Instead, I hid beneath my duvet with the curtains drawn for the entire Saturday, reading a novel I stole from Mum entitled A Certain Taboo. It’s rubbish. No wonder my mother always drinks too many margaritas, then falls asleep on the beach with a book on her face, if this is the sort of drivel she reads.

I didn’t get dressed yesterday either.

I wore my underwear all day, simply pulling on a sweater for bathroom trips. There didn’t seem to be any point.

In getting up and getting dressed, that is.

Or living.

I’d texted Claude and Fleur first thing and lied that I was at Nan’s, then I bolted my bedroom door with my Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle. Every time Dad knocked, I faked snoring until I heard him padding away down the landing, sighing. I was feeling highly antisocial. There was, and still is, nothing that any individual can possibly say to make me feel any better. Especially as my mum has still not come home. Or even called me back on my cell phone like she said she would. Okay, I could have called her, but that’s not the point, is it? I mean, I’m her daughter. It should be her motherly instinct to call and check if I’ve had my breakfast or have got enough spends for the day, instead of just lazing about at my nan’s house “having time to think.” My social worker, when I get one, will be hearing about this, mark my words. About the day my mum abandoned me as she “needed time to think,” and I spent a day alone, in my underwear, starving.

And “think” about what, exactly? You don’t have to think about whether you want to live with your husband and your daughter, do you? Huh? No, you “need time” to think about stuff like whether you want to buy that top you’ve tried on in blue or in black. Or “time” to think about what you fancy off a restaurant menu. You don’t have to stop and think about living with your family, do you?

Mum should come back straightaway, Dad should make her.

I feel like I’m going mad.

I really just want everything to be back to normal. It’s not nice thinking we can’t all live here together anymore. And, er, I realize now that I really love them both too.

There, I’ve said it.

I love them both.

But I’m not saying that to them, as I’m not speaking to either of the miserable, irritating gits.

I cried my eyes out on Friday night after I saw Jimi and Panama. I sat in the little swing park behind the shops all by myself and cried till my eyes swelled up and my sleeves were covered in snot. In the end a tramp sidled over to me to ask me if I was okay, offering me some of his White Wizard cider. (I refused, but it was still a kind thing to do, now I come to think. I mean, he needed the cider more than me.)

But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I can see exactly why Jimi’s going out with her. She’s really pretty. Like, drop-dead gorgeous. And she’s got gigantic boobs she’s not scared to put on show. Not like me, I’ve got bigger boobs on my back, well, so some kind lad pointed out in physical ed last year. And she’s always doing really cool stuff, like popping to London for the weekend to see her cousins. Or having parties. Or going on holiday to dead exotic places where she has jet lag when she gets home.

And yes, I know she’s a horrible, soulless, vicious school bully. But boys can never see that, can they? They just don’t see it. I can think of tons of times in class when the LBD have been gossiping away about some really heinous, gutter-level, wicked thing Panama has said or done. The lads in our class will earwig intently, devouring every gruesome detail of Panama’s wrongdoing, then at the end, one of them will always pipe up: “Who? Are you talking about Panama Goodyear? That bird in Year Eleven with the long brown hair and the big scones?! She’s fit as anything, she is!” Then they’ll dissolve into a loud and heartfelt “Phwoaaaaarrrrr!”

I was a total dweeb for thinking Jimi was any different. Or thinking that someone as amazing and X-factor as he is could have maybe had the hots for me. Me, with my combination skin, my pear-shaped bottom and my loonytoons family.

But anyway, as I said, I cried for ages the other night. But now I just don’t want to think about them. I hope they’re really happy together. In fact, I hope he plummets between the gap in her monstrous cleavage and has to be retrieved by a passing mountain rescue crew.

I’m just really happy here, all alone, in my underwear, with my book.

Even if it is poo.

So it’s now 10:00 A.M. Sunday morning and I’m still in bed, reading a totally riveting part of A Certain Taboo, when I’m disturbed from bad-book land by a noise from downstairs: the unmistakable sound of several guitars being tuned up.

Oh, no.

Oh, please, no.

