LITMIR.BIZ

      There was only one thing for it: I had to get the yoghurt back. And fast.

      When she’d finished talking about the school trip, Mrs Weaver said, “Now, we’d better get on with our history lesson, hadn’t we? We’re going to start a new topic today: Henry VIII and His Six Wives. Who would like to fetch the books from the cupboard for me and give them out?”

      As you probably know, I’m not usually the world’s keenest volunteer. Not unless someone’s giving out Leicester City tickets as rewards! But today I shot my hand up faster than a goalie making the save of his life.

      Even Mrs Weaver looked surprised. “Thank you, Laura,” she said. As I clambered out of my seat, I hissed to Frankie, “When I get to the Goblin’s desk, distract her!”

      “What?” Frankie looked confused. “How? Why?”

      But I didn’t have time to explain. I fetched the pile of books and sailed round the room handing them out, one between two. When I got near Emily I winked at Frankie; she tugged Emily’s sleeve and waved her exercise book in front of her nose, saying could she copy her notes on the Egyptians and did she have that stuff about Cleopatra from last week? I think Emily honestly thought Frankie had gone stark raving bonkers – and I don’t blame her. I took my chance, though – I bent down to Emily’s bag and had just got my fingers on the zip when I heard Mrs Weaver’s voice saying, “Laura, what are you doing?”

      I snapped upright again. “Nothing, Mrs Weaver.”

      Well, after that I spent the whole lesson feeling like I had ants in my pants. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think of anything except the Yoghurt Pot of Doom. If only I could’ve made myself invisible for just two minutes, I could’ve sorted everything out, no problem. It was sooo frustrating.

      Our last lesson of the day was P.E. In the girls’ changing room, everyone was excited, talking about the school trip. I was so busy imagining just how ace it was going to be that for a few moments I forgot all about Emily and the yoghurt pot.

      “D’you reckon there’ll be donkey rides on the sands?” said Lyndz, sitting down to unbuckle her shoes. “I saw seals on a beach in Scotland once!” (Lyndz is animal mad, in case you hadn’t noticed.)

      “Devon’s a long way from Scotland,” laughed Rosie.

      “I know. But seals live in other places too.”

      Frankie grinned. “I bet Fliss is wondering whether there’ll be hunky lifeguards on the beach.”

      “Am not!” said Fliss from inside her games t-shirt. But when she pulled it over her head she’d turned bright pink.

      Suddenly, there was a piercing shriek. “Aieeee!”

      All around us the excited chattering stopped dead. I spun round to see Emily Berryman holding up a yellow t-shirt. It looked as if Frankie’s baby sister Izzy had been sick all down the front.

      Emily dropped the t-shirt on the floor and started pulling more and more things out of her bag, all of them slimed with yoghurt. A sock, an exercise book, her games shorts…

      “Gross! Look at her trainers!” By now, practically everyone in the room was shrieking with laughter. Next to me, Frankie and Rosie were giggling fit to burst, and Lyndz had already got hiccups. Fliss, though, was wincing – I reckon she was imagining how upset she’d be if someone messed with her clothes.

      The next minute the changing room door swung open. It was Mrs Weaver and she didn’t look pleased. “Girls! What on earth is all this racket?”

      “Mrs Weaver, Emily’s spilt a yoghurt in her bag.”

      Mrs Weaver sighed and marched over to Emily. She wrinkled her nose when she saw the state of her things. “For goodness’ sake, Emily. You should keep your lunch more carefully.”

      “But, Mrs Weaver!” Emily looked like she was about to cry. “It’s not my lunch. I didn’t have a yoghurt. Someone put it in my bag on purpose!”

      There was a moment’s silence. I could almost hear Mrs Weaver’s brain whirring. Then – guess who was the first “someone” that popped into her head? Who had she spotted fiddling with Emily’s bag?

      Lyndz nudged me. “Why’s Weaver loo-hicking at you?” she whispered.

      But before I could answer, Mrs Weaver snapped, “Laura. Go and wait for me outside Mrs Poole’s office. Now!”

      Man oh man. How can a load of teachers get so massively, crazily angry about one measly little yoghurt, for goodness’ sake? It was going to wash out of Emily’s games kit, no problem. And OK, her geography book was a bit slimy, but to be honest she’s not the world’s best brain at geography anyhow. She’d have been better off copying Emma’s notes in the first place, I reckon.

      But that didn’t seem to be the point. Mrs Poole, our headteacher, went really po-faced and stony when Mrs Weaver explained what had happened.

      “I cannot understand how you can be so utterly irresponsible, Laura,” she said, peering at me over the top of her glasses like I was some horrid insect she wanted to squash. “Not to mention so disrespectful of other people’s property. Did you think it was funny?”

      Why do teachers always ask that? Dur! Of course I thought it was funny or I wouldn’t have done it, would I? But I couldn’t say that.

      “No, Mrs Poole,” I muttered, looking at my shoes.

      “How would you like it if someone covered your belongings in yoghurt?”

      Blah blah blah. I tried to tell her what had happened to my pig but she wouldn’t listen. She just went on and on. By the time she’d finished droning it was home time, and I felt like one of Henry VIII’s wives who’d been sent to the Tower.

      I headed back to the classroom in a daze. There I found Lyndz, Rosie, Fliss and Frankie, sitting in a huddle with their coats on. They sprang off the desks when they saw me and clustered round.

      “Was that really what you did with my yoghurt?” asked Fliss, giggling.

      “Ace plan, Kenco!” said Frankie, putting her hand up for high fives. “Serves the Goblin right after what they did to your pig!”

      “Kenny – are you OK?” said Lyndz, peering at me. “You look a bit sick.”

      “I feel majorly sick,” I said. Lyndz took a step back. I reckon she thought I was going to barf on her shoes right then and there!

      “Pooley didn’t make a massive deal of it, did she?” asked Rosie.

      “Course not,” said Frankie. “She’s a pushover!” Frankie’s right – usually Pooley’s nice, and much softer than Weaver.

      But this time it was different. My nightmare had come true. “She made the most gigantic, humungous deal of it you can imagine,” I said, slumping into my chair and looking round at my friends. “I’m sorry, guys. I can’t

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