Big ambitions, big bullies and big problems
When 13-year-old Brummie babe, Destiny enters the Bright Sparks beauty contest behind her (ex-model) mum’s back, she is determined to prove she has talent and brains – and that she is not just a pretty face.
Together with her cousin, Keisha and best friends, Ebyan and Bee, Destiny deals with every challenge life throws at her – including scary eyeball-to-eyeball confrontations with bully-girl Bella and secret winks from heart-throb, Joel.
And then real disaster strikes …
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
1. Friends
2. Makeover
3. School
4. Money
5. Forgery
6. Shoot
7. Stroke
8. Casualty
9. Home
10. Hell’s Bells
11. Lucky Stars
12. Bright Sparks
Bell’s Palsy
Stroke
Beastly Beauty
Sugar and Spice Quiz
About the Author
Also by Malaika Rose Stanley
Copyright
Malaika Rose Stanley grew up in Birmingham. She has worked as a teacher in Zambia, Uganda, Germany, Switzerland and Britain. She is now a full-time writer and the Royal Literary Fund Fellow at the London College of Fashion. She also runs creativity and writing workshops for children and adults. Her publications for Tamarind include Baby Ruby Bawled, Miss Bubble’s Troubles and Spike and Ali Enson.
Malaika enjoys travel, singing, reading, ballet and football. She lives in North London near her grown-up sons.
IT WASN’T A rescue mission. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. It was Friday afternoon. Time to get the weekend started. All I wanted to do was have a quick pee then roll with Keisha and Ebyan. I raced into the loos, struggling to run with my legs crossed, slipping and sliding across the damp floor. I skidded past a group of girls in our year who were huddled around the wash basins, swerved into a cubicle and slammed the door. I was listening to one of Aaron B’s slow jams on my MP3 player, but I pulled off my headphones so I could earwig on the girls outside and suss out what they were up to. I shouldn’t have bothered because all I heard was the toxic hiss of Bella Blake’s voice.
‘What’s the matter, Beatrice butter-face?’ snarled Bella. ‘Are you scared? Are you going to pee yourself?’
‘She’s going to cry,’ said someone else. It might have been Madison. I wasn’t sure because Bella’s friends change faster than she changes her knickers! They always stand behind her and agree with everything she says, so they aren’t exactly memorable.
‘Go on, butter-face. Cry! You’ll pee less,’ said Bella. ‘And the floor is already slimy enough without skanks like you leaking and dripping all over it.’
Some of the other girls snorted with laughter.
‘Aaaah,’ crowed Bella. ‘Does poor likkle baby Betty Bucket want her mummy?’
There was a second or two of silence and then I heard a stifled sob, which I knew had to be coming from Bella’s latest victim. Betty – or Beatrice – was in the same year group as the rest of us, but she was one of those odd girls who most people ignored unless they were picking on her. She was dowdy and lanky, and too much of a tomboy for her own good. She had braces and long, straggly mousy-brown hair. I felt a stab of guilt as I realized I didn’t even know her real last name.
‘Don’t blame us,’ said the same girl who had spoken before. ‘It’s not our fault you’re so wet. It’s not our fault no one likes you.’
‘Right,’ said Bella. ‘And if I were you, I’d want a word with Mummy and Daddy too. They’re the reason you’re called Betty Bucket!’
‘Good one,’ sniggered another girl.
I’d heard enough! I yanked open the cubicle door as hard as I could. It swung back on the hinges and smashed into the wall with a massive bang. It was just the effect I was going for. Bella and her motor-mouth friends turned away from Beatrice and gaped at me.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I yelled, throwing in a few other words which would have got me permanently excluded if any teachers had been around.
‘Nothing for you to bother your pretty little head about,’ sneered Bella. ‘Get lost, Destiny, you nosy cow!’
I aired her and looked at Beatrice. ‘Are you OK?’
Beatrice sniffed and stared hard at the floor.
‘Go home,’ I said, doing my best to sound calm and in control.
Beatrice glanced round at Bella and her bully-girl mates.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go home.’
Beatrice shuffled out. No one tried to stop her. To be honest, I was scared stiff and I wanted to run after her. I had to force myself to stroll over to a sink and wash my hands.
‘Why are you sticking your beak in?’ said Bella. ‘Who asked you?’