It’s Sunday, isn’t it? It’s Lost Messiah’s day for practicing at the Fantastic Voyage. They’re downstairs now. Jimi Steele is on the premises and I’m in underwear and I haven’t washed my hair or cleaned my teeth for two days! I smell like a WWE wrestler’s jockstrap. Damn. I better get up really quickly and choose an outfit and get a shower and . . .

Hang on a minute! He goes out with Panama now, doesn’t he? What I look like is now superfluous to the plot. Game over. Right, I’m not moving a muscle. I’m just going to languish here in my pit, reading my book, looking like a swamp donkey. Which I manage, just about, for the next half hour despite drumming, singing, guitar riffs and amp feedback reverberating through my bedroom. Occasionally, as I overhear yet another voice join the merry throng downstairs, I emit a little “Hmmmph” of disapproval. But I certainly don’t leap out of bed and start attempting to beautify myself.

How strong am I!

But then I hear Dad’s voice, shouting up the stairs, “Ronnie! Ronnie, I know you’re up there. Come here.”

I freeze and pull the duvet over my head.

Not on your life, chum.

“Ronnie, your pals are here to see you,” he finally shouts.

In the background I can hear some girlish giggles. Aha, it’s Fleur and Claude! I knew they’d come and find me before long.

“I’ll just send them up,” he shouts. “Go on up, ladies, she’s just hibernating.”

I leap out of bed and fling open the door, wearing only my big pair of outsized lilac knickers accompanied by an old gray vest with tomato sauce stains down the front.

“Welcome to my world,” I mutter mournfully, by way of explaining why I look so skanky.

But instead of Fleur or Claude, all I hear is two high-pitched screeches and someone muttering: “Ugggh, how revolting.”

When I look up, to my utter horror, it’s Panama Goodyear, Leeza and Abigail standing on my landing outside my bedroom door, sneering at me, my knickers and my house.

Joy.

“Mmm, gorgeous decor,” quips Leeza, grimacing at our flock wallpaper, which to be fair is the sort that only mums think is smart. “It’s very lived-in, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I must look out for this hovel in Beautiful Homes Magazine,” simpers Abigail.

“Wah?” I grunt, trying to hide my entire body behind the door.

“We were just passing by,” begins Panama. “Well, y’know, I was just popping in to see my boyfriend, who’s practicing downstairs. Jimi Steele. I go out with him now. Oh, but you know that, though, don’t you?” Panama smiles smugly. “We saw you on Friday when we were having pizza. Your face was a real picture!”

“Mmmm,” I say, lost for words.

“Jimi mentioned that you and him are quite good friends,” continues Panama. “And I was saying, hee hee, I bet Ronnie fancies you and she’ll be gutted that we’re an item now, but Jimi seems to think not. Hee hee, isn’t that funny?”

“Hilarious,” I say through very thin lips. “Look, what can I do for you exactly? Shouldn’t you be practicing or something? Blackwell Live is this week, you know—”

“Ooh, we know!” Leeza giggles.

“We’re very excited!” says Abigail.

“Zane and Derren and us girls have been practicing our five-part harmonies all week,” says Panama. “We sound incredible.”

“I’ve no doubt,” I say sarcastically.

“But, you see, that was what we were stopping by to talk about. Blackwell Live,” says Panama. “I just wanted to talk to you about this whole ‘who’s the headline act’ saga. It’s getting a little tiresome, isn’t it?”

“You don’t say,” I sigh.

“We need to iron it out once and for all,” shrills Abigail.

“Exactly,” says Panama. “I mean, to be honest, it’s not the fact that we want to perform top of the bill that’s the biggest problem. Not as much as the fact that a trio of insolent, common, ugly little mutants such as you are actually disobeying us. It really is unbelievable and quite, quite unacceptable.” Panama’s voice is a snarl now. “And I won’t tolerate it.”

Panama draws her face up to mine, but then smells my rather fuggy breath and quickly withdraws.

“So, what are you going to do, Panama, beat me up?” I say bravely. Not even Panama would have the nerve to pulverize me with my dad downstairs. Would she?

“Of course we’re not going to beat you up. What kind of amateur operation do you think I’m running here?” Panama sneers, adjusting her scarlet velour headband. “No, we’ve got better ideas than that.”

