by Sarah Webb
Seth smiles at me. “Which is why you’re worth millions of a girl like Hammy Hamilton.” It’s his nickname for her. He blows his cheeks out like a hamster, making me laugh. “But let’s forget about the D4s. They’re not worth our time. Hockey-pitch steps? I have some new tunes on my iPod. Want a listen?”
“Absolument. Anything to stop me thinking about the pom-poms.”
“Hey, lovebirds,” Seth says loudly to Mills and Bailey, who are still stuck to each other like limpets. “Stop smooching. We’re out of here.”
I wait for Seth to take my hand or put his arm around my shoulders, but he doesn’t, and we walk toward the steps side by side, bumping shoulders like old friends.
“What do you think you’re doing here, Green?” Annabelle is standing at the entrance to the girls’ changing rooms, blocking my way in. Her fellow D4 nasties, Sophie Piggott and Nina Pickering, are just behind her in the doorway. They’re already in their flippy blue All Saints skirts and matching white-and-blue fitted tops. Mills is in the gym, helping Miss Mallard put out the mats. The cheerleaders do their stunts inside to avoid injury. They’re not allowed to do them at the rugby games, in case one of them falls. The stunts are just for cheerleading competitions. Which doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
After Mills told her I wanted to join the squad, Miss Mallard gave me a very hearty slap on the back and said, “Well done, Amy. Thank you for stepping up to the plate for the school. I admire girls with a bit of spirit.”
When she’d handed me the uniform, I’d been surprised to find there were no pom-poms. I asked why, but Mills nudged me with her shoulder and laughed. “She’s only joking, miss.”
That was news to me, and I felt a bit silly, but I said nothing, just pressed my foot against Mills’s. Once Miss Mallard had walked away, I turned on Mills. “You told me I’d have to shake pom-poms,” I said a little crossly.
“I know, and you still agreed to do it! Miss Mallard banned them ages ago, though. Said they restricted our arm motions and made us look ridiculous. Annabelle was furious. She was very attached to her pom-poms. And if you’d actually bothered to come and watch me cheer, you would have known that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said sheepishly. Mills is right. I should have supported her better before. At least I’m doing the right thing now, although I’m not exactly over the moon at the prospect of joining the All Saints, and I’m seriously not in the mood for Annabelle’s nonsense. Once upon a time I was nervous around her. Like most girls in our year, I was afraid she’d turn on me and rip me apart with her vicious mouth, but recently something inside me snapped. I’m just not prepared to kowtow to her anymore. Someone has to stand up to her or she’ll boss and bully her way through the next five years of school, steamrollering over anyone who gets in her way, and that’s not a pleasant thought.
I look at her now. “It’s the changing rooms, Annabelle. I’m about to get changed. Just let me past.”
Her eyes narrow. “There’s no hockey practice this afternoon. So what exactly are you getting changed for?”
Despite my determination not to let Annabelle get to me, I gulp. When she’s in full interrogation mode, she’s pretty scary.
“I’m joining the All Saints,” I say, trying not to let my voice quiver.
“What? Says who?”
“Miss Mallard. I’m taking Nora-May’s place until her ankle’s better.”
“Over my dead body. Sophie, Nina, don’t let Green in the door until I’ve spoken to the Duck.” Annabelle pushes past me rudely and stomps off to find the coach. I wonder if she calls Miss Mallard “the Duck” to her face? I doubt it. No one messes with Miss Mallard, not even Annabelle.
“Come on, this is ridiculous,” I say to Sophie and Nina. “I’m actually doing you lot a favor. Without me you won’t be able to do your precious Full-up Liberty at the Nationals.”
“She has a point,” Sophie says.
“No way. Look at the state of her,” Nina says, as if I’m not there. “She’s a squirt for starters.”
“I am not a squirt,” I say indignantly. OK, so I’m on the short side, but that’s so unfair.
“She’s hopeless at gym too,” Nina continues, ignoring me. “And she doesn’t have the right look to be a cheerleader.” Her eyes rest on my rather flat chest and then dip to my average-size waist. “We do have standards, you know.”
