The Incredible Shrinking Girl is Totally Famous Read online

  LOU KUENZLER was brought up on a remote sheep farm on the edge of Dartmoor. After a childhood of sheep, ponies, chickens and dogs, Lou moved to Northern Ireland to study theatre. She went on to work professionally as a theatre director, university drama lecturer and workshop leader in communities, schools and colleges. Lou now teaches adults and children how to write stories and is lucky enough to write her own books, too. She has written children’s rhymes, plays and novels as well as stories for CBeebies. Lou lives in London with her family, two cats and a dog.

  www.loukuenzler.com

  To Maureen –

  the best childminder in the world. LK

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  Look out for Violet’s Other Adventures

  Copyright

  My name is Violet Potts.

  This story begins as I was slurping a totally delicious chocolate-fudge milkshake through a.

  “Scrumdiddilyumptious!” I grinned.

  “I made it just the way you like it,” said Mo, the café owner, as she squashed past the back of my stool.

  Mo had been busy with other customers when I first arrived. But the café was empty now. She flung her plump arms around me and me so tightly I felt like one of the oranges in her fresh juice machine.

  “It’s lovely to see you,” I wheezed.

  I’ve known Mo ever since I was a tiny baby. She used to look after me and my sister, Tiffany, when we were both little. Then a few years ago, Mo gave up being a childminder and opened the best milkshake bar in the Whole Wide World, right here beside the community centre on the edge of King’s Park.

  “What’ve you been up to? I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said.

  “Looking after Chip,” I explained. Chip is my uncle’s small dog, but he actually lives with us most of the time while Uncle Max travels abroad.

  “You know dogs aren’t allowed in the café,” I said. “And Chip hates being tied up outside. . .”

  “Health and safety,” sighed Mo. “I can’t afford to bend the rules. Not even for you, Violet. The council would love an excuse to close this place down. They want to build a multi-storey car park here, you know?”

  “They can’t do that!” I gasped.

  Mo shrugged. “So no dogs . . . not even cute ones.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Uncle Max is home at the moment, so Chip is staying with him for three weeks . . . and I am making up for lost milkshake time.” I ran my finger down the menu. “I think I’ll try a Toffee Tornado next.”

  “That’s a new flavour,” said Mo. “I should give you a free sample, to see what you think.”

  “You should!” I agreed.

  “But I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Your mum would tell me off. You know she doesn’t like you to have too much sweet stuff. How about a fresh Juice Cooler instead?”

  “A Juice Cooler? No way, Mo. Mum’s not even here,” I protested. “She’s at work. Tiffany’s looking after me. See?” I pointed out of the window. “She’s babysitting little Rosie Johnson at the same time.”

  Tiffany, my terrible teenage sister, was lying on a bench in the playground. She had her headphones in her ears and was flicking through a magazine while Rosie, the tearaway tot she was supposed to be watching, was trying to push a little boy off a swing.

  Mo shook her head. “I’ve already made you two milkshakes as it is.” She pointed to my chocolate shake and a Shortbread Slurper on the counter beside it. “I bet that’s not for Tiffany.”

  “It’s for Nisha. We are going to play in the park,” I explained. I was expecting my best friend any minute. Although I was thinking if she didn’t get here soon, I might just try a TINY sip of Slurper for myself. . .

  “Nish’d better hurry up,” laughed Mo, as if reading my thoughts.

  “That’s not fair,” I cried. “I’d never touch a drop.”

  “Hmm,” said Mo, heading back to the kitchen. She knows me far too well. The minute she was out of sight, I edged the strawberry milkshake towards me. But as I the straw forward, Nisha came tearing through the door, her long, black plaits flying behind her.

  “Violet,” she panted. “You’ve got to come. I ran all the way. . .”

  Nish bent over double trying to breathe. “She’s – – here – Now – Hurry. . .”

  “Who’s here?” I said, holding out the Slurper. “Take a sip of that and tell me slowly.”

  “Yum.” Nish took the glass.

  “Now start again,” I said as she wiped away a thick pink with the back of her hand. “Who’s here?”

  gulped Nisha. “In the high street. I saw her. . .”

  “Stella Lightfoot?” I almost dropped the last of my chocolate milkshake on the floor. “The Stella Lightfoot? Presenter of the best TV show in the Whole Entire Universe?”

  “Yes!” Nisha jumped up and down.

  “” we both cried, just like Stella Lightfoot does when she leaps out of the helicopter at the beginning of every show. is my absolute favourite television programme ever. Stella Lightfoot is the super-cool presenter who visits totally dangerous places, escapes ferocious animals and does super-daring stunts wherever she goes.

  “What’s Stella Lightfoot doing here in Swanchester?” I said, excitement in my stomach like milkshake in a straw. “There aren’t any charging the high street, are there?” I wriggled on my stool, swinging my legs in the air. “Have killer invaded the swimming pool. . .?”

  “No, Stella’s giving a talk at Pages Bookshop in half an hour,” Nisha explained, “then signing copies of her new book all afternoon.”

