Mates, Dates and Sleepover Secrets

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘Ah. Boy trouble,’ said Lucy.

  ‘But which boy?’ said Nesta.’You’re over Scott n’est-ce pas?’

  I nodded.’It’s another boy who I’ve only just realised I like. Much nicer than Scott. And now I’m all tongue-tied and stupid around him. And I think I’ve blown it. And it’s probably too late.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Steve?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Kind of obvious from the start,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Obvious? To who? I’ve only just realised. And who knows what’s going on in his head. If he likes me.’

  ‘Er, hello?’ said Lucy. ‘What planet are you on exactly?’

  ‘Planet Zog, actually’ I said and explained all about Noola and her ability to take over my head.

  ‘Well, for your information, Steve hasn’t stopped talking about you and asking about you ever since he met you,’ said Lucy. ‘And he was well miffed with the fact you fancied Scott. Didn’t you notice how weirded out he was when we bumped into Scott in Hampstead?’

  ‘Suppose he was kind of quiet that day. I thought I’d done something to upset him.’

  ‘D’oh. Yeah. You had,’ said Lucy. ‘Fancied someone else.’

  Izzie came down the stairs and flopped on the sofa.

  ‘Whassup?’ she asked.

  ‘TJ,’ said Nesta. ‘She turns into Noola the Alien Girl whenever she fancies a boy. Noola only knows three words. Tell her, TJ.’

  ‘Uhyuh. Yunewee. And nihingyah.’

  Lucy started giggling and doing an alien robot impersonation like C3P0 in Star Wars up and down the room.

  ‘Uhyuh,’ she squeaked in a high voice. ‘Yunewee. Nihingyaaaah.’

  We were laughing so hard that Steve came down to see what was going on. Of course, I went purple.

  ‘So?’ said Steve.

  ‘So noth . . . nothing,’ chuckled Nesta.

  ‘Just something Lucy said,’ said Izzie.

  Steve looked up to the heavens, then turned to me. ‘You coming back to finish your editorial?’

  ‘Uh . . . uhyuh,’ I said and Lucy exploded with laughter.

  Steve heaved a sigh, which Lucy and Nesta copied.

  Steve looked at us all as though we were stupid. ‘When you’re ready, TJ,’ he said and went back to his room.

  ‘See, do you see now?’ I said. ‘I’m going to blow it. And we were getting on so well and now I’m going to act like an idiot around him and he’ll think I’m Dork from Dorkland, Nerd from Nerdville, Airhead from . . .’

  ‘Shut the door, Lucy,’ said Izzie. ‘We clearly have work to do.’

  We spent the next twenty minutes doing a visualisation with Izzie. She’s well into self-help stuff and had been reading in one of her books about positive thinking.

  ‘It’s all in the mind,’ she said. ‘You can get over this and put Noola the Alien Girl to rest. But you have to see yourself acting confidently. I’ve been reading all about it for when I do gigs.’

  ‘But I think you’re either confident or not,’ I said. ‘Like Nesta. It’s not something you can learn.’

  ‘Oh, yes it is,’ said Nesta. ‘We all have our own tricks. Sometimes, I pretend I’m a character out of a film if I feel nervous. Then I act as I think they would. It really works.’

  ‘And I used to be hopeless about singing in public,’ said Izzie. ‘So bad I couldn’t sleep at night. I used to be well terrified of looking a fool and this has really helped.’

  ‘So, you think I could learn to talk sense when I meet a boy I like?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Izzie. ‘In fact, my book says, “we are what we repeatedly do. Confidence is not an act but a habit.” You have to practise.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Lucy. ‘Sounds good to me. What do we do?’

  Izzie made us all sit down and close our eyes. First, we had to imagine the situation we felt nervous in, so I thought about being close to Steve upstairs. We had to imagine the room, the surroundings, what we were wearing, all the details.

  Then Izzie said, ‘Imagine yourself being relaxed, calm and completely in control. Imagine the other person’s response to you. In your mind, see them laughing at your jokes, listening with interest to what you say, liking you.’

  She made us imagine the situation over and over again until in my imagination, Steve was gawping at me in open admiration, amazed at my witticisms. In awe at my brilliant conversation.

