It's a Girl Thing (14 page)

“So, er, we'll just begin then, shall we?” mumbles Liam, fiddling with his hair.

“Yeah, when you're ready,” says Claude.

“Okay, cool,” says Liam. “Right. A-one, a-two, a-three, four, five . . .”

All at once Guttersnipe strike up a tune, Liam on lead guitar, Benny on a snare drum, Tara on bass. They're a tiny bit shaky and maybe even a touch off-tune, but extremely good nevertheless. Tara's belting out a chunky, quite complex bass line, jutting her hips in time to the notes, while Liam concentrates sternly on his fingers . . . concentrating harder than I've ever seen him in his whole life. Guttersnipe's bitter sound is far more serious than anything we've heard so far today, which is a welcome change after so many happy-go-lucky tunes and “I love you” ballads. And when Liam eventually sings, although it's more of a husky whisper, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.

This is one of Liam's many verses. It's certainly a good song, and I can't help wondering who the heck Guttersnipe stole it off. And as Liam sings his heart out, the whole room is transfixed by the blond, pale-green-eyed lad, beguiled for once by his voice and considerable stage presence instead of some idiotic episode he's been part of.

“Er, Claude . . . did you know Liam plays guitar?” I whisper.

“No . . . no, I didn't,” says Claude. “He's certainly a man of mystery.” Claude chuckles.

“This lot are really good!” announces Fleur. “Whatcha reckon?”

“Yep, I agree,” I say, watching Tara's nimble fingers jealously. As Guttersnipe finish their number, the entire gym breaks into applause. Liam's cheeks redden, then he throws back his shoulders as if he was expecting that all along.

“Cheers, er, everyone,” he says. “That song was called ‘Promise.' ”

“It's a track off our new album.” Benny sniggers.

“Yeah, our album that'll be released just as soon as we get around to writing another twelve songs,” adds Tara dryly.

“Well, cheers for coming,” says Claude, clearly still a little stunned by Liam's hidden talent. “Er, Liam.” Claude lowers her voice. “When did you begin playing the guitar?”

“Well, don't you always nag me to get a hobby, Claudie?” says Liam.

“Yeah . . . yeah, I do.” Claude shrugs. “But when did you ever listen to anything I say?” Claude half-jokes.

“I know. I can't be feeling well,” replies Liam, almost back to his cocky self. “I'll have to keep an eye on myself. Got a reputation to keep up an' all that, eh?”

“Benny, we've got your number, we'll be in touch.”

“Whatever, man,” mutters Benny from underneath his heap of hair.

“Oh, and Liam?” says Claude, extremely quietly now so that only the LBD can really hear her. “I didn't see you in the lunch hall today.”

“Nah,” he says.

“I've got sandwiches,” says Claude, rattling her lunch box. “Can I tempt you?”

Liam's eyes widen.

“Cheers, Claude.” Liam smiles. “I'm starving. You're an angel.” Liam helps himself to some food before wandering out of the gym with pickle all over his face and a muffin under his arm.

Fleur and I roll our eyes at each other.

“Right!” says Claude rather officiously. “Mr. Gowan's going to be in here playing merry hell soon, he'll be wanting to lock up. Let's get this show moving, shall we? Who have we got now?”

“Lost Messiah,” announces Fleur.

“Really!? Are they here?” I say, brightening up, reaching for my lip gloss, straightening my ponytail and craning my neck to spot Jimi, all at the same time.

“No. Not really,” says Fleur, sniggering. “They're still not here, but there's some more kids from the Anouska Smythe Dance School next up if you're interested.”

“I hate you, Fleur,” I say.

“I know,” says Fleur, sniggering even louder.

 

 

Just when I thought I couldn't face another high kick, a change of pace comes in the form of Frank Gillespie, a huge, six-feet-tall chunk of lad who goes by the Blackwell nickname of Shop (so nicknamed because he spends every breaktime making pilgrimages to the local shop to stock up on sweets and pies. See, I told you Blackwell kids were cruel, didn't I?). Shop's clad in a pair of electric blue brogues boasting turquoise laces, and within seconds he's in full flow, singing . . . you've guessed it . . . “Blue Suede Shoes” by Elvis Presley. Shop has quite obviously practiced his act for many long hours in front of his bedroom mirror, and when his time's up, he can't quite get out of character.

