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By Jill Marshall

Cat Andrews is having a nightmare. Not only is her total best friend, Dolores, an uber-babe who attracts all attention including the nerdy adorable eyes of Freddie, but her mum is trying to force her into becoming biffles - or worse, SISTERS - with the daughter of her new man.

But that's not as bad as it gets. Oh no.

Because somehow, Cat seems to have been adopted by the lead singer of the world's most famous boy band. Cat hates boy bands, and especially Double Vision, and especially Jazzy D, the utterly ego-driven beefcake that now appears to have taken up residence in her garden shed.

For a girl who just wants to get by with as little attention as possible (as you would when you tower over most of the boys and have hair wings that flap in a light breeze), then it's all proving to be a bit of a trial. Cat's going to have write a few strongly worded letters to sort this one out.

From the author of the Jane Blonde series for girls, FANMAIL is a hilarious and emotional tale of teenage crushes, angst and unsocial media that rivals Louise Rennison for humour, and Meg Cabot for misfit heroines. Includes original songs recorded by 'DOUBLE VISION'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Marshall
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370389964

Jill Marshall

Jill Marshall is the author of the best-selling Jane Blonde series and fiction for children, young adults and adults. Her middle-grade series about sensational girl spy, Jane Blonde,published by Macmillan Children's Books UK, has sold hundreds of thousands of copies around the world, featured as a World Book Day title and reached the UK Times Top 10 for all fiction. Jane Blonde has been optioned for film and TV and is currently undergoing some exciting Wower-ish transformations.Jill has now brought Jane together with her other series in this age group - Doghead, The Legend of Matilda Peppercorn, Stein & Frank - in a fantastic new ensemble series. Meet the SWAGG team, and their first book, SPOOK.As well as books for tweens and teens, Jill writes for young adults and adults, each with a collection of three stand-alone novels. She also writes for younger children, with a Hachette-published picture book for teenies, Kave-Tina Rox.When she's not writing books, Jill is a communications consultant and a proud mum and nana. She divides her time between the UK and New Zealand, and hopes one day to travel between the two by SatiSPI or ESPIdrilles.

Book preview

Chapter 1: ABC (Jackson 5)

It’s sad but true. Just how Dolores and I became bosom buddies is a mystery, and not just to everyone else. Well, the ‘bosom’ bit people understand, because Dolores is very, very blessed in that area of the shirt front. Meanwhile, I’m breasticularly challenged but blessed in the brains arena, and that is the reason other people can’t see how we fit.

Sometimes though, despite my exceptional fondness for the girl, even I can’t believe the stuff Dolores comes out with. Seriously. My biffle is all smiles and no smarts.

For example, take lunch-time while we were discussing my … erm, family, for want of a better word. I actually paused with my sandwich halfway to my mouth when some spectacular drivel came out of her glossy rosebud mouth (mine: matte-finish aubergine slices for lips. I know. Sounding more gorge by the second, aren’t I?).

Anyhoo. ‘Say that again,’ I said, a gooooooood minute after the ridiculous comment, during which I’d tried to work out what she was going on about with my mouth hanging open. Dolores came out with some stupid things … incredibly dim, dotty things … but this one just about topped them all.

‘You mean your mum’s new boyfriend does like what Hitler did,’ repeated Dolores, flicking a long strand of pink hair over her shoulder in a blouse-rippling manoeuvre that caused several Year 9 boys to drop their plates. Or at least their jaws. ‘Genitals.’

‘Tics. Genetics. I said my mum’s new … eugh, not boyfriend, he’s about a thousand years old … friend, no, companion; no, associate … does genetics. Not genitals.’ I pushed my glasses up my nose, smearing Marmite across the right lens. ‘Doing genitals would make him a gynaecologist or something utterly pervy and disgusting, not a geneticist. And eww, imagine meeting your mother’s gynaecologist? Rank, vomit-worthy and utterly unacceptable. Anyway, what’s that got to do with Hitler?’

