by Sarah Webb
She looks relieved. “Of course. And I’ll check on you again later. No Facebooking now.” She wags her finger at me, mock strict.
I smile to myself. There’s nothing like a bit of emotional blackmail to get what you want. Normally I have to use the laptop downstairs, where Mum can keep an eye on me. She’s convinced all teens waste their lives on Facebook. But, come on! How else are we supposed to have a social life when we’re chained to our desks?
In fact, checking Facebook is the first thing I do once I’ve set the laptop up on my desk. Obviously! For a second, I don’t notice anything wrong. Then it hits me. There are no posts from Mills. Usually there are loads — Mills is Facebook crazy. Her mum and dad let her have a page just a few months ago, and she’s been obsessed ever since. I check my friends list, but I can’t find her at all. She’s defriended me. I can’t believe it. It seems so brutal, so permanent.
I click out of Facebook and stare at the computer screen. There’s no way I can focus on my homework now. But I still type “Greek gods” into Google and then click on allaboutgreekgods.com in case Mum comes in and catches me doing nothing and gives me an earful, making an already terrible day even worse.
“The Greeks did not believe in a single, all-powerful god,” the website reads. “They had many gods and goddesses who controlled both nature and fate. But the chief of all the gods was Zeus, god of thunder and lightning.”
Mum sticks her head around the door again and looks suspiciously at the screen.
Ha, foiled her!
“Fascinating stuff here about Zeus,” I say.
She smiles at me. “I’m really proud of you, Amy. Knuckling down to do your homework like that. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
I stare vacantly at the Greek gods website for a few more minutes, but the words start to swim in front of my eyes and then Mills’s face seems to materialize on the screen, like something out of Doctor Who. Why was I so stupid? I’ve lost the best friend ever, and I have only myself to blame.
“Hey, Beanie, good to see you. What’s up?” Clover looks up from her desk and swivels around in her black-leather chair. It’s Wednesday afternoon. I usually hang out with Mills on Wednesdays, but today I’m all alone, so I decided to visit Clover’s “office,” a customized shed at the back of Gramps’s garden.
“Nothing much.” I slump down on a small red sofa.
“Things with Mills any better?”
“No,” I say gloomily. “She’s still not talking to me. It’s been three days now, and it’s doing my head in. I feel so miserable, Clover. I’ve tried talking to Seth about it, but he says Mills will snap out of it eventually. Anyway, he has other worries. He’s concerned about Bailey. The other guys on the rugby team want him to chug this creatine stuff to bulk up ’cause he’s being pushed around on the pitch. It’s a kind of diet supplement. Is it safe, Clover? Do you know anything about it?”
“It’s funny you should say that, about creatine, I mean,” Clover says. “I have a letter here from a girl asking a very similar question. Her brother plays for Monkstown College, in fact.”
“Makes sense. There’s a big match coming up, Monkstown against Saint John’s. They’re both favorites for the Junior Cup.”
“Let me see if I can find it.” Clover rummages in the top tray of her tower of plastic boxes. “Bingo!” She hands me the printout of a letter and I read it.
Dear Clover and Amy,
I have a serious problem, and I need your help. My twin brother, Happo (Harry), is only in the second year, but he’s really good at rugby and he’s already on the Junior Cup team. That is a big deal in Monkstown College because it’s such a megarugby school, as I’m sure you know only too well!
Happo’s started taking this weird powder called Xtra-Tone Creatine X5 every day to “get ripped” (you have to say this in a silly American accent, like he does). He spoons it into a sports bottle, mixes it with water, and then forces it down, even though he says it tastes disgusting. He doesn’t want me to tell Mum ’cause she’ll only “freak out.”
I don’t want to sound like a wuss, but I’m worried about him. You see, when he was born, he had this heart condition and nearly died. What if this creatine stuff damages his heart?
Happo says I’m being stupid, that all the lads take it. In fact, he suspects some of them are on steroids too, even though they’re totally 100 percent banned and the rugby coach would have a fit if he found out about it. But the Monkstown lads are all so obsessed with the Cup, they’d do anything to win.