“Cheers, Shop! That was grrrreat!” shouts Fleur. “No, really. It was.”

“Huh, thankyouverymuch, little lady,” drawls Shop, curling his top lip just like Elvis Presley, the King of Rock 'n' Roll himself, before attempting to walk with dignity out of the gym. No mean feat for a fifteen-stone lad wearing a pair of neon-blue shoes four sizes too large for him.

“Those shoes are enormous!” squeals Claude. “They must belong to Shop's dad, he's the only person in the surrounding area I can think of who's bigger than Shop!”

“Big shoes doth not make a good performer, Claudette,” mutters Fleur with a worried expression.

As the LBD begin a small, heated argument about the merits of Shop and his possible involvement in Blackwell Live (me arguing that Shop is cool, funny, and any grown-ups who bought tickets would like him; Fleur arguing that Shop should be arrested for “crimes against music” and she'd rather watch Matthew Brown and Mr. Jingles again than include “that big buffoon”), a growing mumble of excitement begins to creep through the gym. Just as Claude is about to lose patience and bang our heads together, a rather arrogant voice cuts in.

“Ahem. If you're not too busy with your little squabble, children,” says the plummy rasp, “we'd like to make a start with things. Thank you.”

We all look up at once to see the unmistakable face of Panama Goodyear glowering down at us. Panama's sleek brown chin-length bob is pulled back by her trademark prim scarlet velour headband, her cold hazel eyes look disdainfully at the LBD, almost as if we're maggots she'd found crawling in her lunch box. As ever, Panama is dressed immaculately in perfect black Lycra trousers that taper stylishly to the heel of her incredibly pricey Prada sports shoes, her matching corseted boob tube clinging to every curve of her generous bust and toned torso.

“Or shall we just stand here while you twitter on?” continues Panama, turning to the rest of Catwalk, her band.

“Huh-huh!” sniggers Abigail and Leeza, both equally as chic, clad in designer dance-studio outfits and coordinated sneakers.

“I mean, I don't know about you people,” Panama says for the whole gym to hear, “but I'm on the edge of my seat wondering whether these kids will allow us to play at their little concert, aren't you all?”

Fleur rolls her eyes, placing the cap back onto the top of her pen.

“I've tossed and turned all night, haven't you, Abigail dar-link?” mocks Panama.

“Oh, totally,” says Abigail, flicking around her white-blond dead-straight locks.

“Well, we're ready for you now,” says Claude, trying to sound unintimidated.

“Good, good,” says Panama sniffily. “Now, we thought we'd do the routine today that we performed for the Wicked FM Roadshow ‘Search for a Pop Band' quarterfinals.”

Groan. I was wondering how long it would take Panama to bring the Wicked FM competition up. That was under eleven seconds, possibly a world record.

“I mean,
everybody,
even all of the DJs and important record company executives in the audience that day, loved that one, didn't they, Zane?” brags Panama.

“Oh, yeah, loved it. Everyone loved it,” bleats Zane, one of the male members of Catwalk. Zane seems to have gone overboard with the fake tan today. Although his neck is quite pale, his head is a strange streaky tangerine color.

I don't dare risk a chuckle.

“Oh, everybody just loves Catwalk. It's a fact,” pipes up Derren, Panama's other dismal henchman: a boy with dance trousers so tight, I can see what brand his underwear is.

Sadly, and I hate to say this, Zane and Derren might have a point here about Catwalk being ultrapopular. Everyone in the gym, aside from the LBD, is slavering and fighting for a prime place to watch these local microcelebrities perform.

“And the
Local Daily Mercury,
they adore us too,” interjects Leeza all of her own accord, which shocks me, as I'd always had concerns that she was battery-operated and didn't move without Panama on her remote control. “They put us on the front page, didn't they?” Leeza asks nobody in particular. “With the headline
Catwalk Strut Toward Superstardom!
”

“Oh, shut up!! SHUT UP!” . . . is what I want to shout. “You only flipping got through to the quarterfinals of a stupid local dance competition, you annoying little Muppets. And you, Zane Patterson! You can't brag, your head looks like a clementine orange!”