Dolores fixed me with her pale blue stare that said clearly I know you think I’m thick, but I do listen sometimes, you know. ‘That’s what he did to all those people in the camps. Genetics.’

Well. That was surprising. Actually, that was true. ‘Um, yeah, amazing,’ I said, trying to hide my astonishment. Dolores really does listen in History, I thought, and not just to her secret iPod playing the latest from newest songsational boy-band, Double Vision, and dreamy lead singer Jazzy Divine. Snore … Oh, am I still awake? Gaad, so boring I can hardly bring myself to say their name …

‘Correct,’ I continued while I had Dolores’ attention. ‘Hitler did carry out genetic engineering. Those experiments Mengele did and so on.’

‘Experiments men?’ Dolores licked her lips to get the sugar from her doughnut off them, causing more crockery to crash to the floor at the table behind. Year 8s this time. Shouldn’t they be into steam trains or dinosaurs or something? Wow. The Dolores Redwood Fan Club is getting younger and younger.

I sighed, propping my head up on my hand. Sometimes talking to Dolores makes the noggin feel extra heavy. ‘Not experiments men. The experiments – pause – that Mengele – all one word - did. You know, Josef Mengele and Hitler’s genetic experimentation with the …’

I stopped short. I could see I was wasting my breath. Dolores obviously had no idea what either of us was talking about and had stopped listening, returning instead to some serious studying of her reflection in the water jug on the cafeteria table. The sight of her leaning across the table with a cleavage-enhancing grasp on the jug handle as she turned it towards her was proving too much for the male population of the cafeteria, and I swear I heard someone faint. Quick glance over my shoulder ... Yep. Just behind me on the terracotta tiles was a Year 9, who’d obviously been approaching Dolores with a napkin for her sugary lips and been hit with the full visual blast of the breast-squeezing episode, all majestically magnified through the water jug.

‘Poor little dude,’ I said, stirring him gently with my foot. ‘You killed a tiny teenager, but at least he died happy.’

‘God, did I do that?’ Dolores leapt out of her seat and bustled around the table, still clutching the water jug.

At the sight of this I had to let out a giggle. ‘Dolores, if he comes to his senses with the school’s curviest, prettiest Year 11 looming over him, he’ll have a heart attack. Then he really will die. Then you’d have to give him mouth-to-mouth and he’d come back to life and then really, really die all over again.’

Slowing down on my side of the table to adjust her grip on the carafe of water, Dolores blinked, puzzled. ‘I’m not going to loom or mouth-to-mouth him, Cat. I’m going to do this.’ And she up-ended the entire jug over the prone thirteen year old.

I slid out of the way of the cascade of liquid, shaking my head. Why was it always like this with Dolores? Why did van drivers toot their horns, and people on scaffolding drop bricks from great heights when she was around? Actually I knew the answer to that. Like I’d just told my bestie (prettiest, curviest Year 11 at Trevellyan School), Dolores is pretty, pink-haired, petite and pert about the bosoms. All the Ps.

And, of course, Dolores is everything I am not. Me, Cat Andrews, I’m all the Ns: nerdy, non-descript, nervous especially around boys, and the worst N of all - Nice. Just too darned nice. Far, far too nice, which was how I ended up being besties with Dolores when all the other girls were much too threatened by her appearance to see how sweet she is underneath all the gorgeousness. Sweet enough to sit in Chemistry with the flat-fronted science freak … to persuade me to change my name from Catherine to Cat … to laugh at my jokes even when she doesn’t get them …

Maybe a geneticist step-dad could be useful, I thought as Dolores tried to wipe the poor boy’s sopping forehead with a corner of her blouse, exposing her trim midriff and half a lacy bra to thunderous applause and whoops of approval from the boys’ tables. Somehow, perhaps, Geneticist Step-Dad could get some of Dolores’ DNA and inject it into me. Then I could shrink myself in all directions apart from in the breasticular department, and finally be able to have long silky hair that swished, instead of tight curly brown hair that just, well, curled. Curled out and up and never got longer, just wider. If it kept on growing in its current state, I’d actually grow wings out of my head to rival a fighter plane. With Dolores DNA, it would change completely and be lustrous and long and Rapunzelous. Maybe then I could be the kind of sixteen year old who would have boys rushing round the canteen, chucking jugs of water over themselves just so that I’d dab their brow with a bit of blouse.

