Wedding Belles (3 page)

I look at her now. “It’s the changing rooms, Annabelle. I’m about to get changed. Just let me past.”

Her eyes narrow. “There’s no hockey practice this afternoon. So what exactly are you getting changed for?”

Despite my determination not to let Annabelle get to me, I gulp. When she’s in full interrogation mode, she’s pretty scary.

“I’m joining the All Saints,” I say, trying not to let my voice quiver.

“What? Says who?”

“Miss Mallard. I’m taking Nora-May’s place until her ankle’s better.”

“Over my dead body. Sophie, Nina, don’t let Green in the door until I’ve spoken to the Duck.” Annabelle pushes past me rudely and stomps off to find the coach. I wonder if she calls Miss Mallard “the Duck” to her face? I doubt it. No one messes with Miss Mallard, not even Annabelle.

“Come on, this is ridiculous,” I say to Sophie and Nina. “I’m actually doing you lot a favor. Without me you won’t be able to do your precious Full-up Liberty at the Nationals.”

“She has a point,” Sophie says.

“No way. Look at the state of her,” Nina says, as if I’m not there. “She’s a squirt for starters.”

“I am not a squirt,” I say indignantly. OK, so I’m on the short side, but that’s so unfair.

“She’s hopeless at gym too,” Nina continues, ignoring me. “And she doesn’t have the right
look
to be a cheerleader.” Her eyes rest on my rather flat chest and then dip to my average-size waist. “We do have standards, you know.”

I’m determined not to let her get to me. “You’re not in a position to be picky, Nina. I don’t see girls exactly lining up to join the squad. Probably because they’re afraid of all your body-police rubbish. I’m normal, get it? Normal weight, normal boobs, normal pimply teen skin. Get over yourself. And I’m joining your stupid All Saints whether you like it or not, so deal with it.”

Sophie sighs. “Just let her get changed, Nina.”

Nina stares at her. “Whose side are you on, Pig-face? You heard Annabelle. And I have a question, Green. If being an All Saint is so stupid, why do you want to join in the first place? Answer that.”

“Because she’s my best friend and she knows how important Nationals are to me,” Mills says, appearing behind me. “And for your information, I am now head cheerleader, which means I get to order you two around for a change.”

“What about Annabelle?” Sophie asks.

“Miss Mallard said it would be healthier to have two head cheerleaders,” Mills explains. “She sent me in to tell you all to get a move on. We’ll never win Nationals at this rate. We need to practice until we can do our routines in our sleep. Amy, why aren’t you changed?”

“Ask your subordinates, Head Cheer,” I say.

“Your
what
?” Nina snaps.

I smile at her. “Look it up. Now, are you going to step away from the door, ladies? You heard Mills — we’ll never be winners unless we practice. Chop-chop!”

After glowering at me for a long moment, they both march out to join Annabelle.

“Is winding up the D4s a sport?” I ask Mills as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Because we’d so make the Olympics if it was.”

She laughs uneasily. “There’s three of them and only two of us. Remember that.”

“Excellent odds,” I say with a grin. “Bring it on.”

Mills groans. “Why am I beginning to think your joining the squad wasn’t such a great idea?”

As soon as I get home that night, I fling my bag and jacket on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and dash up to my room to ring Clover in private.

“Yello? It’s the hostess with the mostess, Miss Clover Wildgust,” Clover says like she’s presenting a cheesy game show.

“Clover, thank goodness you’re there. SOS!”

“What’s up, Beanie?”

“To cut a long story short, I’ve joined the All Saints to cover Mills’s back — the D4s are trying to injure her — and I have to cheer at a game on Sunday. I’m going to make such a fool of myself. Joining the squad was such a dumb idea. What was I thinking? I had my first practice today and I’ve already forgotten all of the chants and motions.”
Motions
are special cheerleading arm movements, and there are masses of them. Who knew cheering could be so complicated?

“Saving a friend from D4 bullying is never dumb, Bean Machine,” Clover says. “And I may be able to help. I’ll be at your place in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Find something we can use as pom-poms, Beans, old girl — Evie’s cuddly toys or something. We’re going to do some righteous shake-shake-shaking.” She starts singing an old song about shaking your booty and then puts the phone down before I get the chance to tell her about Miss Mallard’s no-pom-pom policy.

