Sleepover Club Blitz Read online

  “All right,” I sighed. “But when it goes horribly wrong, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “It’ll end in tears, my lovelies,” said Frankie in her sexy milkmaid’s voice. “NOT,” she added rudely.

  After break, the Sleepover Club’s fascinating love-life was forced to take a back seat, because Miss Pearson made an unexpected announcement.

  “For the next few weeks we’ll be doing a very special history project,” she beamed. “We’ll be studying the Second World War. More specifically, the Blitz.”

  Everybody groaned.

  “No-one cares about that stuff now, Miss,” Frankie complained. “If you ask me, it’s time everyone got over all that old war business and started looking to the future.” And she sneaked a little peep at dishy Owen!

  He was nodding away, like he was in total agreement, but for all I knew a bee just flew into his ear.

  I stuck up my hand.

  “I agree with Frankie,” I said. Because I did, actually. “This is the twenty-first century. Children of today should be focussing on peace, not war.”

  The other Sleepover girls clapped and cheered. At first I was chuffed that my mates were backing me up. Then I realised THEY were sneaking looks at Owen, too. They didn’t give two hoots about me. They were trying to impress their blue-eyed boy!

  “Good point, Rosie,” said Miss Pearson cheerfully. “Except I’m not convinced that world peace comes about by ignoring huge historical events. Rather the reverse. We need to understand what happened, so we can make sure these things never happen again.”

  “Oh, wah, wah, wah!” said Frankie loudly. And she flicked her hair over one eye, purely for Owen’s benefit.

  Miss Pearson sensibly ignored her. “I can guarantee that you’ll find this project really enjoyable,” she went on. “It won’t just be about facts and dates, you know. It’ll be a hands-on experience.”

  Frankie’s shoulders shook with phony laughter. “A hands-on experience of the Second World War!” she said scornfully. “How enjoyable is that!”

  I’d slid so far down my chair, I was practically under the desk by this time. Frankie was totally embarrassing me! Personally, I don’t see why a girl has to make a berk of herself to get boys to notice her. And if he DOES find that kind of obvious behaviour attractive, then he’s simply not worth bothering with. That’s what Mum says, anyway.

  After school the others pestered me for an update on their scores. Fliss screamed like she’d sat on a pin when she realised she was in the lead. Believe it or not, she’d actually got a tick in the “Special Favours” column. (It wasn’t for anything icky. Owen just gave up his seat for her at lunchtime!)

  The others immediately got the sulks.

  “I warned you this would happen,” I sighed. “If you ask me, we should stop this stoopid point-scoring business right now.”

  But they wouldn’t hear of it.

  You know what, though? I know this makes me sounds like a major headcase, but after being madly in love with Owen Cartwright for like, two whole hours, I’d totally gone off him.

  It wasn’t just the depressing effect he was having on my normally sane and cheerful friends. It was Owen himself. He’d started to remind me spookily of somebody else. But I couldn’t think who.

  Incidentally, I got a good look at Mr Heart-throb as we were hurrying out of the school gates, and guess what? His smile wasn’t nearly as mysterious and lovely as I’d thought. At close quarters, it was actually more of a creepy smirk.

  Suddenly, I saw what should have been obvious from the start. Our point-scoring system was a waste of time. Because charismatic Owen Cartwright was already totally and helplessly in love.

  With HIMSELF!

  All at once, instead of being thrilled that we shared the same surname, it started to grate on me. Also, I’d found out that Owen was six months older than me. And it made me furious to think that this smirking boy had been a Cartwright for a whole six months before I came into the world!!!

  But it wasn’t until I was drifting off to sleep that night that I finally figured out who it was that Owen Cartwright reminded me of.

  It was our deadly enemies, the M&Ms.

  Let me quickly remind you that in the never-ending cosmic battle between good and evil, the Sleepover Club represents the Good Guys (YAY!!). Whereas the M&Ms definitely walk on the Dark Side (BOO! HISS!!).

  OK, I’m exaggerating, but you get the picture.

