we grabbed some food and went back to Annie’s bedroom to eat it.
“Sure you don’t want to visit the bookroom?” said Annie.
I said, “No! Don’t keep pushing me.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” said Annie. “You’ll never guess who I talked to!”
“Who?” I said.
“Harriet Chance’s daughter!”
“Lori?”
“Mm!”
“You spoke to Lori?”
“Yes!”
I swallowed. “What did you talk about?”
Annie giggled and said, “You!”
“M-me?”
“I told her that you were Harriet’s number-one fan. I told her you’d got every single book she’d ever written—”
“I haven’t!” I cried. There are three of her early ones that I’ve only been able to find in the library, and one, called Patsy Puffball, that I have never even seen. (Though I did read somewhere that Harriet Chance was ashamed of it and wished she’d never written it.)
“I’ve got most of them,” I said, “but I haven’t got all.”
“So what?” said Annie. “You’re still her number-one fan! I thought you’d be pleased I’d talked about you!”
I suppose I should have been, but mainly what I was feeling at that moment was jealousy. Huge, raging, bright-green JEALOUSY. I was the bookworm! Not Annie. I was the one that ought to be talking to Harriet’s daughter!
“We could visit right now,” said Annie, “and see if she’s there.”
I pursed my lips and shook my head. Inside, I was seething and heaving like a volcano about to erupt.
“Megs, it’s harmless!”
If I did erupt, I would spew bright-green vomit all over Annie. Great gobbets of it, splatting in her face and dripping through her hair.
“It’s just books. Just people talking about books.”
Annie didn’t even like books. She only read them because of me.
“There’s no grown ups. Nothing bad. No one talks about sex, or anything like that. It’s just kids! Nobody over fourteen.”
I came back to life. “If it’s nobody over fourteen,” I said, “what’s Lori doing there?”
“Why?” Annie blinked, owlishly. “Is she over fourteen?”
“Yes, she is!” I knew all about Harriet Chance’s daughter. I knew everything there was to know about Harriet Chance. Well, everything that had ever been written.
“So how old is she?”
“She’s fifteen,” I said. “She was fifteen in January.”
“Oh! Wow! Fifteen!” Annie went into a mock fainting fit on the bed.
“You said nobody over fourteen,” I reminded her. “Anyone could just say they were fourteen!”
“Why would they want to? Just to talk about books!”
I hunched a shoulder. Annie had made me feel all cross and hot.
“OK, if you don’t want to,” she said. “I’ll probably visit later and have a chat. I’ll tell her you’re too shy.”
“Don’t you dare!” I said.
“So what shall I tell her?”
“Tell her … tell her that I’ve chosen Harriet Chance as my favourite author and I’m writing a review of Candyfloss for the school library!”
“All right,” said Annie. “I don’t mind doing that.”
Annie is a very generous and good-natured person. More good-natured than me, probably. She knew I was cross, but she didn’t want to quarrel. Annie never quarrels. Rachel is the only person she ever gets ratty with; but then Rachel is enough to make a saint ratty, I would think.
“Hey!” Annie suddenly went bouncing off the bed. “Look what I’ve got!” She snatched up a box and rattled it at me.
“What is it?”
“Make-up! All Mum’s old stuff that she doesn’t want any more.” Annie tipped the contents of the box on to her dressing table. Little tubs and pots rolled everywhere. “Loads of it!” she said. “Let’s practise making ourselves up!”
So that was what we did. I still felt sore at the thought of Annie talking to Harriet Chance’s daughter, but I was determined not to be tempted and I really didn’t want to go on being cross, and messing about with the make-up was quite fun. After we’d made ourselves up to look beautiful – we thought! – we went a bit mad and started on Dracula make-up, and Cruella de Vil make-up. Alien-from-Outer-Space make-up. Monster-with-Red-Eyes make-up. Anything we could think of! We forgot all about Rachel. We were taken by surprise when she put her head round the door. She was taken by surprise, too.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she screeched.
Me and Annie flashed toothy lipsticky smiles at her. Annie had drawn black spider legs all round her eyes and daubed big red splotches on her cheeks. I had painted my mouth green and my eyes purple. In addition, we had both tied scarves round our chests, beneath our T-shirts, and stuffed them with knickers to give ourselves boobs. We could hardly look at each other without collapsing into giggles. It was really funny! Needless to say, Rachel didn’t think so. She has no sense of humour. (She exercises too much. Well, that is my theory.)
“Honestly, you look a total sight,” she said. “You’d better just scrub all that muck off yourself, Megan Hooper, before your mum comes for you!”
RACHEL’S
