Lorna Read - The Sleepover Girls Go Spice

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 Ml, 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 does it matter?” I asked Kenny.

“The competition!” Kenny said.

We all stared at her. Then I suddenly remembered. I don’t watch much telly. I’m not as mad about it as the rest of the club, especially Fliss, who eats, drinks and sleeps Friends and has all the episodes on video – she’s the saddest thing on earth! One thing I do enjoy, though, is seeing people make complete twits of themselves on Stars in Their Eyes, where they have to look and sound like a famous singer.

The other day Mrs Poole announced in Assembly that the school was going to raise some money to send some needy kids in a children’s home on holiday.

“The staff and I have had a discussion and we’ve come up with something we thought you’d all enjoy,” she told us. “Every class is going to enter an act in Cuddington Primary’s version of Stars in Their Eyes. There’ll be class heats first and we want all of you to have a go. The winning act from every class will get a prize, and they’ll perform in the charity show. The ticket money will go to the children’s home.”

We didn’t think any more about it, as none of us are particularly talented, though Fliss thinks she looks and sings like Madonna and Frankie plays pretty mean piano.

But it looked as if Frankie had thought of something now, and the rest of us were desperate to find out what it was.

The door of our classroom was closing as we got to it. I grabbed the handle to stop the others from entering, while I thought quickly.

“Six o’clock at my place, folks,” I told everyone. “Mum’s got yoga tonight and Dad’ll be in the workshop. He’s trying to finish this really gross pot for Auntie Cath’s birthday. I don’t know what she’ll ever use it for.”

My dad really fancies himself as an arty potter, but his efforts are always wobbly and lopsided, or bits drop off them. They are totally useless, though he thinks they’re works of art which should be worth millions of pounds and displayed in museums throughout the world.

“A spaghetti jar?” suggested practical Fliss.

“A potty?” Rosie giggled.

“That’s what your dad is – a potty potter,” Frankie said.

We all laughed loudly, even me, though it was my dad Frankie was insulting.

Then Mrs Weaver yelled, “When you girls feel like joining us, the class can start.”

So we had to go in and pretend to be interested in caddis fly larvae.

As we were drawing them in our Nature Study books, Frankie made hers look like my baby brother Spike, swaddled in an enormous nappy. I tried so hard not to laugh when she passed it to me under the desk that I got the hiccups.

Mrs Weaver sent Alana Banana, of all people, to get me a glass of water, but my hand shook so much as I hiccuped, that the water shot all over the back of Emma Hughes, one of the M&Ms.

That put the king in the cake all right! She’s one of our worst enemies and the sight of water dripping down her neck inside her collar made us have hysterics. We just collapsed with our heads on our desks and sobbed.

But it stopped my hiccups, so it was a good thing for me, if not for Emma, who hissed, “I’ll get you for this, Lyndsey Collins! You’ve really got it coming!”

Now, a threat from the M&Ms spells real doom. I had no doubt in my mind that Emma and her crony Emily meant to do something to get back at me.

But what…?

I laid the news on Mum as soon as I got home.

“No way. You can’t have all your friends round tonight,” she said.

“But why not?” I wailed. “I’ve invited them now. It’s not fair!”

“I’ve got some of my friends coming this evening. I might be an old wrinkly, but I do have friends, you know, and I’m going to be far too busy entertaining them to cater for you lot as well,” she insisted.

“I thought it was your yoga night and we wouldn’t be in the way,” I said.

“It’s been cancelled. The teacher’s on holiday.”

I put on my sweetest, most pleading face. “Please, Mum… They’ll have eaten already by the time they get here. And we won’t take up any space. We’ll go straight up to my room and disappear. We’re having a summit conference,” I told her importantly.

“The summit of stupidity, if you ask me!” snorted Tom, who would happen to walk into the kitchen right then.

“It is not!” I said angrily.

“‘Tis.”

“‘Tisn’t!”

“Oh, stop being babyish, you two,” said Mum. “Look, if you want to see your friends tonight, Lyndsey, just make sure they bring their own crisps and biscuits, and keep out of the lounge at all costs. Okay?”

“Thanks, Mum!” I said, giving her a hug.

Frankie’s dad brought her, Kenny and Rosie over. Shortly afterwards, Andy, Fliss’s mum’s boyfriend, dropped Fliss off.