Passion for Fashion

  Coleen Style Queen

  Passion for Fashion

  HarperCollins Children’s Books

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Perfect Party Top

  Acknowledgments

  The Coleen Style Queen series:

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Striking a pose, I winked at my reflection. A glittery eye winked back at me.

  “Now that’s a great look,” I said to myself, pleased with the result. Not too much, just enough. Coleen, Queen of the Glitter Scene!

  I turned up the radio and closed my eyes.

  The music pumped and the glitterballs spun, dappling the dance floor with light. The girl flung back her long brown hair and swayed to the music. She could hear the whispers of the other dancers. Who was this mysterious beauty? Who did her make-up? And where did she get that fabulous outfit?

  “Coleen!” my mum shouted up the stairs. “I hope you’re putting on your uniform! The bus goes in ten minutes!”

  The dance scene fizzled away. I opened my eyes with a sigh and stared at my bedroom. It was Monday morning, and my uniform was still lying on the floor where I’d left it on Friday afternoon.

  OK, so my excuse was this. Friday afternoon means one thing – total style for the whole weekend! I can’t wait to get out of the whole grey and blue vibe that is school uniform, open my wardrobe and choose something fantastic. And if my uniform stays on the floor – well, too bad.

  “Coleen!” Mum shouted again. “The bus!”

  Quick as a flash I pulled on my stuff. After tying my tie in the funky new knot I’d perfected last week (very skinny and tight), I slid down the banister, nearly trod on Rascal our dog and raced into the kitchen. With a quick one-two, I flipped two pieces of bread into the toaster, pulled the juice from the fridge and swigged.

  “Urgh,” said my little sister Em from the other side of the table, wrinkling her freckly nose at me. “You’re gross, Coleen. Pour the juice into a glass, why don’t you?”

  Em’s only seven. She can be quite cute, but has this annoying way of winding me up. As normal, her school shirt was hanging out of her skirt and she already had jam on her sweatshirt. You could vacuum Em twice a day and she’d still look a scruff. How could two sisters be so different?

  “What is that on your eyelids?” Dad asked, halfway through sloshing his tea down his throat.

  Oops. Make-up and school uniform is a big no-no. I try to be subtle, but I guess the glitter may have been a step too far.

  “It’s just a bit…” I began.

  “Upstairs and take it off,” Mum said wearily. “The bus had better be late this morning, is all I can say.”

  I guess Coleen, Queen of the Glitter Scene would have to wait till I got in from school this afternoon.

  So, this is me. Petite, brown hair, brown eyes. Sometimes I wish I was taller, but they say the best things come in small packages. My nose is cute, even if I say so myself. And I love playing around with clothes.

  “Coleen always has something funky going on.” That’s what my best friend Mel would say. She and I have different tastes – some of her stuff is way too weird for me – but we know what looks hot and what does not. She’s lucky, because bright colours look brilliant on her dark skin.

  “I wish I looked like you guys.” That’s my other best friend Lucy, by the way. I’m not boasting – she really says dumb stuff like that. I wish she wouldn’t. She’s completely cute, in a blonde, blue-eyed kind of way. It’s just she doesn’t know it. She plays it safe, fashion-wise. Beats me why. With her long legs and brilliant voice, she could be the ultimate rock chick.

  The bus, amazingly, was late. Mel and Lucy had already got our usual seats.

  “Nice pink eyelids, Coleen,” Mel said with a giggle. “Not.”

  My eyelids were red-raw. That’s what comes of scrubbing off eyeshadow with a wet flannel in two seconds flat.

  “How’s things, guys?” I asked, flopping down next to Lucy.

  “Ben has a zit this morning,” Lucy told me. “It was really funny. He was acting like a big girl – totally gutted!”

  My heart started bouncing around my stomach like a beach ball. It does that whenever Lucy’s brother gets mentioned. I couldn’t help gazing over where Ben was sitting with his mates Dave Sheekey and Ali Grover, a bit further down the bus. I could only see the back of his head and his gorgeous wide shoulders, but maybe – given the zit and all – it wasn’t such a bad thing that I couldn’t see his face. Plus I always blush when he looks at me. Gazing into your crush’s eyes is all very well, but not when the side effects include beetroot cheeks.

