Iggy and Me

Iggy and Me
Jenny Valentine

The first in a series of young fiction by Jenny Valentine, winner of the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize for her debut novel, Finding Violet Park.IGGY AND ME is a series of family stories featuring the mishaps and shenanigans of the irrepressible 5-year-old Iggy as seen through the eyes of her big sister Flo.Funny and endearing, each chapter is a complete and satisfying story in its own right, perfect for newly-confident readers to enjoy alone, or for reading aloud at bedtime.Illutrated throughout in with black & white line drawings by Joe Berger, who was nominated for the Booktrust Early Years Award for his picture book, Bridget Fidget.

Iggy and Me

Jenny Valentine

Illustrated by Joe Berger

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u8d9c83bb-d724-5489-8376-31c29d108632)

Title Page (#u5412bc95-a3da-5a83-bb34-64bee1fd1bce)

Iggy and me (#ue6d0703e-1905-5a2b-902e-369a9a67cfdd)

Iggy’s hair (#u6b58cda0-bc8c-5e04-a75b-c7417d7b64e0)

Iggy’s world (#litres_trial_promo)

And in my suitcase I put… (#litres_trial_promo)

Iggy and the babysitter (#litres_trial_promo)

Doctor Iggy (#litres_trial_promo)

Goodnight, Iggy (#litres_trial_promo)

A New House (#litres_trial_promo)

About the author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Iggy and me (#ulink_9bda0143-ff9f-504d-a63f-7e3b0a4085b7)

My name is Flo and I have a little sister. When she was even smaller than she is now, my little sister changed her name. One morning she woke up and she just wasn’t called it anymore.

It was very confusing.

We were sitting up in my bed making snowflakes. She woke me up early to make them. My sister often comes into my bed in the mornings, before I am quite ready for good news or making things. There were tiny bits of paper all over the sheets and the floor. That’s how she got me to sit up, by sprinkling them on my face.

My sister had only just got good with scissors and she found it very exciting.

We were supposed to make snowflakes out of old magazines because we’re not allowed to use new paper for stuff unless we have a very good reason, like a birthday or a sorry or a thank you letter. Snowflakes were not a very good reason andeven though I told my sister that more than twice, she was using new paper because she so wanted them to be pure, bright white with no writing on them.

“Look at mine,” she said, holding up snowflake number twenty-seven.

“Very good,” I said. “Can I have the scissors now?”

“I’m using them,” she said.

“You’re not.”

“I am in a minute.”

“Sam,” I said, because that was my sister’s name. “You have to share.”

“My name’s not Sam,” she said.

I didn’t say anything, because I thought it was just her annoying way of not sharing. I didn’t realise she was serious. And I had to wait ages for the scissors.

Later, we were all in the kitchen in our pyjamas. On not-school days we always eat breakfast with pyjamas on, sometimes even lunch. Mum and Dad look funny in their pyjamas in the mornings, all creased and sort of puffy. Mum’s hair was wild and frizzy, and Dad’s stuck out more on one side than the other. And they had no slippers on even though they are always telling us to wear ours.

My sister had stuck all her white snowflakes on to the fridge until it looked like it was wearing a wedding dress. Every time you opened the fridge door, the snowflakes fluttered in the breeze like lace.

I said, “The fridge is getting married.”

My sister said, “To who? To Daddy?” and laughed at her own joke like crazy. She loves her own jokes.

“Sam,” Mum said. “Toast or cereal?” My sister didn’t answer.

“Sam,” Mum said. “Hello? Earth calling Sam?”

She still didn’t answer. She turned her face away and her forehead went all smooth like it does when she’s pretending not to hear you.

“Sam,” Mum said again. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Nothing. Not a peep.

“Sammy,” said Dad, putting his arm round the fridge and kissing it. “Mum is talking to you.”

“No she’s not,” said my sister, and then she pointed at him and laughed. “Mr and Mrs Fridge.”

“She is,” Dad said. “You heard her. We all did.”

“She’s not talking to me,” my sister said. “She’s talking to Sam.”

Nobody said anything for a minute. It was very quiet in the kitchen. I could hear the kettle bubbling and my cereal landing on itself in my bowl. I looked at Mum, and Mum looked at Dad, and we all looked at my sister. She still looked like Sam to me, twiddling her hair and wearing her pyjamas with the fairies on.

“We thought you were Sam,” said Mum.

My sister looked behind her, both sides, as if Mum was talking to someone there. “Who, me?” she said, “Who, ME?” Like we were the dumbest people on Earth.

“Yes, you,” Mum said.