‘I just don’t like seeing you make Beatrice’s life a misery.’
‘We could always make your life a misery instead,’ said Bella. ‘No one likes you either.’
‘Not true,’ I said quietly. I fluffed up my mane of soft, reddish-brown curls to hide the shiver that crept along my spine. ‘Plenty of people like me.’
‘They wouldn’t like you if we mashed up your pretty face,’ said Bella.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I reapplied my lip gloss. Pretty? Yeah, right. People had been saying that for as long as I could remember but it’s not true. OK, I’m not a complete minger. I have light-brown skin, which I got from my mum, sprinkled with freckles, which I got from my dad, and amber eyes that are totally random. But I’m short enough to be a munchkin, my boobs are non-existent and if I go out in the rain, I get candyfloss hair! Apart from that, I’m totally stunning. Not.
I turned round and looked up at Bella’s face. Her grey eyes were hard and glassy, like marbles. I was completely surrounded by thug girls, but I tried to convince myself that if they were actually going to beat me up I’d have a few cuts and bruises and a broken bone or two by now. I had a last, quick glance at my reflection, popped a Mini-Mint into my mouth and squeezed my way through towards the door.
‘Have a nice weekend,’ I said sweetly, not sure if I was being brave or brainless.
‘You too,’ grunted Bella. ‘It will be the last one you ever have, because on Monday I’m coming for you. I’m going to make it my mission to make your life hell!’
She started a slow hand-clap and her dollies – the cloned sheep sort – joined in even though I was sure they didn’t know what they were applauding.
Outside, I switched Aaron B back on and looked across the playground to where Keisha and Ebyan were propped against the gates, chatting and cracking up. Keisha’s navy school skirt and tie were as short as our year tutor would let anyone get away with and her head was covered in an explosion of tiny braids. Ebyan’s skirt was floor-length and her head was covered with a matching blue hijab. They were as different as fire and water, but they’d been best friends since nursery and even though Keisha is my cousin I’m still a bit of a tag-along.
Mrs Warsame used to worry that Keisha would be a bad influence on her daughter – but Ebyan is fierce and feisty and no one could ever make her do anything she didn’t want to do. It was her own decision to start wearing hijab when we started high school and she dresses traditionally – and stylishly.
She turned round and beckoned to me to hurry up. I sighed with relief, happy my friends were still waiting, and then flinched as I sensed a sudden movement behind me. I whirled round.
‘Beatrice!’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t hear you! You scared me!’
‘Sorry. I had to make sure you got out of there alive. I wanted to say thank you.’
‘No problem,’ I said, reluctantly tucking away my MP3 and turning back towards Keisha and Ebyan.
‘Really,’ said Beatrice, falling into step beside me. ‘I don’t know what they would have done if you hadn’t turned up.’
‘Bella is full of it,’ I said. ‘Small brain, big mouth. All talk and no action.’
‘Still,’ said Beatrice. ‘Thanks.’
‘You just need to stand up to her,’ I said, sounding more sure than I felt.
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Beatrice, with a crooked grin that showed off her braces. ‘You’re not the one she picks on. You’re not the one she calls Betty Bucket!’
‘True.’ I smiled. ‘But please, what were your parents thinking?’
‘My mother is from France – and trust me, Béatrice Buchet sounds much better with a friendly voice and a French accent.’
‘Boo-shay,’ I repeated, trying it out. ‘Nice. But why didn’t she call you Monique or Chantelle or something?’
‘You think I haven’t asked her that about a million times?’ said Beatrice gloomily.
We reached the gates.
‘At last,’ said Ebyan. ‘You have been ages. We are growing roots.’
‘What’s going on?’ said Keisha, nodding towards Beatrice.
‘A bit of bother with the Bella Blake bullies,’ I said.
‘That’s alliteration,’ said Beatrice.
Keisha, Ebyan and I stared at her.
‘OK, cuz,’ said Keisha after a second. ‘You’ve so done your good deed for the day, but come on now. Let’s go.’
I could guess what she was thinking. She didn’t want to be seen with Betty Bucket in case it reflected badly on her own stunning sense of style and sophistication.
‘Don’t be like that,’ I said. I looked from Keisha to Beatrice and back again. ‘All she needs is some re-branding and a makeover.’
