Cathy Hopkins is the author of the incredibly successful Mates, Dates and Truth, Dare books, and has just started a fabulous new series called Cinnamon Girl. She lives in North London with her husband and three cats, Molly, Emmylou and Otis.
Cathy spends most of her time locked in a shed at the bottom of the garden pretending to write books but is actually in there listening to music, hippie dancing and talking to her friends on email.
Occasionally she is joined by Molly, the cat who thinks she is a copy-editor and likes to walk all over the keyboard rewriting and deleting any words she doesn’t like.
Emmylou and Otis are new to the household. So far they are as insane as the older one. Their favourite game is to run from one side of the house to the other as fast as possible, then see if they can fly if they leap high enough off the furniture. This usually happens at three o’clock in the morning and they land on anyone who happens to be asleep at the time.
Apart from that, Cathy has joined the gym and spends more time than is good for her making up excuses as to why she hasn’t got time to go.
Big thanks to Brenda, Jude, Margot and the team at Piccadilly. And Rosemary Bromley at Juvenilia. Big ta to Steve Lovering for all his support and getting to know TJ as well as I did. And to Phil (The Path) Howard Jones for his bizarre emails which inspired the voice of Hannah. To Steve Denham for his input on magazine layouts. To Richard (Not So Scary Dad) Jeffrey. To Stephen Jeffrey for traipsing round Battersea Dogs’ Home with me. And last but not least, thanks to the A team: Jenni Hertzburg, Becca Crewe, Rachel Hopkins and Grace O’Malley. And seeing as I’ve turned into Gwyneth Paltrow when she got her Oscar I’d better mention my mum and dad, family, friends, the postman, the milkman, my cats and God. (Did I leave anybody out?)
First published in Great Britain in 2002
by Piccadilly Press Ltd.,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8P
This edition published 2007
Text copyright © Cathy Hopkins, 2002, 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Cathy Hopkins to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 85340 930 1 (trade paperback)
eISBN: 978-1-84812-263-5
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
‘We are the champions, we are the champions,’ sang some Stupid Boy outside the window of the girls’ changing-room.
‘How sad is that?’ asked Melanie Jones as she rubbed strawberry-scented body lotion on to her legs. ‘We beat them three weeks running and they win once and think they’re it.’
‘Yeah,’ I said as I pulled my hair back and plaited it. ‘Today,’ I said, raising my voice so that Stupid Boy could hear outside, ‘was a mere blip in our team’s otherwise excellent performance.’
‘Yay,’ chorused the rest of our team who were in various states of undress after the football match.
‘You woz rubbish,’ shouted Stupid Boy.
I shoved my stuff into my sports bag and stepped outside into the dazzling June sunshine. There was Stupid Boy – namely Will Evans, goalie from the boys’ team.
‘You talking to me?’ I asked.
Will tried to square up to me, which was difficult seeing as I’m five foot seven and he’s a squirt at five foot four.
‘Yeah,’ he said to my nose.
‘In that case, would you mind using the correct grammar? It’s you were rubbish, not you woz,’
Will went red as the group of lads around him sniggered.
He stuck his tongue out at me.
‘Oh,’ I yawned. ‘Like I’m really scared now.’
By now, most of the girls’ team had finished changing and had come out to see what was happening. It was always the same. Every Saturday, after the match, the games continued off the pitch. Often with the girls bombing the boys with balloons swollen with water from the changing-room taps.
I picked up my bag to go home. I’d got bored with it all in the last few weeks. I was sure there had to be a better way to get a boy’s attention than splattering him with water.
Anyway, it was Saturday and that meant lunch with Mum and Dad. Dad insists that we eat together as ‘a family’ on the rare occasions that he’s not working. What family? I think. It’s not like I have hundreds of brothers and sisters. Only Marie who’s twenty-six and left home to live in Southampton years ago and Paul who’s twenty-one and been away studying in Bristol.
‘Oi, Watts,’ called Will.
‘The name’s TJ, actually,’ I said, turning back.
‘TJ? What kind of name is that?’ sniggered Mark, one of the other boys on the team. ‘TJ. TJ.’
I tried to think of something clever to say. ‘It’s my kind of name,’ I said, for want of anything better.
I didn’t want to get into the real reason. I’d never hear the end of it. My full name is Theresa Joanne Watts. Like, yeah. How dull and girlie is that? But Paul has called me TJ since I was a baby and it stuck. Much better than Theresa Joanne. But I wasn’t going to explain all this to the nerdie boys from St Joseph’s High. If they knew I hated my real name, then that’s what I’d be called for ever.
‘OK then, TJ. You and me,’ said Will, pointing at a picnic table by the football pitch. ‘Over there. Arm-wrestling.’
Now this was tempting. Arm-wrestling was my major talent.
I took a quick look at my watch. I had time.
‘OK, Evans. Prepare to die.’
We took up our positions opposite each other at the table and both put our arms out, elbows down. A small crowd soon gathered round as we grasped hands.
‘Ready,’ said Mark, ‘steady GO.’
I strained to keep my lower arm upright as we began to arm-wrestle.
‘Come on, TJ,’ cried the girls.