“Much better!” confirms Leeza.

“Firstly, we’ve been contemplating canceling our Blackwell Live slot altogether,” says Abigail. “Obviously we’d tell Mr. McGraw, Mrs. Guinevere and Mr. Foxton that it was down to your unprofessional and childish way of handling things. That won’t be very nice, will it? Ticket refunds? Teachers shouting at you? Feelings of failure and hopelessness? That sort of thing?”

I just stare at them blankly. Yes, that would be hideous.

“But better still, we’ll tell people at school all about the little problems you’ve been having with your mummy and daddy. Poor Ronnie, huh? Awww, such a sad tale, eh? Jimi told me all about it . . .”

What? I cannot believe that Jimi has told Panama Goodyear how sad I am about my mum and dad. I cannot believe it. I feel like someone just kicked me in the stomach.

“But of course, that will be a really boring story, so I’m going to spice it up and say your mum’s an alcoholic and your dad used to hit her.”

“You can’t do that!” I begin to shout, realizing instantly that I’m playing straight into their hands, as their faces all light up at once.

“No one will believe you, Panama,” I say more quietly. “Anyhow, no one cares what you say,” I mumble, knowing that at least some people will and that’ll be enough.

“Ahem, I think you’ll find they will. It’ll be the best rumor ever!” snaps Panama. “Especially when they hear about you and the boys from EZ Life Syndicate. What’s all this about you snogging three of them already?! How perfectly . . . grubby?!” She sneers.

“Panama, I have NEVER even touched a single member of EZ Life. Who told you that?!!” I yell, eventually losing my temper.

“No one!” screeches Leeza. “We just made it up. Brilliant, aren’t we?!”

“And the best bit is, we just made those rumors up on the way here. Imagine what we’ll conjure up about your other two freaky friends once we’ve had time to think?” Abigail laughs.

“Exactly,” says Panama. “So, sort it out, Ronnie. It’ll be a lot easier for you all, believe me,” she says, disappearing down the stairs.

“Ciao, ciao!” Abigail and Leeza giggle, waving and blowing me kisses.

And then they were gone, leaving me all alone, totally gobsmacked, trying to work out why adults bring up kids to believe total hogwash like “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” Because when it comes to Panama Goodyear, I’d rather take a physical pummeling with a big stick anytime.

with a little help (from my friends)

It’s Sunday at 7 P.M. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve abandoned my self-imposed house arrest and have made it, fully clothed, to LBD headquarters. The instant Fleur heard my very snot-fueled “Gnnnnn splgh snnnniiiiiff” emitting down the phone, she prized every terrible detail of Panama Goodyear’s royal visit from me.

“I hate her, Fleur,” I sobbed. I actually had a sore head from crying by this point.

“Well, that’s okay, cupcake,” said Fleur. “I hate her too. Look, Ronnie, get yourself around here right now, I’m ringing Claude. I think a rendezvous is in order.”

Sure, I was tempted to stride down the high street clad only in lilac undies and a stained vest, just to stress the point to passersby that my world had collapsed, but I decided against it. Of course, naked may have been preferable. That magic basket in the corner of my bedroom that I put laundry into, then it appears magically clean and fresh again in a pile on my bed . . . well, it seems to have stopped working ever since Mum left. So I had to wear crumpled, dirty stuff instead.

“I’m not telling you,” announces Fleur, shaking her head.

“Tell me,” I say.

“I’m not telling you. Look, why do you want to know, anyway?”

“Oh, just tell her,” announces Claude. “It’ll give her, er, closure.”

“Are you sure? Well, okay, but this is only the gossip I heard . . . ,” begins Fleur. “It was on Thursday night, apparently the girls from Catwalk and Jimi, Aaron and Naz from Lost Messiah were all messing about rehearsing in the drama studio.”

“And?” I say, my bottom lip wobbling.

“And what? Oh, God, Ronnie! Do you really wanna know? Okay, he walked her home and they had a big snog on Panama’s garden path, apparently her mum and dad were at the supermarket, so there was no one in. So she invited him into her kitchen for a drink and they had an even bigger snog there and—”

“I DON’T WANT TO KNOW THIS!” I shout, throwing my face down in Fleur’s duvet.

