Passion for Fashion

“Dream on, Coleen,” Mel snorted. “Like Lu’s big brother will ever take a Year Eight seriously!”

Mel was right. Ben Hanratty was Year Ten, and way out of my league. But hey, a Glitter Queen should aim for the stars, right? I closed my eyes, partly because I didn’t want to see Dave Sheekey sticking his finger up his nose in the seat opposite Ben, and partly because bus-time was dream-time.

She was back on the dance floor. The music was getting seriously funky. She felt like she could dance forever! The gorgeous little skirt she’d customised was spinning out as she moved, its sequins catching the reflections from the glitterballs. She opened her eyes and noticed the tall blond boy watching her from across the room. She smiled and beckoned him over…

“Earth to Coleen,” Mel hissed. “Tickling the chin of some invisible cat isn’t a good look. Especially when it’s pointing at a Certain Someone?”

I opened my eyes. My finger was beckoning for real. Even worse, it was beckoning in the direction of Dave Sheekey, whose mouth was wide open as he gawped at me.

The bus snorted and juddered to a halt outside school. Blushing bright red, I ran for the doors with Mel and Lucy howling with laughter behind me. Not a great way to start the week.

The playground at Hartley High was awash with blue and grey as we walked through the school gates.

“It’s so depressing,” I said, looking around. “How are our young minds supposed to develop with no colour or style in our daily lives?”

“We make do with what we have,” Mel said. “You have your choked-chicken tie thing going on, and I’ve got my kipper.” She fiddled with the fattest tie knot I’d ever seen. It looked pretty retro. “See?” she said. “We’re individuals already.”

“I tried your skinny knot this morning, Coleen,” Lucy said as we pushed through the double doors. “I nearly strangled myself with my tie. Ben had to cut it off and lend me his spare. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mum.”

Me and Mel burst out laughing, and the three of us linked arms and headed down the corridor to our classroom.

First off was drama. Drama is my favourite class. Miss O’Neill teaches us, with the help of her assistant Miss Rodriguez. Miss O’Neill is great. Her clothes, however, are not. Today’s outfit was a right show. A mint-green and mud-brown swirly combo that did nothing for her complexion. Not that I’d ever dream of saying anything to her. Teachers can’t help it, can they?

“Push the desks across the room please,” said Miss O’Neill, clapping her hands to get our attention. “We need plenty of space today.”

“Plenty of space to get away from that minging dress, you mean,” came a drawling voice near me.

Summer Collins was standing in a huddle with her two saddo mates, Hannah Davies and Shona Mackinnon. They were all looking sideways at Miss O’Neill and giggling. Miss O’Neill’s cheeks went pink, although she was pretending that she hadn’t heard anything.

“The pattern’s practically burning my eyes out of my head,” Summer continued.

I couldn’t help myself.

“Shame you’re not standing closer then, Summer,” I said in a loud voice.

Me and Summer Collins aren’t exactly best mates. With her silver-blonde hair and tiny waist, Summer Collins reminds me of a doll my dog once ate. After he’d eaten it.

“So, Coleen,” Summer purred, narrowing her eyes at me, “are you telling me you like Miss O’Neill’s outfit?”

She said this so loud that even Miss O’Neill couldn’t pretend not to have heard anything. How was I going to get out of this one? If I said I liked it, Summer would never let me forget it. If I said I hated it, Miss O’Neill would be upset.

Panicking slightly, I stared at Summer. My first thought was: heLLO? Summer Collins gets to wear eye make-up at school and I don’t? How unfair was that? My second thought was that she’d done something really freaky to her hair, so it was pokerstraight at the sides and had this weird poodle puff bit at the front. I had a flash of inspiration.

“And are you telling me you did your hair like that on purpose?” I said.

The class shouted with laughter. Summer Collins turned purple with fury. And believe me, purple clashes with green eyeshadow in a big way.

When the class had settled down – and Summer had got bored of shooting evils at me – Miss O’Neill put on her Announcement Face.

“I have some exciting news regarding our end-of-term project,” she said. “From all your great suggestions we’ve decided that this year, Hartley High’s Year Eight drama pupils will put on a fashion show, modelling clothes from local boutiques that will then be auctioned for charity.”

I clutched at Mel’s arm, dizzy with excitement. Had Miss O’Neill really just said my favourite F word? My dream engine went into hyperdrive.

The lights blazed down on the catwalk as the music began. Gorgeously dressed actresses and fashion editors sat on the front row with their pens poised over their notebooks. It was Coleen’s first fashion show, and everyone was desperate for a glimpse of her work. There had been rumours for months. Coleen would be experimental. She would be wild. She would break all fashion conventions. Vogue was holding their front page!

“Students will all have a chance to take part. There will be plenty of different roles,” Miss O’Neill continued. “I want you all to think about what part you want to play in this event, and then stand in groups. Models over here in the middle of the room. Set designers by the door. Musicians here by the window with Miss Rodriguez, and all other volunteers by the whiteboard.”

“Come on!” I said, grabbing Mel and Lucy’s hands and tugging them over to the middle of the room. “Let’s do the modelling!”

“Hold on, Coleen,” Lucy protested. “I don’t want to be a model!”

“You don’t?” I said, stopping mid-tug. “So, what do you want to do?”

Lucy blushed. “Sing, I guess,” she said.

As I’ve mentioned before, Lucy has a great voice. When she sings in front of us, she can be funky or sweet or sad. She can do all of it. And it’s like she forgets to be shy when she’s into the music.

“I’m so stupid,” I said, whacking myself on the forehead. “Of course you have to sing, Lucy.”

Lucy smiled, and ran across the room to where a small group of hopefuls were gathering by the window.

“You’ll do modelling, won’t you Mel?” I said pleadingly.

“You bet!” Mel grinned, and high-fived me. “Lemme at it, girlfriend!”

Two (#ulink_3aa406ea-fe3f-5445-bfa4-9e220ddc52d6)

No prizes for guessing who else was up for modelling. Our very own fashion victim, Summer Poodle-Hair Collins.

Summer’s dad owns a boutique in Hartley which is full of big-name labels. Summer’s totally into labels. If it’s a brand you’ve heard of, Summer will wear it. Even if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen. How sad is that?

“Right,” said Miss O’Neill. “You all want to be models? Let’s see you strut your stuff down this space here in the middle of the room.”

“I’ll go first, Miss!” Summer said eagerly.

I nearly died laughing as Summer started prancing up and down, pouting and tossing her hair from side to side.

“She looks like a horse,” Mel spluttered. She put on a fake race-announcer’s voice. “And here comes Summer Collins, cantering up the inside. Someone ought to have plaited her mane. It must be nearly impossible to see out. Whoops! There goes a fence post!”

I thought I was going to explode, I was laughing so hard.

“Thanks, Summer,” said Miss O’Neill, making a note on her clipboard. “You’ll do.”

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe that Miss O’Neill had picked Summer after that rubbish performance.

“She’s hardly going to say no to Summer, is she?” Mel pointed out in a low voice. “Not if she wants Summer’s dad to put some clothes in the show—”

“Coleen?” Miss O’Neill said. “You’re next.”