Pony Passion (9 page)

At the end the whole class cheered. “I think Laura and Francesca could get a job in a panto in Leicester next Christmas!” laughed Mrs Weaver.

“That was ace!” whispered Frankie, pulling off her horse mask and holding up her hand for high fives as we went back to our seats (we were going to change later so we wouldn’t miss any of the other presentations). “It’s in the bag, girls!”

But a minute later she didn’t look so sure. The M&Ms’ group was on next. Their subject was ‘Schools’ (“Trust them to choose the swottiest topic!” as Kenny had said). The trouble was, it was good. Emily Berryman was a strict schoolmaster, with a swishy cane and the most
enormous moustache you can imagine.

“Right, you horrible lot!” she snarled. “I am going to tell you about Victorian schools. And they were not places for having fun!”

Next came the group doing ‘Costume’, who’d worked out a puppet show as part of their presentation. “Botheration,” whispered Kenny behind me. “This one’s really good too!”

After that, Ryan Scott’s group did ‘Sports and Pastimes’, and Alana Palmer’s group finished up with ‘Animals’, which would’ve been OK except that Alana completely forgot her words in the middle and ran out of the classroom, her face bright red. Mrs Weaver had to go and fetch her to make her carry on.

To be honest, when the time came for Mrs Weaver to announce the winners, I don’t think any of us were feeling very confident.

“And the first prize goes to…” Mrs Weaver held up the gigantic tub of Roses. “…Emily’s team!”

Behind me, I heard Kenny and Frankie groan. The M&Ms, meanwhile, hugged each other as
if they were film stars, before going up to nab the chocolates.

“If they scoff that lot they’ll turn into the flabbiest spot-monsters ever!” whispered Rosie.

Meanwhile, Mrs Weaver was reaching for the Celebrations. “I am awarding the second prize,” she said, “for best entertainment value. And this goes to…Lyndsey’s group!”

Well, I did grin then, for the first time that day. Frankie went to fetch our prize, but when she came back she plonked the box on my desk. “Result!” she said, beaming at me.

“What d’you reckon ‘best entertainment value’ means?” asked Kenny a few minutes later when we were squashed with all the other girls in the cloakroom, trying to get changed.

“It means that ours was the best laugh,” said Rosie.

“And these are by far the best chocolates,” said Frankie, dipping her arm into the box for the umpteenth time. “Celebrations beat Roses any day! Yum!”

I was undoing Fliss’s hooks and eyes. “Well done, Lyndz,” she said over her shoulder. “Are you feeling better?”

“Better about what?” said Kenny. “Are you OK, Lyndz?”

“She had a horrid time at her riding lesson again yesterday,” Fliss explained.

“Hmm, bummer,” said Kenny sympathetically.

“And I told her the Sleepover Club would come to the rescue,” Fliss went on.

“Great idea!” said Frankie. “Don’t worry, Lyndz. We’ll all help.”

“We’ll take you in hand!” said Rosie.

“Look, it’s dead kind of you,” I said, tapping Fliss’s shoulder to let her know I’d finished on the hooks and eyes. “But there’s nothing you can do. Anyway…” I shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter that much. It’s no big deal.”

The others were quiet, pulling on socks and doing up buttons. I could tell they didn’t believe me.

“Hey, Lyndz!” yelled Tom from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s one of your weird friends on the phone!”

It was the next morning – the first morning of half-term – and I was fresh out of the shower. Hugging my towel around me, I stumped down the stairs, sticking out my tongue at Tom as I passed him.

“Lyndz?” said a familiar voice when I picked up the receiver. “It’s Fliss. Look, I know it’s short
notice, but can you come to a sleepover at mine tonight?”

“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I need something to look forward to. Let me just check with Mum.”

I think Mum was pleased to get the “wet weekend”, as she called me, off her hands. At any rate, she said I could go, and soon I was stuffing my overnight things into my bag and raiding the kitchen cupboard for any stray biscuits or crisps. Usually we make a bit of an effort with what we wear to sleepovers, but today, standing in front of my wardrobe, I just couldn’t get enthusiastic about anything. Eventually I grabbed a yellow T-shirt and sweatshirt, and my oldest, softest pair of jeans.

When Fliss opened her front door a few hours later I could tell she hadn’t had the same problem. She was wearing a pair of smart pink trousers I hadn’t seen before, and a pink spangly top. I was dreading her saying something disapproving about my jeans, but she just grinned and ushered me inside, saying, “Wait till
you hear, Lyndz! I’ve had the fabbest idea!”

In the sitting room I found Gwen Stefani going full blast on the CD player. Kenny was wailing along, doing all the actions from the new video, while Rosie and Frankie fell about laughing.

“What’s your idea, then?” I shouted at Fliss above the din.

“Hang on.” She went and turned the music down, to howls of protest from Kenny. Then, while the rest of us flopped on the floor, she grabbed a glossy magazine from the coffee table and flicked through it. The magazine was called Perfect Homes, Perfect Lives – the sort of thing that tells you how to decorate your home, as long as your home is an enormous mansion and you have pots of money.

Fliss found the right page and spread it open on the carpet.

“Look!” she said, pointing to a big advert that took up a whole page. “The Wentworth Equestrian Show.”

“What’s ‘equestrian’, when it’s at home?” asked
Kenny, peering at the picture, which showed a man on a horse sailing over a big jump.

“It means to do with horse-riding,” I said.

Fliss tapped the page. “It’s this coming Friday,” she said. “And I reckon we should all go. Club outing. To help you get your confidence back.”

I looked round at the others. Fliss must’ve told them about it before I arrived, because they were all grinning at me expectantly. “Er… that’s a really kind thought, Fliss,” I said. “But you’d hate it, you know. There’d be horses everywhere.”

