Pony Passion Page 4

  “What’s that?”

  “It was tucked inside Emily Berryman’s exercise book.”

  I grabbed it and examined it carefully. I was expecting to see something top secret. No such luck. It was just some notes from the lesson we’d done on food and digestion.

  “Science notes?” I said. “So?”

  Kenny grinned. “Top quality McKenzie plan.”

  “Are you going to tell us or what?”

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise. It’ll be wicked.”

  “OK, mystery queen, have it your own way,” said Frankie. “See if we care!”

  But we did care, of course. We were bursting with curiosity.

  In the next lesson, we were due to start work on our projects. That meant the Sleepover Club sitting round a desk, with a pile of books from the school library in the middle. Frankie got out her new best pen. It had neon pink feathers stuck on the end, which wafted as she wrote.

  “So,” she began, underlining the word ‘Project’ at the top of a clean sheet of paper. “Any ideas?”

  “I want to do something about the mines,” I said. “And how awful it was to make ponies work in those places.”

  “Never mind the ponies, what about the people?” said Kenny. “They had to crawl through tunnels, dragging carts, or hacking at the coal all day every day. How hideous is that?”

  “Eeuch! Why do we have to think about the miserable stuff?” said Fliss. “I want to do something about the posh houses and those ladies in beautiful dresses…”

  “Wait up a second,” interrupted Frankie. “We’ve already got our subject, remember? Transport. So mines are out, and swanky dresses are out too, I’m afraid.”

  In the disappointed silence that followed, all my guilty feelings came flooding back.

  But Frankie sounded cheerful. “Let’s have a campaign plan. We need to know what we’re looking for in these books, right?” We nodded. “So…” she said, her pen poised, “what are exciting things to do with transport?”

  “Racing cars!” said Kenny.

  “Spaceships!” said Rosie.

  “Enormous limousines, like film stars travel in,” suggested Fliss.

  “Hmm,” said Frankie, tapping her pen on her cheek. “I’m not sure how many of those things were around in Victorian times.”

  A few moments later, we had a different list. “Right,” said Frankie, scanning down it. “You look at trains, Kenny, and I’ll see if I can find anything on trams. Rosie and Fliss, you look for books on bicycles and carriages and things. And of course, Lyndz, you’re horses.”

  I found a chapter in a book called Working Horses, and had my nose well stuck into it when I heard Fliss say, “Kenny, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, just practising my handwriting,” Kenny said breezily. A few moments later she stood up saying she wanted to look for another book, and headed for the shelves on the far wall. On her way back, I saw her slip a piece of paper under the edge of Ryan Scott’s pencil case, with half of it left peeking out so he’d be sure to spot it.

  It took Ryan a few minutes to notice the paper. But when he did, he read it and snorted with laughter. Then he turned round and looked at someone. It was odd. I could’ve sworn he looked straight at the M&Ms.

  “I just have to go to the staff room for a moment,” said Mrs Weaver. “Carry on working, everyone. Quietly.”

  By this time Danny McCloud, who sits next to Ryan, was desperate to know what the note said. He grabbed it off Ryan and read it quickly, and then started making terrible strangulated sicky noises and pulling really disgusting faces.

  This, of course, drew the attention of half the rest of the class. Soon the note was travelling round at lightning speed, causing muffled squeaks and snorts.

  “Kenny, what on earth does it say?”

  “It says, ‘Emma H. fancies Fog-brain’,” said Kenny. ‘Fog-brain’ is the class nickname for Danny McCloud (cloud – fog, get it?). “But the best thing is, it says it in the Goblin’s writing.”

  “How come?” How could Kenny have made Emily write what she wanted? Then it struck me. “Duh! All that writing practising you were doing!”

  “I nicked that page of notes so I could copy how she writes, see?” said Kenny, grinning from ear to ear at her achievement. “Am I or am I not a total genius?”

  “Total!” laughed Rosie.

  “Way to go, girl!” said Frankie.

  I flapped my hands. “Shh! Don’t look too pleased or they’ll work out who did it.”

  Immediately, Kenny wiped the smile off her face and got back to her book, sneaking glances every so often from under her hair.