But I don't shout that, of course. I just sit there quietly, waiting for them to stop waffling on.

“As I said, whenever you're ready,” repeats Claude, her expressionless face giving away none of her annoyance.

“Fine,” says Panama, taking a CD from her Gucci rucksack. She places it into the CD player, gathering her little family around her for a pre-show group hug.

“Good luck, everyone. Break a leg!” Panama shrills pretentiously.

“Or your necks,” mutters Fleur under her breath.

And they're off. And from the very first beat of the track, Catwalk spring into all-singing, all-dancing action, with Panama grabbing center stage straightaway with all the most breathtaking dance steps and highest notes. I can't deny it, Catwalk can really dance, exactly like the people you see on MTV, and they can sing too, even if Panama does steal the show a bit, wiggling her bum and letting out the occasional piercing scream.

Unfortunately, I've seen Catwalk performing this track, called “Running to Your Love,” many times before. Following Catwalk's success in the Wicked FM competition, Mrs. Guinevere arranged numerous school performances so we could all “share their happiness.”

All it did, as far as I was concerned, was make Catwalk's heads even more grotesquely swollen.

Panama sings as the rest of Catwalk run on the spot and do star jumps behind her.

“You see, I told you Shop was talented,” I whisper to Fleur.

Yet, regardless of how the LBD feel about Catwalk, the irrefutable fact was the rest of Blackwell loved them. If you took a quick look around the gym, everybody was clapping along and whistling (including some teachers, who must have been en route to their cars when they heard the opening notes of “Running to Your Love,” dropped their briefcases and sprinted back). Everyone was lapping up Catwalk's foot-perfect dance routine and five-part harmonies.

“They're excellent,” coos one girl, her eyes alive with joy.

On the closing bars, a rapturous applause explodes, filling the whole gym. Panama looks around at the audience with a meek, ever-so-humble, slightly shocked smile, mouthing to her fans, “Oh, please, please stop it! That's too much. Thank you, everybody!” before taking a deep bow and walking purposefully toward our table. As she draws closer, Panama's expression rapidly changes from a humble smile to a scowl.

“Right, you little morons,” Panama says under her breath so that only the LBD hear. “Let me make this very clear: You NEED Catwalk for your sad little concert, so let's not forget that, shall we?”

We all glare back at Panama in utter dumbfoundment.

“And we'll have the top-of-the-bill slot too on Saturday the twelfth. No arguments,” Panama continues. “And we don't play sets less than an hour long, so if you need to drop another act to make extra room for us, well, so be it.”

“But,” begins Claude, quickly shutting up as Panama's face draws closer to her own.

“And just you make sure my name, er, I mean Catwalk's name is printed biggest on all of the posters too, because after all, we'll be the main attraction.”

Claude, to give her credit, does try her best to stand up to Panama at this point. No easy task, as Panama Goodyear is quite, quite terrifying. “Look, Panama, we're not desperate,” says Claude politely yet firmly. “If we think you're good, you'll be included, that's how the selection process works.”

Panama's face flushes with fury, her eyes narrow and her bee-stung lips pucker into an angry, vicious pout.

“Look, Maud, or Fraud, or whatever lame-ass name you're sad enough to be called, let me remind you again.” Panama is now jabbing Claude's shoulder with a plum-nail-polished finger. “You NEED Catwalk. You NEEED us desperately. In fact, as desperately as your freaky giraffe mate here needs to stop growing before she ends up in the circus.” Panama nods her head cruelly at Fleur, who stares straight ahead, denying Catwalk the pleasure of a reaction.

Panama goes on, “Plus, I've chatted with Mrs. Guinevere and Mr. Foxton. They both agree that without my incredible talent, Blackwell Live will be a total joke.” Panama is chuckling now. She knows having Blackwell's teachers on her side is her killer punch. “So don't give me any of your attitude, girls.”