“Precisely,” Fleur says, rubbing my arm. “Besides, Ron, I was looking closely at Jimi the other day, and I was thinking, have you ever noticed that stupid face he pulls when he’s skate-boarding? He’s borderline circus freak, if you ask me. And he’s got weird floppy lips. He’s probably a really slobbery kisser.”

I sit up, placing my finger to her mouth.

“Fleur. Don’t say too much. Cos me and Jimi are going to get together someday and I don’t want there to be bad feelings between me and you.”

I’m only half-joking.

Claude and Fleur gaze at me pitifully, dressed in my di sheveled clothes.

“Okay,” agrees Fleur, but as I reach down to change the CD, I can see her swirling her finger around her ear, mouthing to Claude, “She’s gone mad! Mad, I tell you!!”

“Actually,” pipes up Ainsley Hammond, who’s been listening silently to all of this from his seat on Fleur’s futon, “I wouldn’t rule that out either.”

“Really?” I say. Ainsley can certainly attend more LBD meetings if he’s going to speak such complete sense. Plus, he wears better makeup than any of us girls.

“Pah, I give them a week together. Two weeks, max,” continues our pale and interesting friend. “Jimi will never put up with Panama. He’s a cool lad, Jimi. Y’know, really funny? And really sharp too. He’ll soon wake up to the fact he’s with Blackwell’s biggest airhead.”

“Cheers, Ainsley,” I say. Who’d have guessed that someone dressed like the Grim Reaper would bring me the weekend’s first slice of happiness?

“Anyway, Mr. Hammond,” says Claude. “You promised you had something cool to tell us. Come on, spill it . . .”

“Oh, of course. I nearly forgot,” tuts Ainsley, delving into his black rubber rucksack, which is covered in crucifixes drawn in correction fluid and silver studs, pulling out a cassette tape. “This is hilarious,” he says.

“What is it?” the LBD chorus.

“Well, ladies, I had the pleasure of being in the vicinity of the drama studio on Saturday when Catwalk were rehearsing. What a joy that was.”

“They were perfecting their five-part harmony,” I say glumly, recalling Panama’s visit.

“Er . . . no, they weren’t.” Ainsley smirks. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I think they’ve given up on that.”

Ainsley pops the tape into Fleur’s stereo and presses PLAY. Immediately the room fills with a curious wailing noise.

“Runnnnning to your looooooove . . . ,” screeches what appears to be several voices, clashing and straining horribly in vastly different keys. This has to be the worst singing in the world ever. It sounds like a fire at a zoo.

“Turn it down!” says Claude, wincing.

“Hey! These people sound in pain. Who is that?!” says Fleur, covering her ears.

“Love! Love looooooove!” groans a voice on the tape, breaking into a coughing fit. Another female voice tries to hit a high C, merely dissolving into a morbid off-key caterwaul.

Ainsley presses STOP.

“It’s Catwalk,” he says, beaming.

“What? I don’t understand.” Claude frowns. “They’re really good singers.”

“No, Claude, they’re really good mimers. As far as I can gather, for the last year Catwalk’ve just been lip-synching to a tape of their voices put through one of those voice-enhancing machines. This tape is of them singing ‘Running to Your Love,’ er, live.” Ainsley is as smug as smug can be now. “And I took the liberty of taping them in their raw, natural form.”

“So Catwalk can’t actually sing at all?” I repeat, beginning to really chuckle.

“Mmmm, well,” says Ainsley, pressing PLAY, “let’s have another listen, shall we?”

“LOOOOOOOOVE, running to your lurrrrrve!!!” groans what sounds like Derren from Catwalk with one of his vital organs trapped in a combine harvester.

“Er, no,” confirms Ainsley. “They just open and shut their mouths in time to a tape. Catwalk are a big bunch of frauds. How funny is that?”

Claude and Fleur are grinning like maniacs as we rewind the tape time and time again for yet another play, relishing every second of Catwalk’s awfulness. And at this point it’s unsaid between us girls, but we know that if we ever got the chance, we could have a lot of fun with this piece of information.

