Angie Bates - The Sleepover Club on the Beach

by Angie Bates

Cover

Title Page by Angie Bates

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Have you been Invited to all these Sleepovers?

Sleepover Kit List

Copyright

About the Publisher

Hiya! Come in, don’t be shy! I always lurve catching up with Sleepover fans. Oops, sorry, something’s blocking my door! Let me shift this rubbish. You’ll have to pick your way through the bin bags. As you can see, I’ve been spring cleaning for hours.

You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I found under my bed! Bald Barbies with missing limbs, ancient board games, plus something very fuzzy on a plate, which I’m ashamed to say just might be a slice of old pizza…

Yeah yeah, Lyndsey Collins cleans her room. It should be posted on the internet, ha ha. So what brought THIS on, you’re wondering?

Well, I’ll tell you, but I warn you – it’s horribly humiliating. Yesterday all my mates came over in this big posse, looking incredibly serious.

Oh, hang on! Before I get into that, I’d better quickly remind you who everyone in the Sleepover Club is!

First comes Frankie Thomas. That’s our Frankie through and through, she just naturally jumps to the head of the queue. (Hey, did you hear that? I’m a poet!) I’m not implying Frankie’s pushy, but that girl could totally run her own chat show without any guests! She used to be a typical only child. But Frankie’s really mellowed since her little sister was born. She’s so-o gooey about baby Izzy, it’s unbelievable!

Kenny’s the youngest in her family. Her full name is Laura McKenzie, but to us she’s just Kenny or Kenz. Kenny’s a real laugh. She’s also a football fanatic, a real sports nut, a bit of a brainbox and as mad as they come!

Next comes Fliss, or “Felicity”, as absolutely NO one calls her! It’s not like Fliss is a total bimbo, just a deeply dedicated follower of fashion. She’s constantly worrying she’s not pretty or skinny enough and going on stoopid diets, which can get just a bit boring. Fliss has the WORST luck with surnames. She used to be Felicity Sidebotham. But her mum recently married her long-term boyfriend, a builder called Andy Proudlove, so poor ol’ Fliss is now Felicity Proudlove. Major improvement, huh!!

Last, but definitely not least – tada! Yess! Take a bow, Rosie Cartwright!

Mum says Rosie’s an “old head on young shoulders”, which I think means she often acts too grown-up for her age. Rosie’s dad walked out on them, unfortunately, so now Rosie just lives with her mum, her big sister Tiff and her brother Adam, who has cerebral palsy. When Rosie first joined the Sleepover Club, she was seriously down in the dumps. It took us ages to convince her we wanted to be her friends. But now she’s really chilled, just one of the gang!

Phew! That’s the intro out of the way. No, I didn’t forget about me! I promise you, by the time I’ve finished telling you about our latest sleepover, you’ll feel like you know me WAY too well!

Besides, I’m dying to get back to telling you what happened yesterday. Like I said, my mates all looked so serious that I went all wobbly inside.

“What’s wrong?” I said nervously.

They must have appointed Frankie official spokesperson, because Kenny gave her a meaningful nudge.

“Lyndz, this is going to sound really horrible,” Frankie gulped, “but there’s no nice way to put this and someone has to tell you. The fact is, your room is a total pigsty!”

I was shocked. I don’t tend to notice my room, to be honest. I just like, sleep in it.

“What’s wrong with it?” I quavered.

“Well, this for a start.” Frankie picked up one of my old trainers and tipped it upside down. A handful of stale Smarties fell out. My baby brother’s always hiding stuff in our shoes. Mum swears Spike is half baby, half squirrel!

“Plus this!” Rosie pointed sternly at my wastepaper basket, merrily spilling rubbish everywhere.

“It’s only old tissues and apple cores,” I said defensively. “Not like, droppings from plague rats or anything.”

Fliss crinkled her nose. “Lyndz, maybe you haven’t noticed, but lately it’s got really whiffy in here too.”

“I’ll say,” Kenny agreed. “If you’re not careful, the council will stick plastic tape across your door and declare you a health hazard.”

“Hey, stop right there!” I told them fiercely. I was really hurt. “I like my room just the way it is, thanks. It’s cosy and homey.”

Kenny shrugged. “Yeah, right. Homey. If you’re a dust bunny!” She fished out several lumps of icky grey fluff from under my radiator and held them out with an accusing expression.

I was incredibly embarrassed, but I tried to put a brave face on it. “That’s just dust,” I said breezily. “A bit of dust never hurt anybody.”

“Dust breeds house mites,” Fliss said in her prissiest voice. “And mites cause allergies. That’s probably why you get those terrible hiccups all the time, Lyndz.” And she started on about some special vacuum cleaner her mum got from a catalogue, which sucks all this invisible dirt out of your mattress.

I completely fell about. I mean, invisible dirt? Give me a break!

“Mum says you can tell a lot about a girl’s personality from looking at her bedroom,” Fliss went on.

She’s not kidding! Fliss’s bedroom is so pink and perfect, it’s like being beamed to Barbie World!

“We honestly don’t mean to upset you,” Rosie said earnestly. “I mean, if we all help, we could get your room cleaned up in no time.”

I’d gone into a major sulk. “I don’t need any help, because I’m not doing it. I told you, I like my room. So what if it’s untidy? I’ve got more important things to think about, OK?”

But Fliss’s remark stuck in my mind all day. She had a point. My mates’ bedrooms do reflect their very different personalities.

Kenny’s room is a total shrine to Leicester City football club, with eerie overtones of Casualty. Can you believe she owns a life-sized skeleton? (Don’t panic, it’s plastic!) Kenny’s excuse is that she’s going to be a doctor like her dad, but the rest of us think she takes an unnatural interest in gore.

Frankie’s pad is TOTALLY futuristic. Not a pad so much as a pod – a silvery hi-tech space pod. If it was up to her, she’d probably come to school wearing jumpsuits with diagonal zips, like a girl in a sci-fi series.

Rosie used to hate her room. When her dad left, they’d only just moved in, poor things, so their house was still a real tip. Then one time when we were staying over, we all helped her decorate it. Now she says it’s her favourite place in the entire universe.

Anyway, this morning, when I got up, I stood in the middle of my bedroom in my PJs and forced myself to take a good hard look.

Oh dear, I thought. This place is seriously unsavoury. Three mugs of icky cold tea. Dirty clothes all mixed up with my dressing-up clothes. Crayons mashed into the carpet, along with a tube of body glitter. Plus my pony pictures had been up so long, they’d all peeled away at the corners. And all my riding trophies were thick with grime. Yeuch!

That’s the problem with having four brothers. If you’re not careful, you kind of adjust to living in a tip. My little brothers, Ben and Spike, are at the stage where they drop bits of biscuit and apple everywhere. My big brothers are equally messy – they just drop bigger stuff. With Tom, it’s stinky socks and crumpled-up artwork. In Stu’s case, muddy wellies and bits of tractor gearbox.