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Rock that Frock!
Coleen McLoughlin


Introducing Coleen Style Queen – a fictional character inspired by the childhood of leading style icon, Coleen McLoughlin. This is a gorgeous series about boys, friendship, family and fashion.It's the summer holidays and the local youth club is having a battle of the bands competition. Coleen’s best friend Lucy is a fantastic singer so the girls start practising and are determined to win, but not if Summer has her way…As well as a great story this book includes top style and fashion tips, and advice on how to customise your clothes and make your own cool accessories. So there’s no excuse not to look super stylish!









Coleen Style Queen













With thanks to Lucy Courtenay




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u773e1754-683a-5bc2-9e1b-01c1ed98b1b8)

Title Page (#uc8284e36-6075-5b60-a3d9-bf4508ba6aef)

Dedication (#u85071068-7673-523b-933d-58c4731fba00)

One (#u21d999ff-cf4b-5316-9e18-5f2828394722)

Two (#u6e7842b4-82d7-587d-9539-de72d2bad2b7)

Three (#u61113997-f13a-587f-a9b1-61544766c9bd)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Rockin Pocket Purse (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)











One (#ulink_561cd402-d29e-5982-b5d1-1ba962e75e6a)







OK, so a bit of advice here. Never go dancing in a strapless top. Especially if you’re at the gig of your absolute favourite band, Bubbly, whose songs make you want to go mental on the dance floor.

“You OK, Coleen?” my mate Mel yelled over the thumping music. She looked fab in a Bubbly T-shirt and a new pair of skinny jeans, with her huge cloud of hair catching the lights.

“I’m great!” I yelled back, dancing like crazy while hanging on to my top with both hands. I had a feeling I looked a bit weird.

All the old beardy-bloke portraits started wobbling on the Town Hall walls as Bubbly – the best band ever, by the way – revved up for the chorus of their massive hit, Wave Like You Mean It. The kids packing out the Town Hall floor started going even crazier, waving their arms madly in the air. I clutched my top with one hand and waved desperately with the other, wishing for the millionth time that I’d worn something a teensy bit more sensible.

“Get your arms up, Coleen!” my other mate Lucy laughed, her long hair flying all around her like a huge blond halo. As usual, she was plainly dressed in a neat little blouse and ironed jeans. “C’mon, go for it!”

“Wave, wave, wave like you mean it,” sang the band, along with the whole of the audience. “If there’s abetter way, I ain’t seen it; wave, wave, wave like you mean it, whoo!”

The lead singer of Bubbly is called Deena. She looked totally wicked in her hot-pink skinny jeans, and I completely adored the cropped cardie she was wearing over a black top. Her hair was streaked all these different colours, and she was jumping around in high-heeled gold shoes like she was wearing trainers. You’ve got to admire that. The two girl guitar players, Lori and Jammie, were doing these leaps from side to side like a pair of funky kangaroos – Lori flicking her long, jet-black hair from side to side and Jammie’s bleach-blond quiff gelled straight up into the air.

“If there’s a better way, better way, we ain’t seen it, whoo!” Deena sang, pumping the air with her hands.

The song thundered on through Lori’s final guitar solo and a crash-crash-crash from the drummer, Belle, with her snaky blond plaits. This really was my last chance. Heaving my top up, I clenched the middle bit between my teeth and threw both my hands into the air, just as…

“Thank you!” Deena yelled as the song died away and the audience went bananas.

Typical.

“Hartley,” Deena went on, “you’re the best home town ever!”

I forgot about my top troubles at that and screamed, “Yay!” along with the rest of the hall. The whole of Hartley was dead proud of Bubbly. They had even gone to school at Hartley High – though that had been a bit before my time.

After two more encores, we all streamed out of the Town Hall, blinking a bit in the low-lying sunshine of the late afternoon. The music had been so loud that my ears were still ringing – plus my head was full of how I was going to recreate Bubbly’s look as soon as I got home. They were so cool, they were practically frozen!

