Cupcake Wars!

by Alan MacDonald

  “Angela!” cried Laura, but Angela was already rushing downstairs. By the time they caught up with her, she was outside Mr Monk’s house.

  “Oh, hi, Mr Monk!” she called out.

  Mr Monk looked round. “Oh. What do you want?” he said, scowling.

  Angela smiled. “How are you today?”

  “I’m busy,” snapped Mr Monk, unlocking his car.

  “And how’s Mrs Monk?”

  “She’s not here,” sighed Mr Monk.

  “Oh, not here!” repeated Angela. “But I expect you’ve got lots to do, haven’t you? I bet you’ve been busy?”

  Mr Monk looked at her as if she was raving mad. “What business is it of yours?” he growled. “Go and bother someone else!”

  He got into his car, slammed the door and drove off.

  “See?” Angela said to her friends. “He got really cross when I asked what he was doing.”

  Laura thought that Mr Monk seemed cross all the time. “Anyway, there’s nothing we can do,” she said.

  “We can look for evidence,” said Angela. “I bet he’s got things hidden away – diamonds, jewels, stuff that he took.”

  “We shouldn’t even be here!” moaned Laura. “Let’s go before he comes back.”

  But Angela was wondering where Mr Monk would hide his loot. At the back of the house was a garage. She walked down the drive.

  “Angela!” said Maisie. “You can’t just go nosing round their house!”

  “We’re not in the house,” said Angela. “And we’re only looking. Come on!”

  Laura and Maisie looked at each other in despair. They were mad to listen to Angela, it always ended in trouble – but they couldn’t just walk off and leave her.

  They found her poking around inside the garage. There were bikes, boxes, tools and a smell of oil and paint.

  “Look at this!” gasped Angela. She reached into a box and pulled out a pair of silver candlesticks.

  “STOLEN!” hissed Angela. “What did I tell you? These are worth millions!”

  Laura stared. Maybe Angela was right? Now she really wanted to go back.

  “There has to be more,” said Angela. “Where’s he hidden it all?”

  “Let’s go!” pleaded Laura.

  But Angela wasn’t listening. She’d caught sight of something through the garage window. Across the lawn was a freshly dug bed of earth. Why would Mr Monk be digging? thought Angela. Unless he had something he wanted to hide?

  Five minutes later, Angela was ankle deep in mud. She had found a spade in the garage and was looking for gold, silver or jewels buried under the earth. Laura kept watch by the garage. Maisie paced up and down restlessly.

  “Angela, come on,” she begged. “You’ve made enough mess already!”

  Angela wiped her dirty face and looked around her. There was quite a bit of mess. Soil was scattered across the lawn along with a number of plants that Angela had uprooted. There was no sign of any jewels. Still, Angela was sure that Mr Monk had buried something. Why else would he be digging in his garden?

  Suddenly Laura let out a shriek. A car was coming this way.

  “Quick!” she cried. “He’s back! Run!”

  “There’s no time,” said Angela, dropping the spade. “Hide in here!”

  They made it in through the garage door just as Mr Monk’s car pulled up on the drive. They found a smelly old blanket and crawled underneath, hardly daring to breathe. Mr Monk’s heavy footsteps came up the drive.

  Angela’s heart was pounding. The footsteps stopped, then seemed to go past the door.

  Angela and her friends crouched still, listening.

  “Has he gone?” hissed Laura.

  “I think so,” whispered Angela.

  “Let’s get out while we can,” said Maisie.

  Keeping the blanket over their heads, they began to tiptoe forward. It was difficult to see where they were going.

  “Where’s the door?” whispered Laura.

  “SHHH!” hissed Angela. “It’s over—OUCH!”

  They’d walked into something. Angela looked down. She could see a pair of large feet wearing brown leather sandals. Help! Only one person she knew wore sandals like that.

  The blanket was whipped out of their hands. Mr Monk stood over them, his tiny moustache bristling.

  “ARRGH!” screamed the girls.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?” yelled Mr Monk. “I should call the police!”