  The M&Ms’ real names are Emma Hughes and Emily Berryman, otherwise known as the Gruesome Twosome. And they’re in our class, worse luck. In front of grown-ups, they’re as sweet as pie. Sweet, but seriously toxic. Their only aim in life is to get one up on us, the cool and groovy Sleepover crew. Though like Kenny says, it beats her why two such incredibly CATTY girls are so desperate to be top DOGS!

  Anyway, when I walked into the playground next morning, all the girls in our class were in little huddles. Their faces were shining with excitement. As I passed, I heard the same name, over and over. “Owen, Owen, Owen.” It was like a horror film! I prayed that my mates, at least, had miraculously come to their senses in the night. But when I spotted them, round by the gym, they had that same distinctive Owen glow.

  I soon learned that Owen’s G (for Gorgeousness) Rating had just zoomed off the scale. Apparently, lover boy was way cooler than everyone thought. Not only were his parents stupendously rich. Not only had he just moved into the ritziest, glitziest house in Cuddington. But gorgeous Owen Cartwright himself was actually (GASP!) a professional boy supermodel!!

  To be fair, the others weren’t bothered about the house or the money. But they were totally gobsmacked by the supermodel thing. I hung around, listening to them witter. Now and then I’d say hopefully: “So about our next sleepover…”

  But it was like I was invisible. It dawned on me that if I wanted their attention, I’d have to use the O-word. Like, “Hey, let’s give our sleepover an Owen theme!” But I absolutely refused to join in the madness. So it was a relief when the bell went and it was time to go into school.

  That morning, we had to start our Second World War history project, and the whole class was having a major sulk.

  “You could let us do the Tudors, Miss,” Fliss whined. “They had the coolest clothes.”

  Kenny’s eyes gleamed. “Also the MOST beheadings!”

  Kenny LURVES to gross everyone out. She says it’s because she wants to be a doctor like her dad, but if you ask me, she’s plain bloodthirsty!! Mind you, it was good to hear her sounding more like the pre-Owen Kenny, if you see what I mean.

  “That does sound tempting,” Miss Pearson grinned. “But I think we’ll stick to my original plan. Bring your chairs to the front. I’ve got some things to show you.”

  The class scraped and scuffled its way to the front of the class.

  To our surprise, Miss Pearson produced a small cardboard case from under her desk. “What do you think is inside?” she asked.

  No-one had the least idea.

  She lifted out some bizarre apparatus – kind of goggles with rubber tubes attached. “Like to make a guess what it is?” she asked.

  “Diving equipment?” said someone.

  Emma Hughes flashed a superior smirk at Owen, who instantly smirked back.

  “Getting warm,” smiled Miss Pearson. “It is a form of breathing gear. But for use on land.”

  A forest of hands went up. “Oh, Miss, Miss!” everyone pleaded.

  “Ryan?” she asked.

  “It’s a kid’s gas mask,” he said.

  Fliss is SO-O fickle! That girl has been in lurve with Ryan Scott for the longest time. But today she didn’t even glance his way. She was too busy fluttering her eyelashes at You Know Who.

  “That’s right,” beamed our teacher. “People thought this new war was going to be a complete re-run of the first one, when our enemies used poisonous gas. They were wrong, as it turned out. But everyone was issued with a gas mask. Even little children.”

  Miss
Pearson passed the gas mask around, explaining that it originally contained asbestos and other dangerous substances. “But don’t worry. It’s been cleaned and it’s quite safe,” she said.

  Of course Kenny had to try it on. “Peeyoo!” she choked. “It pongs.”

  There’s no way I was putting that thing over my face. But Lyndz said it just smelled of rubber and disinfectant.

  Incidentally, it took Danny McCloud all of five seconds to realise you could make a really rude noise by breathing hard into the gas mask!

  The minute I heard that sound, I came out in goosebumps. I suddenly KNEW that those wartime kids were no different to us. I bet the first thing they did with their masks was make rude noises too, don’t you?

  “At the start of the war, children took their masks everywhere,” Miss Pearson explained. “They actually had gas-mask practice at school.”

  “That must have looked well weird,” Danny chortled. “Thirty-five little kids sitting around wearing these.”

  “Plus the teacher,” snorted Ryan.

  Everyone cracked up. But you could tell that people were starting to get interested in Miss Pearson’s project.