“Wow,” Lucy giggled, pushing back her hair. “That rocked.”

“Wicked,” Mel agreed as she wiped her forehead.

“What?” I said to Mel, sticking a finger in one of my ringing ears.

“WICKED!” Mel roared at me.

“Trust Mel ‘the Mouth’ Palmer to be showing off on the Town Hall steps,” said a snidey voice behind us.

We turned round to see Summer Collins, Hartley High’s worst specimen, coming out of the gig. Her two best mates, Hannah Davies and Shona Mackinnon, were standing next to her. To say that Summer and her mates weren’t my favourite people in the world would be like saying chocolate-flavoured lip gloss was just OK: in other words, a massive understatement! Unfortunately they were all in our class so we had to live with them – like you have to live with a crop of zits when they pop up on the end of your nose.

Today, Summer and her pals were all wearing exactly the same pink hoodies and sparkle-encrusted trainers. They are so sad!

“Uh-oh,” I said, not missing a beat. “It’s the Three Clones.” I whipped my head around, pretending to look scared. “How many more of you are there? Are you taking over the world?”

Summer tossed her hair. “Come on, you two,” she said to Hannah and Shona. “We’ve got better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than talk to a bunch of losers.”

“So have we!” Mel called cheerily after Summer as she stalked away with her friends in tow. “Like finding the scientist who cloned you all and asking him really nicely to stop before he makes any more!”

“Anyone fancy coming with me for a drink?” Lucy said when I’d finally stopped laughing. “I’m meeting Frankie.”

The Frankie in question was Frankie Wilson. He had a brother in our class – Jimmy – and Lucy had just started seeing Frankie after a massive mix-up…but that’s another story!

“Can’t,” I said, catching my breath. “Stuff to do.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to do your homework,” said Mel in horror.

“There’s tomorrow night for that,” I said, waving my hand to kill the homework ghost before it ruined my weekend. “No,” I continued, “I have fashion plans.”

I’m famous for my fashion plans. It doesn’t take much to inspire me, and then I’m away on my Next Big Thing.

“Ooh,” said Lucy. “What are you planning?”

“Think Rock Chick,” I said, tapping my nose. “It’s my new inspiration. When you see me tomorrow, you won’t recognise me!”

We were going to the car-boot sale in Hartley’s central car park the next day. It’s world famous – at least, in Hartley. There are always bargains galore, and there’s nothing I like more than a bargain. We do it every month without fail, and it’s the best fun ever.

“What about you, Mel?” asked Lucy.

“I’ve got to get tea on for Mum,” said Mel. “Besides, I’m sure Frankie doesn’t want me tagging along.”

“He wouldn’t mind,” Lucy said. “But see you tomorrow then.”

“Sure. Ten o’clock, Hartley central car park,” Mel said, nodding. “See you there!”






“Hiya!” I shouted as I came through the door and tossed my bag on the hall chair. “Anyone home?”

“Em’s doing her homework upstairs,” came Mum’s voice from the kitchen. “How was the concert?”

“Fantastic,” I said happily. “I think I’m going to be in a rock band when I’m older.”

Dad appeared in the living-room door, holding a cup of tea. “So,” he said, grinning at me. “Actress, fashion designer, model and now rock star. That’s a lot of careers to fit in, Coleen.”

“They’re all the same thing these days,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Hey, Mum?” I called, spinning around halfway up. “You know those old black high heels you’ve got in your wardrobe?”

“They aren’t that old,” Mum said, sounding a bit put out.

“D’you think I could spray them gold?” I asked hopefully, thinking of Deena’s shoes.

Dad burst out laughing at the sight of Mum’s startled face.

“I don’t get the point of high heels,” my little sister Em said, coming out of her room in one of her old tracksuits. “You can hardly walk in them, let alone kick a ball.”

At the grand old age of seven, my little sister is already football mad. I’ve tried to show her that there’s more to life than the offside rule, but she never listens.