‘Come on, Will,’ cried the boys.
‘Hey, TJ, there’s a guy looking for you outside the boys’ changing-room,’ said Dave, the boys’ team captain as he came out to join us.
‘Nice try,’ I said, not looking up. I wasn’t going to break my concentration for the oldest trick in the book. Plus, Dave was A Bit Of A Hunk and I usually said or did something stupid when one of his super species was around. I made myself focus. The crowd around was beginning to get excited as I kept my arm firm and Will’s started to weaken.
‘Show him, TJ,’ said one of the girls.
I could feel my strength wavering as Will fought back and my arm wobbled. Then I summoned every ounce of energy and slam, Will’s arm was on the table.
‘Hurrah,’ cheered the girls, then began singing. ‘We are the champions. We are the champions. Champions, the champions, champions of Europe.’
‘Stupid girls,’ said Will, rubbing his hand and going to unlock his bike. ‘Anyway, we won the footie and that’s what really counts. So there.’
‘Oh, grow up,’ I called, as I walked awa
y.
‘There really is someone looking for you, TJ,’ said Dave, catching up with me and putting his hand on my shoulder.
As I turned and looked into his denim-blue eyes, my stomach went all fluttery.
‘I didn’t say it to distract you. Over there, see?’ he continued. ‘Hippie guy with dark hair and an earring.’
I looked to where he pointed and there was my brother Paul, a short distance away.
‘Nihingyah,’ I said to Dave, who looked at me quizzically.
I shrugged and turned back towards my brother, who gave me a wave. No point in explaining, I thought, as I made my way over to Paul. Dave would never understand how I get taken over by Noola the Alien Girl when confronted by Boy Babes. She doesn’t know many words. Mainly ones like uhyuh, yunewee and nihingyah, which I think means, ‘oh, yeah’ and ‘thanks’, in alien-speak.
‘Hey, TJ,’ said Paul, giving me a hug.
‘Hey,’ I said and hugged him back.
‘Bit old for you, isn’t he?’ taunted Will, as he rode past on his bike.
‘Get a life, you perv,’ I said, as I linked arms with Paul and drew him away from the crowds. ‘He’s my brother.’
Paul grinned and looked back at Will. ‘Looks like I’m interrupting something.’
‘As if.’
‘Come on, you can tell me. Someone special?’
‘Only the local pond-life,’ I said. ‘You home for lunch?’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Paul and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Bad vibes. Thought I’d escape awhile and come and find you.’
‘Scary Dad still mad with you?’
Paul nodded. ‘And some. The way he goes on, anyone would think I’d committed a murder rather than dropped out of university. But you know how he is.’
Boy, did I know! Night and day, me and Mum had to listen to him going on . . . and on . . . Paul has ruined his life. Paul has spoilt the opportunity of a lifetime. Paul has wasted his talent. If only Paul were more like Marie. He was always a dreamer. He had it too easy. What’s to become of him? Where did we go wrong?
On and on and on.
See, Dad’s a bigwig hospital consultant. Mum’s a GP. Even my sister, Marie, is a doctor. Plan was, Paul was to join the club, follow in the family footsteps sort of thing. Only he never wanted to. He wanted to be a musician. He went along with the doctor bit. Got good grades. Got into medical school. Did a year. Did a self-awareness type weekend in London. Saw the light or something. Dropped out of college. Grew his hair. Started spouting self-help jargon. Got into alternative medicine and rejected pretty well everything Dad stands for. Oops.
Dad mad.
Mum sad.
Me though, I’m glad. Not that he’s having a hard time, of course. I feel sorry for him getting all the stick from Dad, but Dad’s got me lined up to be a doctor as well. Ew, no thanks. Way too much blood. I want to be a writer, so I’m hoping all this with Paul will pave the way for my eventual fall from grace.
‘Seriously though. Looks like you had a lot of admirers there,’ said Paul, pointing back to the football pitch.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Boys are never interested in me.’
‘Looked to me like they were very interested.’
‘Only because I’m the arm-wrestling champ,’ I grinned. ‘I had to show them what’s what after we lost at footie this morning.’
Paul gave me a look and sighed. ‘TJ, you’re impossible. Wake up and smell the hormones, kiddo. You’re easily the prettiest girl on the team.’
‘Me, pretty? Yeah, right. Get real.’
‘I am,’ he said and pulled on my plait.
‘You’re only saying that because you’re my brother.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re always doing yourself down. Like you can’t see that you’re gorgeous.’
‘Now I know you’re kidding. I couldn’t get a boy if I tried.’
‘Have you tried?’
I shrugged. ‘Er, dunno. Not really. But . . . it’s like, I either talk alien or go into my Miss Strop bossy act and start correcting their grammar. I mean. D’oh. How flirty is that? Or else, I terrify them with my super-human strength. You know, humiliate them by winning at arm-wrestling. Very girlie. Not. It just never seems to come out right.’
‘It will, TJ,’ said Paul gently.
‘But when? Most girls in my year have sore lips from snogging. Me? The only sore bits I’ve got are bruises from where some boy has kicked me in a football game. I’m hopeless. Hannah was so good at the boy thing. They used to really like her.’
