Free Live and Fabulous! by Grace Dent Page A

clapping her hands and jumping around her bedroom, causing her Mega Beats and Breaks CD to skip and legions of teddies to rain down from the top of her bulging wardrobes. “I knew it!”
    â€œSo ... they’re ... for ... us?” says Claudette Cassiera slowly, with a look of total dumbfoundment, clutching the four tickets. “They’re, like, really for us?”
    â€œYes!” I say. “They’re for us. Reeee-ally, really all for us! Spike Saunders remembered meeting us! He sent us some tickets!”
    â€œNo ... they can’t be for us,” says Claude, wrestling with the nonlogic of the situation. “It’s probably a mail mix-up and ... it’s probably ...”
    â€œNo, Claude. Believe me,” I say. “I called the number and spoke to a girl called Jo in the Funky Monkey offices. The tick ets are totally, nonnegotiably for us! We were put on the guest list.”
    â€œI knew it!” squeaks Fleur for the twenty-eighth time, her voice especially triumphant this time. “I knew Spike Saunders fancied me!”
    Fleur pirouettes past us with a euphoric smile, then leaps up onto her bed and begins to bounce, shouting in time with each jump: “Spike ... Saunders ... fancies ... me!”
    And then, in a posher, more hoity-toity accent: “Well, helllloooooo there, Ronnie and Claude! I’m Mrs. Fleur Saunders ! Soooooo terribly pleased to meet you!”
    And then, eventually: “Ha, back atcha Jimi Steeeeeele! Stick that up your trouser leg and smoke it, flobberlips! The LBD are going to Astlebury!”
    I shake my head, suppressing a giggle. Fleur is not making this situation any less surreal.
    â€œSo, they’re really for us!?” says Claude yet again, her hazel eyes as wide as dinner plates. “It doesn’t seem possible! This is just like the part of a totally scrummy dream when it gets so good that you wake up and realize you’re just in bed all along.” Claude looks at the tickets again, the silver holograms transforming slightly as she moves them. “It’s just .. :”
    â€œAmazing?!” I laugh.
    â€œIt’s just ... ,” says Claude breathily, “the best thing that has ever happened to us in the whole history of the world ever! I mean, Spike Saunders must meet a zillion people every year! And those tickets are worth hundreds of pounds! It’s just incrrrrredible!”
    â€œI knooooooow!” I laugh, and we throw our arms around each other and jump up and down. (We’d have included Fleur in this LBD hug, but she seemed just as content bouncing and squawking on her bed.)
    I’ll give Fleur Swan her due here: She may be as mad as a hat stand, but she did predict that something amazing would happen if we asked our parents about Astlebury. I do love her sometimes.
    â€œI’m going to mail Spike’s message board tomorrow and tell him we’re coming!” yells the squeaky blonde. “And go on the Astlebury website to find out where all the coolest people camp! Oh God, and I totally need my hair cut before we go, don’t I? Ooh, have I got time? Claude, pass the calendar! Hey, and we’ll have to travel down on the Friday morning, won’t we? Because that’s when the gates open! I mean, the bands aren’t beginning till Saturday, but all the cool boutiques and small stages open on Friday! And the campfire parties all start on Friday night! And ...” Fleur is just gabbling now. “Oh my Lord! I don’t fancy those festival porta-toilets, do you?! I’m not going to wee for the whole weekend! Or go to sleep! Oh my God, this is sooo great!”
    I’m beginning to feel quite dizzy just watching her. There is so much to plan! When I look back at Claude, she’s slumped on Fleur’s futon, looking quite perplexed.
    â€œWhat’s up, Claude?” I say. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYeah, I’m more than okay, Ronnie, I’m