It's a Girl Thing (11 page)

“What did your mum say?” asks Claude.

“She was a proper star, actually.” Fleur giggles. “She kept him in his study for about an hour and sent me off around town on some errands. Y'know? Just to calm things down. I could still hear Dad yelling at the end of the road about there being a ‘dire mix-up fourteen years ago at the maternity ward' and that he wanted ‘his real daughter back.' Ha ha ha!”

Paddy's emotional breakdown has been somewhat lost on Fleur.

“Aww, I feel sorry for your poor dad,” announces Claude charitably.

“I do too,” agrees Fleur. “He's a lunatic.”

“Maybe we should put the phone down and chat tomorrow at school?” I suggest.

“Oh, don't worry, we've only been on the phone about a minute,” says Fleur. “Anyway, this is what I was calling about: Blackwell Live.”

“Yep. Auditions tomorrow!” chirps Claude. “How cool is that?”

“Really cool!” says Fleur, almost outchirping her.

“I can't wait to see who turns up,” squeaks Fleur.

“Oh my God, I hope there's a good turnout. Loads of people promised to come, didn't they?” says Claude.

“Yeah, only like the whole school!” Fleur giggles. “Er, are you still there, Ronnie?”

Silence.

“Ronnie?” says Claude.

“Murrrrrr,”
I sort of whimper.

“What's up?” my LBD compadres ask.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What are you
murrrr
ing for?” asks Claude.

“I'm a bit . . . sort of . . . well, I've been thinking,” I begin.

“Oh, dear, what have you been thinking?” says Claude.

“Well, I've been worrying about the whole thing,” I say in my feeblest voice. “Maybe nobody will turn up tomorrow and . . .”

I stop my bleating just there.

I don't want to delve into the deepest, darkest caverns of my mind and confess to the LBD what I've been worrying about. Some of it has been plain hideous. I mean, at one point, for example, I was worrying about a faulty speaker setting the Blackwell Live stage ablaze. Bearing in mind that we haven't even got any performers yet, let alone speakers or stages, maybe I'm being a bit daft. I do tend to jump the gun slightly when I'm worrying.

“Oh, Ronnie,” sighs Claude. “Don't you dare start being flaky, you know you wind me up when you do this.”

“I'm not being flaky,” I say, flakily.

“Look, don't fret about the auditions!” says Fleur. “I haven't told you what happened yesterday on my little jaunt down the high street, it was sooo cool, this will stop you worrying.”

“Spill it!” commands Claude.

“Well, I set off down Disraeli Road on Saturday morning. I was feeling a bit sucky, but anyway, I got as far as the corner of the high street when something cheered me right up. I saw these Blackwell lads walking toward me, I think they were about Year Seven, they were quite teeny. So, as they got closer, I noticed they were waving and smiling at me.”

“Did you know them?” I ask.

“No. But they seemed to know me. They were saying ‘All right, Fleur! See you on Monday, we've got something dead good to show you!' Then they ran off laughing and singing.”

“That's cool,” says Claude. “Ooh, I hope they meant at the auditions. All Year Seven boys usually want to show you are their nose-bogeys.”

“I know. But it gets better. So I'm walking down the high street and I spot lots more Blackwell bods like Benny Stark from Year Ten, who was just off to buy drumsticks to practice his new songs, and some Year Eleven gothy, nu-metal types that hang about with Ainsley Hammond. They asked if they could bring BOTH their steel drums to the auditions.”

“Ha ha! Did you say yes?” I ask, cheering up right away.

“I said they could bring whatever they wanted.” Fleur laughs. “So next, I popped to the dry cleaners to pick up Mum's skirts, and ended up in a long chat with that totally gorgeous Year Eleven lad Christy Sullivan. You know? The lad who works the cash register there on a Saturday? Big eyes? The one with the kind of flared nostrils and the denim jacket?”

“Yeah, I know who you mean, his mum and dad are Irish, they come in the bar sometimes,” I say. “He is fairly lush.”

“You were talking to him?” says Claude.

