Mega Sleepover 1

“I should think so too,” said Snowy Owl.

Why are grown-ups so funny about their age? I don’t get it. But at least it had made Brown Owl smile. Then Rosie went too far.

“Brown Owl, have you got a boyfriend?”

Brown Owl’s face went all serious and stern-looking and she got up and walked off. “You just concentrate on your puppets,” she told us, “instead of my love-life.”

“What did you have to go and say that for?” I hissed at Rosie.

“How else are we going to find out?” she hissed back.

Snowy Owl looked at us suspiciously.

“We were only wondering,” I said, trying to look innocent. “She just doesn’t seem very happy.”

Snowy looked over to make sure Brown Owl couldn’t hear her.

“She hasn’t got a boyfriend,” she whispered. “And it’s time she had. No one’s worth getting yourself that miserable over. I’ve told her that, but she’s not ready to hear it yet. So don’t you lot go upsetting her any more, d’you hear?”

We all nodded and looked at one another, but we didn’t say anything else to Snowy Owl. We just got on with painting our puppet heads. You can’t tell with grown-ups who you can trust and who you can’t. But at least one thing was clear, Brown Owl needed our help, even if she didn’t know it yet.

(#ulink_473b4fa9-f5b3-5140-8d4d-ae00e54d9684)

We thought we’d at least got Dave on our side. So it was a bit of a surprise that on Friday, when we mentioned it, he burst out laughing.

“Are you still on about that?” he said. “Don’t you think that joke’s wearing a bit thin?”

“But it’s not a joke,” said Kenny.

“We’re deadly serious,” I said.

“Deadly?” said Dave. “That sounds pretty serious. Come on, guys, you’re in my way.” And then we had to move because he wanted to start polishing the hall floor.

Fliss had one last go. “What would we have to do to convince you?” she asked him.

“Get me a photo.” A photo, I thought, where are we going to get that? “Or, better still, get her to send me a letter,” he said, smiling.

A photo was bad enough, but a letter was completely out of the question. Or I thought it was, until on the way home from school, Lyndz had one of her crackpot ideas.

“We could write one,” she said.

“We’d never get away with it,” I said. “He’d know it was our writing.”

I’m the only one who can do joined-up handwriting that doesn’t look like a bowl of spaghetti. But nobody would believe it belonged to a grown-up who works in a bank.

“We don’t need to write it,” said Kenny. “We can print it on the computer. And it’s dead easy to fake a signature. I copy my dad’s all the time.”

“Oh, really?” I said, raising one eyebrow. I’m the only one who can do that trick, too.

Kenny grinned. “Just the odd cheque when my pocket money runs out.”

“Honestly?” said Felicity, who’d believe anything you told her.

“She’s joking,” I said, tapping the side of my head. “Derrr!”

“It’s just a game,” said Kenny. “I’ve got this really ancient prescription pad my dad gave me. I sign them Doctor McKenzie. It looks dead cool.”

“But what would we put in the letter?” I said. I still didn’t like the idea.

“You are a handsome hunk. I lurv you,” said Lyndz, rolling her eyes and then collapsing in a fit of giggles.

“We were born to be together.” Kenny clutched her heart and puckered her lips.

After that the pair of them just went a bit haywire. Kenny started doing a terrible French accent and Lyndz kept fluttering her eyelashes.

“All right, calm down, you dodos,” I said, but none of us could stop laughing. People were staring at us across the street. It was really wicked.

But I remember thinking of what my grandma says, when things get out of hand: “You mark my words, this’ll all end in tears.”

It was right in the middle of all this that we found out a bit more about Rosie’s family. We often walk past her house on our way home from school and hope she’ll invite us in, but so far no such luck. I know some people’s parents are dead strict and don’t like other kids in their house. Thank goodness mine aren’t like that – but neither was her mum. She often said, “Rosie, don’t keep your friends on the step. Ask them in.” But she wouldn’t and we couldn’t work out why.

We knew her dad didn’t live with them, she’d told us that, but then lots of people in our class haven’t got a dad at home.

Fliss hasn’t. She’s got Andy, her mum’s boyfriend, but he’s not her dad. Her proper dad lives in the next street with his girlfriend Maria and the new baby, Posie. Fliss and her brother go round every Friday to her dad’s for tea, but they don’t live with him.

Also, Rosie had told us about her brother Adam. We hadn’t seen him yet because he goes to a special school. We knew he used a wheelchair; we’d seen it in the back of her mum’s car. But Rosie said he couldn’t talk either, so we thought perhaps she didn’t want us to go to her house because of Adam. But we were wrong about that too.

I had to go and put my foot in it, didn’t I? Me and my big mouth!

We were leaning on Rosie’s gate; I said, “It’s Friday today, if we had a sleepover tonight we could write the letter and take it to Dave’s tomorrow.”

“Wicked!” said Fliss. “And we could make all our plans for OBD.”

I kept staring at Rosie’s house, hoping she would take the hint, but she didn’t.

“Well, we can’t have it at mine,” said Fliss. “My mum still hasn’t got over the bubble-bath episode.” Some time I’ll tell you that story!

“Don’t look at me,” said Lyndz. “My mum and dad are decorating, again!” Lyndz’s mum and dad are always doing something to her house. Extending it or decorating it or taking it apart and putting it back together again.

“I suppose I could ask mine,” Kenny offered. “But Monster-features will only interfere.” Kenny has the worst sister the human imagination could conjure up. We call her Molly the Monster. And poor old Kenny has to share a bedroom with her!

We’d already had the one last week at mine, so that left just one person and I was getting tired of dropping hints.

“What about at yours?” I said to Rosie, straight out, just like that. But the minute I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t. Rosie went bright red and shook her head.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because,” said Rosie, starting to look as if she might cry.