Live and Fabulous! by Grace Dent Page B

like the natives). Of course, while I was brushing up on advanced Nepalese anthropology, the beautiful Jimi Steele was at the Fantastic Voyage, throwing stones up at my window.
    â€œHe had a face like a bag of wet greyhounds,” Dad said.
    â€œOoh, yeah, Ronnie!” scoffed Mum. “He was laying it on thick. He even had me feeling sorry for him. I told him to buzz off. He wanted an Oscar for that performance.”
    â€œCheers, Mum,” I said, pretending to be grateful.
    But if deep down Jimi’s as upset as I am, does that mean I should let him get away with sometimes being a thoughtless, hurtful berk? Am I making a mistake?
    Oh, please God, pleeeease let the LBD be allowed to go to Astlebury! Please let there be tickets left. I need to get out of this town before I go mad.
    Â 
    â€œDon’t worry, Ronnie,” whispers Liam Gelding quite sincerely as Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts lick each other’s ears. “It’ll be okay ... I’ll have a word with him.”
    â€œDon’t you flipping dare!” I squeal.
    â€œLiam! Don’t make me have to enforce a grave medieval-style punishment upon you,” warns Claude.
    â€œPggh ... I’m only trying to help!” moans Liam, looking a bit confused.
    â€œWell, I don’t need your help, Liam, I’m doing just fine,” I say.
    And then the final bell of the summer rings loud and clear. It sounds absolutely wonderful.
    It sounds just like freedom.

no destination
    â€œWhat do you mean, all over, Fleur? What’s all over?” shouts Claudette, trying to catch up with the blonde bombshell as she clip-clops rather briskly along Lacey Avenue, school bag swinging in the breeze. After the bell, we’d found our chum in the I.T. lab, frantically typing an e-mail to an address I didn’t recognize with red-rimmed eyes and a mascara river trickling down her cheek.
    â€œLook, calm down a second, petal,” says Claude, cupping an ebony arm around Fleur’s willowy waist. “Tell Auntie Claudette and Uncle Ron what the matter is.”
    I draw along beside them and pull out a packet of pocket tissues, passing one to Claude, who begins dabbing Fleur’s face as if she were three.
    â€œFleur Swan ... ,” I begin patiently, “please tell me you’ve not been posting your photo on that ‘Am I a Hottie or Not?’ website again.”
    â€œOh, surely not!” groans Claude.
    Last time Fleur played this game, posting one fairly flattering snapshot of herself on the information superhighway, some anonymous cybergeek in Michigan USA kindly pointed out she was “gawky,” “wore too much lip gloss” and “was probably a total airhead.” We didn’t hear the end of it for a week. Of course the eighty-five other voters who gave Fleur the 9/10 “Total Babelicious Minx” rating were totally forgotten in a cybersecond. Sometimes I don’t envy Fleur’s beauty. She sets herself some fairly high standards.
    â€œNo, of course I’ve not been on that site,” mumbles Fleur. “It’s a stupid site anyhow.”
    â€œSo what’s up?” I ask.
    â€œHmmm ... It’s pretty bad,” sniffs Fleur. “Well ... very bad.”
    â€œHit us with it,” I say. I prefer my bad news in one quick “punch to the stomach” bulletin. I can’t stand waiting about.
    â€œOh, poo,” sighs Claude, shutting her eyes. “I know what you’re going to say. It is all over, isn’t it?”
    â€œYup,” says Fleur. They both stand still, staring at each other. “They’re all gone. The Astlebury tickets are completely one hundred percent sold out.”
    â€œWah! How?” I cry. “What? Like, sold out from the official ticket office?”
    Fleur turns to me, wiping her eyes on her school shirt.
    â€œNo, like sold out absolutely everywhere. It was posted officially on the website at three-thirty P.M.