  ‘OK, open your eyes, everyone.’

  We did as we were told and looked around at each other.

  ‘How do you feel now, TJ?’

  I stood up and went to the door. ‘Awesome. Noola. She dead.’ I put my hands on my hips Arnold Schwarzeneggar style and said, ‘I’ll be back. Hasta la vista, baby’

  Nesta laughed. ‘Go get him, girlfriend.’

  I went back up the stairs. As I stood outside Steve’s bedroom, my butterfly nerves came back, so I imagined Steve smiling at me and enjoying my company.

  I went in, sat down next to him at the computer, did a quick visualisation in my head, then turned and gave him a huge smile.

  He turned to look at me. ‘Aaagjjhh. What’s the matter with you now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I beamed, thinking, I am confident, I am great, stunning, brill, dazzling, fantabulous.

  Steve looked at me as though I was totally bonkers.

  ‘You’re really weird, you know that, don’t you?’ he asked.

  Just at that moment, my mobile went.

  ‘Scuse, Steve,’ I said, as I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hey, TJ,’ said Scott’s voice. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Magazine. Remember, I told you. Deadline Monday.’

  ‘Oh, that can wait,’ said Scott. ‘Wanna go out to the Heath?’

  ‘Sorry, Scott,’ I said. ‘Busy. Later.’

  Then I hung up.

  ‘That guy?’ asked Steve.

  ‘That guy’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And . . . history,’ I said.

  Now Steve had a huge grin across his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he beamed.

  ‘You’re really weird,’ I said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘So that makes two of us.’

  For Real

  Summer edition

  Contents

  Editorial by TJ Watts

  Coming events in the school calendar

  Lucy Lovering’s top fashion tips for a sizzling summer

  Sleepover Secrets: a report by TJ Watts

  Dr Watts’ (Mum) ten tips for pre-exam stress

  Dr Watts’ (Dad) handy hints for holiday health abroad

  Make-over madness: before and after make-over with beauty tips for being a top babe by Nesta Williams

  Ten tips for taking good summer holiday shots with an automatic camera by Steve Lovering

  It’s a dog’s life: an article on Battersea Dogs’ Home by TJ Watts

  Flirting dos and don’ts by Nesta Williams

  Aromatherapy bath-time oils by Izzie Foster

  Horoscopes by Mystic Iz

  Wot a larf: strange book titles and their even stranger authors

  And finally: a cartoon competition by Tony Costello Readers are invited to write in with a caption

  Chapter 14

  The magazine looked great. We’d done the final layout on Steve’s computer, eight full pages that looked fun and interesting.

  Steve had found all sorts of visuals on the Internet to liven up the articles, pictures of dogs for the Battersea Dogs’ Home article, stars for the horoscope page, herbs and flowers for Izzie’s aromatherapy piece. Plus the mad ‘before’ and ‘after’ make-over photographs for the centre spread.

  It looked good. Very good. I reckoned I was in with a chance.

  At assembly on Monday, Mrs Allen asked that all entries were handed in to our form teacher.

  ‘I know a lot of you have worked very hard on this,’ she said, ‘so
we won’t keep you waiting. We hope to have an announcement about the winner by the end of the week.’

  Five minutes later, we filed into class and I joined the group hovering around Miss Watkins’ desk. I put my copy on the small pile of entries from our class.

  ‘Quite a number getting it all finished on time, wasn’t it?’ I asked Wendy Roberts who was standing behind me.

  ‘Er, no,’ she said. ‘Unlike some saddos in this class, I didn’t do one. See, I have a life.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were into it.’

  ‘You thought wrong. Deadlines are for losers. And, by the way, Mrs Allen said she wanted to see you. I saw her just now in the corridor. She wanted you to go to her office immediately.’

  That’s strange, I thought, as I hurried off down the corridor to Mrs Allen’s office. I hoped nothing was wrong.

  ‘Mrs Allen wants to see me,’ I said as her secretary looked up when I knocked on the office door.

  ‘I don’t think so, dear,’ she said. ‘Mrs Allen’s in with Mr Parker. She said not to be disturbed. Must be some mistake.’

  No mistake, I thought, as I went back to class. I suppose Wendy thought she was being funny.

