by Annie Kelsey
But nothing is normal now. I’m in the middle of the biggest lie I ever told. If my fairy godmother appeared right now and granted me a gazillion wishes, a talent show is the last thing I’d wish for. Why can’t I have a fairy godmother? I could wish for a voice like Tiffany J’s and all my problems would be solved.
Of course, Catie was bouncing up and down as we filed out of the hall. She says I HAVE to do my Voice Factor audition song. She says I’ll totally win.
I just grinned at her lamely and wished I’d never started this dumb lie. Why can’t we raise money with a sponsored walk like other schools?
I can’t tell Catie I made up the whole story about my audition. She’ll hate me. And she only just started liking me. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to a BFF right now. If Catie stops being my friend, I’ll go back to being the loneliest girl in school.
But I can’t sing in front of everyone. They’ll think I’ve swallowed a cat.
My face is turning red just thinking about it.
Got to go. Louise Hawkins is banging on the stall door.
Before dinner
I’m at Dad’s new apartment. It’s fantastic! There are TWO bathrooms, a balcony outside the living room, and a nice yard underneath. I’m only staying for dinner tonight because Dad has to leave early for work. But I can sleep over on the weekend. I can’t wait!
I’m so glad Dad’s got his own place. Uncle Pete’s house is kind of messy (what Mom calls “bomb-gone-off messy”) so Dad used to take me out when I saw him. (Now I know how Mandy Harrison feels. She only sees her dad at Burger King. She says her mom calls him the “Lord of the Fries.”) But now Dad and I can hang out like we used to at home. It’s a bit bare though, and it’s weird that there’s nothing in the cupboards and drawers. At home I’m scared to open anything because stuff falls out. Mom keeps promising to “have a clear-out” but she never does. Maybe she should move into an apartment too.
Dad’s making Tuna Bomb while I get settled into my new bedroom. “Getting settled” means putting Bobsy on my bed (which took about three seconds), so I’ve got time to write in my diary. I can smell cheese cooking though so I’d better hurry. Dad will be calling me in a minute and I absolutely, totally need to write down everything that happened at lunchtime.
I could hardly believe it. The twins invited me to their sleepover tomorrow night. (Hanging out with Catie means I’ve been hanging out with Julie and Jennifer too and they’re not boring at all. They don’t only like things beginning with J—they like everything : cats and rollerblading and hamsters and Spies Next Door and sour-cream-and-onion chips. I think they might be psychic. They keep finishing each other’s sentences like they’re mind readers.)
So I was really happy when they invited me too. I knew Catie was going, but I never expected them to include me. I nearly choked on my yogurt when they asked me, I was so excited. I thought when Rachel left that I’d never go to another sleepover again. When I get home, I’m phoning to tell her. I wonder if Rachel’s made new friends yet. I hope so. Being lonely is no fun.
Dad just popped his head around the door to tell me he forgot to buy ketchup. He’s turned the oven down and gone to buy some. He’ll be back in ten minutes, which means I have the whole place to myself. I’m going to do my favorite thing—put on my headphones and listen to the latest Tiffany J album. I’ll see if I can work out some dance moves to “YOLO,” which is totally the BEST track.
It’s hard to write with your head under a pillow but I don’t care; I’m staying here forever.
I am SO EMBARRASSED.
I had my headphones on and I was working on the best dance move ever (jumping off my bed into a free spin, heel turn, kick). I was out of breath after twenty of those so I stopped to just sway to the last verse. I didn’t even realize I was singing. I certainly didn’t know I was singing so LOUDLY.
Then I heard a noise through my headphones. Someone was behind me! I shrieked and nearly jumped out of my socks. I thought it was a burglar but when I turned around, Dad was standing in the doorway, looking pale, with a strange man peering over his shoulder. They were staring at me like I was on fire.
I flung off my headphones.
ME: What’s wrong?
DAD: We thought you were dying.
STRANGE MAN: I was about to call the police when your dad came home.
DAD: Mr. Eckington lives next door. (Dad points to strange man.) He heard you through the wall.
MR. ECKINGTON: I thought you were being mauled by cats.
ME: I was just singing.
DAD: (looking at Mr. E) I’m so sorry we disturbed you. Pippa doesn’t usually do this kind of thing.
MR. E: Well, that’s a relief.
ME: (blushing so hard I can’t speak)
DAD: (smiling apologetically at Mr. E) Maybe I can get her some singing lessons.
Mr. E: (smiling sympathetically) That might be a good idea. She does seem very (he pauses while he thinks of a word)…enthusiastic.
ENTHUSIASTIC?
When Steven Fowl tells a Voice Factor contestant that they’re “enthusiastic” it’s code for terrible.
I’m staying under this pillow all night. I’m never showing my face again.
MAULED BY CATS!!
What am I going to do? Catie’s going to hear me sing one day, even if it’s only at the end-of-term assembly. Then she’ll know I’m terrible and I lied about the audition. I wish I could tell her the truth, but she’ll never be my friend if I do. I’ll be alone forever.
