Svetlana reaches the bottom of the steps and gazes in our direction for a split second. She heads towards the limo, then stops and looks back, cocking her head to the side in the same way she did when Bella suggested the bridge-top ceremony.
‘Here she comes!’ Chloe yells. ‘She’s coming over to us!’
Svetlana and Daniel walk hand-in-hand to the edge of the media pit. A few reporters shove microphones under their noses, but Daniel pushes them away.
‘These are the girls I was telling you about, Daniel!’ Svetlana says. ‘They suggested the bridge.’ She turns to us. ‘I can’t make it up the stairs in this thing I’m wearing.’
Bella practically throws the jumpsuit at the bride. ‘This is the outfit,’ she says. ‘It’s a jumpsuit and it’s weatherproof and has plenty of stretch – perfect for climbing.’
Svetlana takes the cape. ‘And what is this? A veil?’
‘No,’ Bella scoffs. ‘It’s a cape, you know, like superheroes wear. But I guess you could put it on your head if you wanted to be weird.’
For the first time since we arrived, the crowd has gone quiet. Everyone is waiting to see whether Svetlana will wear Bella’s gear.
‘I tell you what,’ Svetlana says. ‘Daniel will put the names of you and your friends at the gate for tomorrow’s game in exchange for this design of yours.’
Bella shrieks with joy. ‘My friend Grace already has tickets,’ she says. ‘But the rest of us would love to go.’
Svetlana kisses Bella on both cheeks. ‘You’ve saved the day,’ she says. ‘If you’re ever in a bind, I hope a clever person just like you can come to your rescue.’
I giggle as I guess what Bella’s about to say next.
‘Thanks, but I don’t need rescuing,’ Bella says.
Svetlana cocks her head to one side again and takes one last curious look at Bella before taking her outfit into the limo to get changed.
Our reporter raises Bella’s arm as though she’s a boxer who’s just won a bout. ‘She’s done it! Daniel Hastie and Svetlana Karpinskaia will live happily ever after thanks to ten-year-old Bella Singh.’
Bella throws a peace sign for the cameras, then takes her mum’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Dr Singh points at the bridge. ‘Don’t you want to see the wedding?’
Bella looks to the rest of us and we screw up our noses.
‘No thanks, Mum,’ Bella says. ‘We’re done here. Weddings are a bit spew-worthy.’
Mission Bride: complete.
There are tickets for Very Important People. Then there are Very Very Important People’s tickets.
My family and the other anti-princesses are in the VIP section of the stadium. I caught a glimpse of them cheering madly in the first half of the game, but I wasn’t allowed to sit with them. The kids performing at half-time are VVIPs.
There are about thirty of us who have been specially selected from around Newcastle. I’m the only girl from Newcastle Public but there are five from other schools – the other twenty-four kids are boys. You can’t tell who’s from where though, because we’ve all been given Jets jerseys to wear.
‘I can’t believe I’m going to be playing soccer at Newcastle Stadium,’ I say to a boy sitting nearby. ‘I wonder if the professional players will be watching.’
The boy is about to say something when a man wearing a headset appears in our booth. ‘Okay, kids, time to head down to the green room,’ he says. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes before the show.’
I take a deep breath and savour every step through the halls. Next time I’m here I’ll probably be one of the grown-up athletes.
We get to the green room and see five adults in Jets uniforms – four men and one woman. They’re each holding a placard numbered from one to five.
The man in the headset stands on a box. ‘Attention, please,’ he says. ‘You’re all wearing wristbands. Please check the number on your band, then line up behind the person holding the same number.’
I check my wrist. Five. That’s the woman’s number. I take my place behind her. The other girls in the group do the same. The boys line up in groups of six behind the men.
I have a weird feeling about this.
‘Good job,’ the man in the headset says. ‘Now, you all participated in a series of drills to qualify for today’s show. You’ll each be performing one of those drills on the field.’
This isn’t good. It’s not good at all.
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupt the man. ‘I thought we were playing an actual soccer game.’
He makes a muffled ‘grrrrrr’ sound into his headset’s microphone. ‘I’m afraid there must have been a communication problem at your end,’ he says. ‘You only have ten minutes on the field before the second half of the real game resumes. You couldn’t get a match played in that time.’
I try to interrupt again, but he holds his hand up to my face. ‘No more questions. We’re on a tight schedule here.’
The man hands bags of soccer balls to the leader of every group – except mine. Instead of balls, he passes what looks like a giant bag of feathers to the woman.
‘What is that?’ I whisper to a girl next to me.
She stares at me as though I’m an imbecile. ‘Duh. They’re pompoms.’
My skin starts to heat up. So this is what it feels like when your blood boils.
The man claps his hands. ‘No time for chatter,’ he says. ‘Now – Group One, you’ll be dribbling the ball through some cones. Group Two is heading balls. Three will be goal-shooting. Four, goalkeeping. Five, cheerleading.’
I think I’m going to pass out. I’m not here to jiggle pompoms. I thought that dance station at tryouts was a curve-ball to test our pluck.
I follow the others down the tunnel to the field, lost in a daze. Should I pull out completely?
Then I hear it: the sound of cleats on cement.
I lift my head and see them. The real-life Manchester United and Newcastle Jets players running towards us on their way to the dressing-rooms.
My left arm shoots out automatically and the players start to high-five me. I’m in awe as each sweaty palm slaps mine.
‘Good game,’ I say over and over. Some smile, some nod, some don’t make eye contact at all.
Daniel Hastie is the last to come off.