I’m determined not to let her get to me. “You’re not in a position to be picky, Nina. I don’t see girls exactly lining up to join the squad. Probably because they’re afraid of all your body-police rubbish. I’m normal, get it? Normal weight, normal boobs, normal pimply teen skin. Get over yourself. And I’m joining your stupid All Saints whether you like it or not, so deal with it.”
Sophie sighs. “Just let her get changed, Nina.”
Nina stares at her. “Whose side are you on, Pig-face? You heard Annabelle. And I have a question, Green. If being an All Saint is so stupid, why do you want to join in the first place? Answer that.”
“Because she’s my best friend and she knows how important Nationals are to me,” Mills says, appearing behind me. “And for your information, I am now head cheerleader, which means I get to order you two around for a change.”
“What about Annabelle?” Sophie asks.
“Miss Mallard said it would be healthier to have two head cheerleaders,” Mills explains. “She sent me in to tell you all to get a move on. We’ll never win Nationals at this rate. We need to practice until we can do our routines in our sleep. Amy, why aren’t you changed?”
“Ask your subordinates, Head Cheer,” I say.
“Your what?” Nina snaps.
I smile at her. “Look it up. Now, are you going to step away from the door, ladies? You heard Mills — we’ll never be winners unless we practice. Chop-chop!”
After glowering at me for a long moment, they both march out to join Annabelle.
“Is winding up the D4s a sport?” I ask Mills as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Because we’d so make the Olympics if it was.”
She laughs uneasily. “There’s three of them and only two of us. Remember that.”
“Excellent odds,” I say with a grin. “Bring it on.”
Mills groans. “Why am I beginning to think your joining the squad wasn’t such a great idea?”
As soon as I get home that night, I fling my bag and jacket on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and dash up to my room to ring Clover in private.
“Yello? It’s the hostess with the mostess, Miss Clover Wildgust,” Clover says like she’s presenting a cheesy game show.
“Clover, thank goodness you’re there. SOS!”
“What’s up, Beanie?”
“To cut a long story short, I’ve joined the All Saints to cover Mills’s back — the D4s are trying to injure her — and I have to cheer at a game on Sunday. I’m going to make such a fool of myself. Joining the squad was such a dumb idea. What was I thinking? I had my first practice today and I’ve already forgotten all of the chants and motions.” Motions are special cheerleading arm movements, and there are masses of them. Who knew cheering could be so complicated?
“Saving a friend from D4 bullying is never dumb, Bean Machine,” Clover says. “And I may be able to help. I’ll be at your place in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Find something we can use as pom-poms, Beans, old girl — Evie’s cuddly toys or something. We’re going to do some righteous shake-shake-shaking.” She starts singing an old song about shaking your booty and then puts the phone down before I get the chance to tell her about Miss Mallard’s no-pom-pom policy.
Clover is full of energy when she arrives. She bounces into my room like a fully sugared-up toddler. She’s wearing a white Juicy tracksuit and pink-and-yellow Nike high-tops.
“Little Miss Fix-it at your service,” she says, doing jazz hands. “Ta-da! Now, tell me about your cheer fear. I’m all ears. Shoot.”
“I had no idea how complex cheering would be. I thought it was just wav
ing a few pom-poms around. But the All Saints don’t even use pom-poms anymore. Miss Mallard hates them, apparently.”
“Really? They certainly used pom-poms in my day. Well, Beanie, I guess we have some practicing to do. Fire up your computer. There are bound to be some cheerleading demonstrations on YouTube.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because I have the superior brain, Bean Machine.”
I type CHEERLEADING DEMONSTRATIONS into YouTube and dozens of videos come up, including one that’s a step-by-step guide to a successful Full-up Liberty. We watch some of the clips. The best one is of an American professional cheerleading squad called the Boston Twirlers doing a Double Full-up Liberty. It’s really impressive! The Boston Twirlers have also put together some great guides on how to do arm motions, demonstrated by a girl who looks freakily like Nora-May from school.
“Lesson number one,” the girl says. “Perfect your punch. You have to punch out each arm motion, like this — bam!” She whips her arm out. “So . . . this is the High V, the T, the Broken T, Daggers . . .”