“You wouldn’t understand, sports freak,” I said kindly. “You’re too young.”

“So are you, Coleen,” Mum said, having recovered from the shock. “My black heels are way too high. And besides, they’re staying black, and that’s that.”

I sighed. I’d known that would be Mum’s answer, but if you don’t ask you never get. I grabbed an old pair of trainers from my cupboard and trotted back downstairs with them. So they weren’t heels, but by the time I’d sprayed them gold, they were going to look wicked…






Amazingly, Sunday was bright and sunny. I had been planning to wear sunglasses anyway because rock stars generally do, but it was good to be able to put them on and not have Em teasing me like normal. My newly sprayed trainers gleamed on my feet, and I’d carefully put on my tightest jeans and best black tee with an old cardie I’d cropped right down with Mum’s kitchen scissors.

“Now you just need the multicoloured hair,” Mel said as I gave her and Lucy a Bubbly-look twirl by the car-park entrance.

“Mum would never let me,” I explained regretfully.

Loads of people were around, all lured out by the sun. The whole of the Hartley central car park was buzzing, music was playing from various parts of the market and there was this festive feeling you usually only get on holiday.

There’s something about sunny days that makes me want to spend money – especially at car-boot sales, where the stalls all groan with cheap goodies. Before long, I was the proud owner of two studded leather wrist-straps, a handful of postcards, two CDs and a thin gold belt that wrapped twice around my middle. Then Lucy found a stall selling little china animals and spent ages deciding between getting a cat and a bear.

“Psst,” I said, suddenly grabbing Lucy. “Isn’t that Ben over there?”

Lucy’s big brother was walking down the next line of stalls along from us with his on-off girlfriend, Jasmine Harris. They are both in Year Ten, two years above us.

“Oooh, Ben,” Mel said in a silly-swoony voice. “I lurve you…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said impatiently. It was true that I had a crush on Ben Hanratty, but it was hardly news. I’d liked him for what felt like half my life. No – I had a much more important question to ask Lucy.

“So are Ben and Jasmine back together then?”

“Looks like it,” Lucy said, shrugging. “Who knows with those two?”

To my horror, Ben and Jasmine were kissing now. I heaved a sigh. One day Ben Hanratty would notice me. But it wasn’t going to be today.

“What do you think of this?” Mel said, pouncing on something at the china-animal stall. She held up a little red, white and blue ceramic elephant with a raised trunk.

“For your mum?” Lucy asked, finally buying the cat. Mel’s mum collected elephants and had them all over their flat.

Mel nodded, looking delighted as she handed over twenty pence to the stallholder. “It’s exactly the same pattern as this huge one Mum’s got by the fireplace,” she said, and put the elephant carefully in her pocket.

Lucy’s mobile rang. “It’s Dad,” she said, looking at her screen. “I’ve got to go, guys – we’re going to my gran’s for Sunday dinner.”

As we waved goodbye, I caught sight of something that made me forget everything else in an instant.

“Look!” I gasped at Mel, pointing to a bright red poster that was fluttering on the side of a nearby car-park ticket machine.




BATTLE OF THE BANDS!


Are you aged between 12 and 16?

Think you’ve got what it takes to rock?

Make it happen!!

I snatched down the poster and studied it. “Qualifying rounds are in two weeks!” I read. “There’s four all across town, with the final taking place in the Town Hall a month after the qualifiers. Contestants must sing a cover version of a well-known song for the qualifying round,” I continued, squinting at the tiny print that ran along the bottom of the poster. “Original songs must be performed for the final.”

I looked across the top of the poster at Mel. “There’s a trophy!” I gasped. I’d never won a trophy in my whole life. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Mel goggled at me. “You want to enter Battle of the Bands?” she said. “But we haven’t got a band!”

“We can fix that,” I said, tucking the poster into my pocket. “Lucy’s got the voice, and you and me have got the attitude. What do you reckon?”

“What about a song?” Mel protested. But she was smiling, so I knew we were getting somewhere.