  “Stella Lightfoot. At our local bookshop. I can’t believe it,” I cheered, pushing myself off from the counter so that my

  “I might actually get to meet my favourite telly star and . . . uh oh!” I felt a sudden feeling in my head. I stretched out my hand to steady myself. But I knew it wasn’t the spinning stool that had done it.

  “What is it?” Nisha asked. “Violet? Are you all right?” She looked sideways at me. “Oh no! You’re not going to. . .”

  But it was too late. I felt a familiar in my toes and. . .

  “Look out, Nish! It’s happening. I’m shrinking again,” I cried.

  I have shrunk quite a few times now – it happens whenever I get overexcited (and hearing Stella Lightfoot was in town was definitely exciting news). The in my toes is always the first clue that I’m about to shrink. As soon as I felt it, I tucked my feet tight underneath me so I wouldn’t fall off the stool.

  “I’m so sorry,” gasped Nisha, who knows all about my shrinking. “I should never have mentioned Stella Lightfoot. I should have known you might. . .”

  “Too late,” I squealed as I grabbed helplessly at the counter and sent
both our milkshakes flying. The tickle in my toes shot up my legs. There was a fizzy feeling in my stomach, my ears popped and I shrank to the size of an apple core.

  A giant tsunami of sticky milkshake off the counter towards me. I clung to the seat of the red leather stool, almost swept away like a twig in the tide. As the wave passed over me, milkshake ran through my hair, and down my arms and legs.

  Whenever I shrink, whatever I am wearing shrinks too. Since my shoes were now no bigger than they quickly filled to the brim with thick chocolate and strawberry goo.

  “Gross . . . but also a little bit delicious!” I giggled, licking my arm as I peered down over the edge of the stool.

  Pink and brown across the floor. It was like one of those amazing, crazy paintings where the artist goes wild, throwing blobs of colour everywhere.

  Luckily, neither of the glasses had broken and they clattered to a stop against the legs of a chair.

  “What’s going on out here?” said Mo, poking her head through the kitchen doorway.

  It was lucky she had been in there all this time and didn’t see me shrink.

  “Oh. It’s just you, Nish?” she said. There were still no other customers in the café. It must have looked as if Nisha was sitting all on her own. I was much shorter than the top of the counter now, so Mo had no idea I was crouched down there on the stool, like a soggy biscuit.

  “Where’s Violet gone?” she asked, her hands on her hips. “And WHAT is all this mess?” Mo pointed at the sticky floor and walls.

  “Er. . .” Nisha quickly threw a paper napkin over the top of my head to hide me. “Violet is. . . Well. . . Erm. . . We’re really sorry, Mo. We had a bit of an accident,” she blushed.

  “I’ll get a mop,” said Mo. She clicked her tongue – a sound I knew well from when I used to get into trouble as a little girl.

  “Are you all right?” hissed Nisha, lifting up the napkin as soon as Mo turned back towards the kitchen.

  “Yes,” I said, making a sign.

  Nisha bent low so she could hear my tiny voice.

  “And I’m still desperate to see Stella Lightfoot,” I said. “We have to get out of here. You know I can’t let anybody see me once I’ve shrunk. Not even Mo.”

  Only two people in the entire world know about my special shrinking secret. Nisha found out when we visited a pet rescue centre recently. I got overexcited about the dogs and shrank right before her eyes. I should have known I couldn’t hide anything from my best friend for long. The only other person who knows is my grandma – she used to be a shrinker too when she was a girl. Gran’s the one who told me the world isn’t ready to share our LITTLE SECRET just yet . . . and the more times I shrink, the more I think she is right. People would either want to pickle me in a jar like a crazy science experiment, or worse, they’d want to tuck me up in a ball of cotton wool and never let me out in case I got hurt.

  “Come on, Nish. Pop me in your pocket,” I grinned. “Nothing is going to stop me seeing Stella Lightfoot up close and in real life.”

  “Really?” Nisha looked a bit worried. “I suppose my mum did say it would be OK for us to go to the bookshop. She called your mum when we saw Stella Lightfoot was going to be there and they agreed it would be all right as long as we stayed together.”

  “Exactly. And we will be together,” I promised. “I’ll be right inside your pocket.”

  I could hide there until I grew back to full size again. I never know how long my shrinking is going to last. I might even be big again by the time we got to the bookshop.

  “Come on then,” said Nisha. “I saw Tiffany in the sandpit. I’ll tell her where we’re going.” She picked me up with the edge of the napkin. “But you can stay wrapped up in that. I don’t want everything getting sticky from the milkshake.”

  She dropped me into the small side pocket of her yellow summery dress.

  “Yippee!” I kicked my foot three times to tap Nisha’s leg. I hoped she would understand that we needed to move I felt terrible about leaving Mo to mop up the spilt milkshake but I didn’t want her to ask Nish too many questions about why I had suddenly disappeared. Not when we needed to get to the bookshop as quickly as we could. Nisha charged towards the door of

  Suddenly she lurched sideways. “Oh, sorry, sir. Excuse me,” she said.