Clover and I follow along, punching our arms as instructed.
“Hey, this is fun, Beanie,” Clover says after we’ve been practicing along to the clips for a while. “Beats the gym any day.”
“You hate the gym, Clover. You never go.”
“Another hour of this and I won’t need to go, ever. My upper arms will be supertoned. Yay to cheering.”
My aunt really is crazier than crazy golf.
“I’m getting bad vibes from this place, Amy,” Brains says as we approach the posh Royal Dublin Society Building in Ballsbridge, where the Bridal Heaven Wedding Fair is being held. Mum was supposed to come with us, but Dave, who is a nurse at Saint Vincent’s Hospital, had to fill in for someone at work at the last minute, so she’s stuck at home with the babies. It’s probably best she didn’t come. She would have been more freaked out than Brains by this place.
The railings of the Royal Dublin Society are alive with Barbie pink and white balloons, and there’s a matching balloon walkway leading from the gates to the main door, complete with a red carpet. To the right of the doorway, under a small white canopy, a string quartet is playing classical music, and on either side of the entrance are two men, each holding a bow and arrow and wearing what look like giant white diapers. They’ve been sprayed with gold paint from head to toe, and although they’re smiling, their jaws are firmly clenched. It’s March, so not exactly beach weather, and they must be absolutely freezing.
“Poor dudes,” Brains says. “They’ll be icicles by sundown. And what’s with the bows and arrows?”
“I think they’re supposed to be Cupids,” I say. “You know, shooting arrows of love.”
Brains sings a snatch of an old song called “Stupid Cupid” under his breath.
The quartet suddenly starts playing “Here Comes the Bride,” and Brains stops singing. “Amy, I can’t do this,” he says, his eyes darting around like he’s looking for an escape route. “I’m all for marriage, but this place is smushville. I have to skedaddle. I’ve got an urgent band meeting that plain slipped my mind before. Tell Clover —”
“Tell Clover what?” Clover asks, appearing beside us. She’s been parking the car. She slips her arm into his. “Not thinking of running off on me, were you, babes?” She kisses him firmly on the lips. When she pulls away, Brains is beaming at her like she’s a Disney princess. From the very first day they met over a broken printer — he was the computer guy at the Goss magazine before his band, the Golden Lions, took off — he’s been crazy about Clover.
“No way, José, girlfriend,” he says. “You want me, you got me. Even in this spooky pink palace.”
She pats his arm. “Good-o, spiffing, and all that, what?” she says, like a posh actor from a Second World War movie. “I have plans for you, Sir Lancelot. I need you to be Dave for the day. We need to get his groom’s outfit settled. But first, the VIP reception. This a-way. Tally-ho.” Saffy — Clover’s editor on the Goss — has asked Clover to cover this VIP bash for a friend of hers who edits a magazine called Irish Bride.
Clover pulls Brains toward a smaller doorway to the left of the main entrance. It’s also framed by an arch of balloons, white and silver ones this time. I catch up with them and throw Brains a sympathetic look. He just shrugs and smiles. He’d do anything for Clover.
“Do keep up, Beanie, old girl,” Clover says. “The nibbles will be all wolfed down by starving wedding-dress models unless we hurry. I think most of them exist on canapés, and olives from vodka martinis.”
As we make our way into a big hallway with a marble floor like a checkerboard, a girl not much older than Clover, wearing a very short black skirt and ultra-high high heels, waves a clipboard in our faces.
“I’m afraid this is a private function,” she trills, giving Clover the once-over. Clover’s wearing silver shorts, red tights, and black biker boots. She looks amazing, as always, but this girl clearly doesn’t think she is dressed well enough for a high-class journalists’ do. She isn’t impressed by my outfit either. Her eyes dismiss my jeans and black-and-white stripy sweater in a second. But they linger over Brains’s Afro and black-rimmed geek glasses. He may have an unusual style, but he’s very handsome.
She turns back to Clover and physically winces as if she has only just caught sight of the pink stripe in Clover’s white-blond hair. This girl is really rude! Clover doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered, though. She shimmies around her so she can read the clipboard and then points at the top of the list. “We’re right there — ‘Clover Wildgust and guests, Irish Bride.’”