  For now the M&Ms didn’t have a clue what was going on. But they would find out soon. I watched the progress of the note round the room. Soon it reached us.

  “Look like you don’t know what it says!” instructed Frankie, and we all huddled round it, nudging each other and giggling.

  At long last I saw Regina Hill push the note on to Emily Berryman’s desk.

  “Nooo!” breathed Kenny, watching. “Don’t give it to Emily! She’ll hide it. Oh, botheration.”

  The Goblin unfolded it. All of a sudden she went deathly pale and then, the next moment, bright red. She turned the note over and back again, looking confused. Then Emma Hughes leant across, and asked what it was. Emily tried to hide the note, and there was a short hissed argument. Then Emma grabbed the note and read it.

  “What?” we heard her splutter. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t write it,” Emily protested.

  “Don’t even try to pretend,” snapped Emma. “It’s your writing! Look – it’s got those pathetic little hearts you draw on your ‘i’s!” Emma waved the note under Emily’s nose. Then she hissed, “I told you it was a secret.”

  “Omigosh!” gasped Kenny, her eyes widening. “Don’t tell me she really does fancy Danny!”

  Well, it turned into the biggest row between the M&Ms any of us had ever seen. Emma told Emily she was a “traitor” and “the sneakiest blabbermouth ever”, while Emily shouted back that Emma was fat and spotty and she’d never liked her anyway. Meanwhile, half the class clapped and cheered, while the other half chanted, “Emma fancies Daa-nny! Emma fancies Daa-nny!”

  None of us noticed when Mrs Weaver walked back into the room.

  “RIGHT!” she thundered, slamming a pile of books on to her desk. “I’ve had just about ENOUGH of this class!”

  “Oh no,” groaned Kenny. “Now we’re really for it.”

  I guess, after all the stuff at the library, Mrs Weaver was never going to let us off lightly.

  “But that was harsh,” said Frankie later that afternoon, when we were in the cloakroom getting ready to go home. “I mean, detention! For the entire lunchbreak! Bummer or what?”

  “And why did she have to make us write out spellings?” said Rosie. “Torture!”

  “But hey,” whispered Kenny, flapping her coat to get the sleeve the right way out. “You have to admit – it was worth it, right?”

  “Totally,” nodded Frankie. Fliss, who hates getting into trouble with the teachers more than she hates heavy metal music (and that’s a lot), didn’t look so sure.

  For my part, I was well pleased that the Sleepover Club – thanks to Captain Kenny – had got its super-cool revenge on the M&Ms. On the way home, though, it occurred to me: in all the excitement, we’d hardly made any progress on our projects. I was prepared to bet my best riding boots that the M&Ms hadn’t got very far either, considering how they still weren’t talking to each other. But I didn’t want to take any chances.

  That night I made a decision. I, Lyndsey Collins, had dumped the worst, most boring project topic on my friends. So I was going to be the one to get us out of the mess. Yes – I was going to have a mega-fantastic idea.

  It turned out that that was the easy bit. Deciding to have a great idea is one thing. Actually having one… well, I spent most of the next week discovering that that’s something else entirely.r />
  At least, now that I wasn’t heading off to the stables most days after school, I had plenty of time to think about it. I scoured our house for books that might help. Dad, being an Art teacher, had a couple about Victorian paintings, but that was it.

  “Tom?” I poked my head round my brother’s door. “Got any books on the Victorians?”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” His eyes were glued to his computer screen. He didn’t even turn his head. Brothers! Useless, huh?

  I tried sitting and thinking, but my baby brother Spike was having a screaming fit and Ben was grizzling, just to join in, so it was no use at all.

  “Lyndsey, if you’ve got nothing to do…” began Mum.

  I know that hassled look of hers. She was about to give me a heap of washing or ironing or cleaning or something equally awful, so I said, “I’m thinking, actually. It’s my homework,” and dashed out into the garden.

  I stumped across to my dad’s workshop (really more like a shed), and found him inside, up to his elbows in clay, making another of his weird lumpy pots.

