Strike a Pose, Daizy Star

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Teenage boys are all the same,’ Dad frowns. ‘I should know – I was one once. No, Becca is better off without him. Maybe now she will forget all this silly Goth nonsense.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mum shrugs. ‘I suppose you’re right; perhaps it is all for the best.’

  I can’t quite believe my ears. Nobody seems to understand that my sister’s heart is breaking … or remember that tomorrow is my big debut as a model. Mum and Dad are too wrapped up in their island dreams.

  Becca does not come down for tea, but I leave a tray with custard doughnuts and hot chocolate right outside her door, and eventually she opens up. Like a shot, I stick my foot in the gap.

  ‘Please talk to me!’ I beg. ‘Please, Becca?’

  The door slides open and I sneak inside. Becca is curled up on her bed, hugging her ancient teddy bear.

  ‘I’m really sorry about Spike,’ I say.

  She sighs. ‘Me too. He is SO not the boy I thought he was. I am better off without him.’

  Becca starts crying again, her shoulders shaking, her eyes red and bloodshot. I pass her a box of tissues. ‘Boys are bad news, Daizy,’ she tells me, blowing her nose noisily. ‘Don’t ever get mixed up with them, seriously.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I promise. ‘I will be way too busy being a pre-teen supermodel, anyway. The fashion show is tomorrow, remember? I’m a bit nervous. You could help me practise my catwalk strut, if you like! It might take your mind off Spike.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Becca says listlessly. ‘Just walk tall and keep your chin in the air. Oh, and, like I said – avoid boys. They will break your heart into a million little pieces and wreck your dreams and then laugh in your face.’

  ‘Er … right …’ I say. ‘What exactly did Spike do?’

  ‘I told him about the Isle of Muck,’ my sister whispers. ‘I told him that I had a plan.’

  She starts to wail again. ‘He … he … he refused to run away with me! I had it all planned! We were going to go to Paris and live on the streets and make a living busking on the banks of the River Seine! Spike said it was a ridiculous idea and there was no way we could run away before our GCSEs, and that our families would be devastated. He doesn’t love me, Daizy! He has ruined my life!’

  I bite my lip.

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ I say. ‘You dumped Spike because he refused to run away with you to live rough on the streets of Paris? You were going to run away and leave me and Pixie behind to wither away on the Isle of Muck, not knowing if you were dead or alive?’

  ‘I’d have sent you a postcard,’ Becca shrugs.

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ I huff.

  Becca rolls her eyes. ‘Look, I couldn’t have taken you two, could I?’ she argues. ‘There’s no way Pixie could be expected to live in a cardboard box under the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘It’s all right to expect her to live on a smallholding on the Isle of Muck, though,’ I growl. ‘I thought we agreed we would all stick together on this?’

  Becca’s eyes brim with tears. ‘We will be sticking together now,’ she says. ‘We’ll be stuck on that stupid rock for the rest of our days, picking nettles and weaving our own kilts out of seaweed and heather.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ I say firmly.

  Becca gives me a pitying look.

  ‘Why fight it?’ she snuffles. ‘The way I feel right now, I don’t care if I am stuck on a windswept island for the rest of my life. Let’s face it, the further away I am from Spike, the better – I never want to see him again!’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ I argue, but judging by the look in her eye I think perhaps she does.

  ‘Boys are nothing but trouble,’ Becca declares tragically. ‘Spike has broken my heart. Once we are on the Isle of Muck, I will devote myself to maths and science and violin practice. It’s all I have left now.’

  Well, at least Becca will have that.

  Without my chance of supermodel stardom, without my cool teacher or my three best friends, I will have nothing at all. I bite my lip, and my whole body feels shivery and cold.

  If even Becca is resigned to life on an offshore Scottish island, there is no hope left for me. No hope at all.

  Of course, once I get to school next day there is no time to worry about heartbroken sisters or mad chickens or my future as a goat farmer on the Isle of Muck.

  It is fashion-show day, and I cannot stop myself from grinning with the excitement of it all, even if my life is in ruins. We are in the school hall getting ready. I twirl around in my potato-net-and-feed-sack frock, staggering slightly on my homemade cardboard platform shoes.