  Miss Watkins was at her desk flicking through the entries when I walked back into the class. ‘You’re late, TJ,’ she said.

  ‘Er, sorry, miss,’ I said, going to my desk.

  Luckily, she didn’t go on about it, as Wendy Roberts came in just behind me.

  ‘And you, Roberts, what’s your excuse?’

  ‘Loo, miss,’ she said, breathlessly taking her place.

  Miss Watkins continued flicking through the entries. ‘Well done girls, we have six entries from this class.’ Then she looked at me. ‘But I thought we’d have had one more. I thought you were going to enter, TJ.’

  ‘I did, Miss,’ I said. ‘I put it in the pile after assembly.’

  ‘Well, it’s not here now,’ she said.

  I looked round at Wendy Roberts. She was gazing out of the window, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  ‘Are you sure, TJ?’ said Miss Watkins. ‘Check your bag.’

  I did as I was told, but I was sure I’d put it on the desk. ‘Not there, miss.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  Suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. And I had no proof that Wendy had taken it.

  ‘Maybe it’s fallen on the floor?’

  Miss Watkins had a quick look around, then faced the class.

  ‘Has anyone taken TJ’s entry?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘This is very serious. If TJ says she put her entry on the pile then either she’s lying or someone’s taken it. Is anyone going to enlighten me?’

  Again no one spoke.

  ‘She did do an entry,’ said Lucy. ‘I saw it. Honest, miss.’

  Miss Watkins looked upset. ‘This is very unfortunate, girls. It’s almost the end of term and next year, you’ll be going into Year 10. You’re not beginners any more and, frankly, I’m disappointed in this sort of behaviour. However, I’m going to ask you to act like mature adults and sort this out amongst yourselves. Twelve-thirty this lunch-time is the deadline for entries, so unless you find it, TJ, or someone owns up, I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I’m prepared to do.’

  ‘That cow,’ said Lucy, as we filed out at break-time. ‘I’m sure it was Wendy Roberts.’

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’ I asked.

  Nesta shook her head. ‘She must have taken it from Miss Watkins’ desk when you went to see Mrs Allen.’

  ‘There was a whole crowd round Miss Watkins’ desk,’ said Izzie. ‘Anyone could have taken it. You know how competitive everyone’s been.’

  ‘But Wendy did come in after you, TJ. You know, before lessons started. Remember?’ said Izzie.

  ‘To the loos,’ said Nesta. ‘Let’s go.’

  We ran down the corridor to the cloakrooms. Lucy looked in the cubicles while Nesta searched in the bin.

  ‘Erlack,’ said Nesta, as she rummaged around amongst bits of old tissue and paper towels.

  ‘Oh, noooo,’ I heard Lucy say, as she reached the third cubicle.

  She came out holding a sopping wet pile of ripped paper. ‘I’m so sorry, TJ, it was in the bin next to the loo.’

  Izzie took what was left of the magazine. ‘It looks like she’s run it under the tap first.’

  ‘But why?’ I said. ‘Why has she got it in for me?’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be a reason,’ sighed Nesta. ‘Some people are just very very sad. They can’t stand to see anyone else doing well.’

  ‘I reckon she never got over being made to look an idiot when Sam Denham was here,’ said Izzie. ‘You know, when he praised your answer and dismissed hers.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I said, leaning back against one of the sinks. ‘I can’t hand it in like this.’

  ‘We could go to Mrs Allen,’ said Nesta.

  I was gutted. ‘We could, but what will that achieve? Only make Wendy hate me more. The main thing is, my entry’s unreadable. All that work, wasted.’ I was near to tears. ‘And all your contributions.’

  Lucy got her mobile out of her bag. ‘What time is it?’ she said.

  ‘Eleven,’ I said.

  She began dialling frantically.

  ‘Who are you phoning? I asked.

  ‘Steve,’ she said. ‘His year’s doing exams and stuff so their timetable’s all over the place. He might be at home revising.’

  ‘Brill,’ said Izzie. ‘He’s got the mag on his computer. It will only take a minute to print out.’

  ‘That’s if he’s there,’ said Nesta.

