скачать книгу бесплатно
Starring The Sleepover Club
Narinder Dhami
Join the Sleepover Club: Frankie, Kenny, Felicity, Rosie and Lyndsey, five girls who just want to have fun – but who always end up in mischief.When Felicity’s mum buys a camcorder, the sleepover girls can’t wait to try it out. During filming, a minor accident turns into a superstunt, and Rosie has a brain wave: why not send the tape to a TV programme that pays for camcorder stunts?Will the Sleepover Club discover screen stardom or will the film be a flop?Pack up your sleepover kit and drop in on the fun!
Starring the Sleepover Club
by Narinder Dhami
Contents
Cover (#u348b2d1f-cb32-51d8-af5b-20cae9115b86)
Title Page (#u048d617a-6988-5786-9c61-aa0d6da2db55)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Goodbye
Have you been invited to all these Sleepovers?
Please come to a sleepover at Felicity’s
Sleepover Kit List
Copyright
About the Publisher
Please come to a sleepover at Felicity’s (#ulink_6b5fbba6-319d-5b2c-9e52-b4453daf1ea4)
11 Clumber CloseParklandsCuddingtonLeicester
It’s on Friday 11 April.Please come at 6.30 pmand sleepover tillSaturday morning.
Don’t forget, we’ll be making our Sleepover Club video – come prepared to be a star!
(#uf8128362-44dc-51dd-b212-cd537d9146e9)
Oh, hi! It’s you again. Look, you can walk with me if you want to. I’m going to the video shop to borrow a film. But you’ve got to promise me one thing. You’ve got to promise that you won’t ask me what happened at our sleepover last night. I can’t tell you because it’s a Big Secret. The Biggest. So don’t ask me, OK?
My mum and dad said I could choose a film for the three of us to watch tonight. Usually one of them comes to the video shop with me and makes a big song and dance about which films are suitable, and which films aren’t. You know what parents are like. But today they said I could come on my own. I think it’s because they’re pretty relieved that nothing happened at the sleepover last night (or so they think). The last time we slept over at Fliss’s, we ended up wrecking her mum’s kitchen, as well as giving her gruesome neighbours a complete fit. This time we did something just as bad. We – oh, sorry! I forgot. I can’t tell you.
Come on, here’s the video shop. No, don’t bother going into the adult section. I’m not even allowed to look at the covers of the films over there. Anyway, Nathan Wignall’s standing there, trying to pretend he’s old enough to borrow a grown-up film. I’ve told you about Nathan Wignall before, haven’t I? He lives next door to me, and he’s a complete pain. I could tell you loads of embarrassing stuff about Nathan Wignall, but I haven’t got time right now.
We sometimes watch a video when we have a sleepover, but not every time. Like last night at Fliss’s, we – whoops, there I go again! Me and my big mouth.
No, I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me to. My lips are sealed.
Look, don’t get mad. Of course I trust you. As my grandma always says, if you can’t trust your friends, who can you trust? It’s just that if our parents find out what really went on at Fliss’s house last night, we’ll be up to our eyes in everlasting doom for the next five years. So, if I tell you what happened at the sleepover last night, do you swear never to breathe a WORD about it to ANYONE? Cross your heart and hope to die? Do you promise faithfully you won’t tell anyone, even if they offer you their last Rolo?
OK, you’ve twisted my arm. I give in. Let’s go behind the children’s videos so that no one else can hear us, and I’ll tell you all about it.
The sleepover at Fliss’s was going to be an ordinary sleepover right up until the day before. Well, what I mean is, no sleepover is ever really ordinary, but we weren’t expecting anything special to happen. Of course, we were wrong.
As my grandma always says, the best place to start is at the beginning. That was at school on Thursday morning. We were in the playground, and all of the Sleepover Club were there, except Fliss. Me (I’m Frankie, remember?), Kenny, Rosie and Lyndz. We were discussing our new teacher, Miss Jenkins. Our real teacher, Mrs Weaver, was ill and she hadn’t been at school all week. We missed her a bit. But not a lot. Compared to Mrs Weaver, Miss Jenkins was a pushover.
“OK, today I’m going for it,” Kenny said. “I bet I can make six trips to the pencil sharpener before Miss Jenkins tells me off.”
“What’s the record so far?” I asked.
“I managed five times yesterday,” said Rosie.
Kenny shrugged. “You only got the fifth one because Danny McCloud had stuffed two rubbers up his nose. You sneaked over to the sharpener while Miss Jenkins was telling him off.”
“Then they got stuck up there,” said Lyndz. “Poor old Miss Jenkins had a terrible time trying to pull them out.”
“I’m glad I’m not a teacher,” I said with feeling. “I wouldn’t put my fingers up Danny McCloud’s nose for a billion pounds.”
“Well, she couldn’t just let Danny suffocate, could she?” said Lyndz.
There was a thoughtful silence.
“I wouldn’t have a problem with that,” Kenny said with a perfectly straight face, and Rosie and I began to giggle.
“I think you’re horrible,” said Lyndz. “Poor Miss Jenkins. I feel—”
“Really sorry for her!” we all chimed in. Lyndz has got a heart of pure marshmallow.
“Oh, shut up!” Lyndz grinned, and stuck her tongue out at us. She’s used to us winding her up. “By the way, where’s Fliss?”
“Yeah, where is Fliss?” said Kenny. “She’s going to be late if she doesn’t get here soon.”
We all looked at each other. Fliss is never late for school. She’s the sort of person who’s never late for anything, not even the dentist.