A lot of fun indeed.

“Hey, anyway,” says Claude eventually, drying her eyes, “I better bring you up to speed about my Friday meeting with McGraw, Guinevere and Foxton.”

“Oh, sorry, Claude, I forgot to ask. How is McGraw?” I say.

“He’s sort of . . . depressed,” answers Claude, a corner of her mouth slightly turning up. “He’s got his concerns, shall we say, about Blackwell Live.”

“Ahh,” I say. “What specifically?”

“Specifically,” says Claude, picking up a sheet of paper and putting on her reading glasses. “Specifically: Well, did you know Christy Sullivan keeps getting mobbed by Year Seven girls every time he attempts to move between lessons? They keep trying to rip his clothes and kiss him. Poor Christy is having to hide in the library at breaktimes now just for safety. So McGraw reckons we need some sort of security on the day—”

“Security?” I gasp. “We can’t afford that!”

“Mmm. But we might have to find the money. Especially as McGraw is now positive that Killa Blow and the EZ Life Syndicate are some sort of urban street gang who carry guns and shoot people.”

“But they’re not!” I argue. “They’re really sweet.”

“Don’t tell me that. He also reckons that Ainsley’s band, Death Knell, are a cult of Satan worshipers who need to be closely monitored.”

“He’s the one that needs his brain examined,” mutters Ainsley.

“That may be,” sighs Claude. “But sadly he’s the headmaster and he’s in charge of Blackwell School. Oh, and don’t even ask what he thinks about Liam Gelding being involved.”

“Not a happy man?” I venture.

“No, in fact, he started clutching his forehead and saying unkind stuff about ‘the lunatics taking over the asylum’ before announcing that we definitely needed security to stop ‘that prize chump’ trying to get up on the school roof again.”

“He only did it once,” moans Fleur. “When is McGraw going to forget about that?!”

“Never,” says Claude. “Mrs. Guinevere even snapped at him to shut up at this point.”

Thank heavens for Mrs. Guinevere, she has been like a guardian angel to Blackwell Live over the last week. She’s been only too ready to drive us to places, or fight in our corner whenever McGraw or the caretaker, Mr. Gowan, start moaning about us. She even gave up her lunch hour loads of times to sell tickets, which is more than can be said for almost every other teacher. What a woman!

Saying that, Mr. Foxton has been more than a little useful to have around too. It turns out he actually played in rock bands when he was at teacher-training college. No one famous, of course. But he knows quite a lot about sorting out gigs and instruments and how much rehearsal musicians need to do, all that sort of thing. He’s quite cool for a grown-up, really.

“So does McGraw actually like any of the Blackwell Live bands?” I ask.

“Hmmm,” replies Claude. “Take an educated guess.”

“Catwalk?” I say, rolling my eyes.

“And the Blackwell bellringers, don’t forget.” Fleur sniggers. “He lurrrrrrves the Blackwell bellringers.”

“How did you guess?” Claude laughs. “Oh, yeah, and McGraw’s other concern is that we’ve sold too many tickets. Apparently 1,220 is far too many already, and a riot is bound to break out.”

“It does seem a lot.” I gulp.

“Mmm, I know . . . he could have a point,” Claude concedes. “But, Ronnie, people keep buying them! They just keep wanting more and more every single breaktime. We can’t say no, can we?”

Claude looks to my lips, hoping for a pearl of wisdom.

I don’t know what to say. It seems to me that our only problem is Blackwell Live is too popular. It’s grown bigger than we even fantasized, and then some. It’s becoming a pretty scary responsibility. But doesn’t my mum always say that anything that’s worth doing always involves taking a bit of a risk, and risks are scary, aren’t they? So that’s what I tell Claude.

“I think the LBD can either be frightened of Blackwell Live and how it’s turning out . . . or we can move with it and expand,” I say, sounding a lot more confident than I am. I’m more than a little bit freaked out by what awaits us in under six days’ time, even if I am proud of our “problem.”

It’s 10:30 P.M. as I slip sheepishly through the main doors of the Fantastic Voyage. Dad is behind the bar, polishing a pint glass, staring into space, while Old Bert, the toothless regular, pours forth his tedious opinion on the state of the British monarchy.