“Irish Bride? You seriously expect me to believe you’re from Irish Bride? Where are your invitations, then?”
“In one of my editor’s many handbags,” Clover explains. “She couldn’t find them, but she rang your office to change the name on the invite list. I didn’t think it would be such a problem.”
The girl smiles nastily. “If you’re from Irish Bride, then I’m Lady Gaga. I’m sorry, but as I said, it’s a private party. You’ll have to leave.”
Brains and I exchange looks. “It’s no biggie, babes,” he says. “It’ll probably be boring anyway. Let’s vamoose.”
“It is a big deal. I told Saffy I’d make some business contacts for the Irish Bride advertising department. Hettie, the editor, is her best friend, and Saffy’s taking her away to a spa this weekend for her birthday. I promised I’d cover this. And it’s all good experience for the future.”
“Why don’t you show Miss Clipboard your driver’s license?” I suggest. “Prove who you are.”
“Genius, Beanie,” Clover says, taking her wallet out of her handbag. She holds the license out to the girl.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Wildgust,” the girl says after reading the name on it. “It’s just you all seem so young. Students are always trying to gate-crash our parties for the free drink. I’m sure you understand why I have to be cautious. I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m just doing mine,” Clover says. “Can we go in now?”
“Yes, of course,” says the girl. “Up the stairs and to the right. And please accept my apology. If there is any way you could forget about the whole misunderstanding, I’d be very grateful.”
Clover smiles. “Don’t worry, I don’t tell tales out of school. I’m not that kind of gal.” And holding her head high, she sashays past the girl. “Come on, troops, the canapés are calling.”
“Love your work, Gaga.” Brains gives the girl a parting wink, then hooks Clover’s arm and starts belting out Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory,” his deep voice rebounding off the walls and filling the hall.
As Brains predicted, the reception is deathly boring: tall, skinny models wafting around the room in slinky wedding dresses (they probably banned the meringue kind in case they got stuck in the doorways), women in expensive-looking wrap dresses pretending to talk to each other but really checking to see if there is anyone more interest
ing in the room over their “friend’s” shoulder. The canapés are spectacular, though. There are tiny poached eggs on toast (I nearly gag when Brains tells me they are quail eggs — after I’ve eaten at least three), smoked salmon blinis with tiny black dots of caviar (which I scrape off with my finger — no way am I eating fish eggs, even posh fish eggs), and my favorite — baked mini Camembert cheeses, still in their boxes, which come complete with bread sticks the size of my baby sister Evie’s fingers to dip into the warm, squidgy insides. On Clover’s instruction, I’m taking notes for Mum’s wedding, so I jot down, “Mini Camembert boxes with teeny-weeny bread sticks, but no quail eggs!” under “Canapé Ideas.”
Meanwhile, Clover is working the room like a pro, chatting to the magazine editors, and making them all nod furiously and laugh out loud. I must remember to ask her what she’s talking about that is so funny. I do hear her say something about New York at one point. “That’s right, in New York. We’ll see what happens.” Maybe she’s chasing an interview with a big movie star over there. Maybe she’ll take me with her? While Clover is schmoozing, Brains and I mostly hang around, testing the canapés and talking only to each other.
“These people sure know how to party,” Clover says, rejoining us. “Am I right or am I right? Hell of a shindig”— she lowers her voice —“if you’re an undertaker. I’m delighted to report that my work here is done. I’ve chatted to all the editors, soaked up some wedding-dress ideas for Sylvie, and picked up lots of advertising contacts. Let’s make like a banana and split. Dare you both to zombie-walk outta here.”
Brains grins. “You’re on. Ghoulish girlies, let’s shake an undead leg.”
Clover flicks her head to the side like one of the zombies in the Michael Jackson music video. It’s one of her favorites.
Brains loves it too. He starts to sing “Thriller” softly under his breath and we all put our hands out in front of us and march toward the door, with widened eyes staring vacantly into space and stiff limbs. There a few raised eyebrows, tut-tuts, and shocked laughs, but we ignore them and continue dead-marching down the stairs. Outside, we dissolve into giggles.