Clover is full of energy when she arrives. She bounces into my room like a fully sugared-up toddler. She’s wearing a white Juicy tracksuit and pink-and-yellow Nike high-tops.

“Little Miss Fix-it at your service,” she says, doing jazz hands. “Ta-da! Now, tell me about your cheer fear. I’m all ears. Shoot.”

“I had no idea how complex cheering would be. I thought it was just waving a few pom-poms around. But the All Saints don’t even use pom-poms anymore. Miss Mallard hates them, apparently.”

“Really? They certainly used pom-poms in my day. Well, Beanie, I guess we have some practicing to do. Fire up your computer. There are bound to be some cheerleading demonstrations on YouTube.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because I have the superior brain, Bean Machine.”

I type
CHEERLEADING DEMONSTRATIONS
into YouTube and dozens of videos come up, including one that’s a step-by-step guide to a successful Full-up Liberty. We watch some of the clips. The best one is of an American professional cheerleading squad called the Boston Twirlers doing a Double Full-up Liberty. It’s really impressive! The Boston Twirlers have also put together some great guides on how to do arm motions, demonstrated by a girl who looks freakily like Nora-May from school.

“Lesson number one,” the girl says. “Perfect your punch. You have to punch out each arm motion, like this —
bam!
” She whips her arm out. “So . . . this is the High V, the T, the Broken T, Daggers . . .”

Clover and I follow along, punching our arms as instructed.

“Hey, this is fun, Beanie,” Clover says after we’ve been practicing along to the clips for a while. “Beats the gym any day.”

“You hate the gym, Clover. You never go.”

“Another hour of this and I won’t need to go, ever. My upper arms will be supertoned. Yay to cheering.”

My aunt really is crazier than crazy golf.

“I’m getting bad vibes from this place, Amy,” Brains says as we approach the posh Royal Dublin Society Building in Ballsbridge, where the Bridal Heaven Wedding Fair is being held. Mum was supposed to come with us, but Dave, who is a nurse at Saint Vincent’s Hospital, had to fill in for someone at work at the last minute, so she’s stuck at home with the babies. It’s probably best she didn’t come. She would have been more freaked out than Brains by this place.

The railings of the Royal Dublin Society are alive with Barbie pink and white balloons, and there’s a matching balloon walkway leading from the gates to the main door, complete with a red carpet. To the right of the doorway, under a small white canopy, a string quartet is playing classical music, and on either side of the entrance are two men, each holding a bow and arrow and wearing what look like giant white diapers. They’ve been sprayed with gold paint from head to toe, and although they’re smiling, their jaws are firmly clenched. It’s March, so not exactly beach weather, and they must be absolutely freezing.

“Poor dudes,” Brains says. “They’ll be icicles by sundown. And what’s with the bows and arrows?”

“I think they’re supposed to be Cupids,” I say. “You know, shooting arrows of love.”

Brains sings a snatch of an old song called “Stupid Cupid” under his breath.

The quartet suddenly starts playing “Here Comes the Bride,” and Brains stops singing. “Amy, I can’t do this,” he says, his eyes darting around like he’s looking for an escape route. “I’m all for marriage, but this place is smushville. I have to skedaddle. I’ve got an urgent band meeting that plain slipped my mind before. Tell Clover —”

“Tell Clover what?” Clover asks, appearing beside us. She’s been parking the car. She slips her arm into his. “Not thinking of running off on me, were you, babes?” She kisses him firmly on the lips. When she pulls away, Brains is beaming at her like she’s a Disney princess. From the very first day they met over a broken printer — he was the computer guy at the
Goss
magazine before his band, the Golden Lions, took off — he’s been crazy about Clover.

“No way, José, girlfriend,” he says. “You want me, you got me. Even in this spooky pink palace.”

She pats his arm. “Good-o, spiffing, and all that, what?” she says, like a posh actor from a Second World War movie. “I have plans for you, Sir Lancelot. I need you to be Dave for the day. We need to get his groom’s outfit settled. But first, the VIP reception. This a-way. Tally-ho.” Saffy — Clover’s editor on the
Goss
— has asked Clover to cover this VIP bash for a friend of hers who edits a magazine called
Irish Bride
.