  All around me, kids are laughing, chatting, making last-minute adjustments to their costumes. Girls are fluffing out the skirts of prom dresses made from scrunched-up Tesco bags and boys are pulling on jackets made from old copies of the Beano. Willow’s bubble-wrap ballgown looks like something out of a fairy tale.

  A makeshift catwalk has been put together from staging blocks, Luka is testing out his sound system and Ali is fiddling with the spotlights he’s borrowed from the school drama cupboard. Ethan Miller’s cola-can vest makes a very pretty tinkling noise every time he moves. He hands me a roll of Sellotape and tries to get me to fix up a rip in his newspaper trousers, but I scowl at him and stomp away.

  ‘OK?’ I ask Beth, who looks stunning in her shredded-paper tutu. ‘I know you’re not crazy about this whole fashion-show thing, but …’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ she promises, biting her lip.

  ‘I know you will,’ I grin. ‘Oh, Beth … this is so cool!’

  The place is a riot of colour and creativity, a tribute to the power of recycling. Ian Knox, who comes to school every day on a bike, has taken the whole recycling thing literally. His whole costume is made from old bicycle parts. His trousers are draped with punkish bicycle chains, his top is made from old inner tubes and shredded tyres and he is wearing brightly coloured wristbands made from coiled brake leads.

  Somehow, he has rigged up a dynamo light on each shoulder, so that he flickers slightly whenever he moves, and on his head he is wearing a hat made from a warped bicycle wheel with fluorescent armbands woven in and out of the spokes. Several small oil cans hang from the rim, jangling slightly.

  I narrow my eyes. I can see that Ian is a serious contender for Star of the Week. Still, Miss Moon cannot fail to recognize my potential this time. My natural talent as a pre-teen supermodel is bound to shine through. Perhaps a talent scout will spot me and sign me up for London Fashion Week, or put me on the cover of Vogue magazine!

  Willow said that model scouts are everywhere, just when you least expect it, and you cannot always tell who they might be. It could be anyone. Mrs Mascarpone the school cook, maybe, or Mr Smart the Head, or even Mr Bleecher the caretaker in his spare time. Or maybe not.

  Still, I have to stay positive and look on the bright side.

  Miss Moon checks her watch. ‘Everybody ready?’ she asks. ‘I am going to collect Class Five.’

  Miss Moon ushers us outside the door on the far side of the hall, and we huddle together, waiting. We hear Class Five file into the hall and take their seats, and then Miss Moon appears in the doorway to tell us it’s time. She gives us a big thumbs up and slips inside to introduce the show. Luka’s music booms out and Ali’s lightshow begins to flash and Ethan is peering into a hand mirror and adding a few last tweaks to his perfectly gelled hair … and then, finally, we are on.

  It goes like a dream. The crowd gasp as Willow struts along the catwalk in her bubble-wrap ballgown. They watch transfixed as Beth slinks along in her shredded-paper tutu, adding a little pirouette at the end of the catwalk space. By the time Murphy strides out in his newspaper tailcoat the place is sizzling with excitement, and even Ethan takes things seriously for long enough to get to the end of the catwalk and back without wiggling his bum.

  Suddenly, I realize it’s me next, with Ian to close.

  I step out into the spotlight and try for the catwalk str
ut, but it is not easy in towering cardboard platforms. I make it to the end of the catwalk and pause for a moment, doing a twirl in case the classroom assistant from Class Five turns out to be a model scout in disguise, and then I am lurching back towards the door, but gracefully of course, because of all the practice I have put in over the last few weeks.

  Seriously, I think it may be one of the most exciting moments of my life … and as I stagger back out into the corridor I can hear that everyone is cheering. More than cheering … they are going crazy!

  A slow blush seeps over my cheeks. All the hard work, all the worry and stress and the secret fears that maybe I was destined for a life of wellies and goatherding rather than supermodel stardom … all of that is worth it now.

  ‘Hear that?’ Murphy grins. ‘I think they liked it! Well done, Daizy! And trust Ian to steal the show!’

