Sleepover Club Blitz. Angie Bates

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      Fliss fanned herself with her hand. “Oooer,” she said.

      “Cuckoo,” I told them. “You’re all completely cuckoo.”

      “Oh, go on, Rosie,” everyone pleaded.

      “You’ve only got to put ticks in boxes,” said Kenny. “We’re not asking you to donate a kidney.”

      “We’d do it for you,” Lyndz added. “You know we would.”

      Don’t you just hate it when your friends try to make you feel guilty?

      “All right,” I sighed. “But when it goes horribly wrong, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

      “It’ll end in tears, my lovelies,” said Frankie in her sexy milkmaid’s voice. “NOT,” she added rudely.

      After break, the Sleepover Club’s fascinating love-life was forced to take a back seat, because Miss Pearson made an unexpected announcement.

      “For the next few weeks we’ll be doing a very special history project,” she beamed. “We’ll be studying the Second World War. More specifically, the Blitz.”

      Everybody groaned.

      “No-one cares about that stuff now, Miss,” Frankie complained. “If you ask me, it’s time everyone got over all that old war business and started looking to the future.” And she sneaked a little peep at dishy Owen!

      He was nodding away, like he was in total agreement, but for all I knew a bee just flew into his ear.

      I stuck up my hand.

      “I agree with Frankie,” I said. Because I did, actually. “This is the twenty-first century. Children of today should be focussing on peace, not war.”

      The other Sleepover girls clapped and cheered. At first I was chuffed that my mates were backing me up. Then I realised THEY were sneaking looks at Owen, too. They didn’t give two hoots about me. They were trying to impress their blue-eyed boy!

      “Good point, Rosie,” said Miss Pearson cheerfully. “Except I’m not convinced that world peace comes about by ignoring huge historical events. Rather the reverse. We need to understand what happened, so we can make sure these things never happen again.”

      “Oh, wah, wah, wah!” said Frankie loudly. And she flicked her hair over one eye, purely for Owen’s benefit.

      Miss Pearson sensibly ignored her. “I can guarantee that you’ll find this project really enjoyable,” she went on. “It won’t just be about facts and dates, you know. It’ll be a hands-on experience.”

      Frankie’s shoulders shook with phony laughter. “A hands-on experience of the Second World War!” she said scornfully. “How enjoyable is that!”

      I’d slid so far down my chair, I was practically under the desk by this time. Frankie was totally embarrassing me! Personally, I don’t see why a girl has to make a berk of herself to get boys to notice her. And if he DOES find that kind of obvious behaviour attractive, then he’s simply not worth bothering with. That’s what Mum says, anyway.

      After school the others pestered me for an update on their scores. Fliss screamed like she’d sat on a pin when she realised she was in the lead. Believe it or not, she’d actually got a tick in the “Special Favours” column. (It wasn’t for anything icky. Owen just gave up his seat for her at lunchtime!)

      The others immediately got the sulks.

      “I warned you this would happen,” I sighed. “If you ask me, we should stop this stoopid point-scoring business right now.”

      But they wouldn’t hear of it.

      You know what, though? I know this makes me sounds like a major headcase, but after being madly in love with Owen Cartwright for like, two whole hours, I’d totally gone off him.

      It wasn’t just the depressing effect he was having on my normally sane and cheerful friends. It was Owen himself. He’d started to remind me spookily of somebody else. But I couldn’t think who.

      Incidentally, I got a good look at Mr Heart-throb as we were hurrying out of the school gates, and guess what? His smile wasn’t nearly as mysterious and lovely as I’d thought. At close quarters, it was actually more of a creepy smirk.

      Suddenly, I saw what should have been obvious from the start. Our point-scoring system was a waste of time. Because charismatic Owen Cartwright was already totally and helplessly in love.

      With HIMSELF!

      All at once, instead of being thrilled that we shared the same surname, it started to grate on me. Also, I’d found out that Owen was six months older than me. And it made me furious to think that this smirking boy had been a Cartwright for a whole six months before I came into the world!!!

      But it wasn’t until I was drifting off to sleep that night that I finally figured out who it was that Owen Cartwright reminded me of.

      It was our deadly enemies, the M&Ms.

      

      Let me quickly remind you that in the never-ending cosmic battle between good and evil, the Sleepover Club represents the Good Guys (YAY!!). Whereas the M&Ms definitely walk on the Dark Side (BOO! HISS!!).

      OK, I’m exaggerating, but you get the picture.

      The M&Ms’ real names are Emma Hughes and Emily Berryman, otherwise known as the Gruesome Twosome. And they’re in our class, worse luck. In front of grown-ups, they’re as sweet as pie. Sweet, but seriously toxic. Their only aim in life is to get one up on us, the cool and groovy Sleepover crew. Though like Kenny says, it beats her why two such incredibly CATTY girls are so desperate to be top DOGS!

      Anyway, when I walked into the playground next morning, all the girls in our class were in little huddles. Their faces were shining with excitement. As I passed, I heard the same name, over and over. “Owen, Owen, Owen.” It was like a horror film! I prayed that my mates, at least, had miraculously come to their senses in the night. But when I spotted them, round by the gym, they had that same distinctive Owen glow.

      I soon learned that Owen’s G (for Gorgeousness) Rating had just zoomed off the scale. Apparently, lover boy was way cooler than everyone thought. Not only were his parents stupendously rich. Not only had he just moved into the ritziest, glitziest house in Cuddington. But gorgeous Owen Cartwright himself was actually (GASP!) a professional boy supermodel!!

      To be fair, the others weren’t bothered about the house or the money. But they were totally gobsmacked by the supermodel thing. I hung around, listening to them witter. Now and then I’d say hopefully: “So about our next sleepover…”

      But it was like I was invisible. It dawned on me that if I wanted their attention, I’d have to use the O-word. Like, “Hey, let’s give our sleepover an Owen theme!” СКАЧАТЬ