“Dad,” I begin.

“Hello, Ronnie!” Dad smiles, running his hand over my hair. “Are you okay, pet lamb? I’ve been trying to speak to you since Friday—”

“I know, I’m really sorry, Dad—”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. We’re all a bit mixed up at the minute,” Dad says kindly. And in an instant we’re friends again.

“I know, Dad. I’m just a bit . . . well, you know . . . ,” I say.

I love the way that with your family, sometimes you don’t have to say anything, they just understand what you mean.

“But anyway, I’ve been thinking, Dad. About what you said the other night . . . y’know, about your music industry mates?”

Dad’s face brightens up.

“I’d really like you to help me, Dad, er, I mean if you still want to, that is? Will you help, Dad?!” I ask.

Dad’s sandy sideburns bristle with delight. He puts a pint glass under the lager pump and then begins pouring me a celebratory Diet Coke.

“Of course I will, Veronica. In fact, it would be an honor,” he says, plonking our drinks before us and pulling a pen from behind his ear.

“Now, brains, where shall we start?”

a week’s (not) a long time, in rock and roll

It felt pretty good having Dad back on my side.

Isn’t it weird the way that, when you’re not speaking to your parents, it just hangs over your head like a drizzly gray cloud? How can silence be so negative? Even when you’re laughing and messing about with your friends, there’s always something in the back of your mind about life that’s not quite right. And even when you reckon you don’t give a hoot what they think about something, well, you do really. Even hardened parent tormentors like Fleur Swan, who spends most of her life either sulking with her folks or being blanked by them . . . well, deep down even Fleur quite likes Paddy being proud of her.

“This is absolutely one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen a group of kids set their minds to,” enthused Paddy on Monday night as the LBD perched around Fleur’s dining table. Our mobile phones were bleeping constantly with discussions of this coming Saturday’s plans. We also had to chat about all the fab suggestions that my dad had made about “running orders” and how to arrange the festival site.

“Cheers, Father.” Fleur smiled, blushing a touch as her mum, Saskia, ruffled the top of her daughter’s honey-blond hair. “Get off, Mum!”

“No, honestly,” continued Paddy, who in fairness had been just picked up by Saskia from his golf club, where he had been “socializing in the bar” since 4:00 P.M. “I mean, when you told me that you wanted to spend my cash on a day of hippy-hoppy-hip music and all that bang bang bang stuff you play upstairs, well, okay, ladies, I’ll admit, I thought you had a screw loose, but now—”

“Don’t spoil it, darling.” Saskia grimaced. “You were on a roll there.”

“It’s hip-hop music, Dad.” Fleur giggled, quite clearly bristling with pride that Paddy had publicly cracked, admitting she was a brilliant daughter. “Thank you anyway, we’ll take that as a compliment.”

“But it was a compliment,” persisted Paddy as his wife led him to the den as a damage-limitation strategy.

“I love you girls!” shouted Paddy as he went. “You’re a wonderful exshample of today’s youth.”

“Now that is a first.” Fleur chuckled. “His special brain pills must have kicked in.”

“That’s all my work, you know!” we could hear Paddy announcing proudly. “That dynamic, maverick, business-brained young lady . . . she takes after me!” Paddy was slurring.

“Yes, dear, she’s a carbon copy of you,” agreed Saskia, slightly dryly. “In so many ways.”

But when I looked back at the LBD, I noticed that Claude looked a little sad. Even though every sheet of paper on the table indicated that things were going marvelously to plan.

“What’s up, Claude?” I said.

“Yeah, C. What’s up?” asked Fleur.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing. Well, nothing really. It’s just that I was thinking about how proud your dads are of you . . . and I was just sort of thinking, well, y’know, well, I was just being a bit stupid . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You’re not being stupid,” I said, reaching out and sort of grabbing her wrist.

“Yeah, I am. And there’s no time to be daft now, anyhow,” said Claude, regaining her composure instantly, doing that en-viable thing Claude can do when she just “switches off and gets on with things.”

