How to Get Famous Read Online Free

over
to her and dropped the poster onto her
desk.
    Miss Lytton stared at it even longer
than my mum had.
    'What does it say, miss?' called out
someone.
    'May I tell them?' she asked me ever so
politely.
    'Oh well, all right,' I said, trying my best
to sound reluctant.
    She read out. ' To Tobey, You're a real star. Johnny Depp .' And you could hear the
amazement in Miss Lytton's voice. Then
everyone sprang up, wanting to see this
autograph for themselves.
    'No, back to your places.' Miss Lytton
held up the poster as if it were some kind
of special exhibit for everyone to view.
'Perhaps Tobey will tell us how he got this
autograph.' There was a little tremor of
excitement in her voice now. And she wasn't
just being polite. No, she really wanted to
know how I had touched greatness.
    So I told her and my surprisingly
hushed class. And yes, all right, I
exaggerated a tiny bit. Well, you've got to,
haven't you? So I had Johnny Depp falling
over with laughter at everything I said.
    And I stretched out the time he'd spent
chatting with me too. I even had him calling
me 'dude'. But I wasn't actually lying -
just giving reality an extra polish.
And even the boys who think they're
hard were fascinated. In fact, the whole
class was hanging on my every word – and
that is the total truth.
    Then my poster was passed round,
although Miss Lytton specially requested
everyone to be very careful with it. And
she said to me, grinning all over her face,
'Well, it's nice to start the day with something
so interesting for once.'
    This was, without doubt, the best fifteen
minutes I have ever spent at school.
    11.20 a.m.
    If I'd charged a pound for everyone who
wanted to see my signed poster I'd be
a multi-millionaire by now (well,
practically). It's been crazy this break
time.
    'How much did you pay him to write
that?' asked someone.
    'Well, I had one pound and thirty-two
pence in my pocket,' I said. 'So of course I
could bribe the greatest star in the world
with that.'
    Another person asked: 'But why did
Johnny Depp write "You're a real star" on
your poster? He only spoke to you for a few
seconds.'
    'Oh, it was a bit longer than that,'
I replied with a knowing smile. 'And I
suppose in the brief time we chatted
together, he noticed I had a certain something.
Well I have, you can't ignore that.'
    There was laughter, but to my amazement
no one actually disagreed with me.
Instead, a boy in Year Nine asked, 'So
which star are you going to meet next?'
    'I shall have to consult my personal,
private, jet-setting diary to answer that
one,' I replied with a glittering smile.
    I tell you my good impression
thermometer is positively soaring.
    1.30 p.m.
    And now it has crashed below zero.
    It was all going so well until we trooped
back into the classroom for afternoon
registration. Now there's this boy in our
classroom nicknamed Lank. Got a face like
a clenched fist and is always trying to act
hard.
    Anyway, he yelled out, 'Hey Tobey!', his
voice running through the room like an
electric drill. Then I saw what he was
waving about in his hand: my English
exercise book. The very one in which I'd
been practising Johnny Depp's autograph
– and that I'd very stupidly left lying
about on my desk.
    Trust Lank to find it. And he made a
real meal of pointing out all my attempts
at copying a star's autograph. Dark clouds
of suspicion were now looming right over
me.
    And then Lank, who thought he was a
real Miss Marple, pointed out that the
Depp autograph was written with my own
pen. I explained that he'd borrowed it (and
you know that's true), but Lank – who'd
never got nearer to a movie star than a
copy of Heat magazine – was saying that
it's a well-known fact that stars always
sign with their own pens.
    And all the time Lank was shrieking
these accusations at me, a deadly stillness
filled the room. I tried my best to remain
composed, saying how Georgia and her
mum could verify my story. But no one was
really listening to me any more. They were
too busy feeling mad