“We could cover Wave Like You Mean It for the qualifier,” I said, almost crazy with excitement at the thought of performing a Bubbly song in front of a cheering crowd. “We know it off by heart, don’t we? And as for the original song – I’ll write one tonight! I mean, how hard can it be?”
















Two (#ulink_ba91e607-10eb-5c85-8682-78769b33e37b)







“Coleen!” Mum shouted up the stairs. “Bed, now!” I stared hopelessly at the mountains of paper that lay all over my bedroom floor. I’d started about a million songs since tea and hadn’t got past the second or third line for each one. I mean, have you ever tried to find a rhyme for “orange”? Forget it! Even “love” is tough to rhyme after a bit.

“Love is a dove in a glove,” I said mournfully, staring at my latest creation. “I don’t think so.”

Mum knocked on the door. “It really is time for bed, Coleen,” she said. “You’ve got school in the morning.”

“Do you think ‘enough’ rhymes with ‘love’?” I asked hopefully.

“Not really,” said Mum, trying to be kind.

“I’ve got to write a song if we’re going to win the Battle of the Bands trophy,” I said as I pushed back my chair and wandered reluctantly over to my bed. “But it’s way harder than it looks.”

“You’ve still got to get through the qualifying round, haven’t you?” Mum pointed out. “Don’t you think you should be worrying about that first?”

“I want to be prepared,” I yawned, snuggling down.

“Prepare for school by sleeping,” Mum advised, tucking me in. “Night, love.”

Something niggled vaguely in the back of my head as I tried to settle down and stop rhyming things in my mind – something I should have done…But I was too tired to work it out. I slid into a weird dream-world of doves in gloves instead. It wasn’t the most restful night of my life.






“Earth to Coleen!” Mel poked me in the side ten minutes into our maths lesson the following day. “Anyone in there?”

“Hmph?” I said, my eyes flying open.

“You fell asleep, didn’t you?” Lucy said, looking at me with wide eyes.

“This is maths,” Mel pointed out. “You can see Coleen’s point.”

“Of course I didn’t fall asleep,” I said at once, though I had a nasty feeling that I had. “I was just – daydreaming.”

“Coleen?” Mr Hughes the maths teacher was looming over me, holding out his hand and looking at me in this enquiring way.

“Hi, Mr Hughes,” I said, shaking his hand. I was still only half awake, to tell the truth. The class roared with laughter. It took me a couple of seconds to work out what was so funny.

“Your homework, Coleen,” Mr Hughes repeated. “Do you have it for me?”

The bell of doom rang through my head with a mighty bonnggg. Last night’s niggling thought…homework! Everything flooded back to me. We were supposed to work out percentages on a list of revised recipes – you know the kind of thing, how much extra fruit you have to add to an apple pie to make it stretch to six people instead of four like the recipe said. I’d planned to do it on Sunday night. But the Battle of the Bands poster had totally knocked it out of my head. And I’d wasted my Sunday night thinking about doves in gloves.

“You know, Mr Hughes,” I said, desperately fishing around for a decent excuse, “there’s a funny story about my homework.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Mr Hughes. “Your dog ate it.”

Summer Collins wasn’t even pretending not to laugh. She and her mates were cackling like chickens as I felt my face flood with heat. Mel and Lucy gazed sympathetically at me as I floundered about.

“Not exactly,” I mumbled. “I mean, Rascal did once eat ten quid out of Dad’s wallet so he obviously likes the taste of paper – but…well…the truth is…”

“You didn’t do it,” Mr Hughes said with a sigh. “Am I right?”

I could see it was no good. “Yes, sir,” I said sheepishly.

Mr Hughes shook his head. “I’m sorry, Coleen,” he said, “but you know what that means, don’t you?”

I nodded sadly. Detention. I hadn’t had a detention in months. How could I have been so daft?

“Tomorrow afternoon,” said Mr Hughes. Summer and her mates were almost wetting themselves with delight. “Straight after school in my classroom.”

I gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth. Tomorrow?

“Problem?” Mr Hughes asked.

Oh yes. There was a problem all right. A huge one. It was just my luck that Em’s latest footie match was tomorrow at four o’clock, not Wednesday as normal. We don’t usually go to Em’s weekday matches as a whole family, but this was her twentieth match for Hartley Juniors so it was a special one. My parents were completely going to kill me.

“No, sir,” I said dully. “No problem.”






It was hard to concentrate for the rest of the day. I kept picturing Mum’s reaction when I told her what an idiot I’d been. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Let’s talk about Battle of the Bands,” Mel said, trying to take my mind off things as I gloomily prodded my chicken pie across the plate.

“What battle?” Lucy said, breaking off from this funky little tune she’d been humming most of dinnertime.

We hadn’t told Lucy about the poster or our plans for it yet. She’d come into school with her dad that day, so we hadn’t seen each other on the bus – and break time was such a rush that we hadn’t got round to it. Tearing my thoughts from Mum, I explained as quickly as I could while Lucy’s eyes got rounder and rounder.

“So,” I finished, feeling more cheerful, “we’ll do Wave Like You Mean It for the qualifiers and write our own song later for the final. What do you think?”

“Won’t there be hundreds of people listening to us?” Lucy asked nervously.

“Yay,” Mel grinned.

Lucy was looking pale. Even though she’s got a brilliant voice, she’s never very confident about it.

“You sang in front of all those people at our fashion show,” I reminded her. “So you can do it again for sure. And remember – me and Mel are going to be right there singing with you this time.”

“The Three Mates,” Mel said grandly, sticking her fist in the air. “One for all and all for one!”

“And all for winning,” I said, beaming as I thought about the cheering crowds that I knew were going to love us. “Think of the trophy! We can share it, with each of us having it for a week at a time or something.”

“OK,” said Lucy reluctantly. “If you really think we can do it.”

“I’ll register our names, and let’s all go over to mine after school on Wednesday,” Mel suggested. “We can work on Wave Like You Mean It.”

She and Lucy then went into this big debate about a dance routine to go with the song. Me? I’d slid right off my happy perch again. I was thinking about how Wednesday came after Tuesday, which came after me having to tell my family tonight that I wasn’t going to make Em’s match.






“OK,” I said, back at home that night. “Here’s the thing.”

It wasn’t looking good. Mum, Dad and Em all stood there looking at me with their arms folded while I rambled through how I’d ended up with a detention the next day. I had a feeling that if Rascal had been able to balance on his back legs, he’d have been folding his arms at me too.

Mum sucked in a deep breath and started on me. “Of all the irresponsible, thoughtless things to do…Em’s really been counting on us all being at the match tomorrow, and now you tell us…You knew about this homework on Friday night and you still hadn’t done it by Sunday…”

I tried to picture Mum’s words like a big wave that I just had to let wash over me. It would be over in a minute. But it was pretty cold, wet and nasty all the same.

“I’m really sorry,” I said humbly when Mum had run out of breath.

Em stalked out of the room. Dad just gave me his Look. I’d have preferred it if he’d drenched me with another wordy wave like Mum’s. But the Dad Look was more like the cold wind that blows at you just after you get drenched by the wave, and you realise you forgot to bring your towel to the beach.






Tuesday afternoon was bright and gorgeous. Trying not to think about Em kicking off in the sunshine while Mum and Dad shared their usual jokes and a flask of tea on the touchline without me, I stared at the maths questions on my desk and groaned. My homework. Recipes. Percentages. I mean, who cared if your apple pie was only big enough for four instead of six? Resisting the urge to write “just serve extra custard”, I did my best to work out the problems. The big clock ticked quietly on the wall above Mr Hughes’ head, the hands moving as slowly as treacle.

I’d finished the questions after twenty minutes. I still had twenty-five minutes to kill before Mr Hughes would let me go. Staring around the classroom in desperation, my eyes settled on a tattered poster of a beach that hung on the wall beside the door. The picture was old and the beach looked wet and windy, but it was much nicer to look at than Mr Hughes.