  “Don’t!” whimpered Laura. “We didn’t do anything.”

  Angela tried to sound brave. “If you call the police, we’ll tell them what we know,” she said.

  “What?” snapped Mr Monk.

  “We’ve seen you, creeping around in black, wearing a balaclava,” said Angela. “You’re a burglar!”

  “A burglar? Is that what this is about?” said Mr Monk. “Not that it’s any of your business, but these are my decorating clothes. I was painting the bedroom ceiling and I didn’t want paint in my hair. That’s why I was wearing a balaclava.”

  Angela felt her stomach sink. “But the silver candlesticks…”

  “Mine,” said Mr Monk. “And they’re not real silver.”

  “And you dug up the garden to hide all your loot!” said Angela.

  “Oh, yes, the garden,” said Mr Monk. He marched them across the lawn to the spot and pointed. “That’s the flower bed I dug yesterday to plant with tulips,” he said. “It was meant to be a special surprise for my wife. But someone has destroyed it!”

  Angela opened her mouth, but for once nothing came out. The flowerbed was just a flowerbed and Mr Monk wasn’t a burglar. Right now, though, he looked pretty mad.

  “Right, here’s the choice,” he said. “We can go and tell your parents what you’ve been up to – or else…”

  He held out the spade.

  Angela gulped. “You wouldn’t … bury us?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” said Mr Monk. “No, I want this flowerbed tidied up and all the tulips replanted. And it had better be perfect. Mrs Monk’s due home at four o’clock.” He marched off back to the house.

  Angela picked up the spade.

  “ANGELA!” moaned Maisie. “What did we tell you?”

  “You never listen,” grumbled Laura.

  Angela pulled a face. “It wasn’t my fault. Anyone can make a mistake.”

  She looked at the flowerbed. They had better get on with it, she thought. Digging up a big pile of earth, she threw it over her shoulder.

  “ARGHHH!”

  “ANGELAAAAAAAA!”

  “Oops!” said Angela. “Sorry!”

  Angela Nicely might look like she’s made of sugar and spice and all things nice, but nothing could be further from the truth!

  Whether it’s proving that her Head Teacher wears a wig, trying to outdo her rival, Tiffany Charmers, or finding herself out of her depth on a spa weekend, she’s determined to make a splash!

  It was nine o’clock on Monday morning. Angela sat in the hall next to Laura and Maisie. They were waiting for assembly to start.

  “Good morning, children,” said Miss Skinner.

  “GOOD MOR-NING, MISS SKIN-NER!” chanted the children.

  Miss Skinner’s gaze swept over the rows of faces like a cold wind.

  “Jemma Bumford, stop fidgeting. Jimmy Wallop, turn round. Bertie, wipe your nose … not on Darren!”

  Angela sat up straight and gazed at Miss Skinner. Her mouth fell open. There was something different about the Head Teacher today. Her hair! She always wore her hair in a bun that looked like a brown ring doughnut. But today her hair hung loose in frizzy curls. RED curls! Angela stared. How could it have grown longer and curlier? And changed colour? It was impossible. Unless… Angela’s eyes almost popped out of her head. MISS SKINNER WAS WEARING A WIG!

  Angela nudged Laura. “Look what she’s wearing!” she whispered.

  Laura looked. “Sandals,” she said.

  “No, on her head!” hissed Angela.

  Laura looked aga
in. Miss Skinner wasn’t wearing anything on her head except…

  “OH!” gasped Laura. Miss Skinner’s hair had had some sort of makeover.

  “See?” hissed Angela. “It’s a—”

  “ANGELA NICELY!” Miss Skinner’s voice made Angela jump. “Is there something you want to share with us?”

  Angela gulped. “No, Miss,” she mumbled.

  “Speak up,” said Miss Skinner. “It’s obviously important.”

  Angela shook her head, her cheeks burning. She could feel everyone staring at her. Luckily, Miss Skinner went back to what she was saying.

  After assembly Angela and her friends headed back to class.

  “How come it’s always me that gets in trouble?” grumbled Angela.

  “You were talking,” said Laura.

