at her husband. ‘Drakey, my awful little germinoid, you should really make more of an effort to see King Vladimir. You two used to be such good friends.’

Count Drake gave a long sigh. ‘Dearest belch-breath, it’s no use. He won’t see or speak to anyone any more.’

‘Such a shame,’ said Countess Frivoleeta. ‘Ever since he cancelled your weekly Eyebowls game, you’ve been completely obsessed with those silly word-crosses . . .’

‘Crosswords, dear,’ said Count Drake.

‘If the king DID accept our invitation to the ball, do you think he would bring his son?’ asked Amelia. Her eyes lit up for a moment. ‘Or is Prince Tangine not allowed to come either, because he’s not OLD?’

‘Prince Tangine is the future king, for serpent’s sake! He is ALWAYS invited,’ sang the countess.

‘But remember, Amelia,’ Count Drake remarked, ‘the prince’s mother DID get eaten by a fairy. I’d be surprised if the king ever lets him outside the palace walls.’

‘Grieving gobblepots, I’d go mad if I couldn’t go and see my friends,’ said Amelia.

‘Enough chitter-chatter. Now, Amelia, eat up before your falafels get cold, then off to bed,’ said Countess Frivoleeta, prodding at Amelia’s cheeks. ‘We must keep your skin looking pale and death-like!’

‘But Muuum, it’s the final of The Great Gothic Gravestone Carve Off tonight! Can’t I stay up for just a bit longer?’ said Amelia.

Suddenly a huge BOOOOOOOOOONG! echoed through the house.

‘Drake, my little sweat gland, are we expecting visitors?’ said Countess Frivoleeta. ‘Wooo!’ she called, without waiting for her husband’s reply. ‘Please answer that immediately.’

Moments later, Wooo appeared holding a gold envelope.

‘You have a letter, Countess. It appears to be from the king.’

‘THE KING’S COMING TO THE BALL?’ yelled Florence, Amelia’s best friend. This was normal speaking volume for Florence, who was six-feet tall, huge and hairy from head to toe. Everything about her was BIG. Even her voice was big. But so was her heart. Which was also very hairy.

Amelia, Squashy and Florence Spudwick were sitting under the Petrified-Tree-That-Looked-Like-a-Unicorn, where they met every night before school.

‘THAT’S WELL EXCITING!’ bellowed Florence, gobbling down a bowl of Unlucky Arms cereal.

‘And he’s bringing the prince!’ Amelia said excitedly. ‘I’ll finally have someone my OWN age to hang out with at the ball! Although I still wish you and Grimaldi could come.’

‘S’ALL RIGHT,’ said Florence, putting a hairy arm around Amelia’s shoulders. ‘I’D SHOW EVERYONE UP WIV MY STUNNING LOOKS!’ She grinned, revealing a mouthful of spiky teeth pointing in every direction.

The two friends burst out laughing.

Squashy bounced up and down, blowing raspberries with his tongue, before nuzzling into Amelia’s tummy for a belly rub.

‘Hi, guuuuys!’ came a high voice from across the graveyard. It was Grimaldi Reaperton, Amelia’s other best friend.

Grimaldi was small and cute, and Death was his middle name. No, really, it was. He dealt with the deaths of small creatures, like squished toads, but when he was older he would take over from his grimpapa and deal with bigger, messier beings.

‘Grimaldi!’ said Amelia excitedly. ‘I have BIG news!’

‘Is it about The Great Gothic Gravestone Carve Off? ’ said Grimaldi. ‘Because I really thought that William W—’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t tell me. I haven’t seen the final episode yet . . .’ said Amelia, covering her ears.

‘So what’s the news?’ said Grimaldi.

‘THE KING’S COMING TO THE BALL . . .’ Florence blurted out.

‘Wow! Nobody’s seen him in years,’ said Grimaldi. ‘I was worried he’d died . . . Grimpapa keeps checking his diePhone in case he missed him. Happens sometimes.’

Suddenly, the Catacomb Academy welcome bones rattled, announcing the beginning of school.

‘But that’s not all,’ said Amelia quickly. ‘Prince Tangine is coming too!’

‘Maybe you’ll actually have FUN this year!’ Grimaldi smiled.

‘I hope so,’ said Amelia. ‘Do you think Prince Tangine likes playing Goblin Tag?’

‘Amelia!’ shouted the head teacher, Miss Inspine. ‘Florence, Grimaldi! Hurry up! You’re going to be late for Abominable Assembly!’

Amelia and her friends wound their way down to the Catacomb Academy crypt.

‘Whose lap do you want to sit on today, Squashy?’ Amelia asked.

Squashy immediately pa-doinged into Amelia’s arms and started licking her face.

‘I think that’s settled!’ she said, laughing.

In the crypt, the music teacher, Mr Blob, was playing the ‘Death March’ on the organ. Then he exploded, marking the beginning of assembly. An eyeball landed in the hood of Grimaldi’s cloak.

‘EVERY time!’ Grimaldi grimaced.

‘OK, class, take your plinths please,’ said Miss Inspine. ‘Firstly, I’d like to make a very special announcement. As you all know, the Barbaric Ball is taking place in a couple of nights. And I’m happy to announce that King Vladimir will be attending with his son, Prince Tangine, after all these years!’