  He didn’t seem to mind me being there, so I fiddled around for a while, looking at his paints and brushes. There were some enormous cardboard boxes left over from when he’d bought a new lawnmower and a DIY workbench. I even climbed into one of them and sat in it for a while. And that’s when I had it: my brilliant idea.

  Do you ever forget what day it is? The next morning, when I hadn’t properly woken up yet and my brain was still fuzzy with sleep, I was sure it was a school day.

  And then I remembered it was Saturday – which was cool.

  But then I remembered it was the day of the gymkhana – which was not cool.

  And then I remembered it was also the day of Frankie’s sleepover. Which was majorly, fantastically awesome. And that I’d got my fab idea to tell everyone about. Which was even better.

  Honestly, before I even got out of bed, my mood had gone up and down like a yo-yo!

  Mum drove me to Frankie’s after lunch. We passed a load of horseboxes coming the other way, heading for McAllister’s stables. That was a nightmare – just thinking about Bramble and how I could have been tacking her up for the gymkhana right now made my chin go all trembly.

  But as soon as Frankie flung open her front door, saw the monster bag of marshmallows I was clutching, and squealed, “Here she is! The marshmallow queen! Are we glad to see you!”, I felt a load better. Sleepovers rule, as Kenny would say!

  In the sitting room, I found Kenny, Rosie and Fliss sprawled on the carpet. Fliss had her bag open and was unpacking enough Hannah Montana dvds for about nine sleepovers.

  “We don’t have to watch them all,” she said, stacking them up in a pile. “But I thought we should have a choice.”

  “Well, I reckon we’ve got enough sweets to get us through a TV marathon,” said Rosie. It was true. There was a major heap of Minstrels, Liquorice All-Sorts, Jelly Babies and Toffee Popcorn, even without my marshmallows.

  “And we’ve got to make the bracelets!” said Frankie, holding up a big clear plastic bag that sparkled and twinkled in the light. The beads were loads of different colours – deep reds and purples and blues, gold and silver (Frankie’s fave colour – no wonder she was so pleased), plus delicate pinks and apple greens and lilacs.

  “Wow! They are beautiful!” breathed Fliss. Even Kenny looked impressed.

  “Before we start the fun stuff,” I said, “can I tell you something?”

  Instantly my friends looked at me eagerly. “Is it juicy gossip?” asked Frankie.

  “’Fraid not,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve had an idea for our presentation.”

  “Glad somebody has!” said Kenny. “cos I was getting nowhere.”

  “Me neither,” said Rosie. “Tell us then, Lyndz.”

  “Well…” Suddenly, with them all looking at me, I wondered whether it was such a good idea after all. But I ploughed on. “…My dad’s got these giant bits of cardboard, you see, so I thought we could make big cardboard cut-outs of things. Like a train, and a horse, and one of those old-fashioned bicycles – you, know, the really tall ones…”

  “Penny farthings,” said Frankie.

  “That’s it.” I nodded. “And one of us could stand on a chair and hold the picture below them to make it look like they’re riding the bike. Someone at the back could hold up the train, and make it go along. And then instead of just giving speeches or whatever we were going to do, we could make it into a little scene. Say, a posh lady comes along in a carriage and meets the man on the bicycle, and they have a chat about these new things called trains…”

  “Bagsy I’m the posh lady!” said Fliss. “I’ve got a long dress and everything!”

  Frankie gasped. “You know what the best thing would be?” she said. “Two of us should be the horse that’s pulling the carriage – the front end and the back end, like in a Christmas panto! It’d be hilarious!”

  “You and me!” yelled Kenny, grabbing Frankie and scrambling to her feet. Frankie bent over, and held Kenny round the waist. Kenny put her hands up as ears and pawed the ground with her foot, and they set off galloping round the room.

  Suddenly Frankie broke away, holding her nose. “Hey, Kenny, did you parp?”

  “Baked beans for lunch – sorry,” said Kenny sheepishly while the rest of us roared with laughter.

  “You’re definitely the back end next time,” said Frankie, flopping down on the carpet.

  “That is a seriously cool idea, Lyndz,” said Rosie.

  “It’s top,” agreed Kenny. “But where are we going to get a horse costume?”