I wish I was Tiffany J. I wouldn’t even have to go to school. I’d be at Center Parks shooting my new pop video in the water rapids. I’d be whizzing down flumes while cameras filmed me, mouthing the words to my next hit as I shot out into a big blue pool. Music would be thumping and everyone would be watching and thinking how cool I am. My personal stylist would be waiting for me at the edge, and I’d swim over so she could fix my makeup and start restyling my hair for the next shot. There’d be a whole rack of clothes to choose from for the dance number on the poolside and my choreographer would be working out a new move that everyone will want to copy as soon as they see it.
Why can’t I be Tiffany J instead of Pippa Morgan? Her life is way better.
My life is THE WORST.
Friday
Now it’s WORSE THAN THE WORST!
Catie put my name on the sign-up sheet for the talent show before registration.
Argggghghhhhh!
She was so pleased when she told me, like she was giving me a present. And I had to act like I was pleased so she’d think I can sing. She can’t find out I was lying about the Voice Factor or she’ll stop being my friend. And that would be AWFUL. She’s so nice and I feel happy when I make her laugh.
Which reminds me, I’d better smile at Mrs. Gould and look interested for a while.
Mr. Bacon is away on a training day so Mrs. Gould is teaching us about the Tudors. We’ve got our textbooks on our desks, so it’s easy to disguise my diary as my notebook. I just have to look up every now and then so that Mrs. Gould thinks I’m listening.
Mrs. Gould is totally into Henry VIII. I think she secretly wishes she’d been one of his wives (not one of the headless ones). From the way she’s going on about Katherine the Arrogant, I’m guessing she thinks she could have done a much better job as Mrs. VIII.
I don’t know why anyone would want to marry Henry VIII, although it couldn’t be worse than being entered for the school talent show when you can’t sing.
What am I going to do? If I back out, Catie will know. If I don’t back out, everyone will know.
Yesterday, Dad managed to persuade me out from under my pillow for some Tuna Bomb. He said it was okay if I couldn’t sing like Tiffany J and there were lots of other things I was good at. Like spelling, for instance.
Oh, great.
When Steven Fowl ditches Voice F
actor and does Spelling Factor instead, I’ll be fine. I can imagine the audience standing on their chairs, screaming with excitement, while I spell ALGORITHM.
Not!!
He said I could have singing lessons if I really wanted, which was sweet. But even the best lessons in the world won’t teach me to sing by next Friday.
There must be SOME way of getting out of the talent show. I wonder if anyone at school has tonsillitis? I could stand next to them in the lunch line and hope they cough on me.
(Henry VIII just executed Anne Boleyn. SO mean! At least Mom and Dad managed to split up without anyone getting their head chopped off.)
If I can’t find someone to cough on me in the lunch line, maybe I can catch a cold by leaving my bedroom window open at night. I know it’s only September and the nights are pretty warm, but Gran complains all year about the damp getting into her bones. Perhaps it’ll get into mine before the talent show. I can imagine explaining to Catie. “I can’t stand on stage. I’ve got damp bones.” Is that why Gran needs a walking stick? Are her bones floppy?
Darren just told Mrs. Gould that if he was king, he’d never get married. He said, “Why have a wife when you’ve got loads of servants?” Mrs. Gould is giving him a hard stare.
Oops, now she’s staring at me.
I had to close my diary. Mrs. Gould yelled at me for doodling. Doesn’t she realize that this diary might be worth a fortune one day? I can picture it being auctioned in London…one million pounds, two million pounds, three million pounds, going for three million pounds! Sold! I wonder how much Tiffany J’s diary is worth. I’d give anything to read stuff she wrote when she was still an ordinary schoolgirl. I bet she had big dreams even then. She is sooo inspiring. I’m going to be inspiring too once I’m famous.
Quick, there’s the bell! There’s just time to write this before I join the lunch line (fingers crossed that there’s a cougher)! Catie just told me that Julie and Jennifer have something REALLY special planned for their sleepover. I can’t wait! Squeeeee!
Friday—midnight
I’m at the twins’ house, but I can’t sleep.
How can I? It has to be the most EMBARRASSING sleepover ever!
I’m curled up at the bottom of my sleeping bag, using my phone as a flashlight while I write. I’m also eating a granola bar. There are crumbs everywhere. (It’s a good thing Mrs. Brown’s not in here with me.)
The twins are asleep. I can hear their parents snoring down the hall. Catie’s sleeping bag is on the floor next to mine. She keeps giggling in her sleep. She’s probably remembering Mr. Johnson’s face when they finally managed to—
Wait! Let me start at the beginning.
Julie and Jennifer’s mom walked us home from school. She’s really nice. She has one of those smiley faces like a mom in a commercial, except she’s not as skinny and she wears less makeup. She’d brought apples for us to eat on the way home in case we were hungry. (Which I was. It was “sweet and sour chicken” day at school today. I think the chicken must have dissolved because I couldn’t find any on my plate and the sauce was so red and slimy it looked like it had been scraped off the scenery of Emergency Room. The school chef must have learned to cook at the same place as Mom.)
Julie and Jennifer’s house is more like mine than Catie’s, and I was relieved that we had to climb over shoes and bags to get to the stairs.
