ENGLAND STARDOM AWAITS

The jostling on the touchline gets worse. Parents are still trying to get autographs off Faye White, the famous England football player who's scouting for England U15s. There are only two players on the pitch who can get picked for England – me and Mikaela. Most likely Mikaela will bag the place because my mum and dad were shouting all through the night last night so I couldn't sleep and I'm now dog-tired. I didn't even do my eyebrows this morning, I got up so late. I just scrunched my hair into a pony tail, applied some lippy then jumped in a taxi to the match.

It's 0–0 and Mikaela is doing her show pony thing. Everyone gives her the ball and she passes it out to the wingers, who pass it back. She then passes it between the midfielders, who pass it back. She does each move ballerina style, on her toes, every move fully extended. Showing off. The only thing she's not doing is passing it to me. I'm waving like a Bieber fan who's just spotted Justin at the airport, and Mikaela's completely ignoring me, going for glory on her own. Enough, I decide. I pull off my hair tie so my hair flows loose. I always feel freer playing like this, even if Miss Fridge says it's against the rules. I feint to run past Mikaela but instead nick the ball off her toes. Now watch me go. I leap over a tackle, spin round three other Bestwood Academy players, shimmy past the goalkeeper and tap the ball into an empty net. 1–0. Miss Jones (or Miss Fridge as we call her because she's cool and shaped like a fridge) is dancing on the touchline. Parents are whooping and clapping. Faye smiles right at me. I take a bow. I'm bathed in starlight. A girl could get used to this. Everyone in our team runs over to congratulate me. Everyone, that is, except Mikaela.

Mikaela mouths bitch at me. From the restart, she doesn't give me a single pass. Ever. After ten minutes of this, I stop running, tie my hair back up and look over to the touchline. Faye is still signing autographs. That will be me in three years' time, I dream. Gold earrings. Latest Louis Vuitton handbag. Red heels. A modelling contract with L'Oreal. Trophies spilling out of my cabinet.

I see something on the touchline that spooks me. A policeman. He's staring right at me. My heart lurches. I think about the crazy thieving I've done, nicking perfume, jewellery, sunglasses, purses, you name it. Am I going to get handcuffed in front of Faye White and led off the field in shame?

I wander across to the far touchline and free my hair again, slip my socks down to my calves and smooth my hands over my thighs. These legs are not only smooth, they're silky fast. If the cop makes a move, I'll outsprint him, I'm sure. Of course if they've brought a police dog, I'll give up instantly. I'm not having my legs torn up by some psycho police Rottweiler. I look over at him again.

The cop shouts. 'Go, Jessie! Go girl!'

Suddenly everything's OK. He's just another pushy parent.

At half time it is 1–1. Miss Fridge tells Mikaela to get the ball to me more often.

'How can she score if you don't pass, Mikaela?'

Mikaela shrugs, flicks her braids out of her face then crosses her arms. She's wearing brand new, pink Nike boots, and she's flicking her feet to make sure everyone's noticing them.

Faye White comes over and puts her arm around Miss Fridge and they move away. Faye White definitely points at me, then Mikaela.

'Faye, Faye, show us some of your skills!' I shout out after her.

She shakes her head and points to her classy red heels.

'Oh, go on!' I kick her the ball.

Faye flicks the ball up to her head, does a spin turn while the ball's still balanced on her forehead, then lets it drop. She back heels the ball to me then says, 'No more, Adele. Another time, girls!'

I'm awestruck. Faye White knows my name.

'Tell! Tell! Tell!' everyone yells at Miss Fridge once Faye White has left. 'What did she say about us?'

'The prize is within your grasp,' says Miss Fridge to us all. 'Adele, she said your last goal "would have made Pele swoon".'

'Who's Pele?' I ask.

'Only the greatest striker who ever lived,' says Miss Fridge. 'And Mikaela, your control, your passing. "Beckham would kiss your boots", she said.'

'She never said that in a million years. But still I'm all ears!' Mikaela pulls her ears to show Miss Fridge that she is all ears. It's funny. I laugh, even though Mikaela is a bitch for not passing to me.

'OK, enough, Mikaela. Do your rhyming on the pitch. And Adele?'

'Yes, Miss?'

'Concentrate. Get the ball. Then stick it in the net. Simples. Mikaela. Pass the ball to Adele.'

'What the feet don't know, the mouth can't tell.'

'Just do it, Mikay,' snaps Miss Fridge, sounding suddenly like a Chihuahua that's sucked on a helium balloon.

Mikaela gets the ball and fires it at me hard and fast. She forgets I have an older brother who smashes the ball at me like that every day. One touch and the ball turns from a cannonball into a feather. Watch me go. England team here I come. I weave round one defender, spinning away so tightly she falls on her bum. The goalie tries to crowd me but I feint to shoot left, then shoot right. The ball rockets into the net. As easy as painting my nails. I mime painting my nails just so they all get the point on the touchline. Everyone's all over me. I love it. Even Mikaela high fives me.

I dash upfield again. Mikaela plays a peach of a pass to me. It drops soft as a cotton bud onto my left thigh. I trap it then do a neat little chip shot. The ball spirals over the goalie, kisses the post and rebounds into the net. I do my nail polishing again.

Everyone's patting me on the back. Faye White is clapping. If that doesn't get me into the England team nothing will.

Bestwood don't want to play anymore. Every time we pass the ball all the parents on our touchline are shouting Olé! When I say all the parents, that's all except mine. My dad only goes to MTB's matches. Mum came to a match once. She stood on the touchline, drunk. I scored but it was ruled off-side. Mum ran onto the pitch to try and punch the referee. Luckily, she tripped and fell so the punch missed. Miss Fridge carried Mum off, firefighter style. I told my mum never to come again.

The final whistle blows. Me and Mikaela are shattered. We're flopped on the pitch, leaning on each other, panting. All we really want to know is: who made it onto the England team? We're gathered around Miss Fridge.

'Faye White has left early to get up the motorway,' Miss Fridge says, 'but she left me this.' Miss Fridge waves an envelope.

'Come on, spill the beans, Miss, who's da Queens?' yells Mikaela, back in rap mode.

'What did Faye White say?' I chip in, translating.

'Inside this envelope is the answer,' Miss Fridge says. She slowly pulls out a piece of white paper, which she unfolds. 'Your whole team played fantastic,' Miss Fridge says, reading from the paper.

'Who? Who? Who? Who?' everyone yells.

'Wait for it!' Miss Fridge shouts over us.

We're all there, waiting.

THERE'S ONLY ONE ADELE VIALLI

Miss Fridge moves her finger along the paper to read the note from Faye White, like she's five years old or something. 'She gave Mikaela Most Valuable Player,' she declares.

Mikaela jumps right up in a tail-shake dance. 'I'm on the England team! Dream! Dream!...