It's a Girl Thing Read Online Free PDF

on a Saturday, so you can make a fashion statement in your fancy schmanciest clothes and stun the opposite sex by emerging like the “After” instead of the “Before” part of a “Dump that Frumpy Look” makeover. The LBD spent weeks planning what to wear to the garden party last year. Eventually Fleur wore hot pants and three-inch stiletto heels. (And punctured the bouncy castle, almost making McGraw cry.)
    Secondly: You can wear makeup too. Well, the girls can (plus Ainsley Hammond and the gothic types who usually wear more lip gloss and blush than a glamour model on a night out).
    Third: So the whole school’s looking sexier (not difficult), the sun’s shining (ideally, putting folk in the mood for summer loving), the teachers are in a chilled-down mood (largely due to the beer tent) and your parents are distracted by the Police Dog Display (as I say, Blackwell Garden Party is NOT the MTV Awards): These are all extremely cop-off-friendly conditions. This makes Blackwell fete a legendary Snogtastic event. Everyone is at it! Even I pulled once. Yes, me! Okay, it was with a Year 9 lad called Adrian—who, Fleur pointed out in the cold light of spring term, “had a forehead like a satellite dish”—but it was a very very exciting event during those nine minutes we stood with our arms draped around each other and lips scrambling about. (Our kissing technique could have done with some polishing up.)
    Nevertheless, there’s just something highly delicious about Blackwell Garden Party that warrants an otherwise unseen intermingling of the year groups. In everyday life, sexy Year 11 boys use Year 9 pip-squeaks like me as footrests during assembly. However . . . as the day tumbles toward its climax and the small, very low-key disco begins (only until nine o’clock, annoyingly), not only do you get the pleasure of watching the teachers dance (ha ha! Most of them are over thirty years old! Old people should stop pretending to like modern music just so they look cool. It’s really pitiful to watch), there is one helluva lotta snogging occurring. All those hours spent flirting, batting your eyelids, complimenting each other on your chosen outfits and “ironically” enjoying the bouncy castle, they’ve got to lead somewhere. And if Lady Luck smiles down, well, you could end up joined at the tongue with some hottiebuns you’ve had your eye on for months. This year I’d had my eye on Jimi Steele. (But I’d have settled now for somebody who my father hasn’t already ruined my chances with by being a prize dweeb.)
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    â€œAh, but you’re forgetting one small element, Hammond,” snipes McGraw rather forcefully. “Last year’s party was a shambles. In case your memory deludes you, there was an England-Germany soccer match the same day, so few of your families showed any Blackwell loyalty. Does nobody remember that fiasco?” McGraw is really warming to the subject now. “It was a shambles! In fact, the highlight of my entire fete was paying eight pounds on the raffle to win back a bottle of Vanilla Uzo that I’d donated in the first place.” Several Year 7 girls titter, then notice the raised veins on McGraw’s neck and swap giggles for sympathetic nods.
    â€œBut what about the charity money we raise?” argues Ainsley.
    Ha! That had McGraw scuppered!
    â€œMmm, well, we’ll have to find other ways to continue our good work. And if anyone conjures up any of these ‘good ideas,’ er, approach Mrs. Guinevere. She’ll talk through them with you.”
    Mrs. Guinevere gives a withering smile. Oh, how I’d love to watch her laying into the miserable old goat once she gets him through those staff-room doors.
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    This morning, as I flung back my bedroom curtains and watched Mum in her slippers being sick in the backyard bin (how vile is that? It serves her right for gobbling down