‘Good game,’ I say again. ‘And congrats on the wedding.’
He stops and shakes my hand. ‘Thanks, buddy. Show us what you got out there, huh?’
That’s it. I will. I’ll use every one of those ten minutes to show them what I’ve got.
I’m blinded a little by the lights as we run onto the field. I wave aimlessly, hoping my family and the anti-princesses can make me out.
Our group leader takes us onto the centre spot and passes us two pompoms each.
As I grab mine, I reach down and set my watch’s timer for two minutes.
‘Copy me!’ our leader says. She starts kicking her legs in the air as though she’s a can-can dancer.
If I’m going to do this, I may as well make it memorable. I ignore the instructions and do a cartwheel followed by the splits. I jump up and throw in a pirouette to give my mum and dad a laugh.
‘Psssst!’ our leader hisses. ‘You’re not copying.’
I throw my pompoms into the air.
Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.
I don’t look back as I ditch the dancers, sprint to the next station and push in front of the boys lined up to take turns goalkeeping.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ one of them asks.
I hold up my hand to his face. ‘No questions. We’re on a tight schedule here.’
I take my place in the goal and wait for the leader to shoot. He kicks before he even realises I’m not supposed to be there.
I barely have to move as I scoop up the ball and kick it back. He’s not a very strong kicker. I’d rather the mechanical launcher from school.
Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.
I run to the heading station and ta
ke a ball from the bag. The boys are so focused on keeping their balls in the air they don’t notice me alongside them.
I start bouncing like a high-powered jack-in-the-box. My forehead is hitting with such precision, you’d think it was made out of metal and the ball was a magnet.
My watch beeps again and I run to the cones.
The group leader is onto me. ‘You!’ he says. ‘Go back to your station!’
I pretend I don’t hear and tackle one of the boys for their ball. I start dribbling through the cones, left foot one way and right foot on the way back. I do it again and again, not stopping long enough to give anyone a chance to get the ball away from me.
Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.
Four down, one to go.
I sprint across the home stretch to the southern goal and line up behind the boys to take a shot.
Their leader steps in front of me, trying to block me from shooting. ‘This is not your station,’ he says. ‘Don’t make a scene.’
I put my hands on my hips and stand on tiptoes. I’m almost eye-level with him. ‘You’re the one making a scene,’ I say. ‘Let me shoot.’
A section of the crowd behind the goal sees the controversy. They start to chant. ‘Let her shoot, let her shoot, let her shoot!’
I squint at the front row. It’s the anti-princesses, yelling and waving their arms at the surrounding seats. They must be leading the chant.
Embarrassed, the last group leader steps out of my way. Daniel Hastie’s words echo through my head. ‘Show us what you got out there, huh?’
I pick up the ball, turn my back to the goal, bounce the ball on the ground as hard as I can, then throw my body backwards.
The ball reaches head-height and I kick my legs out like the blades of a pair of scissors. With my torso horizontal in mid-air and one leg extended vertically, my body is positioned almost perfectly at ninety degrees.
I flick out my right boot and it connects with the ball, sending it over my head towards the goal.
I land on the ground with a thump. There’s a split second of silence before the stadium erupts. I cover my ears, the applause is so loud.
‘You did a bicycle kick!’ one boy screams. ‘That’s an almost impossible manoeuvre!’
‘That was amazing!’ another squeals.
I shelter my eyes and wave to the crowd. I can just make out Chloe, Bella and Emily hugging and jumping and yelling behind the posts.
Suddenly, the group leader picks me up and puts me on his shoulders. I don’t quite understand what’s going on until I see the goal.
The ball made it to the dead-centre of the net. A perfect goal.
Manchester won the big game but Newcastle came close. I actually found myself cheering for the Jets. There’s something extra awesome about seeing the underdogs put up a great fight.
The final score was 4–3, but my family hardly remembers that part. All they’ve been talking about is my bicycle kick at half-time. Dad wants me to run a special training session with his players so I can teach them how to do it.
I must have impressed the pros too, because after the game my whole family got invited down to the dressing-rooms. Oliver got every player’s signature on his cast. He won’t ever want to take it off.
Mr Talbot swears it was just a big misunderstanding that I was relegated to the cheer squad. He was extremely apologetic after the whole kerfuffle. Lucky for him that he didn’t do it on purpose, otherwise he would have had the anti-princesses to deal with.
Emily’s lunchtimes are free again and she’s making a mint from her online tutoring. The Anti-Princess Club website is bigger and better than ever. It’s also strictly bully-free. A bunch of teachers are pitching in to help in the maths chatroom, but none of them do as good a job as Emily.
Mr Ashton has been sentenced to detention duty for the rest of the term. Mrs O’Neill was thoroughly unimpressed with his rocket and perfume experiments, and told him to stick to the school curriculum rather than being influenced by toy shops. Mrs O’Neill assures Chloe she will be launching many rockets in the future – just as long as they don’t smell like rotten eggs.
Bella topped the class with her wedding outfit design. Mr Ashton was speechless when he saw us on television. A tour company is now marketing ‘bridge weddings’ to the rest of the world and they’ve asked Bella if they can copy her jumpsuit design. I told her she needs to get her priorities straight – I’m still waiting for my chin-up bar.
Svetlana Karpinskaia and Daniel Hastie’s wedding was on the covers of at least eight trashy magazines – including Pose. Not that I really care for gossip.
I also don’t care for fairytale endings, but at least Svetlana was rescued by the anti-princesses rather than a knight in shining armour. Whatever lies ahead, there’s one thing I’m certain of: we won’t need rescuing.
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