Clover pulls Brains toward a smaller doorway to the left of the main entrance. It’s also framed by an arch of balloons, white and silver ones this time. I catch up with them and throw Brains a sympathetic look. He just shrugs and smiles. He’d do anything for Clover.

“Do keep up, Beanie, old girl,” Clover says. “The nibbles will be all wolfed down by starving wedding-dress models unless we hurry. I think most of them exist on canapés, and olives from vodka martinis.”

As we make our way into a big hallway with a marble floor like a checkerboard, a girl not much older than Clover, wearing a very short black skirt and ultra-high high heels, waves a clipboard in our faces.

“I’m afraid this is a private function,” she trills, giving Clover the once-over. Clover’s wearing silver shorts, red tights, and black biker boots. She looks amazing, as always, but this girl clearly doesn’t think she is dressed well enough for a high-class journalists’ do. She isn’t impressed by my outfit either. Her eyes dismiss my jeans and black-and-white stripy sweater in a second. But they linger over Brains’s Afro and black-rimmed geek glasses. He may have an unusual style, but he’s very handsome.

She turns back to Clover and physically winces as if she has only just caught sight of the pink stripe in Clover’s white-blond hair. This girl is really rude! Clover doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered, though. She shimmies around her so she can read the clipboard and then points at the top of the list. “We’re right there — ‘Clover Wildgust and guests,
Irish Bride
.’”

“
Irish Bride
? You seriously expect me to believe you’re from
Irish Bride
? Where are your invitations, then?”

“In one of my editor’s many handbags,” Clover explains. “She couldn’t find them, but she rang your office to change the name on the invite list. I didn’t think it would be such a problem.”

The girl smiles nastily. “If you’re from
Irish Bride
, then I’m Lady Gaga. I’m sorry, but as I said, it’s a private party. You’ll have to leave.”

Brains and I exchange looks. “It’s no biggie, babes,” he says. “It’ll probably be boring anyway. Let’s vamoose.”

“It
is
a big deal. I told Saffy I’d make some business contacts for the
Irish Bride
advertising department. Hettie, the editor, is her best friend, and Saffy’s taking her away to a spa this weekend for her birthday. I promised I’d cover this. And it’s all good experience for the future.”

“Why don’t you show Miss Clipboard your driver’s license?” I suggest. “Prove who you are.”

“Genius, Beanie,” Clover says, taking her wallet out of her handbag. She holds the license out to the girl.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Wildgust,” the girl says after reading the name on it. “It’s just you all seem so young. Students are always trying to gate-crash our parties for the free drink. I’m sure you understand why I have to be cautious. I’m just doing my job.”

“And I’m just doing mine,” Clover says. “Can we go in now?”

“Yes, of course,” says the girl. “Up the stairs and to the right. And please accept my apology. If there is any way you could forget about the whole misunderstanding, I’d be very grateful.”

Clover smiles. “Don’t worry, I don’t tell tales out of school. I’m not that kind of gal.” And holding her head high, she sashays past the girl. “Come on, troops, the canapés are calling.”

“Love your work, Gaga.” Brains gives the girl a parting wink, then hooks Clover’s arm and starts belting out Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory,” his deep voice rebounding off the walls and filling the hall.

As Brains predicted, the reception is deathly boring: tall, skinny models wafting around the room in slinky wedding dresses (they probably banned the meringue kind in case they got stuck in the doorways), women in expensive-looking wrap dresses pretending to talk to each other but really checking to see if there is anyone more interesting in the room over their “friend’s” shoulder. The canapés are spectacular, though. There are tiny poached eggs on toast (I nearly gag when Brains tells me they are quail eggs — after I’ve eaten at least three), smoked salmon blinis with tiny black dots of caviar (which I scrape off with my finger — no way am I eating fish eggs, even posh fish eggs), and my favorite — baked mini Camembert cheeses, still in their boxes, which come complete with bread sticks the size of my baby sister Evie’s fingers to dip into the warm, squidgy insides. On Clover’s instruction, I’m taking notes for Mum’s wedding, so I jot down, “Mini Camembert boxes with teeny-weeny bread sticks, but no quail eggs!” under “Canapé Ideas.”