  “Your brother is still a complete love god,” I sighed.

  “Dream on, Coleen,” Mel snorted. “Like Lu’s big brother will ever take a Year Eight seriously!”

  Mel was right. Ben Hanratty was Year Ten, and way out of my league. But hey, a Glitter Queen should aim for the stars, right? I closed my eyes, partly because I didn’t want to see Dave Sheekey sticking his finger up his nose in the seat opposite Ben, and partly because bus-time was dream-time.

  She was back on the dance floor. The music was getting seriously funky. She felt like she could dance forever! The gorgeous little skirt she’d customised was spinning out as she moved, its sequins catching the reflections from the glitterballs. She opened her eyes and noticed the tall blond boy watching her from across the room. She smiled and beckoned him over…

  “Earth to Coleen,” Mel hissed. “Tickling the chin of some invisible cat isn’t a good look. Especially when it’s pointing at a Certain Someone?”

  I opened my eyes. My finger was beckoning for real. Even worse, it was beckoning in the direction of Dave Sheekey, whose mouth was wide open as he gawped at me.

  The bus snorted and juddered to a halt outside school. Blushing bright red, I ran for the doors with Mel and Lucy howling with laughter behind me. Not a great way to start the week.

  The playground at Hartley High was awash with blue and grey as we walked through the school gates.

  “It’s so depressing,” I said, looking around. “How are our young minds supposed to develop with no colour or style in our daily lives?”

  “We make do with what we have,” Mel said. “You have your choked-chicken tie thing going on, and I’ve got my kipper.” She fiddled with the fattest tie knot I’d ever seen. It looked pretty retro. “See?” she said. “We’re individuals already.”

  “I tried your skinny knot this morning, Coleen,” Lucy said as we pushed through the double doors. “I nearly strangled myself with my tie. Ben had to cut it off and lend me his spare. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mum.”

  Me and Mel burst out laughing, and the three of us linked arms and headed down the corridor to our classroom.

  First off was drama. Drama is my favourite class. Miss O’Neill teaches us, with the help of her assistant Miss Rodriguez. Miss O’Neill is great. Her clothes, however, are not. Today’s outfit was a right show. A mint-green and mud-brown swirly combo that did nothing for her complexion. Not that I’d ever dream of saying anything to her. Teachers can’t help it, can they?

  “Push the desks across the room please,” said Miss O’Neill, clapping her hands to get our attention. “We need plenty of space today.”

  “Plenty of space to get away from that minging dress, you mean,” came a drawling voice near me.

  Summer Collins was standing in a huddle with her two saddo mates,
Hannah Davies and Shona Mackinnon. They were all looking sideways at Miss O’Neill and giggling. Miss O’Neill’s cheeks went pink, although she was pretending that she hadn’t heard anything.

  “The pattern’s practically burning my eyes out of my head,” Summer continued.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  “Shame you’re not standing closer then, Summer,” I said in a loud voice.

  Me and Summer Collins aren’t exactly best mates. With her silver-blonde hair and tiny waist, Summer Collins reminds me of a doll my dog once ate. After he’d eaten it.

  “So, Coleen,” Summer purred, narrowing her eyes at me, “are you telling me you like Miss O’Neill’s outfit?”

  She said this so loud that even Miss O’Neill couldn’t pretend not to have heard anything. How was I going to get out of this one? If I said I liked it, Summer would never let me forget it. If I said I hated it, Miss O’Neill would be upset.

  Panicking slightly, I stared at Summer. My first thought was: heLLO? Summer Collins gets to wear eye make-up at school and I don’t? How unfair was that? My second thought was that she’d done something really freaky to her hair, so it was pokerstraight at the sides and had this weird poodle puff bit at the front. I had a flash of inspiration.

