Free Chocolate Box Girls: Bittersweet by Cathy Cassidy Page A

we charging? Ten pence? Twenty pence?’
    ‘Thirty pence, or two for fifty pence,’ I decide. ‘It’s for charity, isn’t it?’
    It is the first day back after the October holiday and Sarah and I have been allowed out of history ten minutes early toset up our stall, so that we can make the most of the break-time rush once the bell goes.
    Sarah unpacks a Tupperware box of chocolate fridge cake and I set out a slightly dented Victoria sponge, a tin of chocolate crispy cakes and a tub of rock buns that are a little too rock-like for comfort. My friends always rally round at times like this and manage to contribute something. I arrange my handmade leaflets, explaining why the giant panda is endangered and needs our help. I have learnt the hard way that my fellow pupils are rarely impressed by my efforts to raise funds with sponsored walks or silences. They are much more likely to part with their cash if cake is involved.
    ‘OK,’ Sarah says. ‘Thirty seconds and counting. Watch out for those Year Six boys – I’m sure they nicked my flapjacks last time!’
    ‘Nobody will dare swipe so much as a crumb while I’m watching,’ I promise. I pull on my fake fur panda hat with the sticky-up ears and square my shoulders, ready to do battle.
    ‘Here we go,’ I say to Sarah. ‘For the pandas!’
    The bell goes and the foyer floods with kids. They can scent cake, and they swarm around the stall, grabbing panda cupcakes and wedges of Victoria sponge, shoving warm, sticky coins into the collection tin.
    One cute little Year Five girl buys up the whole tin of chocolate crispy cakes for £5, because it’s her mum’s birthday. Then I spot a weaselly Year Six boy trying to pocket a couple of chunks of chocolate fridge cake and grab his wrist firmly. ‘Fifty pence, please,’ I say sweetly. ‘All proceeds go to help the giant panda!’
    ‘Help it do what?’ he asks, reluctantly handing over his cash.
    ‘Survive,’ I explain patiently. ‘They are almost extinct, because bamboo forests are being cut down and pandas eat mainly bamboo shoots.’
    ‘Why don’t they eat something different then?’ the kid asks. ‘Fish ’n’ chips. Big Macs. Chocolate fridge cake.’
    I roll my eyes. ‘They can’t,’ I explain. ‘They are PANDAS, not people. They are supposed to eat bamboo shoots, and people are destroying their habitat. It’s up to us to save them!’
    The boy’s face hardens. ‘If that’s true, you really shouldn’t wear a panda hat,’ he says. ‘That’s just sick.’ He walks away, scoffing fridge cake.
    Boys really are infuriating and dim, especially Year Six boys.
    And Year Eight boys are not much better. Lawrie Marshall has edged his way to the front of the crowd and is reading my panda leaflet with a sneery, disgusted look on his face.
    Lawrie is the scratchiest, surliest boy I’ve ever met. He’s a loner, radiating waves of simmering anger that keep both kids and teachers at arm’s length. If he were a chocolate truffle, he’d be one of Paddy’s disastrous experiments – dark chocolate filled with gherkins and liquorice, or something equally horrific.
    He must have a sweet tooth, though, because he always turns up at my cake sales.
    ‘How come you think you can change the world with cake?’ he snarls, bundling four cupcakes into a paper bag and handing over a pound coin.
    ‘I just do,’ I say. ‘I care about the pandas, and anything I can do to raise awareness and raise money has got to help.’
    ‘Huh,’ Lawrie says. ‘What’s the black-and-white icing supposed to be, anyway? Badgers?’
    ‘Panda faces,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Obviously.’
    ‘Right,’ he grunts. ‘Don’t give up the day job, OK?’
    I roll my eyes.
    ‘Like the hat,’ Lawrie sneers, stalking away. I resist the temptation to throw a rock bun at the back of his head – but only just.
    ‘Ignore him,’ Sarah says. ‘He has a chip on his shoulder.’
    ‘A what?’
    She shrugs. ‘You know – it’s just