  I blink.

  Ian? I peer through the classroom door and see Ian Knox marching back along the catwalk, his recycled-cycle costume flashing and whirring as he goes. Class Five are on their feet, whistling, yelling, and Ian is taking a bow, holding his bicycle-wheel hat steady with one hand.

  Ian … Ian stole the show.

  Not me.

  There is only one place you can run to if you want to be alone at school in the middle of lesson time, and that is the girls’ loos. I clomp along the corridor, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand.

  I push the door open and stumble inside, and there to my surprise I find Beth, sitting on the floor beside the waste-paper bin in her shredded-paper tutu, blowing her nose into a handful of scratchy white loo roll.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Um … just checking this stuff out,’ she says, holding up the loo roll, looking shifty. ‘In case I ever need to make a party dress from it. Or a tutu. Or something. Obviously. What are you doing here? You should be enjoying your moment of glory, Daizy!’

  ‘Huh,’ I mutter. ‘Nobody even noticed I’d gone. Ian got all the attention with his flashing lights and bicycle wheels, and Murphy is the hero, really, because he helped so many people with their designs. What did I do? Nothing. I don’t think modelling is going to be my Star Quality, Beth. I was rubbish.’

  ‘I bet you weren’t,’ she says kindly. ‘Don’t give up the dream, Daizy. I expect it was just the shoes.’

  I sit down on the floor beside her.

  ‘Maybe,’ I sigh. ‘Beth … do you think I will ever get a Star of the Week award? Will I ever find my Star Quality?’

  ‘Of course you will,’ she says firmly. ‘You are one of the most amazing people I know, Daizy Star! Promise me you won’t go off to live on the Isle of Muck?’

  I bite my lip. That’s one thing I can’t promise, even though I really, really want to.

  ‘Do you think they have model scouts up there?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably,’ Beth says. ‘Almost definitely.’

  And then a big tear rolls down Beth’s cheek and plops on to the shredded paper of her skirt.

  ‘Hey, hey!’ I protest. ‘Don’t cry, Beth! We can still be friends, no matter what … even if I am living hundreds of miles away on a windswept island. Nothing will change!’

  ‘Everything will change,’ Beth snuffles. ‘It always does, no matter what people say. Everything’s rubbish just now!’

  Beth dissolves into floods of tears, hiding her face in her hands.

  I blink, horrified.

  ‘Don’t cry, Beth!’ I whisper. ‘Your dress will go all soggy!’ I don’t think she cares, though, so I put my arm round her and hold her tight and she cries until there are no more tears left.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘Everything,’ Beth snuffles. ‘Just … everything!’

  Well, I know that feeling, obviously. Everything goes wrong in my life all the time. I just lurch from one disaster to the next, pretty much – it’s kind of exhausting.

  My friends, though, are always there for me. Beth, Willow and Murphy always listen, always understand, always know what to say and do. And now Beth needs my help. Why didn’t I get her to talk to me properly before? I noticed something was wrong – I just didn’t notice enough. I have been too wrapped up in my own worries to think about much else.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  So she does. It turns out that her grandma is ill with one of those old-people illnesses where you keep on forgetting things, like the date and the year and where you live, and even your own name.

  ‘She has been getting worse and worse for ages now,’ Beth explains. ‘Grandad can’t look after her any more, because she kept doing dangerous things like wandering off to the allotment in her nightie and setting fire to the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, Beth!’ I say. ‘She was such a cool gran too. Remember when she used to help us make sponge cake, with loads of pink colouring because it was our favourite colour? And let us use that squelchy icing stuff to spell out our names on top.’

  ‘Now she doesn’t remember my name at all,’ Beth sighs. ‘Dad says she needs proper care, and Mum says there was no other option, and Grandad says he will never, ever forgive himself.’

  ‘For what?’ I ask.

  ‘For moving her into an old people’s home,’ Beth says in a small voice. ‘The Twilight Years Rest Home.’

  ‘No way!’ I gasp. ‘I’ve heard of that place. Where is it?’

