The one that stands out the most, though… is mine.
On a pinboard filled with cute, kidsy designs, mine is dark, dangerous and downright scary. I have drawn a shipwrecked boat, with dark waves crashing around it. Pirates are swinging on to the wreck, waving their swords about. I got so carried away with the daydream that I forgot we were designing a children’s adventure playground.
I’ve spent all day trying to forget what’s going on at home, but the nightmares won’t go away, even in broad daylight.
‘There are some great ideas,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Does any one design stand out?’
Ethan Miller clears his throat. ‘Daizy’s,’ he says.
Beth and Willow shoot me envious looks. Surely they know I am immune to Ethan’s charms? Well, I would be, if he had any. I will never forgive him for the worm incident.
I blush scarlet, from the tips of my ears right down to my toes. ‘I got a bit carried away,’ I blurt out. ‘I forgot what we were supposed to be doing…’
Miss Moon nods. ‘It’s a little rough around the edges, but Daizy’s daydream is so vivid we can all see it too!’
‘But… I didn’t design anything!’ I argue.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Miss Moon agrees. ‘But the idea is good.’
‘A pirate theme,’ Beth says thoughtfully. ‘That’d be cool. Kids could play on the shipwreck… We could put a pirate flag on the mast, with rope ladders and scramble nets leading up to the deck…’
‘And a plank to walk, landing in a sandpit!’ Willow suggests.
‘We could have that rubbery safety-stuff you get in playgrounds all around it,’ Murphy chips in. ‘In blue, with sharks painted on, and stepping stones. If anyone strays, they get eaten by sharks…’
‘We could have a treasure chest inside the cabin, filled with jewels and dressing-up stuff!’ Freya says.
I just sit there, my eyes open wide, my mouth a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. They can see all that in one murky picture?
‘Let’s make a shortlist,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Vote for our favourite ideas, so that we can show them to Mr Smart, and to the little ones.’
So we vote. Murphy’s castle gets seven votes, Beth’s Land of Sweets gets five and Ethan’s climbing frame gets three, but a whopping TWELVE people vote for my pirate idea.
I start drawing it out again, properly this time, showing the scramble nets, the treasure chest, the plank and the sandpit.
Supposing Mr Smart likes my idea too? Supposing the infant-class kids agree, and they go ahead and build it right out there on the infants’ playground? That would be kind of scary, but amazing too.
Of course, by then it’ll be too late. I’ll be halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, wearing orange waterproof trousers, in the middle of my very own nightmare.
I hold my breath for days. Not literally – if I did that, I’d turn purple and keel over, gasping, but you know what I mean. I just want to find out what Mr Smart and the infant kids think about my idea. OK, it was an accidental idea, but still, some of the best inventions in the world happen like that, don’t they?
If my idea gets chosen, it could prove I have star quality – if not for designing, then for daydreaming at the very least. My nightmares are top-quality. Last week Luka Kinski was Star of the Week, because he got twenty out of twenty on every maths and spelling test all week long. Of course, that just made everyone study a little bit harder. This week, though, it has nothing to do with test results. It’s Tasha Graham, because she picked up a Coke can Ethan had dropped in the school playground and put it in the bin. Ethan got a telling-off and Tasha got to be a star, and now everybody is being extra careful about not dropping litter, or picking it up if they see any.
Next week, Star of the Week could be something different again. Next week, if I’m lucky, it could be me.
My little sister, Pixie, has star quality, that’s for sure. She was born with webbed feet. OK, they’re not actually webbed, but they may as well be – she’s amazing at swimming. Pixie goes to a club called Little Seals every Thursday, and she’s just about the best in the class.
I take Pixie over to the leisure centre straight after school, and Murphy Malone tags along. We sit in the gallery, eating ice lollies and watching as Pixie splashes about below.
‘She’s good,’ Murphy says. ‘Amazingly good, for a six-year-old.’
‘Amazingly,’ I sigh.
‘She’s a natural,’ Murphy says.
‘She is,’ I agree.
‘It’s like she has no fear of water at all –’
‘All right, you don’t have to go on about it!’ I snap.
Murphy looks startled. ‘I didn’t mean anything!’ he protests.
Murphy probably didn’t mean anything, but swimming is a bit of a sore point with me. Pixie is the swim-star, but my whole family love the water – all except me.
