Fizzypop. Jean Ure

       Everyone’s talking about Frankie!

      “As soon as I opened Fizzy Pop I knew this was going to be a fantastic read! From the very first word Frankie spoke, I realised she was going to be my friend.”

      Imogen, age 12

      “Original, funny and well-written, you just can’t put Fizzy Pop down. I loved getting to know the characters through the story, especially Frankie, and her here-to-help attitude was really hilarious. The book was a real page-turner; I read it in one night it was that captivating.”

      Beth, age 9

      “This book is addictive! It’s funny and brilliant with great characters and a fantastic storyline. Frankie Foster’s adventures are gripping with lots of twists – I could not put it down!”

      Zoe, age 12

      Chapter One

      “FRANKIE FOSTER!” My sister’s voice came shrilling down the stairs. “Was this you?”

      Uh-oh. Trouble!

      Guardedly, I said, “Depends what you’re talking about.”

      “This. This is what I’m talking about!”

      She stood, quivering with rage, on the top step, waving a bit of rag. Well, at first glance it looked like a bit of rag. At second glance I could see that it was in fact her pink-and-white stripy shirt that I had kindly ironed for her just the other day. Unfortunately, there had been a slight problem with the iron; it had got too hot, or something. Obviously faulty. I find that a lot of the things I have to deal with turn out to be faulty. It is somewhat discouraging.

      “Well?” Angel thumped impatiently on the banister rail.

      I said, “Well—”

      “I know it was you, so don’t bother trying to deny it!”

      I hadn’t been going to deny it. I suppose I have my failings, same as anyone else, but I do try to be truthful whenever I can.

      “There’s something wrong with the iron,” I said.

      “There’s nothing wrong with the iron, you idiot!”

      “There must be,” I said. “It didn’t do that to the other things. It was only when I got to your shirt it went funny.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake!” She was shrieking now. She does a lot of shrieking. “Eleven years old and you haven’t even learnt how to use an iron properly!”

      I resented that, considering I’d done a whole load of sheets and pillowcases without so much as a single wrinkle. I was proud of my ironing!

      “Maybe,” I said, “it’s something to do with your shirt.”

      “Yes, you’re supposed to use the iron on cool, you moron!”

      I said, “Oh.” And then, “How was I to know?”

      “It says it right here, on the label, if you’d just bothered to look!”

      “You don’t have to yell,” I said.

      “I do have to yell! Yelling’s the only thing that keeps me sane. It’s the only thing that stops me putting my hands round your throat and throttling you! It’s—” She stopped. “What are you pushing for?”

      “Excuse me,” said Tom. “I’m just trying to get down the stairs.”

      “There’s no need to push. As for you, Frankie F—”

      “What’s going on up there?” Mum had come out of the kitchen, accompanied by Rags. Rags is our dog; he loves a bit of excitement. “What’s all the shouting about?”

      “It’s them,” said Tom. “They’re at it again.”

      “I’m not at it,” I said. “She’s the one making the noise.”

      “You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing!”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mum. “What’s the problem?”

      “She is!” shrieked Angel. “Look what she’s done!”

      She hurled her shirt viciously down the stairs in a scrunched-up heap. What dog could resist? Rags was on it in an instant. Angel let out one of her ear-splitting screeches.

      “Stop him!”

      I made a grab, but Rags was too quick. He capered off joyously down the hall, shaking the shirt from side to side like it was a rat. Angel screeched again. Dad says when she does that it is like a car alarm going off inside your head.

      “Rags!” Mum cornered him at the end of the hall. “Drop! Bad boy!”

      He wasn’t a bad boy, he just thought it was a game. Any dog would have thought it was a game. But he always obeys Mum, I don’t know why. He doesn’t take any notice when I tell him to do things. I think it’s because we’re mates, while Mum is an authority figure. She can be really stern when she wants. Which, now I come to think of it, is quite often.

      “Right. Now!” Mum held up the shirt. “What’s the matter with it?”

      “She’s gone and shrivelled it,” wailed Angel.

      “Only a little bit,” I said. “If you tucked it in, nobody’d ever notice.”

      “I don’t want to tuck it in! That was my favourite shirt, I was going to wear it on Saturday. Mum, it’s not fair! She shouldn’t be allowed to touch my things.”

      “Frankie.” Mum turned to look at me. She didn’t seem cross; just kind of… resigned. “I told you to stick to simple stuff… sheets, pillowcases. Tea towels. Why did you have to go and mess with Angel’s shirt?”

      “It was there,” I said, “waiting to be ironed. I thought you’d be happy! I folded everything all nice and neat. And I put it all away.”

      “And you went spying in my room!”

      “Did not!”

      “Did so!”

      “Did not. I just put it