‘You are both as bad as each other,’ said Ebyan. ‘Beatrice is not a packet of biscuits or a bottle of cola that needs new packaging and a new name.’
‘No! I’m not!’ Beatrice’s voice cracked and she began to walk away.
‘Hang on,’ said Keisha, giving Beatrice the once-over – and probably already making plans for the advertising and promotional campaign. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’
Beatrice glanced back over her shoulder. She looked anxious – like an abandoned puppy, afraid of being kicked again.
‘Bibi!’ said Keisha. ‘We could, like, call you Bibi – or Bea.’
Ebyan and Beatrice did not look impressed.
‘Or Bee!’ said Keisha. ‘What about Bee?’
I reckon it said a lot about what a beg-friend Bee was for her to forgive Keisha, agree to a new name and walk home with us.
‘Could you really do a makeover?’ she asked when we reached the corner of Oakville Road and she got ready to leave us.
‘Are frogs waterproof? Is Joel Daley-Clarke all that and a bag of chips?’ said Keisha, which made my heart miss a beat because as far as I’m concerned, Joel is my bag of chips. ‘Styling by Ebyan,’ continued Keisha. ‘Make-up by Destiny, and hair and nails by me!’
‘What about tomorrow?’ said Bee.
She sounded so desperate, no one could say she wasn’t trying hard to make friends. I knew how she felt. I remembered my first few lonely weeks at high school before Mum practically begged Mrs Obodo to let me change tutor groups and I hooked up with Keisha and Ebyan. I felt sorry for her.
‘You could all come round to my place tomorrow afternoon,’ she went on. ‘This is my road. I live at number sixty-two.’
‘Not me,’ said Ebyan. ‘I have to work in the shop on Saturdays.’
‘No probs,’ said Keisha. ‘We can come to the shop for styling after we’ve done her hair and face.’ She turned to Bee. ‘Ebyan’s mum owns a clothes shop.’
‘We sell Somali wedding dresses,’ said Ebyan. ‘I am happy to give you fashion advice, Bee – but unless you are planning to get married and you need a dirac or a guntiino, I don’t think you will find anything to buy.’
‘That’s OK. I think I just need a hair and beauty makeover,’ said Bee. ‘My mum has put me in for Bright Sparks. I only agreed to it because I thought it might cheer her up. She’s been depressed ever since Dad left and they got divorced.’
She hesitated, suddenly worried she might have said too much. I was a bit concerned myself, because missing fathers are a touchy subject for Ebyan too. Her dad has a second wife and family in Mogadishu, but she hardly ever mentions it because she doesn’t think we would understand.
‘Bright Sparks?’ I said, trying to make them both feel more comfortable. ‘What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s a competition,’ said Bee. ‘Mum found it on the Internet. She reckons it will make me more confident and help me to make friends.’
‘Is it a sports event?’ said Ebyan. She was probably relieved I’d managed to change the subject so smoothly.
‘I wish,’ said Bee. ‘No. That’s why I need help with personal presentation and poise. It’s a beauty pageant – but with a twist.’
‘No offence, Bee,’ said Keisha. She shook her head and rattled her new multi-hoop drop earrings. ‘But don’t get carried away, like. We’re not miracle workers.’
‘It’s not only about what you look like,’ said Bee. She frowned. ‘You have to give a speech, and answer questions and showcase your special talent.’
‘I’m in!’ I said, giving them a twirl and a curtsey. ‘I obviously look fantabulous – but I’m also an outstanding musical talent.’ I laughed, although I wasn’t completely joking. Not about the music anyway. ‘Seriously,’ I added. ‘I could play cello over an Aaron B backing track – classical and R & B fusion. Maybe we should all enter.’
‘Not me,’ said Keisha. ‘I’m happy to help you out but I’m too busy with dance practice to enter myself. I’m still trying to sort out my pirouette en pointe.’
‘Nor me,’ said Ebyan. ‘If my mother found out about it, she would not let me near any of you ever again. It’s OK for you three – you are already going to hell!’
Keisha and I fell about. It was an old joke, but the shocked expression on Bee’s face made it even funnier.
‘No! No way! Not now! Not ever!’
Mum’s voice was so loud and screechy, I wondered if my ears were bleeding.