  ‘Just along the road from here,’ Beth says. ‘We walk past it every day on the way to school. It’s that big Victorian house with all the ivy and the big wrought-iron gates.’

  Beth is right – I must have seen the Twilight Years Rest Home about a million times. It looks kind of dark and forbidding, like something from a horror movie.

  I bite my lip.

  ‘It’s not fair, Daizy!’ Beth goes on. ‘We went to see her and she looked all lost and lonely, slumped in a chair half asleep; it was horrible! I mean, they are looking after her OK, but … everyone in there seems so sad, so miserable. Like they could die of boredom at any minute.’

  I blink. I am not sure if people can actually die of boredom; if they could, I would never have made it through so many numeracy lessons, surely? Still, it might be different when you are old.

  ‘My grandad is really missing her – he’s gone all quiet and sad. And Mum and Dad are worried, I know they are. It’s just not right, Daizy!’

  Beth blows her nose.

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ I say. ‘You have to tell your friends when something is wrong, Beth – that’s what friends are for! Besides, you, Willow and Murphy have always been there for me, haven’t you?’

  ‘I suppose …’

  ‘We will think of something,’ I tell her. ‘Something to liven up the old people’s home and make sure your gran and grandad are OK. That’s a promise!’

  I may have been a hopeless friend lately, but if I have to leave my best mates to be a goatherd on the Isle of Muck, the least I can do is help Beth before I go.

  ‘You’re the best, Daizy Star,’ she says, hugging me.

  I bite my lip. I’ve just promised Beth to help her gran – but how on earth am I going to do that?

  Ian Knox gets a Star of the Week award for having the best costume in the fashion show, but I don’t even mind any more. After all, a shy boy who is brave enough to wear a hat made from a warped bicycle wheel wired up with flashing lights … well, he probably deserves it.

  Besides, I have moved on. My new mission is to liven up the old people of the Twilight Years Rest Home so they don’t die of boredom, because if they are happy, Beth will be happy too. I hope.

  I start planning right away, because really, there is no time to spare. Dad has booked a viewing for the cottage on Muck for next weekend. It turns out that it is not so much a viewing as an actual interview – the island is so small that anyone who wants to live there has to be checked and vetted to make sure they will fit in.

  We will catch the afternoon ferry over, view the cottage and then meet the Island Committee in the community hall s
o they can talk to us all. We will stay overnight and explore a little more the next morning before heading back to the mainland for the long drive home.

  Yikes. This is really happening.

  I want to say something, argue, explain that my life will be over if we go to live on a windswept rock in the middle of the ocean, but I can’t find the words. How can I explain to Mum and Dad that their dream is my nightmare?

  As for my sisters and our pact to stick together, it’s just not happening. Becca is so sad about Spike she doesn’t care any more, and Pixie is actually getting quite excited about the possibility of mermaid sightings.

  Typical.

  ‘What kind of an interview is it, exactly?’ I ask.

  ‘They want to see what we can bring to the island,’ Dad explains. ‘There’s your mum’s nursing skills, my teaching, you three girls with your own unique talents … and I’ve been working on a business plan too – something that will bring in an income. I thought we could focus on one particular thing we do really, really well …’

  ‘Such as?’ I ask.

  I hope it will not be free-range eggs, because I am pretty sure there won’t be a Tesco on the Isle of Muck – and how else can I keep Attila, Esmerelda and Cleopatra in business? But no, Dad has other ideas.

  ‘Nettles,’ he announces, grinning.

  ‘Nettles?’ I echo.

  Dad shrugs. ‘They are our best crop – a very underrated vegetable, full of iron and vitamins. In time, we can develop our own range of nettle-based ready meals. It’s a whole new market, unexplored!’

  ‘There might be a reason for that,’ I say.

  ‘Dad,’ Pixie chips in politely. ‘Everybody hates nettles. They are vile.’

  Dad laughs. ‘You don’t mean that, Pixie,’ he says. ‘Nettles are the future! Clean, green, super-healthy.’

  We are going to be nettle farmers on the Isle of Muck. Seriously. Just when I think it can’t get any worse …