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screening! Luckily, we presented a united front against the plan, although Claude still wore a green pointy nose and stick-on face boils for the ticket line. She looked really funny.
    It felt just like old times, just me, Claude and Fleur. Yet annoyingly, just as we were finding our seats in the dark, a dismally familiar voice shattered my good mood.
    â€œSorry I’m late, ladies,” Cressida Sleeth announced. “Dad was late home from the factory, so I had to beg a lift from . . . er, the girl down the road. . . . Hey, Claude, loving the nose!”
    â€œCressy!” Fleur and Claude said, laughing and giving her hugs and air kisses. They’d started air kissing lately. It made me queasy.
    â€œCressida,” I said, nodding acknowledgment.
    â€œHey, Ron! Fabby jeans,” said Cressida, pointing at my new indigo hipsters before kissing the nothingness past both of my ears.
    My skin crawled.
    It seemed there was nothing I could do to stop Cressida from infiltrating the LBD . . . well, without me simply looking insane. Worse still, Cressida was finding out more private, personal bambino business every day.
    She knew that the Cassieras were broke and getting really worried about it.
    She knew that Jimi and I kept arguing about the fact that I wouldn’t lie to Mum and sleep over at his house.
    She knew Fleur had been getting overly freaky with Baz Kauffman from Chasterton School and had taken to perusing Your Body, Yourself lately with a worried expression.
    She’d even been shown that shameful home movie of the LBD, in our underwear, performing various hits from Moulin Rouge, filmed during Fleur’s birthday slumber party. That Moulin Rouge tape needed to be burned, not shown to Cressida Flipping Sleeth!
    My instinct shouted that letting Cressida so close was a mistake.
    During the film, Fleur was her typical hyperactive self. She yaddered incessantly on her mobile phone, began an interschool popcorn battle with some lads from Lymewell Academy, shouted out plot spoilers . . . and probably worst of all, right at the most touching, serious part of the film, let out a long squeaky bottom explosion, before shouting, “Oooh, Ronnie Ripperton! That stinks!” The entire theater erupted in laughter. I could have strangled her!
    As we filed out of the multiplex afterward, Baz Kauffman sped up in his VW Golf, wearing sunglasses at night and too much hair wax for my taste, blaring bad 200-beats-per-minute happy hard-core music through his sunroof. He looked ridiculous, but Fleur still climbed inside the car, begging us to cover for her until 9:30 P.M.
    Claude and I just rolled our eyes and nodded.
    â€œC’mon, girls,” smiled Claude, linking arms with me and Cressida. “Let’s go and get coffee at Ruby’s Cafe.”
    â€œGreat!” smiled Cressida.
    â€œYou okay, Ronnie?” asked Claude.
    â€œFine,” I said. Cressida put her head down, stifling a smile. We walked in silence.
    About ten minutes farther down the road, Cressida eventually spoke. “Fleur was a live wire tonight, wasn’t she?” she said matter-of-factly. “That usherette was so angry when she spilled her Pepsi!”
    â€œOh, that’s our Fleur for you,” chuckled Claude fondly. “Acts like a chimpanzee in public. We’re constantly embarrassed by her, eh, Ronnie?”
    â€œHmmm,” I said.
    Cressida smiled and said nothing. “So that was Baz?” she asked. “The one she’s been snogging?”
    â€œMmm . . . yeah, think so. Looked like him,” said Claude, distracted by her watch. “She’s got a different lad slobbering after her every week. She’s probably lost track herself by now. Hey, anyway, come on—Ruby only serves until 9 P.M.”
    â€œBut are the smoothies and cakes organic?” asked Cressida.
    â€œNot sure,” said Claude. “We can ask.”
    I watched as they wandered off, giggling merrily.

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