  Lucy listened as the phone rang, then she grimaced. ‘Voicemail,’ she said. ‘He must be doing something.’

  ‘Leave a message anyway,’ said Izzie. ‘It’s our only chance.’

  We went back into the next lesson, but I couldn’t concentrate. And neither could Nesta, Izzie or Lucy, by the looks of it.

  ‘If you look at your watch one more time, TJ Watts,’ said Mr Dixon, ‘I’m going to take it off you. And Lucy Lovering, if whatever you’re staring at outside the window is so fascinating, I suggest you go and stand there for the rest of the lesson.’

  I glanced across at Wendy Roberts. She looked up from her book and smiled smugly.

  You just wait, Wendy Roberts, I thought. It’s not over yet.

  We flew out of the classroom at lunch-time and out into the playground towards the gates.

  No one there.

  Lucy got out her phone again. She dialled, then shook her head. ‘Still on voicemail.’

  I checked my watch. Ten past twelve.

  Twelve-fifteen.

  Twelve-twenty.

  ‘Did you say what time the deadline was when you left the message?’ asked Nesta, looking up and down the street anxiously.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘I said twelve-thirty. I’ll try ringing again.’

  She was about to dial, when Izzie grabbed my arm.

  ‘Here he is,’ she cried, as Steve came flying round the corner on his bike.

  He screeched to a stop and pulled an envelope out of his rucksack.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, as he handed it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ I called over my shoulder as I ran back inside.

  This time I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I went straight to the staff room and asked for Miss Watkins. I wanted to put my magazine into her hands myself.

  Chapter 15

  ‘And the new editor will be . . .’ said Mrs Allen, as we stood in assembly on Friday.

  I held my breath as Nesta gave me the thumbs-up.

  ‘Before I announce the winner, I must say it’s been very difficult,’ continued Mrs Allen. ‘The standard of entries was exceptionally high and I’m very proud of all of you. Ultimately, there are no losers. We’ve had a very hard time deciding and . . .’

  Izzie gave me a look as if to say, ‘I wish she’d get on with it.’

  ‘Finally, w
e narrowed it down to two. We decided on a tie. Two winners. First, Emma Ford from Year 10. And, second, TJ Watts from Year 9.’

  There were cheers from Nesta, Izzie and Lucy at the back of the class. But, best of all, Wendy Roberts’ face was a picture. Her mouth literally dropped open.

  I gave her a huge smile as I went up to join Emma on the stage with Mrs Allen.

  After school, we all piled back to Lucy’s for celebratory ice cream and cake. When the girls were settled chomping away, Steve beckoned me up to his room.

  ‘I . . . I have something for you,’ he said shyly.

  He went to a drawer in the cabinet next to his bed. He pulled out a small package wrapped in silver, with a gold bow and a card and handed them to me. ‘These are for you.’

  I opened the card first. On the front it had a black-and-white photograph of a man on a road, with a caption underneath saying, ‘Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.’ Inside he’d written, ‘Good Luck to the new Editor of For Real’

  ‘Thanks. That’s really . . .’

  ‘Open the pressie,’ he said, smiling.

  I ripped off the paper and found a beautiful pen inside. It was Indian-looking, shiny turquoise and silver with sequinny things on the side.

  ‘Yu . . . nu . . . wee,’ I said, slipping back into Zoganese for a moment.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, as if he understood perfectly. ‘It’s for writing your novels.’

  For a moment, we just stayed looking at each other. It was the most perfect feeling. Like time stopped still and we were somehow melting into each other.

  Then Steve grinned. ‘So next . . .?’

  ‘Next?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean? Next?’

  ‘That day in the park, when you asked how does anyone ever get together and you said for you, they’d have to make it really obvious – pressies, cards, a billboard in Piccadilly . . .’

  I looked at my card and my present and smiled. ‘Oh. But please, no, not a billboard in Piccadilly, I’d die . . .’

  Steve laughed, then leant towards me, pushed a lock of hair away from my face, looked deeply into my eyes and . . .

  ‘We could go and see a movie next,’ he said.

  ‘Love to,’ I said. ‘As long as it’s not Alien Mutants in Cyberspace. And you don’t spend the whole movie eating popcorn.’