The twins share a room. Why was I surprised that they have twin beds? It must be fun to share a room with your sister—like having a sleepover every night. The weird thing was, Julie’s half of the room was really neat and Jennifer’s half looked like she’d been robbed. There were clothes all over her bed and books and games sticking out from underneath it where she must have pushed them to make room on the floor for our sleeping bags. We sat in Julie’s half and the twins told us about the special surprise they’d planned.
JULIE: Guess what we’re going to do after dinner?
ME: Tidy Jennifer’s half of the room?
JENNIFER: Ha-ha. (not laughing)
JULIE: Shhh! I’m trying to tell you about the surprise.
Then Julie crossed the room and pulled a scarf off a lump on her desk. Underneath, there’s a big, pink CD player.
Catie squealed with delight.
Jenny started beaming as happily as Julie.
I just stared at the CD player, trying to force myself to smile. Lying next to it was a big, pink microphone.
Karaoke!
Nooooooooooooo!
Catie leapt to her feet and started begging to try it, but Julie said her brother was still asleep because he’s working night shifts this week. But he gets up after dinner and we could try it out then.
I was still staring at the machine. A feeling of horror was creeping over me like ice fingers. What was I going to do? As soon as Catie heard my Voice of Doom, she’d know.
I MUST NOT SING.
My mind started whirling back to my excuse list. Would Catie and the twins believe that Steven Fowl made me sign a contract promising not to sing for anyone outside Voice Factor in case I’m discovered by another music producer?
No! There weren’t any music producers here.
Unless the twins’ brother was one.
A spark of hope flashed through me.
ME: (crossing my fingers) Where does your brother work, by the way?
JULIE: (staring at me like I’ve just asked if she’s got a pet elephant) Why do you want to know?
CATIE: (squeezing my arm) Aren’t you excited about the karaoke? I can hear you sing at last! It’s going to be SO cool. I just hope you don’t think I’m awful.
ME: (my stomach has tied itself into a knot even a Girl Scout couldn’t undo) I won’t think you’re awful. (But you’ll think cats are mauling me.)
I looked at Julie again. “Is your brother a music producer, by any chance?”
“A music producer?” Julie’s eyebrows shot up. “He works at the hospital.”
“Oh.” I stared at the karaoke machine. “I was just wondering.”
I tried eating dinner really slowly. Anything to delay the karaoke. Mrs. J kept glancing at me with a worried look and asking me if I felt okay while I pushed my peas around my plate.
Catie squeezed my arm and whispered, “Don’t you like fish sticks?”
“I’m just not hungry,” I replied. I wished the fish sticks were hot enough to burn my throat, but we’d taken so long getting downstairs that they were hardly even warm.
When Mrs. J started clearing the plates away, she slipped a granola bar into my hand. “In case you get hungry later,” she whispered. Catie, Julie, and Jennifer were already racing upstairs, squealing with excitement. I followed them, my heart hammering like someone was doing roadwork in my chest.
“You go first, Pippa!” Catie was holding out the microphone as I entered the room. Suddenly I knew how Anne Boleyn felt on the way to the chopping block. I imagined the executioner holding out the ax and saying, “Do you want to cut your own head off?”
“No. You go first,” I told her, trying to sound generous.
She shrugged. “Okay.”
Catie has a sweet voice. She was watching me nervously while she sang, like she was singing in front of the Queen. When I clapped at the end and told her she had a really nice voice, she blushed. The twins begged her to sing another song, and I was SO relieved when she did. Then they sang a duet. They can do really nice harmonies. It’s like everyone can sing except me. I must have been cursed by a wicked fairy godmother when I was born. It’s the only possible explanation. All the time the twins were singing I knew my turn was coming closer. As they started swaying for their Big Finish, I whispered to Catie, “I have to go to the bathroom” and rushed out of the room.
Once I was locked in the bathroom, I started sweating. How could I go out there and sing? I wondered whether to pretend I was ill and ask Mrs.
J to phone my mom. But then I’d have to pretend to be sick all weekend. And I’d miss the sleepover. And they might not invite me again.
I don’t know how long I’d been hiding when Catie came and knocked on the door. She said, “Are you okay?”
I said the first thing that came into my head. “I’m stuck!”
“Stuck?” Catie sounded worried.
“I can’t open the lock.” I looked at the old bolt on the back of the door. It looked like the sort of bolt that would get stuck, although I can’t remember if it felt stiff when I locked it.
“I’ll tell the twins!” Catie’s footsteps hurried away.
I felt relieved for about five seconds. I couldn’t stay in the bathroom all night, could I? I peered into the bath and wondered if it would be a comfortable place to sleep. I put the plug in, just in case, to stop any spiders crawling up.
Then there were lots of footsteps in the hallway.
A deep voice called through the door. “I’m Jeff,” it said. “The twins’ dad. Have you tried wiggling the bolt?”
I reached out and pretended to wiggle it. “Yes, but it’s too stiff.”
“Don’t worry, Pippa.” Mrs. J was calling through the door now. “We’ll get you out.”
“I don’t mind sleeping in here,” I offered, half meaning it.