Paul looked at me with concern. ‘Sorry about Hannah. Mum told me. When did she go?’
‘Fortnight ago,’ I said as my eyes stung with tears. I was still feeling raw about her leaving but I was determined not to cry like a baby in front of Paul. Hannah was my best friend. And she’d just gone to live in South Africa. Yeah, in South Africa. Not exactly the kind of place you can hop on a bus to when you fancy a chat. I was missing her like mad.
‘You’ll soon find new friends,’ said Paul.
Arghhh. If another person says that to me, I think I shall scream. In fact, if Paul wasn’t my brother I’d have socked him. People don’t understand. ‘You’ll soon find other friends’, like you can go out and buy one in the supermarket.
‘I don’t want new friends,’ I said. ‘I want Hannah back.’
Hannah was a one-off. A real laugh. I knew I’d never meet anyone like her ever again. It was her that came up with the nickname Scary Dad for my father. And with her around, boys never noticed I was tongue-tied or awkward – she babbled enough for both of us. I could hide behind her and they never realised that my cool was actually frozen shy.
As we turned into our road, we almost ran into Mr Kershaw on the pavement in front of us. He was walking his dog Drule. Or rather, Drule was walking him. Drule is a big black Alsatian and Mr Kershaw was having a hard time holding on to the lead.
‘He can’t wait to get to the park,’ he grinned as Drule yanked him forward.
I laughed and turned to go in our gate but Paul stopped me.
‘Actually, TJ, don’t go in yet. I didn’t just come to walk you home. I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What?’
As he shifted about on his feet, something told me that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
Chapter 2
‘Hey, TJ,’ called Scott Harris from his bedroom window. ‘Hang on, I’m coming down.’
Before I could answer, his head disappeared and the window closed, so I sat on the front step outside our house and waited for him. The Harris family has lived next door to us ever since we moved here when I was seven, so Scott is the next best thing I have to a brother besides Paul. Scott’s two years older than me and lately has discovered girls. Or rather, girls have discovered him. He’s cute in a boy band kind of way and there’s always a group of giggling girlies outside his gate. Scott liked to talk his latest conquests over with me and no doubt that’s what he wanted to do now.
‘TJ,’ called Mum from inside. ‘Lunch’ll be on the table in five minutes.’
‘Coming,’ I called back. ‘Just got to see Scott for a mo.’
I was glad Scott was coming over, as I badly needed someone to talk to. I was hoping he’d distract me from the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Paul had just told me that he was going travelling with his girlfriend, Saskia. For a year, maybe two. Starting with Goa, then maybe Australia and Tahiti. First Hannah, now Paul. What was going on? My two favourite people disappearing out of my life in less than ten days.
‘Where’ve you been?’ said Scott, appearing round the rhododendron bush in our front garden.
I opened my mouth to say ‘football’, but he was off again before I had time.
‘Been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Because I want to talk to you.’
‘Why? What’s happening?’
‘Oh, everything,’ I began. ‘You know Paul dropped out and everything, w
ell, now he’s off travelling. Hannah’s gone. I . . .’
‘Really? Cool,’ said Scott, looking at his watch.
D’oh? I thought. No. Not cool. ‘Scott, are you listening?’
‘Yeah. Course. But I need to ask a favour first.’
I sighed. ‘What?’
‘Hot date,’ said Scott, with a grin. ‘I need to borrow a fiver. Just for today. I’ll give it back to you next week when I get my allowance.’
Yeah, I thought, you said that last week when I lent you two quid. But then I didn’t want him to think I was a cheapskate. No one likes a cheapskate. I was sure he’d give it back to me in the end.
I rummaged around in my sports bag, found my purse and pulled out the fiver pocket money that Mum had given me that morning.
‘Thanks,’ said Scott. ‘You’re a pal.’
‘So who’s the sad victim this afternoon?’ I asked.
‘Jessica Hardey. She’s from your school.’
I nodded. I knew Jessica all right. She was hard to miss. Just Scott’s type, glam and girlie with long blonde hair.
‘Yeah. She’s in the year above me. In Year 10. Anyway, as I was saying, Paul’s leaving tomorrow, Hannah’s gone and it feels like . . .’
‘Actually,’ interrupted Scott, ‘talking about your school. Do you know Nesta Williams?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s in my class.’
Scott looked as though he’d won the lottery. ‘Wow. You’re kidding? How fantastic. She’s like, a five-star babe. Could you put in a word for me?’
For some reason this irked me. Who did he think I was? First the bank that likes to say yes, now a dating agency?
‘What about Jessica?’ I asked.
‘What about Jessica?’
‘Well, if she’s your girlfriend, would she like you asking about Nesta?’
‘Hey. Not my fault,’ said Scott with a wide smile. ‘So many girls, only one me.’
My jaw dropped open, but then I realised he was joking. At least, I think he was joking. Sometimes, he acted as though he believed he really was God’s gift to women.
‘Oh, poor you having to share yourself around us miserable impoverished girls,’ I said.
Mates, Dates and Sleepover Secrets Page 1