Читать книгу The Sleepover Girls Go Spice - Lorna Read - Страница 6

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.

I’d already done a phone around about the food situation, and raided some of the emergency rations Mum keeps in the spare fridge, which sits next to the huge freezer in the garage.

I’d found a big tub of my favourite ice-cream, two packets of chocolate biscuits and a bumper crisp selection pack. Don’t ask me why there were crisps in the fridge. I guess Mum was being hassled by Ben and Spike and just shoved them anywhere to get rid of them. The crisps, I mean, not my little brothers.

Frankie’s dad brought in a six-pack of Cokes. Fliss had some bananas and a bottle of diet lemonade so I knew she had to be on one of her healthy eating kicks again. Rosie had some Jaffa Cakes. Kenny was carrying a weird looking cake. It was sort of pinky orange.

“Ugh! What’s that?” I asked her.

“Molly made it at school. It’s supposed to be carrot cake,” she explained. Molly is Kenny’s twelve-year-old sister.

“It’s bound to be horrible,” Fliss said. “She wouldn’t have let you have it if it hadn’t been. You know how much she hates us. She’s probably trying to poison us so she’ll never have to move out of the bedroom again.”

Molly and Kenny share a room and every time we spend the night there, she has to move in with Emma, Kenny’s oldest sister. Both of them hate having to share, and Molly’s always nasty about which of her possessions we mustn’t touch or go anywhere near. Last time we had a sleepover at Kenny’s, Molly was so strict about her precious Spanish costume doll that, after she’d gone, I took its knickers off and made it a little nappy out of some pieces of toilet paper held together with a safety pin.

She can’t have discovered it yet, otherwise she’d have gone ballistic and I’d have heard all about it from Kenny.

I made everyone take off their shoes before going in my room. We always kick our shoes off, anyway, and my room’s too small for loads of shoes. There’s no space to put anything and Dad still hasn’t made me the new bedroom in the attic he’s been promising me for over a year.

I took the cake off Kenny and looked for somewhere to put it, where it wouldn’t get damaged. My dressing table was far too full of stuff, so in the end I put the cake down on the floor, between the bottom of the bed and the window. Big mistake.

Meanwhile, everyone was cramming themselves on to my bed and on the carpet. There was no room for Rosie till we’d closed the door and she could sit with her back to it. That was great, because it meant no nosy brothers could get in.

Frankie remained standing. It was obvious she wanted to organise everything as usual.

“I’ve got this great idea,” she announced.

We all groaned. This was one of Frankie’s stock phrases, and it always led to trouble of some sort.

She ignored us. “How many Spice Girls are there?” she asked.

“Five, of course,” said Rosie.

“How many of us are there?”

“Five,” said Kenny, frowning.

Frankie grinned. Then she ripped open a crisp packet noisily and started cramming the contents into her mouth.

I sighed. Frankie loved ‘keeping us in suspenders’, as she put it.

“Come on,” I said. “Give us a clue.”

“Mm-mm-mm-mm,” she muttered through her munching.

“What?” we asked her.

She gave a big gulp and licked her crumby lips.

“Stars in Their Eyes,” she replied. “School version, of course. Why don’t we go in for it as the Spice Girls?”

“Yeah! Fantastic! Can I be Baby Spice?” yelled Fliss.

She took a flying leap off the end of the bed. There was a squelchy sound. Then silence. Then an awful scream. She’d landed right in Molly’s carrot cake and squashed it all over the carpet. Fliss is very fussy, just like her mother. She absolutely hates getting in a mess. When we saw bits of creamy orange sponge squidging between her bare toes, we all collapsed.

“Oh no, oh no, I think I’m going to wet myself,” giggled Rosie, which made us all laugh even more.

Then I heard Mum coming up the stairs.

“Girls, girls, what’s going on up here? Is everything all right?” she called out.

“Yes, yes,” I panted, between hoots of laughter. “Fliss just put her foot in it, that’s all!”

Luckily for us, the doorbell rang. Mum dashed down the stairs to answer it, giving me a chance to get a sponge from the bathroom and do some cleaning up.

When we’d all calmed down, we got down to some serious snacking and talking.

“Who’s going to be who, then?” asked Kenny.

“I think you should be Sporty Spice,” Frankie told her.

Although we all like sports and all play netball, Kenny is seriously sports mad. She never wears anything but jeans and sportswear. Tonight, she was wearing jeans and a Leicester City Football Club sweatshirt. They’re her favourite team. My dad and grandad are mad about them, too, and sometimes we all go to matches together.

We all agreed that Kenny was perfect for Sporty Spice and, to save arguments, we agreed that Fliss could be Baby Spice. She has the right colour of hair, after all.

It was a bit difficult choosing Ginger Spice, because none of us has got ginger hair. But my mum has a big trunk full of dressing up clothes, amongst which is a red wig she bought to wear at a fancy dress party. I felt sure she’d let me borrow it. So I became Ginger Spice.