  “Make it?” I suggested. “Brown tights, brown T-shirts – we could get some wool for the tail.”

  “And we could make a mask for the face,” added Rosie.

  “Wicked,” said Kenny. “Chuck us the popcorn, someone – I’ve worked up an appetite here.”

  I grabbed the bag and tossed it to Kenny. I was so chuffed that my friends liked my idea, I felt like boogying round the room!

  As it turned out, a chance for that came soon enough. Frankie brought in some juice and we all slurped and munched our way through two episodes of Hannah Montana. We made a rule that every time the theme music came on, we had to dance around and pretend we’re famous popstars.

  After that we were pretty exhausted (not to mention a bit queasy from the sweets-and-juice-and-bopping combination), so Frankie fetched needles and thread and we got down to making the bracelets. I was doing one for Kenny. “Can you make it in Leicester City colours?” she asked.

  “You’ll be lucky to have any colours at this rate,” I said. It was pretty tricky with my arm in plaster. In the end, Rosie had to do half of it for me.

  After that we had the ceremonial trying-on of the bracelets. Kenny had made Frankie’s too small, but Rosie – who has smaller hands – offered to swap, so it was fine. Then we plunged into the marshmallows and gorged ourselves on pink and white squish until it was time to get into our pyjamas.

  “Look!” giggled Kenny, who’d shut her eyes and was somehow managing to grip a marshmallow in each eye socket. “I am the marshmallow monster! Aaarrrgh!”

  If it hadn’t been so hilarious it would’ve been dead scary. We laughed so much that I got a major attack of the hiccups and Rosie’s Coke came out of her nose.

  “Ach! That hurts!” she said, shaking her head.

  At that moment Frankie’s dad put his head round the door. “Er…I’m not even going to ask,” he said, looking round at the mess and our flushed faces. “Teeth cleaning then lights out, you rowdy rabble!”

  Soon we were snuggled down in our sleeping bags. We switched on our torches and talked for a while about how cool it’d be if we were in a pop video with Hannah – with Zac Efron making a guest appearance! Then Frankie’s mum insisted it was torches-off time. It was hard to get comfy with my plaster cast, and I thought I was never going to get to sleep. As I lay there blinking into the dark, I suddenly realised I’d hardly thoug
ht about the gymkhana all day. Now it was over. And I started wondering who had winner’s rosettes on their bedroom wall tonight…

  “Lyndsey, there you are!” said Mrs McAllister, striding towards me across the yard. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s your turn on the jumps course. Now! Hurry, hurry!”

  Bramble was beside me, all tacked up and ready to go. The yard was crowded with riders and ponies, and ahead I could see lots of people milling around the edges of the field. I led Bramble across the yard. Then I put my foot in the stirrup and quickly swung myself up into the saddle.

  It was only then that a cold feeling crept over me. The field, I could see, was dotted with fences made out of wooden poles, straw bales and old tyres. “Bramble!” I whispered. “This can’t be right. We’re not entered in the jumps, are we?”

  All about me, unfamiliar faces were staring. “But I’ve never jumped proper fences,” I wanted to say. I hadn’t even walked round the course. What order were you supposed to take the jumps in? How on earth were we going to do it?

  “Number five: Lyndsey Collins,” came the voice over the tannoy.

  I had to say something. I had to tell them that I couldn’t do it. But Bramble seemed to have other ideas. She was trotting forward of her own accord.

  What do I know about jumping? I thought desperately. Approach in a straight line. Lean forward from the hips – but not too soon. Keep your back straight…oh help!

  We were coming up to the first jump. Somehow it had grown. Instead of a few bales of straw I saw a looming green bank, like something out of the Grand National. We didn’t have a hope.

  But Bramble was heading straight for it. “Wait, Bramble! Whoa!” I kept saying, but somehow the reins had slipped from my hands and there was nothing I could do. I grabbed hold of her mane. Now she was taking off, and jumping higher and higher…

  …and suddenly I was out of the saddle and falling. The world was spinning around me in a sickening blur. I didn’t know where the ground was, or how soon I would hit it.

  And, in the distance, I heard Mrs McAllister screaming, “Lyndsey, Lyndsey! No!”