laughing again.
‘They could get married!’ Jo suggests. ‘We could be bridesmaids!’
‘In pink and lilac frocks with frills and big bows in our hair!’
Mum comes through from the bedroom carrying Misti, who’s obviously been bathed and dressed in her best stuff specially.
‘What’s the joke?’ she asks, and we collapse in giggles again, but Mum doesn’t mind. She’s got orange juice and chocolate chip cookies and Hula Hoops all set out on the table.
I love my mum.
We scoff the snacks and go through to my room, and it’s all neat and tidy and smelling of joss sticks to disguise any lingering whiff of Misti-accidents. Jo admires the wardrobe, the spotty drawers and the turquoise fun-fur cushions my mum found in last year’s Homebase sale. She chooses a CD and we turn up the volume and stretch out on the bed, doing flow charts and quizzes from a couple of teen mags Jo’s brought along.
We discover that my perfect party snack is popcorn, and Jo’s is peanuts; my dream date is a day at the ice rink, and Jo’s is a candlelit dinner for two; my feel-good fashion is sassy skateboard chic and Jo’s is glitz ‘n’ glam, all high heels, crushed velvet and dangly earrings.
We clean off Monday’s nail varnish and repaint it, using ‘Tangerine Dream’ for me and ‘Purple Passion’ for Jo. No spots, no smudges, no crushed-crisp sprinkles. We even paint three of Misti’s dinky little fingernails before she gets bored and wanders off to dunk all her soft toys in the bathroom sink.
‘Teatime, girls,’ Mum shouts through, and we wolf down sausage, beans and mash. Mum says there’s ice cream for afters.
‘What kind?’ Jo wants to know. ‘My fave is that Häagen-Dazs one with the triple chocolate swirls…’
We’ve got economy vanilla from the cheap supermarket, but Mum lets us crumble a couple of choc chip cookies on top, and Jo says it’s almost as good.
Afterwards, we go through our lines for the audition. Miss McDougall’s given everyone the same chunk of script, because she says she’s just looking for expression and confidence and potential. We’re to get into groups and each read a character from the two-page test script, and Miss McDougall will make a shortlist and do the casting from that.
And Shane was right – we have to sing. Everyone who’s trying out for a part has to do the pickpocket song, solo, in front of the whole class.
Jo reads Nancy, I read Oliver, and we leave out the bits for Dodger because Aisha’s going to do that. Jo reads her lines really clearly, like she’s reading out in assembly, or doing a talk in front of the class. Aisha’s right: she’s pretty, she’s confident. She’ll make a great Nancy.
‘Do we do the singy bit too?’ I ask, and Jo’s away, wiggling her hips, whipping imaginary silk squares out of nowhere. She looks so convincing, you don’t really notice the bits where her voice goes wobbly.
She flops back down on the bed. ‘I have to get this part,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect for me, isn’t it? And I just know Shane’s going to be Oliver or Dodger or something. I really want him to notice me, Indie. If I get the part, we’ll have to practise together loads, and maybe he’ll ask me out or something.’
I stare at Jo. Nobody in our class has ever been out with a boy, except for Carrie Naughton who says she had a holiday romance last summer and showed us a blurry photo of a geeky French kid as proof. And Kelly Murphy, who hangs out with Buzz Bielinski sometimes and says he once kissed her outside the chippy.
‘D’you think he will?’ Jo demands. ‘Ask me out, I mean?’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘You’re the prettiest girl in the class.’
‘D’you think so? Does he think so?’
Jo looks so sad that I want to stroke her hair and tell her to forget about Shane Taggart cos he’s just a sandy-haired, skateboard-mad, chip-stealing chancer. There’s no way he’s worth all the heartache, the hassle.
‘Anyway,’ Jo says, ‘I
‘They could get married!’ Jo suggests. ‘We could be bridesmaids!’
‘In pink and lilac frocks with frills and big bows in our hair!’
Mum comes through from the bedroom carrying Misti, who’s obviously been bathed and dressed in her best stuff specially.
‘What’s the joke?’ she asks, and we collapse in giggles again, but Mum doesn’t mind. She’s got orange juice and chocolate chip cookies and Hula Hoops all set out on the table.
I love my mum.
We scoff the snacks and go through to my room, and it’s all neat and tidy and smelling of joss sticks to disguise any lingering whiff of Misti-accidents. Jo admires the wardrobe, the spotty drawers and the turquoise fun-fur cushions my mum found in last year’s Homebase sale. She chooses a CD and we turn up the volume and stretch out on the bed, doing flow charts and quizzes from a couple of teen mags Jo’s brought along.
We discover that my perfect party snack is popcorn, and Jo’s is peanuts; my dream date is a day at the ice rink, and Jo’s is a candlelit dinner for two; my feel-good fashion is sassy skateboard chic and Jo’s is glitz ‘n’ glam, all high heels, crushed velvet and dangly earrings.
We clean off Monday’s nail varnish and repaint it, using ‘Tangerine Dream’ for me and ‘Purple Passion’ for Jo. No spots, no smudges, no crushed-crisp sprinkles. We even paint three of Misti’s dinky little fingernails before she gets bored and wanders off to dunk all her soft toys in the bathroom sink.
‘Teatime, girls,’ Mum shouts through, and we wolf down sausage, beans and mash. Mum says there’s ice cream for afters.
‘What kind?’ Jo wants to know. ‘My fave is that Häagen-Dazs one with the triple chocolate swirls…’
We’ve got economy vanilla from the cheap supermarket, but Mum lets us crumble a couple of choc chip cookies on top, and Jo says it’s almost as good.
Afterwards, we go through our lines for the audition. Miss McDougall’s given everyone the same chunk of script, because she says she’s just looking for expression and confidence and potential. We’re to get into groups and each read a character from the two-page test script, and Miss McDougall will make a shortlist and do the casting from that.
And Shane was right – we have to sing. Everyone who’s trying out for a part has to do the pickpocket song, solo, in front of the whole class.
Jo reads Nancy, I read Oliver, and we leave out the bits for Dodger because Aisha’s going to do that. Jo reads her lines really clearly, like she’s reading out in assembly, or doing a talk in front of the class. Aisha’s right: she’s pretty, she’s confident. She’ll make a great Nancy.
‘Do we do the singy bit too?’ I ask, and Jo’s away, wiggling her hips, whipping imaginary silk squares out of nowhere. She looks so convincing, you don’t really notice the bits where her voice goes wobbly.
She flops back down on the bed. ‘I have to get this part,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect for me, isn’t it? And I just know Shane’s going to be Oliver or Dodger or something. I really want him to notice me, Indie. If I get the part, we’ll have to practise together loads, and maybe he’ll ask me out or something.’
I stare at Jo. Nobody in our class has ever been out with a boy, except for Carrie Naughton who says she had a holiday romance last summer and showed us a blurry photo of a geeky French kid as proof. And Kelly Murphy, who hangs out with Buzz Bielinski sometimes and says he once kissed her outside the chippy.
‘D’you think he will?’ Jo demands. ‘Ask me out, I mean?’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘You’re the prettiest girl in the class.’
‘D’you think so? Does he think so?’
Jo looks so sad that I want to stroke her hair and tell her to forget about Shane Taggart cos he’s just a sandy-haired, skateboard-mad, chip-stealing chancer. There’s no way he’s worth all the heartache, the hassle.
‘Anyway,’ Jo says, ‘I
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