Hit the Beach! (7 page)

Our vegetable lasagne went down a storm. I’ve never been that interested in cooking, to tell you the truth, but it actually felt really cool to see everyone munching away happily and passing their plates along for seconds.

“I’m amazed – it was dead easy to make,” said Frankie, reaching for another piece of garlic bread. Like me, her cooking skills don’t usually go much further than a peanut butter sandwich.

“Sssh! Don’t let on!” hissed Lyndz. “Tell everyone
it was really tricky and we’re all going to be the next Jamie Oliver!”

“Lovely jubbly,” said Fliss, doing the worst impression of Jamie Oliver I’ve ever seen. Frankie and I nearly fell off the bench laughing.

Just then, Mrs Weaver clapped her hands. “Settle down a moment, everyone!” Frankie was still clutching me and quaking. I sniffed hard and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

“I just wanted to announce,” said Mrs Weaver, “that there’s been a change of plan for the end of the week.”

“We’re not going home!” Danny McCloud shouted out. Everyone laughed and then cheered.

Mrs Weaver smiled. She was miles more relaxed than usual – back at school she would’ve told Danny off for interrupting. Now she just flapped her hands to make everyone quieten down again and then said, “I’m afraid not, Danny. But I’m glad you’re all enjoying yourselves so much. I think we should say a big thank you to Bethany and Aidan for that…”

We didn’t need any encouragement – instantly, whoops and cheers and whistles broke out all around the room. Bethany and Aidan stood up, grinning, and bowed to one side of the room and then the other. I reckon the Sleepover Club made more noise than anyone, we were still so grateful to Aidan for not getting us into trouble!

When Aidan and Bethany had sat down again, Mrs Weaver went on, “What I want to announce is that on Saturday we’ll all be attending the Surfing Display Day down at the beach…”

And while she explained to everyone what it was, the five of us – who knew already, of course – looked round at each other.

“Excellent!” said Frankie.

I did a Tim Henman clenched fist. “Re
sult
!”

“Bethany’s going to win the surfing competition,” whispered Rosie. “And Jude’s going to get a
rude
awakening!”

When Mrs Weaver had finished explaining about the Display Day, she said, “Just one more
thing…” We all turned to listen. “Tomorrow evening, with Aidan and Bethany’s kind assistance, we’re going to hold a special event of our own: a barbecue on the beach.”

There was a second of silence. Then the whole class erupted. The cheering for Aidan and Bethany a minute ago had been nothing compared to
this
. You could have heard us down at the beach, I reckon!

“Everything’s going so well,” sighed Rosie after supper. We were sitting in the garden – since we’d cooked, we were excused washing-up duties. Rosie lay back, folding her arms behind her head. “Aidan covered for us, we’re getting to go to the Display Day, like we wanted – and now there’s the barbecue too. I think I must’ve died and gone to heaven!”

“It’s almost strange,” said Fliss, pushing her sunglasses up on to her forehead. “A whole week away and nothing’s gone wrong – it’s got to be a record. No teacher trouble, no hassle from the M&Ms – perfect!”

Now, I’m not usually superstitious – black cats can cross my path whenever they like (and I can’t even remember whether that’s supposed to be good luck or bad) – but right then something made me say, “Hey, be careful – famous last words! Hadn’t someone better touch wood?”

No one could be bothered to get up and run across to the nearest tree – not even me. But Lyndz, who was sitting next to me, looked at me in surprise. “C’mon Kenny – relax,” she said. “What could possibly go wrong now?”

I pulled at a few tufts of grass and then tossed them in the air, watching as they floated away on the breeze. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m being silly.” Nothing could go wrong – not now. Could it?

The next morning, our routine changed – we didn’t go down to the beach. Instead, everyone had to stay at the hostel and help
clean the bathrooms, the kitchen and the dining hall – which was a bit of a downer, I must admit. “What did they say this was supposed to do – help build our team spirit or something?” said Frankie as she scrubbed one of the basins.

“Couldn’t we just’ve had another game of rounders?” said Fliss, who was leaning so far into the bath she was cleaning, she looked like she was about to fall in.

The one good thing was that, with the whole class on the case, “Operation Mop” didn’t take long. By lunchtime, we were done and, as we all sat in the dining hall eating the sandwiches Bethany and Aidan had made for us, Mrs Daniels told us what the afternoon held in store.

“We’ve got the barbecue to look forward to this evening, of course,” she said – as if any of us would have forgotten! “But between now and then we’d like you to split up into groups and explore Rawnston a little. There are lots of
interesting things to see: a fine Norman church, the local museum, the library…”

“Sounds
thrilling
,” Frankie mumbled into her sandwich.

“No, it’ll be great,” whispered Fliss excitedly. “We can go shopping!”

“It’s very important that you stay in groups of at
least
three,” Mrs Daniels went on. “And no one is allowed to spend the afternoon on the beach – it’s far too dangerous when you are unsupervised. It is absolutely forbidden, understood?”

“Yes, Mrs Daniels,” we chorused.

“Good. Miss Walsh will now come round and hand out maps of Rawnston, as well as a little questionnaire I’ve devised, which I hope you’ll find enjoyable. If you answer the questions in order, they take you on a route round the town…”

“What’s the questionnaire like?” asked Lyndz after Miss Walsh had visited our table.

I found the right page and scanned down a few questions.

“How many gargoyles can you find on the outside of Rawnston church?” I read out. “What’s the oldest exhibit in Rawnston museum?” Next to each question there was a dotted line on which you were supposed to write the answer.

“Could be quite fun, I guess,” said Rosie.