Finishing my Marmite sarnie as chaos ensued around Dolores– the rugby team had now ripped off their shirts and were laying them out, Raleigh-like, across the puddles of water Dolores and her adorers had created – I piled both our plates onto the tray and wondered what we’d end up having for dinner at home.

I really, truly hoped Mum’s new geneticist boyf could cook as well as doing DNA splicing – or at least that he earned enough money to take us out. There was no way my mother would be up to the task of providing dinner for four people: me, Mum (a really great translator but hopeless cook), The Geneticist (or Dean, as he likes to be called, apparently) and The Geneticist’s Daughter (or the dreaded disgustingly ideal daughter, as I like to think of her). And with the amount of homework we’d had piled on us for the upcoming exams, I wouldn’t be able to step in as I usually do to avoid Mother Dearest poisoning everyone. Mass murder on the first occasion everyone met each other. That wouldn’t be good. Mass murder on any occasion wouldn’t be good, of course, but especially when trying to impress the new man in our life ...

So then I went off into dreamland, as I often do. Dolores might sneakily listen to the Divine Jazzy D of Double Vision, but I’m worse. I day-dream about university, for crying out loud. And grades. And which course I’ll do before my one or two year post-graduate forensic science specialism. And whether Oxbridge will offer first or if I’d be better to go to a more local uni and save money. And yes, the shame! This is all before I’m even in Year 12.

Head in the clouds, I wandered off to the tray trolleys with something niggling at the edges of my mind. Mass murder. Hmm. What was it about mass murder? Plus, what was wrong with me, anyway? Why on earth was I thinking about mass murder during the lunch break?

Ah yes, that was it.

I turned back to Dolores, whose shirt was now clinging wetly to her torso, to the great disgust of all females witnessing the scene (owing to outrageous amounts of envy) and the huge delight of anyone and everyone in the canteen with testosterone, including some of the staff.

‘Genocide,’ I shouted to my friend.

‘Hmm?’ said Dolores, scrambling to her feet and swaying alarmingly.

‘Genocide was what Hitler did. Not genitals.’

Dolores batted away the helpful hoard of pubescent teenage youths trying to hold her up as she skittered on the wet floor – or knock her down again; I couldn’t genuinely swear which. My sudden and unintentionally loud mention of genitalia seemed to have made matters reach fever pitch.

‘Yeah, I know,’ puffed Dolores. ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

‘No, honey, it isn’t,’ I said kindly. I slid the tray into its slot and forced my way back through the melee to extract Dolores from it. ‘First you thought he did genitals, and then you said it was genetics. Which might have been right if you’d said so on purpose, but I’m guessing you didn’t. Don’t worry; you can have my notes on Hitler,’ I said automatically as Dolores’ brow began to furrow. I nudged my buddy in the ribs. ‘So tell me again. Just how did you get into this very exclusive, very academic school for the finest young brains in the area?’

Dolores beamed happily, smoothing her uniform back down again, completely oblivious to several guys craning their heads around me in order to get a better view – as I am actually rather too large to be see-through at the same time as seemingly being invisible, which is quite a trick. ‘I’ve no idea,’ Dolores admitted with a shrug.

And she genuinely doesn’t, which makes her all the more adorable.

‘Sometimes,’ I said, linking my arm through Dolores’ wet sleeve, ‘I wish I could stop being so pathetically nice and just properly hate you like I really, really should. It’s not good for my rep as Chief Nerdess to have Chief Cheerleader as my best friend.’

‘Only friend,’ she reminded me kindly.

I took my arm away. ‘That’s it. You’re out.’

‘But then who would save you from your wicked step-sister?’ said Dolores with a grin.

