Authors: Alan MacDonald
Cupcake Wars! (6 page)
Five minutes later, Angela was ankle deep in mud. She had found a spade in the garage and was looking for gold, silver or jewels buried under the earth. Laura kept watch by the garage. Maisie paced up and down restlessly.
“Angela,
come on
,” she begged. “You’ve made enough mess already!”
Angela wiped her dirty face and looked around her. There was quite a bit of mess. Soil was scattered across the lawn along with a number of plants that Angela had uprooted. There was no sign of any jewels. Still, Angela was sure that Mr Monk had buried something. Why else would he be digging in his garden?
Suddenly Laura let out a shriek. A car was coming this way.
“Quick!” she cried. “He’s back! Run!”
“There’s no time,” said Angela, dropping the spade. “Hide in here!”
They made it in through the garage door just as Mr Monk’s car pulled up on the drive. They found a smelly old blanket and crawled underneath, hardly daring to breathe. Mr Monk’s heavy footsteps came up the drive.
Angela’s heart was pounding. The footsteps stopped, then seemed to go past the door.
Angela and her friends crouched still, listening.
“Has he gone?” hissed Laura.
“I think so,” whispered Angela.
“Let’s get out while we can,” said Maisie.
Keeping the blanket over their heads, they began to tiptoe forward. It was difficult to see where they were going.
“Where’s the door?” whispered Laura.
“SHHH!” hissed Angela. “It’s over—OUCH!”
They’d walked into something. Angela looked down. She could see a pair of large feet wearing brown leather sandals. Help! Only one person she knew wore sandals like that.
The blanket was whipped out of their hands. Mr Monk stood over them, his tiny moustache bristling.
“ARRGH!” screamed the girls.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?” yelled Mr Monk. “I should call the police!”
“Don’t!” whimpered Laura. “We didn’t do anything.”
Angela tried to sound brave. “If you call the police, we’ll tell them what we
know,” she said.
“What?” snapped Mr Monk.
“We’ve seen you, creeping around in black, wearing a balaclava,” said Angela. “You’re a burglar!”
“A burglar? Is that what this is about?” said Mr Monk. “Not that it’s any of your business, but these are my decorating clothes. I was painting the bedroom ceiling and I didn’t want paint in my hair. That’s why I was wearing a balaclava.”
Angela felt her stomach sink. “But the silver candlesticks…”
“Mine,” said Mr Monk. “And they’re not real silver.”
“And you dug up the garden to hide all your loot!” said Angela.
“Oh, yes, the garden,” said Mr Monk.
He marched them across the lawn to the spot and pointed. “That’s the flower bed I dug yesterday to plant with tulips,” he said. “It was meant to be a special surprise for my wife. But
someone
has destroyed it!”
Angela opened her mouth, but for once nothing came out. The flowerbed was just a flowerbed and Mr Monk wasn’t a burglar. Right now, though, he looked pretty mad.
“Right, here’s the choice,” he said. “We can go and tell your parents what you’ve been up to – or else…”
He held out the spade.
Angela gulped. “You wouldn’t … bury us?”
“Don’t tempt me,” said Mr Monk. “No, I want this flowerbed tidied up and all the tulips replanted. And it had better be perfect. Mrs Monk’s due home at four o’clock.” He marched off back to the house.
Angela picked up the spade.
“ANGELA!” moaned Maisie. “What did we tell you?”
“You
never
listen,” grumbled Laura.
Angela pulled a face. “It wasn’t my fault. Anyone can make a mistake.”
She looked at the flowerbed. They had better get on with it, she thought. Digging up a big pile of earth, she threw it over her shoulder.
“ARGHHH!”
“ANGELAAAAAAAA!”
“Oops!” said Angela. “Sorry!”
Angela Nicely might look like she’s made of sugar and spice and all things nice, but nothing could be further from the truth!
Whether it’s proving that her Head Teacher wears a wig, trying to outdo her rival, Tiffany Charmers, or finding herself out of her depth on a spa weekend, she’s determined to make a splash!
It was nine o’clock on Monday morning. Angela sat in the hall next to Laura and Maisie. They were waiting for assembly to start.
“Good morning, children,” said Miss Skinner.
“GOOD MOR-NING, MISS SKIN-NER!” chanted the children.
Miss Skinner’s gaze swept over the rows of faces like a cold wind.
“Jemma Bumford, stop fidgeting. Jimmy Wallop, turn round. Bertie, wipe your nose … not on Darren!”
Angela sat up straight and gazed at Miss Skinner. Her mouth fell open.
There was something different about the Head Teacher today.
Her hair!
She always wore her hair in a bun that looked like a brown ring doughnut. But today her hair hung loose in frizzy curls. RED curls! Angela stared. How could it have grown longer and curlier? And changed colour? It was impossible. Unless… Angela’s eyes almost popped out of her head. MISS SKINNER WAS WEARING A WIG!
Angela nudged Laura. “Look what she’s wearing!” she whispered.
Laura looked. “Sandals,” she said.
“No, on her head!” hissed Angela.
Laura looked again. Miss Skinner wasn’t wearing anything on her head except…
“OH!” gasped Laura. Miss Skinner’s hair had had some sort of makeover.
“See?” hissed Angela. “It’s a—”
“ANGELA NICELY!” Miss Skinner’s voice made Angela jump. “Is there something you want to share with us?”
Angela gulped. “No, Miss,” she mumbled.
“Speak up,” said Miss Skinner. “It’s obviously important.”
Angela shook her head, her cheeks burning. She could feel everyone staring at her. Luckily, Miss Skinner went back to what she was saying.
After assembly Angela and her friends headed back to class.
“How come it’s always me that gets
in trouble?” grumbled Angela.
“You were talking,” said Laura.
“So were you,” argued Angela.
“Anyway, what were you whispering about?” asked Maisie.
Angela stopped dead. “You mean you didn’t notice?” she said.
Maisie looked at her blankly.
“Miss Skinner IS WEARING A WIG,” said Angela, spelling it out.
Maisie snorted. “She’s not!”
“SHE IS! It’s so obvious!”
Maisie looked at her. “Angela! You are such a fibber!”
“It’s a wig!” insisted Angela.
“It isn’t!”
“Is!” said Angela, throwing up her hands in despair. “Look,” she said, “before her hair was short and brown,
and she had it in a bun. Now it’s long, curly and RED! It
has
to be a wig.”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “Angela, you are raving barmy bonkers!”
Angela sighed. Maisie was her second best friend, but she could be really annoying sometimes.
“It
definitely
is,” said Angela.
Maisie gave her a look. “Okay,” she said. “Prove it.”
“Right, I will!” said Angela.
Laura frowned. “How? How can you prove it?”
Angela hadn’t thought about that. She couldn’t exactly go up to Miss Skinner and say, “Please, Miss, can you show us your wig?” Teachers went mad when you said things like that. Even if you were just helpfully pointing out
a spot on their nose. No, she would have to think of a plan. Maisie always thought she knew best, but this time Angela would prove her wrong.
Read
Angela Nicely
to find out what
happens next.