I’m megaworried here, girls, and I don’t know what to do. If I say something to Mum, she’ll probably stop Happo from playing rugby and he’d kill me. He’s mad into it. All he wants to do with his life is be a pro player. I have to do something, though. What if this creatine stuff is really dangerous?
Please help!
Dominique, 14, in Dublin
I hand the letter back to Clover and give a whistle. “Siúcra ducra, that’s serious stuff.”
“No kidding, Beanie. And if guys in Monkstown and Saint John’s are both using this creatine, it’s bound to be widespread. I didn’t know much about it, so I did some digging. It seems legit enough stuff. Apparently it increases strength and builds lean muscle mass, and it occurs naturally in the body.” She puts on a science-bod voice: “According to our extensive research, no lab rats have died while using creatine. In fact, it seems to lengthen their life, if anything.” She goes back to her normal voice. “Used properly, that is, and in the right doses. Funny, isn’t it? Most girls want to lose weight, but dudes want to ‘get ripped.’ Sad, really. We’re never happy with what we’ve got. No, what concerns me is that this creatine might act as a gateway to stronger stuff, like the steroids Dominique mentioned. I’ve read about steroids and they do have side effects, serious ones. And they can damage the heart.”
“So, what do we tell Dominique? And Seth?”
“I don’t know, Beans. Any brain waves yourself, the elf?”
“Well,” I say, an idea burning. “Remember when we first went into the problem-solving business? You said we weren’t just going to sit back and answer letters from the comfort of your office, we were going to jump straight in feetfirst and get our hands dirty. ‘Up close and very, very personal,’ I think were your words.”
“Where are you going with this, Beanie?”
“Clover, I think I feel a plan coming on. We’re going to e-mail Dominique right now and ask for her brother’s training timetable. Maw-ha-ha-ha.” I give my best evil-genius Disney laugh.
“Oi, Beanie!” Clover bellows. “Over here!” It’s after school the next day. Clover’s stopped in the middle of the Saint John’s driveway and is hanging out of the window of her red Mini Cooper and waving like a lunatic. For a second, I almost don’t recognize her. Her hair is tied back in a high, swishy ponytail, and she’s wearing an emerald-green tracksuit top and huge dark-frame geek glasses.
“Ready to rock ’n’ roll?” I ask Seth, who’s standing beside me, staring at Clover’s eccentric getup.
“Are you sure you need me?” Seth asks, looking a little pale. “I know you’re just trying to help this Dominique girl and her brother, but I’m a brutal actor. What if we all get caught?”
“Seth, who’s in the Mini with Clover?”
Seth peers into the car. “A D4 in full war paint?”
“Really?” I follow his gaze and see Amber Horsefell sitting behind Clover in the backseat. Now, that’s a bit of a shocker. Clover was hoping to persuade one of the girls from the Goss to help her out today, but I guess they must have all been busy, so she roped Amber in instead. Amber is at Trinity College with Clover. They work on the college magazine, Trinity Tatler, together. Seth’s right. She’s a total D4.
“Clover must have been really desperate to ask her for help,” I say. “But look again — who’s sitting next to Clover?”
Seth’s face lights up. “You didn’t tell me Brains was part of Clover’s crack crew.”
; I do jazz hands. “Surprise!”
Seth grins from ear to ear, the tips of which are turning bright pink. He loves Brains’s band, the Golden Lions. Idolizes them, in fact.
“That’s brilliant!” Suddenly he stops smiling. “But what will I say to him? The Lions are huge now. Brains is a superstar.”
“He’s still Brains. You’ve met him loads of times.”
“I suppose,” he says, but he doesn’t sound all that convinced.
A blond woman with a long, pointy face like a greyhound’s has pulled up behind Clover’s Mini and is thumping her fist on the horn of her navy BMW. It’s Renate Hamilton, Annabelle’s mum, and the dark scowl on her face would suggest she’s in a hurry and isn’t happy that Clover’s blocking her way.
“Come on, lads, jump in,” Clover shouts over at us. “Someone’s got her granny knickers in a twist.”