‘Stop that right now. We’re meeting them for the very first time. They’re not married yet.’

‘Bet they will be, though. Your mum’s never brought anyone home before, has she? It must be lerrrrrrve.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ I shuddered. ‘But do remind me to pick up a deli pizza from the supermarket on the way home.’

‘Okay,’ said Dolores, practically skipping with joy at being given a responsibility.

She wouldn’t remember, of course, but I would, so it didn’t really matter. Dolores would be happy just knowing that someone took her the tiniest bit seriously and would expect her to recall something so important. And at least it would give me an excuse for spinning around at the front door and going straight out again if The Geneticist or The Wicked Step-Sister – (no! Not married yet, not married yet …) - if Dean and/or Aggie turned out to be my worst nightmare.

Which meant, of course, if they turned out to be just about perfect.

Chapter 2: The Girl That I Knew Somewhere

(The Monkees)

They were my worst nightmare.

Need I say more? Oh, reeeeeeally? Do I have to go through it again?

Well, there was nothing wrong with either of them, I’m sorry to say. Dean was smiley and tall and more-or-less handsome (which surprised me for some reason, as I thought he’d be all Weirdy Beardy Scientist. Maybe he’d pilfered some handsomeness genes from a patient and plunged them into a vein … and one day his supply would run out and he’d go back to looking like a brown-trousered, bow-backed super-nerd instead of someone who might run a Ted Baker shop … and maybe I’d stop thinking weird stuff about perfectly normal people and figure out why I had this image of scientists when I actually want to BE one, for the love of Newton …).

As for Aggie – what is there to say? There was nothing wrong with her AT ALL. How unfair and utterly annoying is that? Seriously, I stared at her for a good few minutes, doing a scientific assessment while she gave my mother chocolates and a half-handshake that turned into a giggle and a bit of a hug. Pretty but no Dolores. Smart but no me. Not fat or thin or breasticularly challenged or poke-you-in-the-eye bosomy, and dressed in the kind of outfit I could see myself in if it wouldn’t make me look even more like an ironing board – a chintzy, faded, empire-line dress over silvery leggings and finished off with a simple pair of trainers.

I totally wanted to dislike something about her, so I went for the hair. Everyone has better hair than me, so there was bound to be some mileage in Aggie’s hair … But no, dammit! It was … you know, fine. Darker brown than mine, almost chestnutty, but still basically brown. Straight but not swishy, with a tell-tale ridge above her right ear that smacked of extensive use of the GHDs, and shiny but in a clean, healthy way, not a salon-supplied sheen. Actually, now I looked properly, she looked like Dean in a wig, with boobs. Which is funny, because apparently I look like my dad in a wig. No boobs though. And a really bad wig.

Then suddenly she was staring right back at me (green eyes but sludgy hazel, not bright emerald mermaid gorgeousness or anything), half-smiling, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and obviously wondering why I was gawping at her like an idiot. Everyone else was looking at me too, and Mum was saying, ‘Aren’t you, Cat?’ like I was meant to have been paying attention and possibly even joining in.

I nodded and shrugged at the same time, hoping that would cover all possibilities of what I was supposed to have been listening to. ‘Yeah, you know …’ I said vaguely.

And right then, Aggie revealed her demonic evil side. ‘I’ve got a couple of friends in Year 12 at Trevellyan,’ she said with a quick widening of the eyes.

Oh, I knew that look. It said: I’ve got you covered. Here’s the thing we were talking about, and you can pick it up from here like you weren’t ignoring everything we said while you weighed me up like someone on Dragon’s Den.

I was just about to join in and ask her which Year 12s were her friends, when she played her ace. ‘I’d like to have gone to Trevellyan too,’ she said, ‘but it’s way too academic for me.’

Gotcha, I thought. Now I know your game, lady. She was trying to be nice. Nice! To out-nice me by flattering my braininess as well as handing me get-out-of-jail cards like Smarties.

Ha. Nobody can out-nice me. Not even Dolores.