  “So were you,” argued Angela.

  “Anyway, what were you whispering about?” asked Maisie.

  Angela stopped dead. “You mean you didn’t notice?” she said.

  Maisie looked at her blankly.

  “Miss Skinner IS WEARING A WIG,” said Angela, spelling it out.

  Maisie snorted. “She’s not!”

  “SHE IS! It’s so obvious!”

  Maisie looked at her. “Angela! You are such a fibber!”

  “It’s a wig!” insisted Angela.

  “It isn’t!”

  “Is!” said Angela, throwing up her hands in despair. “Look,” she said, “before her hair was short and brown, and she had it in a bun. Now it’s long, curly and RED! It has to be a wig.”

  Maisie rolled her eyes. “Angela, you are raving barmy bonkers!”

  Angela sighed. Maisie was her second best friend, but she could be really annoying sometimes.

  “It definitely is,” said Angela.

  Maisie gave her a look. “Okay,” she said. “Prove it.”

  “Right, I will!” said Angela.

  Laura frowned. “How? How can you prove it?”

  Angela hadn’t thought about that. She couldn’t exactly go up to Miss Skinner and say, “Please, Miss, can you show us your wig?” Teachers went mad when you said things like that. Even if you were just helpfully pointing out a spot on their nose. No, she would have to think of a plan. Maisie always thought she knew best, but this time Angela would prove her wrong.

  Read Angela Nicely

  to find out what

  happens next.

  Angela Nicely might look like she’s made of sugar and spice and all things nice, but nothing could be further from the truth!

  Whether she’s matchmaking her teachers, flogging home-made lemonade, or dealing with the Ugly Sisters, she’s determined to get her own way!

  “ANGELA NICELY!” cried Miss Darling. “Are you talking?”

  “No, only whispering,” said Angela.

  “That’s the same thing,” said Miss Darling. “When I say work quietly I mean QUIETLY!”

  Angela jumped. Miss Darling was certainly in a crabby mood today. She’d already shouted at Maisie and snapped at Kevin for drawing on his face. Her eyes were red and she kept reaching for her hanky. Maybe she’d stayed up past her bedtime last night.

  Angela noticed a magazine poking out of her teacher’s bag. She squinted, trying to read the headline in red letters.

  Angela sat up. That was it! That explained Miss Darling’s bad mood. She’d been dumped by her boyfriend! Wait till she told Maisie and Laura. Angela was an expert on boyfriend trouble. She had split up with Bertie hundreds of times, although according to him they were never going out.

  At break time Angela called an emergency meeting of the GOBS club (Girls Only, Boys Smell).

  “Is everyone here?” she said.

  “You can see we’re here,” sighed Maisie.

  “Good, because we’ve got to do something about Miss Darling,” said Angela. “She’s been dumped by her boyfriend.”

  Laura gasped. “How do you know?”

  “It’s so obvious!” said Angela. “She’s all moody, and you can tell she’s been crying.”

  “So? I don’t see what we can do,” said Maisie.

  Angela gave her a look. “Well, DUH!” she said. “We can find her a new boyfriend!”

  The other two stared. It was a brilliant idea. After all, Miss Darling deserved a nice boyfriend.

  “Okay, but who?” said Maisie.

  Angela frowned. The fact was, boyfriends weren’t exactly growing on trees. There was Bertie, of course, but he was Angela’s boyfriend and anyway he picked his nose. Besides, it needed to be someone nearer Miss Darling’s age – about twenty-one or forty.

  ‘There’s Mr Grouch,” she said.

  ‘The caretaker? He’s ancient!” cried Maisie.

  “And bald and grumpy,” added Laura.

  Angela had to admit Mr Grouch wasn’t a dream come true – he was more of a nightmare. But that only left one person.

  ‘Then it’ll have to be Mr Weakly,” she said.

  “MR WEAKLY?” squawked Laura. “Who’d want to go out with him?”

  Mr Weakly was the only male teacher at the school. He was pale, nervous and hid behind a pair of thick glasses. Still, he was their only hope.

