I got up so early on Saturday morning that Mum thought I was ill. “Are you sure you’re OK, Coleen?” she asked, dishcloth in hand, as I bounced into the kitchen at seven-thirty, my hair freshly washed and already done up in my plastic curlers.
“Couldn’t be better,” I said, pushing Rascal off my chair (his favourite) and helping myself to toast.
“It’s a bit cold for shorts today,” Mum said, eyeing my outfit. “Don’t you think?”
I glanced down at my new shorts. I’d cut them down from an old pair of jeans that morning, and I was planning on edging the frayed leg bits with some purple glittery ribbon I had in my sewing box.
“Chill, Mum,” I said. “I’m going to put tights on underneath. I was just checking they were the right length. You can’t tell till you put them on, see.”
Dad appeared at the kitchen door. He did this comedy stagger thing and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m seeing things,” he said. “Water. I need water…” And he passed his hand over his forehead like he’d been tramping through the desert for days.
Em peered around from behind Dad, her eyes all round and surprised. They were both in their tracksuits, ready for their usual Saturday morning footie training.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” I objected, pouring some juice into a glass. “I’m up just a bit earlier than normal. That’s all.”
“A bit?” Dad echoed. “Your mum usually has to pull the covers off you at ten.”
I tapped my nose at him. “Stuff to do,” I said. “Me and Mel are supposed to be round at Lucy’s by eleven, and I want to get ready.”
“Three and a half hours should do it,” Dad agreed.
And for some reason, everyone laughed.
My stomach was fluttering when me and Mel got off the bus near Lucy’s house at eleven. I was pleased with my shorts, and had spent ages deciding whether to put them with black or purple tights. Purple won in the end, because they looked brilliant with my black pumps. A white T-shirt and a black hoodie with a purple drawstring completed the look. My hair had been a disaster when I took the curlers out: I’d looked like Gucci the poodle. So I’d washed it again and dried it straight. Mel meanwhile had done something totally flamboyant with her hair, fluffing it into a crazy Afro with a red scarf keeping it off her face. She looked great in her red jeans and stripy tee. If we couldn’t persuade Ben and his mates to model for us when we looked this good, then there was no hope!
As we got nearer Lucy’s house I could hear all this yelling and laughing coming from the back garden. My confidence started oozing away.
“Sounds like the lads are already here,” Mel said nervously.
“No problem,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt as I knocked on the Hanrattys’ door. “Let’s go and find Lucy first.”
“She’s in her room.” Mrs Hanratty smiled as she nodded her head in the direction of the stairs. We slipped past and hot-footed it up to the landing.
Lucy grinned as we pushed back her door. “All set?” she asked.
“Well, it’s now or never,” I said, swallowing.
We hurried back downstairs and into the garden. I spotted Ben immediately. He was in goal, laughing and with a huge stripe of mud down his jeans. My stomach did its beach-ball thing. Then I groaned when I saw Dave Sheekey playing keepie-uppies by the patio, while Ali Grover – usually the quietest of Ben’s mates – cheered him on.
“I guess we can’t have everything,” Mel muttered in my ear.
I decided that a confident approach was necessary, took a deep breath and marched down to the grass.
“Hi, Ben!” I said. It came out a bit squeaky, but I figured I was the only one who noticed.
Ben grinned and waved. I grinned back my manic torch-beam smile. And then Dave Sheekey decided that he’d had enough keepie-uppies, and kicked the ball straight at me.
I panicked, did a half-jump like I was trying to head it, missed, slipped in another puddle that was lurking on the path and landed flat on my bum in a flowerbed. Mel rushed to help me up as the lads burst out laughing. Yup. Even Ben.
You know when you think, can I just die right now and get this over with? Well, this was one of those times. I was totally on fire with embarrassment. The man in the moon could’ve lit a bonfire from the heat coming off my face. There was a massive streak of mud down my purple tights, and the edging had come away from the hem on my left leg.
“How bad was it?” I said in a low voice as Mel helped me inside.
“On a scale of one to ten?” Mel asked, pushing me through the open patio door as the lads doubled over out on the lawn. “About eleven and a half.”
“Oh Coleen!” Lucy gasped. “Your clothes!”
I don’t cry easily, so I was horrified when I felt these hot tears prickling behind my eyeballs. Desperate not to smudge my mascara – Dad’s makeup radar doesn’t stretch as far as mascara – I sniffed hard and fumbled for a bit of kitchen paper to catch the drips. My outfit was a wreck. I had mud under my fingernails. And now Ben was looking in through the kitchen door.
“You OK?” he asked.
I nodded tragically. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Ben seeing me like this or the wriggly lines around his mouth that proved he was still laughing but desperately trying not to show it.
“Take Coleen upstairs, Lucy,” said Mrs Hanratty from where she was loading the washing machine. “I’m sure you’ve got something you can lend her? Bring your clothes down when you’ve changed, Coleen love. I’ll pop them in this wash for you. And if you leave your shoes by the door, I’m sure Dave can clean them up. Can’t you, Dave?”
