Sticky Beak Read Online Free

deep breath and walked along the queue to where I am now, in front of Mr Shapiro’s window, sticking up a notice.
    It’s taking me ages because my heart is pounding so hard I can hardly get the sticky tape off the roll.
    I’m trying to ignore everyone behind me.
    I’m having this talk in my head to try and take my mind off them.
    It’s no good, I can feel their stares boring into the back of my neck like enraged codling moths.
    People in our town hate queucing at the best of times.
    I’m terrified someone’ll start shouting or jostling.
    I reckon that’s all it’ll take to turn that queue into a furious, surging mob that’ll grab me and rub my nose in all those stains and cover me with custard and chook feathers and parade me round town in the back of a ute.
    Oh no.
    Someone’s started shouting.

 
    I braced myself against Mr Shapiro’s window, hoping desperately that there were lots of officers on duty in the police station, and that they weren’t watching the cricket with the sound turned up.
    Then I realised it was Amanda doing the shouting.
    She was calling to me from the doorway of her dad’s menswear shop across the street.
    â€˜Ro,’ she yelled, ‘over here.’
    I sprinted across the road and into the shop and crouched trembling behind a rack of trousers, hoping the people in the queue wouldn’t follow. Or that if they did, they’d see all the neat piles of shirts and socks in Mr Cosgrove’s shop and decide that having a riot would mean too much tidying up afterwards.
    â€˜Sorry to yell like that,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m serving, so I can’t leave the shop.’
    Then she noticed I was shaking like the mudguard on a tractor.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ she asked, concerned. My hands were trembling too much to say anything so I just gave her one of the notices.
    While she read it I glanced around the shop. There was only one customer and he seemed to be too busy looking at jackets to form a mob.
    Mr Cosgrove was busy too, straightening each jacket on the rack after the customer had touched it.
    I took some deep breaths and tried to calm down.
    Mr Cosgrove turned with a smile.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ he asked.
    Then he saw it was me and his smile vanished.
    He hurried over and steered me away from the rack of trousers.
    I tried to show him that it was OK, I wasn’t carrying any desserts, trifles or squishy cakes, but he wasn’t paying attention.
    He was glaring at Amanda.
    â€˜Outside,’ he muttered to her, gesturing at me.
    â€˜Dad,’ said Amanda indignantly, ‘Ro’s my friend.’
    Amanda’s getting really good at standing up to her father.
    I was still feeling wobbly, so I leant against a colonial table with some polished horseshoes and a pile of neatly-folded shirts on it.
    Mr Cosgrove snatched the shirts away.
    â€˜Dad,’ said Amanda, even more indignant, ‘last night was an accident. D’you think Ro threw that jelly on purpose?’
    She gave me an apologetic grin.
    I didn’t want to say anything, but my hands wouldn’t stay still. They’ve always told Amanda the truth and they weren’t going to stop today.
    â€˜I did throw it on purpose,’ I said.
    Amanda stared at my hands, so I said it again.
    She looked stunned.
    But only for a moment.
    She probably didn’t mean to do it, but she glanced around the shop at all the neat new clothes. Then she grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the shop and into the milk bar next door.
    I didn’t blame her.
    Even best friends can’t put their dad’s stock at risk in a recession.
    She ordered us both milkshakes, and by the time she’d asked why I’d done it and I’d told her I didn’t know and she’d screwed up her face and thought about that, they were ready.
    The tables were all full, but as we went over everyone stared nervously at the double strawberry malted in