Free The Boyfriend Bet by Josie Eccles

pointed out that it would be a long time yet before we performed
in front of anyone and even longer if we didn’t get on with practising and stop
worrying about who was standing where.
    It’s always like this, regardless of whether I have a
black eye and orange hair or not. Zoe just wants to be at the front the whole
time. Whenever we have rehearsals for performances, Zoe kicks up a real fuss
about where everyone stands until they get so bored with it and they basically
just give in and let her hog the limelight at the front. This is usually fine
by me - I’m happy at the back - let the exhibitionists get all the attention!
    I nearly started a screaming match with Mum when I got
home. “How stupid can you be to sign the note ‘Charley’s mum?” I yelled at her,
after she’d demanded to know how I had got myself excluded.
    “Well, you lot drive me crazy. I obviously wasn’t
thinking straight!” Mum offered this lame excuse as an explanation. She didn’t
even tell me off for calling her stupid. I should have realised that something
was going on there and then. “Do you want me to write you another note or ring
up and explain?”
    “No, you’ve done enough,” I huffed. I figured I would
rather be excluded from school for the rest of the week. Mrs Davenport has
probably actually done me a favour. I still had to go to school. It was what
Mrs Davenport liked to call ‘internally excluded’ which meant I still had to go
in, but I had to spend the week in the isolation room with various bits of work
that were given to me to get on with.
    Isolation room - what a joke, it’s not isolation at all!
One teacher usually sits at the desk at the front of the room. Normally if they
have a free period, they’ve been forced to give up an hour watching over the
isolation room. They all look not so thrilled to be there. Occasionally another
pupil who has just been chucked out of their class turns up for the rest of
that lesson. Of course anyone else who might be internally excluded is there
too, so whoever came up with the idea of calling it ‘The isolation room’ was pretty
dumb if you ask me.
    “Ok, I’m now going out Charley, look after Peter for me.”
Mum just announced this as I noticed that she was all made up (well for her
anyway).
    “What! It’s a bit late isn’t it?” I couldn’t believe
this, why have I always got to be the babysitter?
    “Well, I had to wait for you to come back from dancing,”
Mum smiled. Great, she’d planned it all along and didn’t even have the decency
to mention it to me until it was too late for me to make any plans. Crafty or
what?
    “Where’s Ella?” I huffed, folding my arms.
    “She’s out.” Mum smiled at me again. On a Monday night? I
wondered where she could be. Maybe she had offered to show Riley around
somewhere again and I was stuck at home babysitting Peter.
    “Great, so I get punished for my lack of a social life
because I look like a freak and can’t go out.” I was having a mini rant to
myself now but out loud. “Am I going to get paid?”
    “Yeah, of course,” Mum said, as she grabbed her jacket.
    “Really?” This possibly wasn’t as bad now. I wasn’t going
out anywhere anyway.
    “Yeah, I’m paying for your hair on Thursday. I’d say that
was more than enough.” Mum chuckled to herself in that annoying way parents do
when they think they know everything and we know absolutely nothing and then
she shut the door behind her as she left.
    “Mum! Muuuummmm!” Peter was already calling down the
stairs. I could tell this evening was going to be fun. Once Peter had had three
glasses of squash (honestly, he kept saying he was thirsty), I turned on the
T.V in his room and put a DVD on and he finally stopped calling me. Mum usually
has a no T.V at bedtime policy for Peter – apparently it makes him grumpy and
difficult in the morning - but she isn’t here, is she? If she’s going to land
me with looking after snotty little Peter, then I’m going to