  I peeped out of her pocket and saw she had nearly collided with a tall, skinny man with a like a bristly toothbrush. He was clutching a clipboard and wearing a long, clean, white coat and white Wellington boots.

  “Look where you’re going, young lady,” he said as Nisha dodged past him in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” she called, running on.

  But as we charged down the path, a terrible came from inside the café.

  “Ahhhh!” Thud.

  It sounded as if the white-coat man had slipped on something and a stool had been knocked over.

  Nisha stopped running.

  Oh no! The spilt milkshake, I thought. We really should have cleaned it up.

  “What should we do, Violet?” Nisha hissed.

  “Steady, sir.” I heard Mo’s warm, comforting voice drift out through the open window.

  “This place is a death trap,” snapped the man. He sounded furious . . . but at least that meant he was OK.

  “Go!” I kicked my foot against Nisha’s leg again. Mo would look after Mr White Coat. There was nothing we could do.

  I must have kicked Nisha a little harder than I thought.

  There was a horrible sound. The seam of Nisha’s pocket tore apart. Maybe my tiny feet are as sharp as pins. Or perhaps the cotton material of Nisha’s summer dress was super-thin. . . The pocket flapped open like a trapdoor with nothing underneath it but an endless drop

  “Nish! Stop!” I cried. But I knew it was hopeless. Nisha would never be able to hear my tiny voice.

  I clung to the edge of the ripped pocket as she sped on again, but the thread was unravelling fast. I about, trying to get a better grip and swing myself up, away from the gaping hole. Nish must have thought I was still kicking her leg to run faster. She sped up even more. We were right in the middle of the playground now. Painted hopscotch squares flashed by underneath me as Nish sprinted along.

  “I can’t hold on much longer,” I yelled hopelessly as the napkin flapped around my face.

  “Hello, Tiffany,” I heard Nish call above the noise of shouting children.

  She slowed down for a moment.

  “Hi, Nisha. Where’s Violet?” answered Tiff.

  “Er . . . she’s coming to Pages Bookshop with me. It’s just down the high street,” Nisha answered truthfully. “Stella Lightfoot is signing books. Your mum said we could go as long as we told you where we’d be.”

  “Fine,” agreed Tiff. “I’m going to take little Rosie back to her house.”

  “My mum will pick us up later,” called Nish as she away across the edge of the sandpit. “See you soon, Tiffany – whoa!” Her foot caught in a bucket-shaped hole. I was thrown forward.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  Nish tripped and wobbled but she didn’t fall. It was too late for me, though . . . the fraying cotton of her pocket slipped between my fingers. I dangled for one last moment like a spider hanging from a thread, and then I through the hole and out the bottom of her dress.

  “Help!”

  I landed with a soft thump on the sand below. I poked my head out from underneath the napkin.

  Nisha steadied herself and ran on.

  “Bye, Tiffany,” she called, towards the bookshop.

  She had NO idea that she had left me behind.

  “Nish, come back.”

  I blinked as I peered across the sandpit from under the napkin.

  “Yuck!” All the bits of me that had been covered in milkshake had a layer of sand stuck on the top now. I felt like a lollipop that had been dropped on the gro
und.

  Nisha will stop in a second, I thought, squinting as she sped away, weaving between toddlers building sandcastles in the bright sunshine. She’ll feel that I’m not in her pocket and come running back.

  If I’d been big, I could have caught up with her in two minutes flat. Now that I had shrunk, the sandpit at King’s Park might as well have been the vast Sahara Desert for the distance there was between us. I stared helplessly across the hot sand as she headed for the park gate and the high street beyond.

  I’ll never catch up with her while I’m tiny, I thought, fanning my face with the edge of the napkin. How will I get all the way to Pages Bookshop to see Stella Lightfoot without Nisha’s help?

  I brushed sticky sand out of my eyes. The was beating down and I was starting to

  What would Stella Lightfoot do if she were stranded in the middle of a desert?

  Easy. She’d lasso a wild camel and ride it. But there weren’t any camels in the sandpit. All I could see were stomping feet and ankles, as toddlers churned up the sand like runaway bulldozers or diggers with spades.

  “Come on, Rosie,” I heard Tiffany call, as her ankles came into view above me. “Time to go home.”

  I ducked sideways. If only Tiff was taking Rosie to the shops. I could leap on to the toddler’s pink sandals and hitch a ride. But Rosie lives in one of the big houses on Hill Street, which is in the completely opposite direction to the bookshop.

  “I want to stay here,” Rosie whined, flopping down on the sand. “I’m pretending to be a girl mermaid.”

  Somewhere right behind me, I heard the of a spade.

  “Me make weally big sandcastle,” said a voice, which sounded like it belonged to a little boy.

  I , crouching under my napkin.

  I’d been so busying watching Rosie and trying to figure out a plan to reach Stella Lightfoot, I’d ignored the danger I was in. A sandpit is a risky place if you’re no bigger than an apple core.

  “Me dig wight here!” said the voice.