“Weaver’s pulled the plug. Come on.”
We had to assemble outside in the car park, where Miss Walsh was standing, her face as sour as if she’d been sucking a whole bag of lemons.
“Don’t you dare make a noise!” she hissed, as we shuffled into a group and waited for Mrs Weaver to arrive. Frankie had been standing beside Miss Walsh, digging her toe into the gravel, but now she came and joined the rest of us. We eyed each other, but didn’t say a thing.
At last Mrs Weaver emerged through thesliding doors, looking flushed, with one of the librarians walking beside her. I heard Mrs Weaver say, “Once again, I am so sorry,” to the librarian. Then she stalked over to us.
“I expected better from you,” was all she said, her eyes raking round the group. And then we set off in a straggly line back to school.
“Why do they always shout at all of us?” said Kenny at break, slumping on the bench. We’d had a good fifteen minutes of Mrs Weaver blasting us, telling us how she and Miss Walsh had “never been so embarrassed in their entire lives” – all the usual teacher guff. “No offence to Frankie, but it was a one-girl stampede. Personally, I was behaving like a super-swotty goody two-shoes…”
“I saw you with one of the waxworks!” said Rosie. “You were sticking a pencil up its nose!”
“That was a serious experiment!” said Kenny. Then she grinned. “Kind of.”
“I wonder if Frankie’s OK,” said Fliss. Right thisminute Frankie was inside the office of Mrs Poole, our headteacher.
“Oh, she’ll be fine,” said Kenny confidently. “You know Pooley – she’s way softer than Mrs Weaver. She’ll probably tell Frankie to try not to do it again and then she’ll crack open a packet of Hob-nobs. Talk of the devil…”
“Hey guys!” It was Frankie, bombing towards us across the playground.
“So what happened?” asked Fliss. “Have you got a million detentions?”
Frankie shook her head happily, still getting her breath back. “Pooley tried to be really strict,” she said at last, “but when I explained that I hadn’t been messing around – that the waxwork really had moved – she turned all sympathetic, and said it would’ve scared her too. Apparently she knows the head librarian and she’s going to have a word. She reckons that if exhibitions have moving parts they should warn you at the beginning. She said if someone with a dodgy heart had a shock like that it could make them keel over.”
“Good for Pooley,” said Kenny.
“Except she’ll find out from the librarian that the waxwork didn’t move,” I said.
“It did!” insisted Frankie. “It grabbed me! Though probably by chance, Mrs Poole said – it couldn’t really have been programmed to do that.” She frowned. “Blimey, Lyndz, why don’t you believe me?”
“I do believe you,” I said. “But I saw something. After you’d gone.”
I’d been dying for a chance to tell them ever since the bell rang. Now I had everyone’s attention. Even Kenny sat up straight and stared at me.
“Someone was hiding behind the waxwork,” I said. “They grabbed you. On purpose.”
“You saw them? Who was it?” Frankie was looking at me in astonishment. “Who, Lyndz? Who?”
Who grabbed Frankie? I bet you’ve got a pretty good idea, haven’t you, and you weren’t even there! You could narrow it down to two, anyhow: our two worst enemies, the M&Ms.
I took a deep breath. “Emma Hughes,” I said.
I think Frankie’d had a hunch too, because she didn’t look shocked – she just looked furious. “What I’d like to do to that twisted, snotty, fat-bottomed fartbrain!” she snarled.
“I saw her when Mrs Weaver was bawling usout,” said Rosie. “She had the slimiest ‘I’m-so-perfect’ look on her face. Ugh! Why does she always get away with it?”
“She doesn’t – not this time,” said Kenny darkly. “Nobody plays a trick like that on the Sleepover Club without paying for it!”
As you can
We had to assemble outside in the car park, where Miss Walsh was standing, her face as sour as if she’d been sucking a whole bag of lemons.
“Don’t you dare make a noise!” she hissed, as we shuffled into a group and waited for Mrs Weaver to arrive. Frankie had been standing beside Miss Walsh, digging her toe into the gravel, but now she came and joined the rest of us. We eyed each other, but didn’t say a thing.
At last Mrs Weaver emerged through thesliding doors, looking flushed, with one of the librarians walking beside her. I heard Mrs Weaver say, “Once again, I am so sorry,” to the librarian. Then she stalked over to us.
“I expected better from you,” was all she said, her eyes raking round the group. And then we set off in a straggly line back to school.
“Why do they always shout at all of us?” said Kenny at break, slumping on the bench. We’d had a good fifteen minutes of Mrs Weaver blasting us, telling us how she and Miss Walsh had “never been so embarrassed in their entire lives” – all the usual teacher guff. “No offence to Frankie, but it was a one-girl stampede. Personally, I was behaving like a super-swotty goody two-shoes…”
“I saw you with one of the waxworks!” said Rosie. “You were sticking a pencil up its nose!”
“That was a serious experiment!” said Kenny. Then she grinned. “Kind of.”
“I wonder if Frankie’s OK,” said Fliss. Right thisminute Frankie was inside the office of Mrs Poole, our headteacher.
“Oh, she’ll be fine,” said Kenny confidently. “You know Pooley – she’s way softer than Mrs Weaver. She’ll probably tell Frankie to try not to do it again and then she’ll crack open a packet of Hob-nobs. Talk of the devil…”
“Hey guys!” It was Frankie, bombing towards us across the playground.
“So what happened?” asked Fliss. “Have you got a million detentions?”
Frankie shook her head happily, still getting her breath back. “Pooley tried to be really strict,” she said at last, “but when I explained that I hadn’t been messing around – that the waxwork really had moved – she turned all sympathetic, and said it would’ve scared her too. Apparently she knows the head librarian and she’s going to have a word. She reckons that if exhibitions have moving parts they should warn you at the beginning. She said if someone with a dodgy heart had a shock like that it could make them keel over.”
“Good for Pooley,” said Kenny.
“Except she’ll find out from the librarian that the waxwork didn’t move,” I said.
“It did!” insisted Frankie. “It grabbed me! Though probably by chance, Mrs Poole said – it couldn’t really have been programmed to do that.” She frowned. “Blimey, Lyndz, why don’t you believe me?”
“I do believe you,” I said. “But I saw something. After you’d gone.”
I’d been dying for a chance to tell them ever since the bell rang. Now I had everyone’s attention. Even Kenny sat up straight and stared at me.
“Someone was hiding behind the waxwork,” I said. “They grabbed you. On purpose.”
“You saw them? Who was it?” Frankie was looking at me in astonishment. “Who, Lyndz? Who?”
Who grabbed Frankie? I bet you’ve got a pretty good idea, haven’t you, and you weren’t even there! You could narrow it down to two, anyhow: our two worst enemies, the M&Ms.
I took a deep breath. “Emma Hughes,” I said.
I think Frankie’d had a hunch too, because she didn’t look shocked – she just looked furious. “What I’d like to do to that twisted, snotty, fat-bottomed fartbrain!” she snarled.
“I saw her when Mrs Weaver was bawling usout,” said Rosie. “She had the slimiest ‘I’m-so-perfect’ look on her face. Ugh! Why does she always get away with it?”
“She doesn’t – not this time,” said Kenny darkly. “Nobody plays a trick like that on the Sleepover Club without paying for it!”
As you can
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