Seth and I make a dash for the car as Clover starts singing, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go.” Before I’ve even gotten the door shut, Clover’s roaring down the drive, leaving the still-glaring Mrs. Hamilton in the dust.
“So, team,” Clover says, “everyone know what to do? Amber, do you remember your instructions?”
Amber nods seriously. “It shouldn’t be a problem. I rang ahead to set up the interview, and I have lots of questions prepared on how to coach a winning Junior Cup team, thus delaying him for, like, at least ten minutes.” She opens the notebook she’s clutching on her lap. “He played for Ireland as a student, and he even wrote a sports column for Trinity Tatler when he studied at Trinity. We should find plenty to talk about.”
Clover whistles. “I’m impressed, Amber. You’ve done your homework.”
Amber smiles. “Thanks, Clover. I did my best.” For a D4, Amber seems pretty clued in.
Clover nudges Brains with her elbow. “Brains? You coola boola with your role?”
He gives her a confident grin. “Cool as peppermint, babes. Do I look the part?” he asks, pushing his geek glasses up the bridge of his nose. Unlike Clover’s, the glasses are actually his. On his head is a dark-green IRFU — Irish Rugby Football Union — cap that’s struggling to contain his wild afro, and he’s also wearing an emerald-green tracksuit, complete with identity tag around his neck. He studies the tag for a moment. “Nice piece of counterfeiting, if I do say so myself. All those years of churning out fake IDs has come in handy.”
“What does it say?” I ask him.
“‘Rambo Harrington. IRFU Drug Tester.’”
“Brains!” Clover squeals. “Rambo? What’s wrong with Matt or Simon or something? Did you have to pick such an over-the-top name?”
“I thought all rugby players had funny names,” he says. “Like Crusher and Doom.”
“I think you’ll find that’s Gladiators, mate,” Seth says. “Not rugby.”
“Ah, right,” Brains says.
Clover’s eyes narrow. “So, what’s the name on my tag, then? Break it to me gently.”
Brains coughs a little while telling her, so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying.
Clover takes a deep breath and clutches the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles go white. “Brains, tell me you did not just say what I think you just said. Because it’s not funny. This is a serious business. Happo’s heart is at stake, remember? And no one’s going to believe that Mystique Moore is a proper name.”
“Stop fretting,” Brains says, patting her hand. “They won’t even read the tags. They’re Crombies, not MI6 spies. Chill, Mystique. Or should I call you Misty?”
Clover sets her jaw. “Still not funny.”
But when Brains starts singing a weird song about misty moors and wuthering heights in a mad, high-pitched voice, we all fall around the place, laughing, even Clover. I think it’s partly nerves.
“Hand Amy and Seth their costumes, please, Amber,” Clover says when we’ve finally stopped laughing.
Seth and I are already wearing our navy school tracksuit bottoms, so we pull matching green hoodies, the same color as Brains’s and Clover’s, over our school shirts.
“Where did you get all this green sports gear?” I ask Clover.
She looks in the rearview mirror at me and pats her nose. “I nose people,” she says with a smile. “Get it? Knows?”
“That’s brutal, Clover.” I groan and shake my head.
Clover parks to the far right of the Monkstown College changing rooms. We’ve timed our arrival perfectly. Happo’s team has just finished its after-school training session and is walking off the field, followed by their coach — a surprisingly cute dark-haired man in his late twenties.
“Phew! Just in time,” Clover says. “You’re on, Amber. Break a leg, babes.”
“Thanks.” Amber springs into action. Climbing out of the car, she runs after the coach — which is pretty impressive considering her six-inch heels. They are part of her “cute reporter girl” outfit — red heels, white shirt with pussycat bow, and ultratight black pencil skirt, which makes her trot along like a show pony.
“Mr. Winters,” she calls after the coach. “Excuse me, Mr. Winters.” She catches up with him and puts her hand on his thick, muddy forearm.
He stops and stares at her, looking confused. Amber introduces herself and asks if he’s ready for the interview. He gives a toothy grin and nods enthusiastically. Then they walk off toward the main school building together. Without turning round, Amber twists her arm behind her back and gives a thumbs-up.