“Look, there she is.” Rosie pointed across the playground. “What’s the matter with her?”
Fliss was racing madly across the playground towards us, waving her arms in the air. Her face was bright red, and she was puffing and panting like she’d just run the London Marathon. She was so out of breath that, when she skidded to a halt in front of us, she couldn’t speak.
“What is it, Fliss?” I asked, feeling a bit alarmed.
Fliss took a huge breath.
“My mum and Andy have bought a camcorder, and my mum says we can video the sleepover tomorrow night!” she squealed.
“Really?” Rosie gasped, her eyes as round as dinner plates.
“Coo-el!” shrieked Kenny and Lyndz.
“You lucky thing, Fliss!” I said. I was green with jealousy. I’d been nagging my mum and dad for months to buy a camcorder. I’d tried everything from bribery (promising to do the dishes for a year), to tugging at the parental heartstrings (asking them how they’d feel when they had no videos of their little girl to watch when I’d grown up). My dad had said, “Relieved”. I think he was joking.
“This is so cool,” Kenny said happily. “We’re going to have an official Sleepover Club video!”
“I’m going to ask my mum if I can get some new pyjamas,” Lyndz babbled excitedly.
“Me too,” I said. My favourite Snoopy pyjamas were a bit too old and uninteresting to be on a video. Come to think of it, my sleeping bag was a bit old and uninteresting as well. I could do with a new one. That meant I was going to have to do some major sweet-talking to my mum and dad when I got home tonight.
Fliss was looking as smug as a cat who’s eaten twenty cartons of cream. “That’s not all,” she said. “Andy says he’ll make some copies of the video so that everyone can have their own.”
That knocked us all out. We couldn’t believe it.
“Fliss, you’re the best,” Kenny said enthusiastically.
Fliss beamed.
“We’ll be able to watch our videos and remember what it was like to be in the Sleepover Club, when we’re all old and wrinkly,” she said.
“We can still carry on having sleepovers when we get old, though, can’t we?” Lyndz asked anxiously.
“Course we can,” I said. “But just in case we get too old and creaky to play International Gladiators—”
“Or in case we get too old and tired to stay up for midnight feasts,” said Kenny.
“Or if we haven’t got any teeth left to eat the midnight feasts,” Rosie said.
“—we’ll always have the videos to remind us,” Fliss finished off.
“Oh, I can’t wait for tomorrow night,” Lyndz sighed. “It’s going to be excellent.”
We didn’t know it then, but we wouldn’t need a video to remind us of that sleepover at Fliss’s. It was going to be a long, long time before any of us forgot it.
(#uf8128362-44dc-51dd-b212-cd537d9146e9)
As I said before, I was really set on having new pyjamas for the Sleepover Event of the Century, so I started my campaign as soon as I got home that night.
“Mum,” I said casually, “have you seen my Snoopy pyjamas recently?”
“Is that a trick question?” My mum was putting a family-size packet of vegetarian lasagne in the microwave. No-one cooks in our house, except for my dad’s famous pizzas. We’re a strictly “heat ’n’ eat” family. “I saw them yesterday when I took them out of the washing-machine.”
“No, I mean have you seen the state of them.” I pulled my Snoopy pyjamas from behind my back like a magician producing a white rabbit, and flapped them at my mum. “Look at them, they’re gross.”
My mum raised her eyebrows.
“I can’t see anything wrong with them.”
“Look!” I showed her the pyjama bottoms. One of the legs had started fraying after a sleepover at Rosie’s when Kenny had grabbed me by the ankles and tried to throw me off the bed. I’d kind of helped it along a bit with my nail scissors. “I can’t wear these at Fliss’s sleepover tomorrow.”
“Oh, Frankie, they’re perfectly all right.”
“No, they aren’t,” I persisted. Nagging is the only way to wear parents down. They’ll do anything for a bit of peace and quiet. “I told you before, Fliss’s mum is going to video the sleepover, and I need to look good.”
“Frankie,” my mum said, “this is a home video, not a Hollywood movie.”
“I know. But these pyjamas are dangerous. What if they keep on unravelling while I’m asleep, and they unravel right up to my neck and strangle me?”
My mum looked at me over the top of her glasses.
“Have you been reading those ‘Bonechillers’ again?”
“Mum,” I said solemnly, “I’m being straight with you here. I cannot wear these pyjamas to Fliss’s sleepover tomorrow night.”
“Fine.” My mum opened the fridge and took out a packet of ready-washed salad. “It’s lucky you have at least eight other pairs of pyjamas in your cupboard to choose from, then, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Mum,” I groaned. “Those aren’t sleepover pyjamas. And anyway, they’re all too small for me.”
My mum shrugged. “That’s life, Frankie.”
Parents. They’re so unreasonable. But I wasn’t finished yet. I went out of the kitchen, and into the living-room where my dad was laying the table and watching the news on the telly at the same time.
“Guess what, Dad?” I gave him my Best-Behaved Daughter of the Year smile. “Fliss’s mum’s bought a camcorder, and she’s going to video our sleepover tomorrow.”
“Really,” my dad said absently, his eyes fixed on the TV.
“So I was hoping I could get a new pair of pyjamas. Could you pick me up after school tomorrow and drive me into Leicester?”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Like taking sweets from a baby.
“Thanks, Dad!” I said, just as my mum came in with the plates.
“Thanks for what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Er – yes, thanks for what?” The news had finished now, and my dad was looking bewildered.
