Read Paris Crush for Free Online Page B

I’ll be taken seriously on the webzine. And if I can help Barbara and David fall in love at the same time, it’ll be perfect!
    Pleased with my plan, I email Cindy a copy of my answer to David’s lovelorn email so she can paste it into her horoscope feature page, then power down my PC. With Jessica in charge, what
could possibly go wrong?

‘Come
on
, Gem!’ Treacle hauls me to my feet. ‘We’ve got to do something.’
    It’s Sunday afternoon, just starting to turn dark outside. Treacle has been pacing my room for five minutes working out how to persuade Savannah’s dad to sign the Paris form.
Wednesday’s the deadline. If Savannah doesn’t hand it in, she’ll miss the trip.
    Treacle shows me Sav’s text again.
    Dad’s still not signed form
    ‘Won’t it be a bit obvious if we just turn up at her door and start begging him to sign?’ I reason. What if Savannah’s on the verge of persuading her dad that she
won’t choke on garlic butter or be seduced by the Three Musketeers while she’s in Paris? Persuading parents is a delicate business. Like herding goats. Too much pressure and they panic
and turn stubborn just to prove they’re in charge.
    Treacle picks up her book bag. It’s heavy with the history assignment we’ve been working on all afternoon. ‘We’ll just say we’ve come round to swap notes and see
how it’s going.’
    I give in. Treacle’s got her penalty-scoring face on – the one that tells me she’s determined to get the ball in the back of the net. ‘Come on then.’ I slide
Twentieth-century Europe
into my bag and heft it onto my shoulder. Treacle’s already out the door and hammering downstairs.
    ‘Mum, we’re going to Savannah’s!’ I yell from the hallway.
    Mum hoots from the study, ‘Be back in time for tea. It’s a school night, remember?’ She must think I have the memory of a goldfish.
    ‘OK.’ I swing open the front door and follow Treacle out.
    The pavement’s wet and the street lights are just starting to flicker on. Treacle’s hair reflects an orange halo as she passes under them.
    I wonder about my own. ‘Do you know anything about the Pre-Raphaelites?’ I ask Treacle.
    ‘Weren’t they that droopy bunch who were into knights in shining armour and damsels in distress?’ She’s striding along, bag bumping on her back.
    ‘Did they have nice hair?’ I ask hopefully.
    Treacle looks at me sideways. ‘Why?’
    ‘Someone said I had Pre-Raphaelite hair,’ I shrug. I’ve Googled Elizabeth Siddal of course. She
was
droopy. There’s a famous painting of her floating like seaweed
in a pond. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.’
    The corners of Treacle’s mouth are wrinkling into a smile. ‘It’s a good thing, Gemma. Kinda romantic. Who said it?’
    I shudder, thinking of Will. He’s not exactly the knight-in-shining-armour type. And definitely not romantic unless your idea of romance is being cornered by wolves. I decide he must have
been working the droopy angle. ‘No one special.’ I stare at the glistening pavement blurring beneath my feet.
    Treacle gasps. ‘Was it Rupert?’
    The thought fills me with horror. ‘No way!’ I prefer Will. At least his humour has wit, even though it’s so razor-sharp you could shave with it.
    Treacle narrows her eyes, but doesn’t push. She knows I‘ll spill eventually; I always do. Besides, we’re three strides from Savannah’s driveway. Treacle cuts across the
grass and crunches over the gravel. The porch light flashes on as she reaches for the bell.
    ‘Hello, Mr Smith.’
    Savannah’s dad has answered the door by the time I catch up.
    He’s a tall man, his hair greying at the edges, a pale yellow golfing sweater gently hugging his belly. He beams as he recognizes us. We’ve known him forever. He used to buy us ice
cream on the way home from playschool. ‘Hello, Tracy. Hi, Gemma.’ He glances out into the darkening sky. ‘It’s a bit late to be out, isn’t it?’
    Treacle shows him her