It wasn’t until I’d been taken to school in the comfort of Dad’s car that I remembered something – in the excitement of finding the mouse that morning, I had completely run out of time to feed Kaboodle and the hamsters. Would they be OK with no breakfast? There was no way I could get to them before the end of school now

I was so anxious about this as I walked in through the school gates, that I forgot to look out for Jazz and prepare for a sticky conversation, and instead I narrowly missed walking straight into her.

‘Hey! Watch it,’ she said, whirling round and pulling a face at me. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Yeah. S-sorry, Jazz,’ I mumbled.

‘About thumping into me or about shouting at me yesterday?’ she asked, hands on hips. Then she flicked her head quickly and blinked at me like she was doing a double take and burst out laughing. ‘Holy cow, Bertie – you look like a right muppet!’ she shrieked. ‘What’s happened to you this morning?’

I looked up at her through my hair, which was being about as mad as it is possible for my hair to be, thanks to the mouse episode and not having enough time to even run my fingers through it that morning, let alone wash it or brush it. Ta lk about Bed Head. Mine was more like Return-of-the-Living-Dead Head. I looked as though I’d been brought back to life by being plugged into an electric socket.

I should have thought of something witty and cutting to say back, but instead, I’m ashamed to say, my bottom lip actually started wobbling.

Luckily for me Jazz is my best mate, and even in one of her strops she is not totally immune to me being upset. The grin on her face melted into a creased-up concerned look, and she immediately dropped her bag and flung her arms around me.

‘Hey! Hey! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. You don’t look that bad, honest! Listen, you know I hate it when we fight.’

‘I-it’s not you,’ I hiccupped.

Just then the bell rang, so we had to go in, which was just as well, as it had started raining, which would play ultra-frizzoid havoc with my non-hairstyle. I quickly filled Jazz in on what had happened after she’d stomped off and left me with the hamsters and then I told her about the mouse.

We filed into the classroom, me stuffing my hair into a spare scrunchy Jazz had shoved at me, with Jazz exclaiming, ‘Guh-ross!’

‘Jasmeena Brown – sit down and be quiet,’ said our grumpy teacher, Mrs Steep. ‘And Roberta Fletcher – finish your ablutions before class in future.’

Jazz and I rolled our eyes at each other and flumped into our seats. Boy, it felt good to be friends again!

The next time we got a chance to talk was at first break.

‘I reckon it was definitely Kaboodle,’ said Jazz, as soon as the bell went.

‘What?’ I asked. It always amazes me how Jazz can pick up a conversation that was left off hours or even days before.

‘The mouse!’ she said impatiently as she grabbed her coat from her peg. ‘Kaboodle must have left it for you – it’s what cats do. I t’ll be like a present from him to say thank you for looking after him. And no wonder – the way you talk to him, he’s probably decided you’re his new owner!’

I grimaced. ‘I hope not.’ I couldn’t help thinking Pinkella would have a word or two to say about that.

‘Cats are like that though,’ said Jazz knowledg-ably. ‘My aunt had one that was always bringing her dead mice and birds and stuff. A untie Jo said it was the cat’s way of showing her it liked her or something.’

I couldn’t help smiling at that. It made me feel warm inside, thinking Kaboodle actually liked me. Then it occurred to me – maybe he’d been trying to say sorry!

‘What about us?’ I asked Jazz. ‘Are we friends again?’

‘Of course, you doughnut!’ she said, nudging me with her elbow, her bangles jangling on her wrist.

‘And you’ll come and feed the animals with me after school? I forgot them this morning – they’ll be starving!’

‘You bet,’ she said. ‘Sounds like you need another pair of hands with those hamsters.’

As things turned out, I needed more than one pair of hands to cope with the events that unfurled that eve ning . . . .

‘I’ll walk you back to yours,’ Jazz said, as we got off the bus.

‘OK,’ I giggled. ‘But only if you let me walk you back to yours after!’

We walked down the road, arms linked, chattering, shrieking and gossiping about our ultra-annoying science teacher – in other words, everything was back to normal. I was so relieved, my heart felt like it was inflated to ten times its normal size and might actually burst right out of me and float off into the sky like a helium balloon.

Then as Jazz and I went into my house, the balloon popped.

Dad was standing in the kitchen. He did not say hello, and he did not look happy to see me. In fact, he was glar ing at me. Then he raised one hand and dangled . . . a dead mouse in my face!

‘AAARGH!’ I screamed.

‘EEEEK!’ Jazz screamed.

‘And that’s not all,’ said Dad, as if in answer to a perfectly serious question. ‘This one was by the back door, but I’ve also had one on my laptop keyboard, one in the kitchen sink and one in my jacket pocket!’

I had stopped screaming and was staring at the mouse in total and utter horrified silence. What was Kaboodle up to?

‘It’s that cat!’ Jazz blurted out. ‘I told you, Bertie.’

I shook my head at her quickly and mouthed, ‘No!’ but she didn’t get the hint.

‘I told you he was bringing you presents!’

‘What?’ Dad asked, in his slow and dangerous voice that he reserves for occasions when I am in so much trouble, I don’t know how much. Occasions such as this, for example.

‘Remember that cat you saw me with the other day, Mr Fletcher? And you thought it was mine? Well, I say cat, but it’s more of a kitten really, and the thing is, it’s not actually completely mine . . .’ Jazz was babbling now, and backing away from the mouse that Dad was still waving in our faces, as if he was trying to hypnotize us with it. Meanwhile I was waving my hands violently at Jazz and mouth-ing, ‘NOOO!’

But Jazz wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the mouse and wibbling, ‘Yeah, it’s definitely not my cat. Mum doesn’t like them, you see. Her sister used to have one and . . . anyway—’

DRIIIING!

The doorbell. I grabbed Jazz by the hand to stop her from saying anything more to Dad,and ran to answer the door.

‘Hello, sweetie!’

Pinkella!

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked rudely. I couldn’t help it – the words came out of their own accord.

Pinkella’s mouth crumpled. ‘You might well a-a-ask,’ she sobbed.

Holy Stromboli! This was all I needed right now.

I would have slammed the door in her face,had she not already walked right into my house uninvited and dropping big fat mascara-coated tears all over the carpet.

Dad came through at the sound of the weeping and wailing and said, ‘What on earth . . . .’

Pinkella blinked at him through her melting make-up and waved a hand in front of her face as if to hide her distress. ‘I-I’m so s-so-sorry to descend on you like this,’ she stammered. ‘I’m afraid I’m having a terrible day.’

‘Join the club,’ Dad muttered.

I might have said the same, had I not been in full-on panic overdrive. How was I going to get out of this one?

‘If it’s your kitten you’re worried about, Ms P, it’s OK. He’s probably here somewhere,’ said Jazz unhelpfully.

‘No, it’s not that. Wa it a minute – why would Kaboodle be here?’ Pinkella asked, her voice suddenly dangerously under control and her finely plucked eyebrows meeting together in a scary frown.

By now my levels of panic had risen to completely unmanageable proportions and I could not do anything other than stare at the disaster unfolding before me, my mouth open like a frightened frog.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Bertie?’

I turned to look at him, willing myself to come up with a plausible and brilliant explanation, when I felt something soft and warm wind itself round my legs.

‘Miaow? Anything the matter?’ asked Kaboodle.

‘You could say that,’ I hissed at him, glancing nervously at the two grown-ups who were waiting for an answer from me. ‘The cat is, as they say, well and truly out of the bag.’