“For about twenty minutes. Until that weirdo manageress with the out-of-control perm got annoyed with us. Anyway, he was telling me about how he loves doing karaoke. . . . Oh, and by the way, he was sooo flirting with me, I mean it was embarrassing how obvious he was making it. . . . But, in brief, he said he might pop down to do the Frank Sinatra song that he always does at family gatherings. . . . Cool, huh?”

“Really cool,” we both agree.

“Anyway, whatever, by the time I left the dry cleaners and had walked back through the shopping center, bumping into folk all the way along who wanted to talk about Monday, I was beginning to know what celebrities feel like! Honestly, the constant attention can be sooo exhausting.” Fleur pauses, then announces triumphantly, “Honestly, birds, EVERYBODY is talking about us!!”

“We'll have to start signing autographs ourselves soon!” jokes Claude.

“Mmm, I know,” agrees Fleur. Not at all joking. “I've been having a bit of a practice on the telephone pad.”

“So it's going to be a chaotic audition tomorrow, then . . . ,” begins Claude with a mild note of anxiety in her voice, probably reaching for her clipboard and notes to begin planning.

“I forgot the best bit!” Fleur says. “I went into the Music Box to buy some CDs!”

Ahhh, the Music Box CD and Vinyl Boutique. On Arundel Road, just behind the shopping center. Little red door, really dark inside. No shopping trip would be complete without it.

“And I saw Jimi Steele and Naz,” says Fleur. “And I spoke to them too!”

“What about?” Claude and I ask.

“About the whole Blackwell Live thing. And this really is the best bit . . . they're coming tomorrow and they've written a special song. A special song for us.”

“That's fantastic! But hang on, the song's not really for us, though, is it?” Claude laughs, trying to establish some reality into the conversation. A tough call, as Fleur sounds about ready to hyperventilate.

“Well, okay, not ‘us,' perhaps,” says Fleur. “More especially for Ronnie. I think it's a song for you, Ronnie.”

“Fleur, have you been eating extra idiot pills again?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, stop me if I'm reading too much into this . . . but right at the end of the conversation, Naz said, ‘So, we'll see you on Monday, then?' Naz was being quite cool and acting like he was just saying it in a normal way, like he doesn't fancy me at all. Which, to be honest, I find VERY difficult to believe, but nevertheless . . .”

Claude and I sigh. Fleur continues.

“But then Jimi Steele suddenly blurts out, as if his mouth had started working separate to his brain, ‘What about Ronnie, she'll be there, won't she?' Then his face sort of flushed red, cos he realized exactly what he'd said. Y'know? Like it really mattered to him if you were going to be there?”

“Did he?!!” I say, going a bit red too.

“Yep,” says Fleur. “And then Naz kicked Jimi's leg and said, ‘Oooh, subtle, Jimi! No one would guess you fancy her now, eh?' ”

“He did not!” I say.

“He totally did,” argues Fleur. “Fact.”

“Then what happened?” Claude asks.

“Oh, I sort of walked off, leaving them both giving each other ‘dead arms.' I lose interest when boys decide to have play fights. I mean, you'd think Jimi and Naz would have got over giving each other wedgies and Chinese burns by now,” sighs Fleur. “Still pretty freaking cool, huh?”

“I'm sure it means nothing,” I say (really really hoping this all means something).

“Yeah, I'm sure it means nothing too . . . ,” says Fleur, extra-sarcastically.

“You great big premier-league dweeb! OF COURSE it means something! Get off the phone this moment and go and do a face pack, you need to look like Miss Dish Delish for four P.M. tomorrow.”

“I hate face packs . . . ,” I begin to protest.

But suddenly Fleur lets out a gasp similar to someone in a horror movie who has just realized that Mr. Axe Murderer is in the building with them. “OH MY GOD, FOOTSTEPS! Gotta go! It's Dad! Paddy's gonnakillme. Laterz.”

Click.

At some level, Paddy Swan might have been relieved, grateful even, to know that his new conference call line was running in perfect working order, as tested for him, very kindly, by Les Bambinos Dangereuses.

It was unsaid, but we all agreed that now wasn't the time to inform him.

Chapter 5

Trust Claudette Cassiera to have brought sandwiches.