“It’s a bit like a treasure hunt,” said Frankie. “Except without the treasure.”

Naturally, Fliss had to get changed before we set off. After what felt like about three hours’ umming and ahhing, she picked out a blue and white dress and blue flip-flops with sequins on. I reckon she wanted to impress the people in all the cool cafés and shops we’d seen from the coach when we first drove into Rawnston. She certainly didn’t seem that interested in Mrs Daniels’ questionnaire.

Rosie had taken charge of it. As we walked into the town centre, she squinted at the paper in the bright sunshine. “We’re supposed to start at the war memorial in the middle of Market Square.”

Fliss had other ideas. “Hey, check out this shop!” she said suddenly, grabbing Rosie’s elbow and dragging her down a side street. The rest of us followed.

It was a surfing shop. In the window there were loads of boards of different sizes, decorated with crazy squiggly writing and designs showing waves or stars or silhouettes of surfers. There were lots of clothes and accessories in the window too – baggy shorts, thick-soled flip-flops, different kinds of wetsuits, leashes and big patches to stick on your board to help you grip.

“Can we go in?” said Fliss. Though most of the clothes in the shop seemed to be for boys, she’d spotted a rack of stretchy dresses just inside the door.

“No…” Rosie murmured, trying to back away. “The sales assistants look scary.”

I could see what she meant. A boy and a girl who both looked about eighteen were leaning against the shop counter, staring at us. They had
identical blond, tangly hair and were both really tanned – you could tell they were surfers. They were wearing the same kind of clothes as Bethany and Aidan, but they didn’t look half so friendly.

“They just fancy themselves, that’s all,” I said. I recognised the look on their faces from my older sisters, Emma and Molly. They put on exactly the same sneery expression sometimes when they’re looking at me. Thing is, I know they’re not cool or trendy – they just think they are – so I tend to yell “Bumface!” at them and run away.

I wasn’t sure that was the best thing to do right now, however. And once Fliss had dragged her eyes away from the clothes and taken a proper look at the assistants, she didn’t seem so keen on going in, either. “Let’s see what other shops there are,” she muttered. “It looks expensive in there.”

It turned out that there were loads of other surfing shops – Rawnston was crawling with them. As soon as we spotted one where the assistants didn’t look like they wanted to eat us for lunch, we dived in.

“Wow – look at these dresses!” Frankie had found a rack of brightly coloured clingy things with spaghetti straps.

“They are
so
cool!” said Rosie.

“I like the hot pants,” said Fliss, holding a pair against her hips. “What do you think?”

Rosie sighed. “My mum would kill me if I bought anything like that.”

“Hmm.” Fliss looked down at the hot pants, then turned to face the mirror. “Mine too, probably. Spoilsport!”

Fliss put the hot pants back and bought a funky plastic ring and a load of jangly bangles instead. By this time we were hot and thirsty. Frankie spotted a café called Crush on the other side of the square.

The café looked majorly cool, but even I had to admit it was pretty intimidating. Loads of teenagers were sprawled around the tables outside, chatting and laughing and watching everyone who walked past.

“Uh – why don’t we follow the questionnaire
for a bit?” suggested Lyndz. “I guess we ought to fill in a few answers, just in case Mrs Daniels wants to check where we’ve been.”

“Good thinking,” said Frankie. “But first I’m going in there for a can of Coke.” She pointed to the café. “Who’s coming?”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, “Me,” I said firmly. No Rawnston versions of Emma and Molly were going to get the better of me! I straightened my Leicester City t-shirt, put my shoulders back and my nose in the air. Then Frankie and I marched into the café.

It’s a funny thing, when people try to make you feel small – have you noticed that it doesn’t work unless
you agree to it
? After all, who could make you feel bad just by looking at you? That would be a pretty major magic trick. No – for it to work, you have to join in. So all you have to do to
stop
it working is
not
join in, right?

Right. But it’s certainly easier said than done.

As Frankie and I walked side by side past all those lolling trendy types, I could feel their eyes
swivelling to follow us. Frankie was pretending we were having a conversation. “I fancy a Coke,” she said loudly – even though I knew that already. “What do you want, Kenny?”

“Er… uh…” I was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t have much spare brain left for speaking.

But in fact, once we got inside the café, things were loads better. There weren’t so many people, for a start – the customers were all catching the rays outside – and the woman behind the counter looked a bit like Rosie’s mum, which made me relax straight away.

“A can of Coke to go please,” said Frankie.

Two minutes later we’d rejoined the others on the far side of the square and I felt like I’d just climbed Mount Everest.

“Lead on, keeper of the questionnaire!” Frankie said to Rosie, taking a slurp from her can. “Where first?”

We looked at the war memorial and spent a while in the town museum – which had some
excellent photographs of old Rawnston football teams in funny shorts. Then we headed for the church to count the gargoyles.

“I make it thirteen,” said Lyndz, after she’d stumbled right round the building.

“Fourteen! Definitely fourteen!” said Fliss, who’d been round the other way.

Inside the church it was shadowy and cool, which was a relief after the heat outside. We spent a while reading the wall plaques and the tombs and looking at the stained glass windows.

“Excellent – they’ve got a Visitors’ Book!” said Lyndz. “We should all sign. And then we can come back in twenty years when we’re really crumbly and look at our signatures.”

“Brilliant idea!” said Frankie. “Let’s do it!”

We each signed our name in our best handwriting and wrote Cuddington Primary in the Address column. Rosie was the last to sign. “ Rosie… Maria… Cartwright,” she muttered as she bent over the book.