  “And are you telling me you did your hair like that on purpose?” I said.

  The class shouted with laughter. Summer Collins turned purple with fury. And believe me, purple clashes with green eyeshadow in a big way.

  When the class had settled down – and Summer had got bored of shooting evils at me – Miss O’Neill put on her Announcement Face.

  “I have some exciting news regarding our end-of-term project,” she said. “From all your great suggestions we’ve decided that this year, Hartley High’s Year Eight drama pupils will put on a fashion show, modelling clothes from local boutiques that will then be auctioned for charity.”

  I clutched at Mel’s arm, dizzy with excitement. Had Miss O’Neill really just said my favourite F word? My dream engine went into hyperdrive.

  The lights blazed down on the catwalk as the music began. Gorgeously dressed actresses and fashion editors sat on the front row with their pens poised over their notebooks. It was Coleen’s first fashion show, and everyone was desperate for a glimpse of her work. There had been rumours for months. Coleen would be experimental. She would be wild. She would break all fashion conventions. Vogue was holding their front page!

  “Students will all have a chance to take part. There will be plenty of different roles,” Miss O’Neill continued. “I want you all to think about what part you want to play in this event, and then stand in groups. Models over here in the middle of the room. Set designers by the door. Musicians here by the window with Miss Rodriguez, and all other volunteers by the whiteboard.”

  “Come on!” I said, grabbing Mel and Lucy’s hands and tugging them over to the middle of the room. “Let’s do the modelling!”

  “Hold on, Coleen,” Lucy protested. “I don’t want to be a model!”

  “You don’t?” I said, stopping mid-tug. “So, what do you want to do?”

  Lucy blushed. “Sing, I guess,” she said.

  As I’ve mentioned before, Lucy has a great voice. When she sings in front of us, she can be funky or sweet or sad. She can do all of it. And it’s like she forgets to be shy when she’s into the music.

  “I’m so stupid,” I said, whacking myself on the forehead. “Of course you have to sing, Lucy.”

  Lucy smiled, and ran across the room to where a small group of hopefuls were gathering by the window.

  “You’ll do modelling, won’t you Mel?” I said pleadingly.

  “You bet!” Mel grinned, and high-fived me. “Lemme at it, girlfriend!”

  Two

  No prizes for guessing who else was up for modelling. Our very own fashion victim, Summer Poodle-Hair Collins.

  Summer’s dad owns a boutique in Hartley which is full of big-name labels. Summer’s totally into labels. If it’s a brand you’ve heard of, Summer will wear it. Even if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen. How sad is that?

  “Right,” said Miss O’Neill. “You all want to be models? Let’s see you strut your stuff down this space here in the middle of the room.”

  “I’ll go first, Miss!” Summer said eagerly.

  I nearly died laughing as Summer started prancing up and down, pouting and tossing her hair from side to side.

  “She looks like a horse,” Mel spluttered. She put on a fake race-announcer’s voice. “And here comes Summer Collins, cantering up the inside. Someone ought to have plaited her mane. It must be nearly impossible to see out. Whoops! There goes a fence post!”

  I thought I was going to explode, I was laughing so hard.

  “Thanks, Summer,” said Miss O’Neill, making a note on her clipboard. “You’ll do.”

  My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe that Miss O’Neill had picked Summer after that rubbish performance.

  “She’s hardly going to say no to Summer, is she?” Mel pointed out in a low voice. “Not if she wants Summer’s dad to put some clothes in the show—”

  “Coleen?” Miss O’Neill said. “You’re next.”

  “You’re not having her, are you, Miss?” Summer said at once. “She’s too short to be a model.”

  I swear, if Mel hadn’t held on to my arm, Summer would have been a large blonde splat on the floor.

  “Everyone gets a chance, Summer,” said Miss O’Neill firmly.