“Well, the auditions could go on for hours,” Claude insists, drumming her fingers on the Tupperware lid of her lunch box. “I didn't want us to starve. . . . Anyway, Veronica, nobody said you had to eat any of them.”

“Er, hang on,” I correct her, eying up the stuffed-full box, “I didn't say that. Anyway, what sort are they?”

“Cheese and pickle,” Claude says proudly. “And I also brought chocolate muffins. But don't worry, I'll eat them all myself.”

“Mmm, muffins,” I say, licking my lips. “Are they chocolate chip?”

“They
might
be chocolate chip,” teases Claude. “They
might
not. We'll just have to see how nice both of you are to your best friend, won't we?”

Claude places the box back inside her rucksack with a satisfied smirk before jaunting off across the empty gym toward a dusty tower of school chairs.

“Er, excuse me,” tuts Fleur. “Sorry to get in the way of your vital muffin discussion, but can someone tip me off to what the plan is for the next few hours?”

Fleur actually looks a tiny bit anxious. That can't be right.

“I mean, what sort of acts are we looking for, anyway?” she says.

It's 3:37 P.M. The end-of-school bell has just rung, and at this moment in time, Blackwell's gym is so deserted, our normal speaking voices are booming echoes. Aside from the LBD, there's a whole lot of nobody here. It's difficult to imagine anybody is beating a path down here, begging to audition. In fact, we might just be getting those muffins out quicker than we planned, just to cheer ourselves up.

“Well, I thought we should leave our options fairly open,” Claude suggests. “But we're definitely looking for no more than six different acts.”

“Why six?” I say.

“Well, that's how many we'll have time for on the day, I reckon. We're also looking for people who are, er . . . good.”

“Good?” sighs Fleur. “Good . . . like, durrrrrrr, Claude . . . of course we want people who are good. What does ‘good' mean, anyway? What if we all disagree?”

Claude adjusts her reading specs, exhaling deeply, resisting the urge to batter Fleur about the head with her Blackwell Live folder.

“Fleur, when do we ever agree?”

“Now and then,” admits Fleur.

“Precisely,” says Claude, trying to separate the top three seats from the stack without being fatally squashed by Chair Mountain. “But somehow, some way, Fleur, we still manage to get loads of dead cool stuff done, don't we? We'll just have to compromise with each other.”

Claude places three chairs upon the varnished floor, then spots the old trestle table at the back of the gym that Mr. Gowan, Blackwell's caretaker, promised the LBD we could use as long as we didn't smash it. (Mr. Gowan is one of those mumbly-grumbly grown-ups who's convinced young people enjoy breaking things just for the fun of it. “I've had that table since 1977. Try not to snap its legs off!” he'd warned us. “We'll guard it with our lives,” assured Claude.)

Fleur and Claude begin wrestling with the antique table, fiddling with the pins and screws, gently persuading it to stand up straight. I busy myself wiping dust and grime off our chairs with my pocket tissues.

“What we need to look for, I reckon . . . ,” I say, trying to recall a phrase I heard somebody say on a TV program. “Now, what is it called . . . ? Ah, that's it, the X factor!”

Claude and Fleur both stare at me blankly.

“Blackwell Live's bands and singers need the X factor,” I say again.

“What, like in maths lessons?” says Fleur, wiping a dusty hand through her blond locks.

“No, silly, the X factor is what good performers are supposed to have and boring ones don't,” I explain. “It's that special thing, like a twinkle in their eye, or the way someone moves. That's what makes them outstanding, isn't it? It's the thing that makes people want to watch them instead of, er, well, doing something else.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” agrees Claude, nodding furiously. “Like Spike Saunders!”

“Exactly
like Spike Saunders.” I smile. “I mean, a hundred boys could sing and look cool in videos almost like Spike does, but there's something, really, like, totally . . . er . . .”

“X factor about him?” Claude says, helping me along.

“Yeah, totally X factor about him!” I grin.

“I like his bum,” announces Fleur, somewhat missing the point.

“Yes, Fleur, we all like his bum,” says Claude, shaking her head. “But we didn't travel two hundred miles on a bus last year and pay stacks of cash to see Spike just to see his bum, did we?”