I’d like to hear the sea, I thought. The sea and me…

Sea. Now that was a perfect word for a song. It rhymed with practically everything! Grabbing a piece of paper, I jotted down some random seaside thoughts. The last minutes of my detention whizzed away as rhymes tumbled through my head.

“Thank you, Coleen.” Mr Hughes’ voice startled me as he took up the paper I’d written my maths answers on. “It’s four o’clock. You can go.”

I snatched up my lyrics and stuffed them into my bag. “Thanks, Mr Hughes!”

The sea, the sea, I repeated to myself as I barrelled out of the door. The words bounced through my head in a thumping rhythm that had come out of nowhere: ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-diddly-dum, ta-diddly-diddly-diddly-dum…

The way from Mr Hughes’ classroom to the main corridor takes you past a row of music practice rooms. Kids sometimes work in them after school, practising for music lessons or just jamming for fun. I could hear some drums pounding out a rhythm that made me want to dance. Peeping through the glass window in the door of practice room three, I almost fell over. It was Ben.

Lucy had often said how her brother played drums, but I’d never heard him. Trying not to let him see me, I stood out in the corridor and watched as Ben Hanratty whirled his sticks over the school drum kit. Wham! Wham! Wham! The ground jumped beneath my feet. It was wicked. I closed my eyes and ran my new lyrics alongside the thundering rhythm that Ben was crashing out. It didn’t really work – but it gave me the most incredible idea.

What if we asked Ben to play in our band? How cool would that be? And you always hear about band romances, right? Maybe Ben would take me more seriously if we were in a band together!

As soon as I’d thought this, I sighed and tried to forget it. Ben Hanratty would never play for his kid sister’s band. But there again, we had persuaded him to model in our charity catwalk show…If you don’t ask, you never get.

I moved slowly away from Ben’s practice room, so deep in thought about how to persuade Ben Hanratty to join our band that it took about three seconds of staring dopily through the next practice room window to realise that Summer, Hannah and Shona were all staring straight back at me.

Summer flung open the door, nearly scaring me out of my mind. “Spying, Coleen?” she challenged, folding her arms and glaring at me.

“Huh?” I said in confusion.

“If you think sneaking a listen to our song will get you ahead of us in the Battle of the Bands, you can forget it,” Summer said. “I heard you and your two loser mates talking about entering at dinner yesterday.”

My brain whizzed into fifth gear. Summer was entering the Battle!

“I don’t need to listen to your song to win,” I said, quick as a flash.

“Let’s hear you say that when we make it through the qualifiers and you don’t,” Summer snapped back. Doing this totally insincere smile, she put her fingers to her forehead to make an L shape and mouthed “Loser” at me, before slamming the door again and pulling the little curtain across the window.

“Says who?” I snapped at the closed door.

This Battle of the Bands was going to be a battle, all right. Summer Collins had just made sure of that!
















Three (#ulink_f57ad35e-342d-51a9-ac44-80354668ca7c)







“So how did Em’s match go?” Mel asked the next day as we sat up high on the playground wall and watched the kids flowing around below us like shoals of blue and grey fish.

“Hartley Juniors won,” I said. “Em even scored the winning goal. Everyone was so chuffed that they forgot to give me the silent treatment over tea.”

Chuffed wasn’t the word. Dad had carried Em into the house on his shoulders, forgetting about the lintel over the door. And by the time I got downstairs with the bruise cream for Em’s head, we were all best mates again – like I’d never had a detention in the first place. Families, eh?

“Good one,” said Lucy.

We sat quietly for a bit and watched the playground. There’s always something to see. A game of rule-less football, maybe, or some complicated game that involves lots of screaming and running around. Some really loud yelling seemed to be coming from the far corner of the playground near the basketball nets. Loads of Year Tens were all clustered together, cheering about something. I craned my neck to get a view of what was happening.




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