  “Did they take their masks when they were evacuated, Miss?” I asked.

  “Does everyone know what Rosie’s talking about?” Miss Pearson asked.

  Everyone suddenly looked vague.

  “When the war began, well over a million city children were sent away to the country,” she explained. “The government wanted them as far away from air raids as possible.”

  Lyndz waved her hand. “That’s like Goodnight Mr Tom, Miss! I saw it on TV. The kids had labels round their necks, like luggage.”

  “And they had sweet little Fair Isle jumpers,” said Fliss dreamily.

  “Not to mention fleas, nits and ringworm,” grinned Miss Pearson.

  “Ugh, Miss,” protested everyone.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Many evacuees came from extremely poor homes. Some of them had never even seen sheep or cows. The whole experience must have been very frightening. And they must have been desperately worried about the families they’d left behind.”

  Frankie turned pale. “Miss!” she gasped. “They didn’t send babies away, did they?” Frankie’s got this cute baby sister, called Izzy. She’s so soppy about her, it’s not true.

  Miss Pearson looked sympathetic. “I don’t think so, Frankie.”

  Next, our teacher showed us an actual ration book. I could almost smell the history on it. It was really worn, almost greasy with age, and the pages were totally dog-eared. It had belonged to some lady called Violet Chance in Bethnal Green, London.

  Miss Pearson explained that during the war, even basic things like eggs were in short supply. “Rationing was introduced to make sure everyone got their fair share,” she said. “But women still had to queue for hours to buy food for their families.”

  She waved a grim-looking recipe book. “The government employed experts to dream up bizarre new recipes, explaining how housewives could make cakes out of dried eggs instead of fresh ones, or how to use turnips instead of strawberries in jam-making.”

  “Euw,” gulped everyone. “Gross.”

  “It gets worse,” she said. “They tried to persuade people to eat whale or horse meat!”

  Lyndz was horrified. “I would rather starve to DEATH than eat a horse,” she said fiercely.

  Everyone agreed with her there! Even the M&Ms drew the line at eating ponies.

  Miss Pearson showed us other fascinating bits and bobs, including a pack of Happy Families, featuring wartime characters like Adolf Hitler! Finally she produced a small enamel pie dish with a tiny chip in it.

  “What’s so special about that old junk?” giggled Emily Berryman, fluttering her lashes in Owen’s direction.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Miss Pearson quietly. “It belonged to my great aunt. She’d only been married for three days when her husband was called up to fight overseas. This pie dish was one of the few things she’d had time to buy for their home.”

  “What happened?” said Fliss anxiously.

  Miss Pearson smiled. “Don’t look so worried. She rescued it from the ruins, after the house she was living in suffered a direct hit.”

  We passed the pie dish around reverently. Wow, I thought. I’m touching something that survived a bombing raid.

  Miss Pearson announced that for anyone who was interested, she’d be cooking an authentic Second World War meal in the Home Economics room at lunchtime. As you can imagine, none of us was exactly crazy about the idea.

  Then Danny grinned. “Oh, all right, I’ll give it ago.”

  “Yeah, why not?” smirked Owen Cartwright, like he was doing Miss Pearson some huge favour.

  “We’ll come, won’t we, Emma?” said Emily Berryman at once. She has this funny gruff voice, like one of those teddy bears you tip upside-down.

  My mates exchanged glances. No WAY were they leaving Owen to the tender mercies of the M&Ms!

  “You can put us five down, Miss,” said Frankie quickly.

  I shook my head. “Not me.”

  “You’ve got to,” hissed Frankie.

  “Give me one good reason!” I hissed back.

  Frankie pulled a face. “Because of that thing you’ve got to do. You know!” She nodded towards Kenny’s old spelling book.

  “Oh, that,” I groaned.

  “Is there a problem, Rosie?” asked Miss Pearson.

  “No, Miss,” I sighed. “I’ll be there.”

  When lunchtime came, I trekked dutifully down to the Home Ec room with the others. Suddenly Fliss reversed madly down the corridor. “Ouf,” she gasped. “It smells worse than Andy’s mum’s cabbage soup.”