  “He’s just a bit shy,” said Angela.

  “Shy?” said Maisie. “He goes bright red if you ask a question! Can you imagine him asking Miss Darling out?”

  Angela sighed. It was easier to imagine Mr Weakly becoming a lion tamer.

  “Okay then, we’ll just have to give him some tips!” she said.

  Miss Darling was going to get a boyfriend even if it took all year. Angela was sure she’d be grateful. One day she might even need a bridesmaid…

  Read Queen Bee

  to find out what

  happens next.

  Angela Nicely might look like she’s made of sugar and spice and all things nice, but nothing could be further from the truth!

  Whether she’s learning a new skill for the school talent contest, getting lost on a nature walk, or squaring up to the boys on the football pitch, she’s determined to stand out from the crowd!

  Angela’s class gathered on the carpet for News Time. This morning Miss Darling had some exciting news.

  “As you know, it’s nearly the holidays,” she said. “So to celebrate we have decided to hold a talent contest.”

  Angela’s eyes almost jumped out of her head. A talent contest? Yahoo!

  “Anyone can enter,” said Miss Darling. “Mr Weakly and Miss Boot have agreed to be our judges, and of course there’ll be a prize for the winner. Who’d like to take part?”

  Every hand shot in the air. Angela’s was the first to go up. This was a contest that was made for her.

  “Can we do any talent we like?” asked Tiffany Charmers.

  “Of course, Tiffany,” said Miss Darling.

  “Then I’m going to do the dance I did for my ballet exam,” said Tiffany. “I got a gold merit.”

  Angela rolled her eyes. Tiffany had told them a million times about her gold merit. From the way she went on anyone would have thought it was an Olympic gold medal.

  At break time, everyone was talking about the talent contest. They only had a week to rehearse.

  “I don’t think I’ve got a talent,” sighed Laura.

  “You can go cross-eyed,” said Angela. “Mmm, I don’t know if that would win,” said Laura.

  “I know,” said Maisie. “We could do a pop mime! You know, with dance steps and miming the words.”

  Angela wasn’t so sure. She’d already heard others in the class discussing a pop mime. “Don’t we need something a bit different?” she asked.

  “A pop mime is different,” argued Maisie.

  “Not if everyone else is doing one,” said Angela. “I might do something on my own.”

  Just then Tiffany twirled past, bumping into them. “Do you mind, I’m trying to rehearse here,” she sniffed. “So, ANG-ER-LA, what’s your talent then?”

  Angela shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I
know, you could be a clown,” giggled Tiffany. “You wouldn’t even need make-up!”

  Angela ignored her.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” said Tiffany. “It’s obvious who’s going to win.”

  “Who?” asked Laura.

  “Me of course, cos I’m the only one with any talent!” smiled Tiffany. She shook her curly hair and danced away, pointing her toes.

  “She’s such a show-off,” said Angela.

  “Take no notice,” said Maisie. “She can’t win everything.”

  Angela sighed. That was the annoying thing about Tiffany, she did win everything. She was class monitor, came top in every test and had been Star Pupil of the Week a dozen times. It would take something special to stop her winning the talent contest. The question was – what, exactly?

  Read Superstar

  to find out what

  happens next.

  Angela Nicely might look like she’s made of sugar and spice and all things nice, but nothing could be further from the truth!

  Whether she’s using her powers of persuasion to get a dog, helping Miss Darling win Teacher of the Year, or competing for the tidiest tent at Brownie camp, she’s determined to come out on top!

  Angela sploshed milk on to her cereal and looked up.

  “I saw a puppy yesterday,” she announced.

  “Mmm?” said Mrs Nicely, closing the dishwasher.

  “A little brown and white puppy. It was sitting outside the chip shop,” Angela went on.

  “Really,” said Mrs Nicely.

  “I think it was lost,” Angela said hopefully.

  Mrs Nicely gave Angela one of her looks. She knew where this conversation was going. “It wasn’t lost, Angela,” she sighed. “The owner was probably in the shop and they’d left the dog outside.”