“Way to play it, Amber!” Clover says. “I knew she was the right girl for the job. She has a lot of smarts for a D4. And she certainly knows how to handle her heels. Ready, Operation Happo team? Thunderbirds are go, go, go! Let’s show these Crombies we mean business. Follow me, troops.” We all pile out of the car and head over to the changing-room door that Happo’s team has just gone through.
As soon as we enter and start walking down the slightly gloomy hallway, I can smell the familiar odor of teenage boy — rancid socks, sweat, body spray, and hormones. There’s shouting and laughter from behind a door, and Clover stops in front of it.
“This must be it,” she says in a low voice. “Bean Machine, you’re keeping watch outside the door. Seth, you’re the bouncer. Don’t let anyone inside the building, understand? As soon as you spot the coach or any other adult, wave at Amy, OK? And she can alert me and Brains.”
“OK,” Seth says, now looking as green as our hoodies.
“So are we all set, team?” Clover asks.
Seth and I nod. I have to admit, my stomach is knotted with nerves. Seth squeezes my hand. “Good luck, kiddo. See you on the other side.”
“Stay alive,” I gush while gripping his hand. “I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.”
Clover frowns. “Beanie! This is no time for amateur dramatics. Right, it’s action stations, troops.”
I salute her. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Clover knocks loudly on the changing-room door, opens it a little, and shouts, “Lady incoming.” After waiting a second or two, she strides in, with Brains just behind her.
Standing outside, I feel another wave of anxiety. What if the Crombies don’t believe Clover and Brains are with the IRFU? They don’t exactly look like your average rugby officials.
“Excuse me.” Clover’s voice cuts into my thoughts. The sound is carrying through the thin changing-room door. “Can I have your attention, please?” She sounds very confident and very, very official. “This is the Junior Cup team, is that correct?”
“Yeah,” a voice rings out. Then there’s a wolf whistle.
“Less of that now, please, lads.” It’s Brains this time, with a surprisingly brilliant accent. “We’re here on important IRFU business. If we have your full cooperation, it won’t take long.”
“As you all know, the use of performance-enhancing drugs is banned in rugby, and we at the drug-testing unit take our jobs very seriously indeed,” Clover says. “Now, as I’m sure you’re all aw
are, random drug testing is part of any athlete’s life, and the IRFU is following the Olympic officials’ lead. So today we will be taking urine samples from two of your players and testing them for illegal substances.”
“You can’t just barge in here and do that without a warning,” a boy says angrily. “My dad’s a lawyer. I know these things.”
“Actually, they can,” another boy says. “My cousin’s an Olympic swimmer, and she’s tested all the time.”
“What’s your name, son?” Brains asks him.
“Happo,” he says. “Sorry — Harry O’Loughlin.”
Bingo!
“One of the names on my list, in fact,” Clover says. “Would you mind going with Brai — sorry, Mr. Harrington — here and giving us a sample? As I said, the sooner we get the tests done, the sooner we can be out of your hair.”
“Me?” Happo sounds nervous.
“Yes,” Clover says firmly.
“Hey, shouldn’t our coach be here for this?” the first boy asks.
“He’s in the office, filling out the paperwork with our colleague, Ms. Moneypenny,” Clover says smoothly. “So Harry first and then you, please.”
“Why me?” another boy says.
“It’s a random selection,” Clover says. “And unless you are using steroids or any other performance enhancers, you have nothing to worry about. As of yet, creatine is not on the banned substance list, in case any of you are wondering. But steroids most certainly are.” She pauses for a second and then adds, her voice grave, “Of course, you’re all far too intelligent to go down that route, aren’t you, boys? Because you know your entire rugby career would be over if you tested positive for steroids, right? Plus, your whole team would be thrown out of the league and banned from playing for three years. You wouldn’t want that on your head, would you?”
The room goes deathly silent.
“So, if you’d do the honors, please, Mr. Harrington,” Clover continues. “And then we can be on our way. And do tell any other rugby players you know about the dangers of using banned substances, boys. We might be testing their school soon. I think Saint John’s is next on our list, in fact, along with Blackrock College and Saint Michael’s. So, do spread the word.”