“Well, I think,” announced Fleur, who is fantastic at situations like this, “if your dad was here today, he’d be totally proud of you, Claude. Cos you’re the reason all this is happening really, you know?”

“Mmmm,” said Claude, and then a little tear escaped down her face, which she vamooshed with her sleeve, and then smiled.

“No, really, Claude. We’re all really proud of you,” said Fleur.

“Thanks, girls, I’m okay, really.”

“And anyway, if you really feel left out,” I said, “I know a lovely, albeit slightly depressed, man who adores you and would love you to be his daughter.”

Claude smiled, then rolled her eyes.

“Are we perhaps talking about a certain Samuel McGraw here?” Fleur giggles, raising an eyebrow.

“Mr. McGraw!” repeated Claude, chuckling and shaking her head. “I could live with him and Myrtle, couldn’t I? We could sing songs from Happy Voices, Happy Lives around the piano and eat homemade scones! That would be fantastic.”

“And when you did something wrong, like snogged a boy or wore too much makeup, McGraw would come into your room and say . . .”

Fleur then broke into a near-perfect mimic of Mr. McGraw in all his gray-faced glory:

“I find it very difficult to believe you were involved in this, Claudette Cassiera. You’re a credit to this household!”

“A credit!” the LBD chorused together, falling about laughing.

Of course, the week wasn’t destined to go without problems.

By Tuesday the LBD were duly rounded up by Edith and marched to the administration corridor for an “emergency meeting” with Mr. McGraw over ticket sales. It emerged that during Tuesday morning’s break, on one of McGraw’s rare excursions outside of his office, he’d overheard a Year 7 kid squeaking that Blackwell Live ticket sales had reached over 2,000. (We’d actually sold 2,221.) He also heard that kids from schools other than Blackwell and Chasterton had been buying them. Lymewell Academy and Cary Hill girls had begun eagerly pitching up at breaks with their pocket money.

“Right! That’s it!” shouted McGraw, raising one hairy hand at us like a traffic policeman. The tension was broken here slightly by the fact that McGraw’s hand had Remember to pay gas bill scrawled upon it in green felt-tip pen. “This has got to stop.”

“What has, sir?” asked Claudette, straightening her glasses. I love it when Claude says “sir.” She can totally pull it off and sound respectful. I just sound like I’m in a BBC period drama.

“The tickets. You have to stop selling tickets! That’s enough now.”

“But the school field is massive, Mr. McGraw,” chirped up Fleur, breaking our cardinal rule: Always let Claude do any talking to McGraw. “We can fit in loads more people than two thousand,” Fleur argued.

“Ha! Well, that is exactly the sort of careless devil-may-care response I’d expect from you, Fleur Swan,” snapped McGraw, who was actually quite rattled by events this time, not just depressed, as I’d predicted. “Let’s have a riot, shall we? That’s what you want, isn’t it? The school razed to the ground? Looting? Chaos?”

“Errrr.” We all stared blankly. He was beginning to scare us a bit, as his eyes were bulging.

“And I suppose you’ll be carrying the can when the worst-case scenario happens and somebody loses a foot in a stampede, will you?” shouts McGraw.

“Can? What can? And how will someone lose a foot?” muttered Fleur, genuinely flummoxed.

“Okay, shall we stop selling tickets then, Mr. McGraw?” said Claude. “Like, right now?”

“Hallelujah,” whispered Samuel McGraw. “Thank you, Claudette Cassiera. I knew you’d take my point.”

“Pghhh,” said Fleur, who obviously couldn’t keep her displeasure under wraps a second longer.

“Right, you can go now. Off you trot,” said McGraw as we filed out. “But believe me, if I see one more ticket on sale, well, you girls will see a dark side to my countenance.”

“Mmmm,” we all murmured.

“I mean, let’s get something straight here, ladies,” McGraw shouted after us as we slumped away down the corridor. “Nobody likes a good time as much as myself. And I mean nobody. But there have to be limitations and boundaries to the fun. Do you hear me?”

“Gnnnnn,” we all moaned, walking faster.

“We can’t all just have fun willy-nilly, you know? That’s not how life works, is it?” he yelled. Thankfully we were too far away to care.