There was a glint in Mrs Hanratty’s eyes which told me she’d seen everything that had just happened. It’s amazing how much she can look like a sabre-toothed tiger when she wants to. Dave skulked into the kitchen and scooped up my pumps like an obedient little puppy.
Smiling weakly at Mrs Hanratty, I trailed out of the kitchen and followed Lucy and Mel upstairs.
Lucy’s bedroom is not at all what you’d expect – not for such a girly girl. One wall is painted black, and the rest are a really hot pink. The pink walls have loads of shelves on them, and the black wall has Lucy’s massive collection of music and movie posters. They look brilliant, and always make me dream of Hollywood.
Strains of Here Comes The Sun were floating out of Lucy’s computer speakers when we shut the door behind us. It sounded like our mate had been practising her solo when we arrived. It reminded me of Lucy’s nerves about the show, and I hoped she was feeling braver about it now. She is such a brilliant singer – I just wish she knew it. Why was nothing ever simple?
“Take your pick, Coleen,” said Lucy, flinging open her wardrobe.
I stared at the rows of pastel blouses, jeans and plain jumpers inside the wardrobe. Hmm. Some fashion magic was badly needed here.
Lucy was looking at me anxiously. “I’m sorry it’s all a bit boring,” she said.
“There’s no such thing as boring,” I said. “It’s just how you mix it up.”
Lucy pulled armfuls of clothes on to her bed and stood back, looking embarrassed.
“This is like a makeover,” Mel said in excitement, plunging her hands into the pile of clothes and pulling out a couple of tees that matched her red jeans.
My spirits were rising. I pounced on a stretchy little navy-blue dress that I instantly knew would look great over my white T-shirt – which, somehow, was still mudless.
“You’re not serious,” Lucy said when I held the dress up to myself. “I wore that to my aunt’s wedding when I was like, nine!”
“Then, it was a dress,” I said. “Now, it’s a tunic top. Perfect.”
Mel flopped back on the bed amongst all the clothes and grinned at Lucy’s expression. I pulled off my muddy tights, shorts and hoodie. Then I wriggled into the dress and checked myself out in the mirror.
“That’s mad,” said Mel approvingly.
“And way too short,” Lucy pointed out, grinning.
I glanced through her trousers. Most of them were too long for my little legs. But then I spotted a white pair of leggings. They probably reached just past Lucy’s knees, but on me they almost hit my ankles.
“Ta-da,” I said, giving a twirl. “What do you think?”
“Mum won’t believe she’s seeing that dress again,” said Lucy, shaking her head at me.
“Good choice, Col.” Mel nodded approvingly.
The flowerbed nightmare was almost forgotten. And Ben had been kind of sweet about it, hadn’t he? But we still hadn’t broached the subject of the fashion show.
“Right,” I declared. “Remember our plan?”
“Yes indeedy,” said Mel.
“Go for it!” said Lucy confidently.
“Just say it like we practised,” I told them as we made our way back downstairs. “We’ll have Dave Sheekey eating out of our hands by the end.”
“I always thought Dave looked like a horse,” Lucy giggled.
The lads were all inside now, sitting round the kitchen table with packets of crisps and glasses of Coke. Dave broke into the theme from Match of the Day when we came into the kitchen, but that was no surprise.
“Thanks for cleaning my shoes, Dave,” I said sweetly, taking my scrubbed-up pumps and slipping them on. “It’s great having you at my feet where you belong.”
Ben and Ali laughed, and Dave made a squishy kind of face that meant one-nil to me. Mel nudged me in the back. If we were going to pull this off, I needed to be nice to all the lads. Even Dave.
“That’s never Lucy’s gear you’re wearing, Coleen.”
I almost fell over. Ben was speaking straight at me.
“Um, yeah, yeah, it is, mmm…” said Coleen, winner of the Silvertongue Award 2008.
“It looks totally different,” said Ben. “Good one.”
Mel nudged me fiercely in the back again. We had to move on with Phase One of our plan. I held down the beach-ball and cleared my throat.
“Exercise suits you lads,” I began, looking round at the table. “You don’t look bad for it – quite toned, in fact.”
“Yeah, not bad at all,” Mel added.
Ben rolled his eyes and Dave did a few strongman impressions. Ali wriggled a bit, but you could tell he was pleased.
“Anyway,” Lucy said, “we’re going next door to watch a DVD for a school project we’re doing. See ya.”
I casually waved Gary Lineker’s Action Replay in the air. I’d borrowed it off Em, with the promise that I’d buy her a bar of chocolate that afternoon. If our plan worked, I was going to make it two.
Satisfied that we’d baited the trap, me, Lucy and Mel tripped back out of the kitchen and into the living room. Now all we had to do was wait.
“Quick,” I hissed, handing Mel a glossy mag as Lucy slipped the footie DVD into the player. Lucy’s mum loves fashion mags, and there were half a dozen on the living-room coffee table. “They’ll be in in a minute.”
We flung ourselves down on the couch. Mel opened her magazine. I grabbed a pen and pad to complete the ‘project’ look. And, just as the music started up, Ben and his two mates wandered in.
Boys are so predictable, aren’t they? Phase Two of our plan was about to begin.