tion id="u012ebd3c-8b35-55df-b8c0-65b017e7c42a">
by Narinder Dhami Contents
Have you been Invited to all these Sleepovers?
Hey, you! Hi again, it’s me, Frankie. Otherwise known as Francesca Thomas. Remember me? You’d better, or I’ll set Kenny on to you! We haven’t talked for ages, but I’ve got a really cool story to tell you, all about sleepovers and saris and bindis and bangles and Diwali – well, why don’t I just get on with it instead of rabbiting about it. So, there we all were back at school after half-term, and feeling pretty miserable about it too. What do you mean, you don’t know who we are? ’Course you do! There’s Kenny (or Laura McKenzie to the teachers), Fliss (she used to be Fliss Sidebotham until her mum got married again – now she’s Fliss Proudlove. Fliss hated Sidebotham and now Proudlove makes her want to puke), Lyndz (the Hiccup Queen), Rosie and me. Yep, we’re the Sleepover Club, remember? We’re famous for sleeping over at each other’s houses every weekend (and getting into loads of trouble at the same time, my mum says. What a cheek). “School stinks!” Kenny moaned as she hurled her bag on to our table, just missing Fliss’s nose. “I wish we were still on holiday.” “Oh, it’s not so bad,” Lyndz said. “At least it’s Bonfire Night next week.” Lyndz always looks on the bright side. “Yeah, cool!” Kenny cheered up straight away. “I’m gonna get loads of bangers!” Fliss groaned. She hates loud noises, spooky happenings and things that go bump in the night. “No, Kenny! I hate bangers!” “Anyway, you say that every Bonfire Night, Kenny,” I pointed out, “and your dad never buys you any!” “Is everyone coming to the fireworks display at school this year?” Lyndz asked. We all nodded enthusiastically. “My mum said I can bring some sparklers,” Rosie added and Kenny pulled a gruesome face. “Sparklers are for wimps!” she snorted. But I knew that when it was Bonfire Night next week, Kenny would be there waving her sparkler around, along with the rest of us. “My mum’s going into Leicester to buy some really expensive fireworks this weekend,” said a snooty voice behind us. We all groaned. It was the M&Ms, our total enemies. “Sick-bag time!” Kenny said loudly, pretending to throw up into Fliss’s bag. “Urrgh!” “Oh, you’re so gross, Laura McKenzie!” Emma Hughes sniffed, and Emily Berryman nodded in agreement. You remember the M&Ms, don’t you? Emma Hughes is the snobbiest, most stuck-up person in the whole world. We call Emma Hughes the Queen, because if the real Queen came to visit our school and met Emma, Emma would expect her to curtsey. And we call Emily Berryman the Goblin because she’s small and weedy with this really deep voice. Put a hat and a long white beard on her and she’d be a dead ringer for a garden gnome! “We’re having a private conversation actually!” the Goblin growled, glaring at us. “Sure, carry right on,” Kenny said airily. The Queen and the Goblin swept past us with their noses in the air, and Kenny immediately tiptoed across the classroom after them. The rest of us bit our lips to stop ourselves giggling. The M&Ms didn’t have a clue that Kenny was right behind them, breathing down their necks, until Emma happened to glance round – and nearly jumped right out of her skin. “What do you think you’re doing!” she snapped, as the rest of us fell about laughing. “Nothing,” Kenny said innocently, and then scuttled back over to us as our teacher, Mrs Weaver, came into the classroom. Mrs Weaver’s OK, but she doesn’t miss much. That means, if you want to mess about, you’ve got to be careful! Mrs Weaver got us all sitting down and then took the register. “Now,” she said as she closed it, “I want to talk to you about our fireworks display next week. We’ve decided to do something a bit different this year.” She looked round the classroom. “Do any of you know what other celebrations are happening at this time, apart from Bonfire Night?” Quite a few hands shot up, including mine, but Kenny’s was first. “The Hindu festival of Diwali, Miss,” she said. We all knew a bit about Diwali, the festival of lights, because Cuddington, the village where we live, is near Leicester, and there’s always a big Diwali celebration there every year. It looks wicked. There are always loads of fireworks, and people seem to have a great time. Mrs Weaver nodded. “That’s right, Kenny,” she said. “Does anyone know some of the ways in which the Hindu community celebrate Diwali?” This time I got in first. “They have fireworks, Miss.” “And they send Diwali cards,” Lyndz added. “I’ve seen them in shops in Leicester.” Kenny was bouncing up and down impatiently in her seat with her hand up again. “They light these little clay lamps called divas and put them in their windows,” she said. “And sometimes they draw these really cool coloured patterns on their doorsteps to welcome their visitors, but I’ve forgotten the name for them.” “Rangoli patterns.” Mrs Weaver raised her eyebrows at Kenny. “You seem to know
