Fizzypop by Jean Ure Read Free Book Online

you keep interfering all the time?”
    I felt really hurt when she said that. “I wasn’t interfering,” I said. “Jem’s my friend! I was trying to help.”
    â€œBut we had all this out,” said Mum. “You promised you wouldn’t go putting ideas into her head. And stop plucking and picking at that dog! We don’t want hairs all over the place.”
    â€œI’m cleaning him up,” I said. Only five minutes earlier Mum had been complaining that he was all matted and covered in bits of park. “I’m only trying t—”
    â€œI know, I know,” said Mum. “You’re only trying to help! It’s good that you’re cleaning him, but why not do the job properly while you’re about it? With his brush – in the garden. Not in here when I have someone coming!”
    There is just no pleasing some people. It wasn’t like I’d have left all the bits of twig on the floor; I’d have got the dustpan and brush and swept them up! I didn’t want to do him in the garden cos Angel was out there, with some of her friends. They were all shrieking and painting their nails with black nail varnish. Fingers and toes. Chances were, if she saw me, she’d only start on about something. She still hadn’t forgiven me for crinkling her shirt.
    â€œCan we do it in the kitchen?” I said.
    â€œI’d rather you didn’t,” said Mum. “You know what happened last time.”
    â€œThat was cos someone had left the lid off the cake tin!”
    All Mum’s cakes had been covered in dog hair. But it wasn’t my fault! I hadn’t left the lid off. Not as far as I could remember.
    â€œFrankie, just humour me,” said Mum. “Just for once. The garden is the place for brushing dogs, not the kitchen.”
    I still wasn’t going out there. I didn’t see why I should be expected to suffer a mouthful of abuse when all I was doing was just trying to help. Like Angel ever does anything. Or Tom, for that matter.
    â€œI’ll take him up to my bedroom,” I said.
    I opened the door and Rags shot out. There was an immediate bellow from Dad: “Keep that dog away!” I’d forgotten, Dad was painting the skirting board, all up the stairs. He was having to do it, he said, cos of the number of times I’d whacked it with my hockey stick or bounced balls off it, throwing them for Rags. I get blamed for everything in our house.
    I led Rags up the stairs most carefully, not going anywhere near the skirting board. I couldn’t be bothered fetching his brush from the kitchen so I used my own. I am not one of those people that are neurotic about a bit of dog hair.
    â€œGood boy,” I said. “Good boy !”
    While I was brushing him I heard the front door bell.
    â€œThat’ll be Jem and Skye,” I said.
    I scrambled to my feet and rushed out on to the landing. Rags rushed with me. Oops! I’d completely forgotten about the skirting board…
    â€œFRANKIE FOSTER, I’LL HAVE YOUR GUTS FOR GARTERS!” roared Dad.
    Hastily, I crammed myself out of the front door and slammed it behind me.
    â€œWho was that?” Jem giggled. “Was it your dad?” I don’t know what she found so funny about it. A father threatening to have his daughter’s guts for garters? That’s child abuse, that is.
    â€œWhat did you do?” said Skye.
    â€œDidn’t do anything,” I said. “It was Rags, touching his paintwork.”
    â€œSo why’s he having a go at you?”
    â€œThey always have a go at me.”
    â€œ Aaaaah. ” Skye made a crooning noise. She patted my head, consolingly. “It’s so not fair!”
    â€œIt so isn’t,” I said. They never have a go at Tom or Angel.
    â€œNever mind all that. We’re on a pilgrimage!” Jem went skipping off ahead of us. “A pilgrimage, we’re on a pilgrimage!”
    I do like