  I held my head up and put one hand on my hip. Imagining myself in a pair of gorgeous high heels and a floaty chiffon gown, I started walking. All the magazines say that models walk like they’re on a tightrope, putting one foot in front of the other. It’s a great way of moving, and makes your hips sway like crazy. In my mind I could hear the crowds cheering and the music pumping. I could also hear Summer sniggering, but I ignored that. I just pictured her as a horse with a bridle around her head and kept going.

  “Great,” said Miss O’Neill, ticking her clipboard.

  “I can do it?” I said, hardly daring to believe my luck. “Really, Miss?”

  “Yes, really.” Miss O’Neill smiled. “Mel? You’re next.”

  Choirs of angels were singing in my head. I was going to be a model and get to wear some super-cool clothes! I stood and grinned as Mel grooved down the imaginary catwalk, fluttering her arms at her sides like a little bird.

  “Terrific,” said Miss O’Neill, as Summer and her mates groaned pathetically.

  “I’m in!” Lucy squealed, running up to us all pink and breathless. “Miss Rodriguez said I was great! There’s going to be a band with backing singers, and I’m one of them!”

  “And Mel and me are models!” I yelled back delightedly.

  This fashion show was going to be the event of the decade!

  It was pretty hard to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. Maths passed in a blur. The only thing I remember about it was Mr Hughes telling me off for sketching dresses in the margin of my maths book. (Hello? Working out the proportions of bust to waist to hips is totally about fractions.)

  It’s not exactly a secret, but I’ve always wanted to work in fashion – not necessarily as a model, more on the design side. To create something original for someone to wear, that will make that someone feel a million dollars – that would be serious job satisfaction.

  “Mum!” I yelled, running through the front door at full speed after school that afternoon. “Dad! Guess what!”

  Dad put his head round the living-room door. “Let me see,” he said, doing one of his comedy frowns. “You’ve invented a device that brushes your teeth and your hair at the same time?”

  Dad always says stupid stuff like that. But right now I was too excited to wind him up about it. “I’m going to be a model,” I said happily.

  “I thought models had to be about ten feet tall,” said Dad in surprise. “And be older than twelve. You’re neither of those things, Coleen.”

&n
bsp; I groaned. “Not like a proper Vogue model, Dad. A model in our school fashion show!”

  “Who’s going to be a model?” said Mum, coming in the front door with Em.

  “Me,” said Dad. He struck a stupid pose in the hallway. “I’ve always thought I had the nose for it.”

  I fell over my words in my eagerness to tell Mum and Em my news.

  “Fashion,” Em groaned, like it was the most boring subject in the world. She took off her crumpled jacket and slung it over the end of the stairs. It immediately slithered off and landed in a heap on the carpet.

  “Thinking a bit about fashion wouldn’t kill you, Em,” I said, picking up her jacket and twirling it between my fingers. “You might learn that the dishcloth jacket is not a good look.”

  “That’s terrific, Coleen,” said Mum warmly, putting her arm around me. “Well done. So what are you wearing?”

  “There’s loads of stuff to do before we know that, Mum,” I said as we all went into the kitchen together. “We’ve got to work out a theme for the show, and write to all the boutiques in town to see if they’ll take part. Then there’s set design and music and scripts to write and learn. It’s not just about the clothes.”

  “Scripts?” said Dad. “Since when do models talk?”

  “Each section has to be introduced,” I said. “Our homework is to come up with a theme, and then argue it in front of the class next week. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’ve come up with the best theme ever. I hope Miss O’Neill chooses it.”

  “What is your fashion theme?” Em asked, doing silly quotey fingers around the “F” word.

  Em should know by now that asking me to talk about fashion is always a mistake. You want me to talk? I’ll talk. And talk and talk and talk until your ears are ringing. And then I’ll talk some more.

  “Time,” I said grandly.

  “That’s a pretty big theme, Coleen…” Mum started.

  “Dawn, morning, afternoon, dusk, evening, night,” I rushed on. “It’s perfect, and dead flexible. We can have misty-type dresses for dawn, maybe some sunrise colours for morning. Afternoon can be cool summer outfits in the blues of the summer sky. Dusk can be all moths and that.”