  Unfortunately Miss Pearson saw us through the open door. “Just in time,” she called cheerfully. “I’ve started dishing up.”

  We were trapped!

  It wasn’t cabbage soup, as it turned out. It was something even more disgusting. Would you believe (gulp!) Dock Leaf Pudding? Those poor wartime housewives were so frantic to get vitamins into their kids, they’d even cook WEEDS!

  Miss Pearson dished up gruesome little helpings for everyone, explaining that the pudding had been cooked in a “hay-box”, a cunning wartime wheeze for saving fuel.

  Here’s how it worked. You started your stew, or whatever, on the cooker. When it was bubbling nicely, you took it off the stove and plonked it in your handy hay-box, which was a box packed with actual hay. (So that’s why they called it a hay-box! Duh!)

  In case you’re wondering, the hay was to stop all that precious heat from leaking out, while your stew carried on cooking in the box. It acted a bit like a Thermos flask.

  For those of you interested in a revolting culinary experience, here’s the recipe.

  * * *

  Dock Leaf Pudding

  Take young dock leaves and boil them in a pan with chopped spring onions. Add a handful of oatmeal, a beaten egg and a knob of butter. Simmer for half an hour.

  * * *

  (Serving tip from R.C. Now bury at the bottom of the garden and evacuate surrounding area!!)

  Miss Pearson let us suffer for all of ten seconds. Then she gave a wicked grin. “However, I thought some of you might be allergic to dock leaves, so I brought some back-up,” she said. She whipped open the oven door and produced a tray of yummy mini-pizzas.

  Everyone gave sighs of relief. Then Miss Pearson nuked some packets of French fries in the microwave, and we got stuck into our REAL lunch!

  As you know, I’m not the kind of girl to turn up her nose at free pizza. Nor would I DREAM of saying “I told you so”. But would you believe that after we went to all that trouble, Owen didn’t turn UP? Nor did the M&Ms.

  “I smell a rat,” said Frankie darkly.

  “More like a frog,” I mumbled.

  My mates gave me funny looks.

  “I was trying to think of something really slimy,” I fibbed hastily. SomeONE really slimy, was what I actually meant!
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  We were heading for the playing fields, gulping big breaths of fresh air. After our close encounter with the Dock Leaf Pudding, we were desperate for extra oxygen.

  But when we got there, who do you think was running round in his cute little shorts, merrily playing footie? And who do you think was cheering him on adoringly? Yep! Owen’s latest fans, the M&Ms, plus their sad little slave, Alana Palmer.

  My mates looked as if they’d just heard Christmas was cancelled. Personally, I thought they should have more pride. Plus I totally didn’t want the M&Ms getting one up on us.

  “Let’s go,” I pleaded.

  But all my friends were gazing at Owen as if they’d never seen anything so awesome. It was like all they’d fallen under some evil SPELL.

  I’m not that crazy about football, so while I waited for my ordeal to be over, I kept myself busy by collecting incriminating evidence against Owen Cartwright.

  Would you believe that boy POSES every time he goes to take a penalty? He even pushes his hand through his hair, David Ginola style!

  This was truly one of life’s major mysteries. My friends were so SMART. Couldn’t they see this bogus boy was unworthy of their affections? URGH! I thought. How DARE he have my surname!!

  Suddenly I’d had it up to here with that fair-haired phony! I informed the others of my decision as we were walking home in the rain.

  “All bets are off,” I said crisply. “I refuse to help you guys make wallies of yourselves.”

  “You can’t do that!” wailed Fliss.

  “I just did,” I scowled. And while I was feeling brave, I told them what I thought of Mister Charisma.

  Frankie was furious. “Rosie Cartwright, if you weren’t such a little fuddy-duddy, you’d know Owen’s the best thing to happen to our school in ages.”

  “Rubbish!” I snapped. “Miss Pearson’s history project is heaps more exciting than some – brainless HIMBO!”

  I should have saved my breath. Even after I’d crossed the road, I could still hear my mates wrangling about which of them Owen liked best.

  When I got home, I felt like a real Rosie No-Mates. Why couldn’t I fancy Owen too? I thought miserably. At least I’d have something to giggle about with the others.