Naturally, the second we told people that tickets were sold out, they became the most very desirable piece of paper a kid could have. Things just went berserk.

I have never been so popular.

My cell phone began to buzz at all times of the day and night with people I’d not spoken to for months. Like people I once sat beside on a school trip in Year 7 who’d suddenly remembered what “really good mates we were after all.” Oh, and by the way, could they have two tickets for themselves and their cousin Hubert? It was really tough saying no to people, but we were determined McGraw wouldn’t catch us out.

By Thursday, demand was at fever pitch. McGraw himself was patrolling the school confines, rounding up enterprising black-market ticketsellers and making them enact humiliating punishments like litter-picking and chewing-gum removal. Sadly, this just gave the illegal market for tickets a more dangerous, glamorous edge; tickets began to change hands for £20 a time, which I’d have been happy about if we’d been seeing a penny of this profit. In fact, the LBD were so busy trying to distance themselves from these nefarious activities and trying to appear disgusted whenever McGraw goose-stepped past us, as well as sorting out squillions of other things, lordy me, I was quite exhausted. I wasn’t too busy, however, to notice Panama and Jimi, who seemed to be going everywhere together by this point.

It was vile.

“I don’t understand boys,” mulled Claude aloud on Thursday afternoon as we wandered home, totally shattered, from school. “They make absolutely not an iota of sense at all. I mean, what do they actually want from a girlfriend? Why would Jimi Steele bother with Panama?”

“Thank you,” I sighed. I’d been saying that every day since last Sunday, at least twenty-seven times a day, on repeat play.

“Well, I’ve got an idea, Claudey.” Fleur smiled. “Why don’t you ask Liam Gelding about what goes on in a lad’s mind? You’ll be seeing him later, won’t you?”

“Might be,” murmured Claude.

“Oooooooh hooooooh!” Fleur and I singsonged, extremely childishly.

“It’s not like that,” Claude snapped back. “He just keeps turning up to help me with Blackwell Live stuff . . . and then he, er, well, ahem, he stays for his tea.”

Fleur shot a knowing glance across at me. I winked back. There was something old tight-lips wasn’t quite telling us here.

Claude carried on walking like this was a totally normal thing to admit.

“What, like, you have romantic dinners together?” said Fleur, grasping at straws.

“No, Fleur,” says Claude. “It’s more like, well, you know how my mum really loves cooking? Like stews and curries and cakes?”

“Yeah,” we say.

“I think she’s trying to feed him to death,” Claude said solemnly.

“What a way to go,” gasped Fleur.

When I got home to the Fantastic Voyage that Thursday night, I found my dad huddled in one of the back alcoves with a posse of rather hairy strangers. Large steaming plates of Cumberland sausage and mashed potatoes with oodles of onion gravy cluttered the table, along with many pints of lager. Everyone was eating, drinking or smoking merrily. Immediately, I spotted my uncle Charlie among them!

Oh my God, I’d not seen this man for about five years! And he hadn’t changed a bit. (Charlie’s not my real uncle, by the way. He’s just a mate of Dad’s who has turned up every few years since I was a baby to rattle on with Dad for entire weekends about guitars. I truly hope Mum doesn’t come back at this moment. She’d probably just turn around and walk out again.)

“Miss Veronica Ripperton!” shouted Uncle Charlie, putting down his half-rolled cigarette and attempting to bear-hug me into his stinky leather jacket.

“MghghUncleCharlie!” I said.

“Now, boys,” shouted my dad. “And here we have my Blackwell Live Festival-organizing daughter, Ronnie. This will be your boss for the next few days, so watch yourselves. She takes no prisoners.”

“Like her mother,” said Uncle Charlie.

“Very much so,” whispered my dad.

“Dad. Who are all these people?” I said, removing bits of rolling tobacco from my hairline.

“Now, don’t be too shocked here, but I’ve got you some proper help, in the shape of this road crew for Blackwell Live,” said Dad rather proudly. “I mean, come on, Ronnie, don’t we always say that if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it properly?”

“Yes!” I laughed.

“Well, now we’re really doing it properly!” he said. “Another lager, anyone?”

Everyone cheered.