“I realise that,” said Fliss primly. Then she smiled. “I think it’ll be a laugh. And Mum has said she can take us. Callum’s going to stay with a friend. It’s all arranged.”

“Wow.” I didn’t really know what to say. “Are you sure, guys? I’ll feel so guilty if you’re just going for me.”

“Are you kidding?” Kenny pointed at the magazine picture. “Fliss is going for those Zac Efrons on horseback, I guarantee it.”

“Don’t be stupid!” said Fliss. But she turned
pink as she said it, which gave the rest of us a major fit of the giggles.

The Wentworth Equestrian Show was being held in the Wentworth Arena, a big indoor sports stadium near Birmingham. Nikki, Fliss’s mum, drove us there in her new car, which was big enough to get the whole Sleepover Club in. It was dead swanky.

“It’s not going to be posh, this show, is it?” said Rosie, as we pulled into a service station for some petrol. “You don’t think we should’ve dressed up?” We were all wearing jeans and trainers.

“It’s horse racing people dress up for,” said Fliss. “Like Ascot and stuff. Isn’t that right, Lyndz?”

“I think so,” I said. “No one looks smart at our stables, anyhow. It’s far too muddy.”

The Arena turned out to be massive, with lots of different entrances and exits, and it took us ages to find the door that was marked on our tickets.

“Hey, they do pop concerts here!” said Frankie, looking at some posters as we queued to get in. “We should come and see Will Young sometime!”

“Nooo, Justin Timberlake!” chorused Fliss and Rosie.

“Not so loud, you’ll give me a headache,” said Nikki, frowning. “And keep together, girls. I don’t want to lose anyone.”

When we finally got to our seats we found we were quite high up, so we had a really good view. The programme said there was going to be a junior ‘show’ class and a junior jumping competition, and then later on there’d be adult show jumping.

“I want to see someone go splosh in the water,” said Kenny, reading the programme over my shoulder. “I remember seeing it on the telly once: the horse stopped in front of the jump and just tipped its rider in. It was so funny!”

I shivered. Even the idea of falling off gave me the wobbles these days. But I just said,
“You only get water-jumps on cross-country courses. Not indoors.”

“Oh, swizz,” said Kenny cheerfully.

When the junior show class started, I could tell Kenny was a bit bored. “So… what’s the point of this bit?” she whispered to me. “Are they going to do something soon?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer. To my amazement, Fliss jumped in. “What do you mean, what’s the point?” she hissed. “Have you seen the totally brilliant way number 51’s done her hair? Look, the ribbon weaves right through her plait, it’s so cool… Hey, Lyndz – can you do that for me when we get home?”

“Um, I can try,” I said.

Kenny was happier when the jumping competition started – probably because she was hoping someone would fall off.

“I’m sticking up for number 24,” declared Frankie. “She looks like me.”

Number 24 was a girl with dark hair. You couldn’t tell much else as we were sitting so high up.

But there was no stopping Frankie. When the girl finished her round she jumped to her feet and yelled, “Yeah! We love you, 24!”

“Oh no,” muttered Fliss into her programme. “We’re not with her, OK?”

I giggled. I was really chuffed my friends were having fun – I’d been worried that they’d hate it and I’d get the blame.

When the junior jumping was finished (the dark-haired girl didn’t win a prize, much to Frankie’s disgust) there was a long interval while they set up the big jumps for the grown-ups, so we headed off to find some food.

“Keep together, girls, won’t you?” said Nikki, who was staying with our coats (Fliss told us afterwards she was on a diet). “And be back here by…”she looked at her smart gold wristwatch, “…say, three o’clock?”

This gave us more than half an hour to explore the stalls selling food and clothes and magazines that’d been set up outside the main arena. Frankie and Fliss wanted to try on
everything from ranger’s hats to stripy wellies and waxed jackets, but Kenny insisted on food first. I was glad, because my tummy was rumbling. We found a booth selling hot baked potatoes and sat down on some ornamental straw bales to eat them.

“Well…” said Frankie, with a mouth half full of potato and grated cheese, “what’s it feel like, Lyndz? Knowing that one day we’ll be here watching you?”

“Hey, yeah!” said Rosie. “That would be amazing! We’d cheer you over every jump!”

I smiled and shook my head. “Won’t happen,” I said.

“Seriously, though,” said Rosie, “how’re you feeling, Lyndz?”

“Is it working, do you think?” asked Fliss. “Are you feeling any better?”

Kenny nudged me. “You must admit – it’s pretty fab, right? Even I think so and I’m not into all this horsey stuff.”

I knew my friends were trying hard – I knew it
was for my sake, too. But I just couldn’t bear any more. I said, “No, it’s not fab! I mean, today’s wonderful, and I’m really glad I came, but…” I stared down into my baked potato, feeling all their eyes on me, “…but please stop asking if I feel better. I just don’t. And I won’t.”

“Come on,” said Rosie. “Don’t give up so easily.”

“I’ve tried my best!” I shouted, raising my head at last. “I’m never going to ride again and that’s that. Do you understand? Finished!” I stuffed my polystyrene potato carton into the overflowing bin next to me and stood up. “Now can we just forget it and enjoy the rest of the show?”

The journey back in the car was pretty miz. Nikki knew something was wrong – I guess she just thought we’d had a quarrel. She kept chirping on brightly about what an interesting day it’d been, as if she wanted us to start chatting about it. No one did.

Because I live outside Cuddington, I was the
first to be dropped off. The others all got out and gave me a hug, which was dead sweet of them considering how grumpy I’d been. “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” I said to Rosie, who was the last to get back into the car.

“You’d better,” she said, and grinned.