I hate it. I hate the big, bright clinical look of the swimming pool, the smell of the chlorine in the turquoise water, the sting of it in your eyes, the lukewarm, chemical taste of it when you swallow a mouthful or inhale it by mistake. I hate the way the bottom of the pool gives way beneath your feet, so that one minute you’re balancing on one leg on the scratchy blue tiles and the next you’re scrabbling and squirming and going under.
It wasn’t always like that. I was quite happy in the water when I was little, but everything changed one awful day when I was four. We were at the pool, Mum, Dad, me, Becca and Pixie – Pixie was just a baby, all trussed up in a special swim-nappy and one of those rubber rings you sit in as you splash about.
I was wearing one of Becca’s old swimsuits. It was bright pink with a frill around the hips, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. There was just one problem – it had a hole in it, from where Becca had snagged it on a rose bush in the garden, and the hole was at the back… right on the bum. Mum had stitched over the hole with pink wool, but it wasn’t quite the right shade of pink and if you looked carefully, you could see the repair.
‘Nobody will notice,’ Mum had told me. ‘Not once you get into the water!’
As I walked out of the changing room that day, I kept looking down over my left shoulder, peering at the pink stitching. To me, it looked huge. Everybody would be able to see it, surely? Then I remembered what Mum had said. I let go of Becca’s hand, sprinted for the edge of the pool and jumped in. I didn’t know it was the deep end, did I?
I sank like a stone, swallowed half the pool and had to be hauled out by Dad while half the sports centre looked on. You can bet they all got a really good view of the patched-up hole in my swimsuit bum too.
It was the scariest thing ever – and I still hate swimming. You don’t get over that kind of thing in a hurry.
I dread it when we have swimming lessons with the school – Murphy and Willow and Beth are always in the top group, while I’m stuck in the shallow end with armbands and a float like some little kid, even though I’m almost eleven years old.
Last time we had lessons, I faked a three-week-long cold, but Dad got wise to me and stopped writing the notes. ‘You have to face your fear,’ he told me. ‘Keep trying! We’ll get you swimming, don’t worry!’
‘Sorry,’ Murphy says, now. ‘I didn’t think, Daizy. ‘
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just… well, it’s hard to have a little sister who swims like a fish, when you swim like… like…’
‘A brick?’ Murphy suggests helpfully.
I crack a smile. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ I tell him. ‘I have other talents. I’m just not sure what they are, exactly…’
I wait for Murphy to jump in and tell me what my talents are, but he just shrugs and smiles, which is a bit worrying.
Down in the pool, the Little Seals are climbing out of the water, heading for the changing rooms. Pixie looks up, catches my eye and waves.
‘Murphy,’ I ask carefully, as we watch the kids tiptoe away to the changing rooms. ‘What would you say my star qualities are? What am I re
ally, really good at?’
Murphy frowns. ‘Well,’ he considers, ‘you always have lots of crazy ideas…’
‘That’s not a star quality,’ I scoff. ‘Be serious.’
‘OK,’ Murphy says. ‘Your talents are… you’re very good at… well, lots of things, but you’re especially brilliant at… um…’
‘Yes?’
Murphy is chewing his lip.
‘Murphy?’ I ask him gently. ‘I’m especially brilliant at… what?’
‘Being you!’ he announces.
That’s not quite what I was hoping for. Isn’t everyone good at being themselves? My shoulders slump.
‘C’mon, Daizy,’ he says. ‘You’re cool, kind, caring… and loads of fun too. You’re the one and only Daizy Star! And Miss Moon is right – you can do anything you set your mind to!’
‘You think so?’ I ask.
‘I know so. Race you down the stairs!’
He legs it down into the lobby, all flailing elbows and floppy fringe, and I race after – I almost catch him too. Pixie is waiting, with damp hair and a mile-wide smile.
‘Was I good, Daizy?’ she wants to know.
‘Better than good,’ I tell her. ‘The best.’
‘Dad!’ Pixie yells suddenly. And sure enough, Dad appears, pink-faced from cycling, striding towards us with a sheet of paper in his hand.
‘Dad!’ I echo. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here!’
‘I thought I’d see how my best girls are doing,’ he replies. ‘Make the most of my new-found leisure.’
‘Leisure?’ Murphy asks, looking at me.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my Converse trainers. I haven’t told anyone about the flaming map and the lesson on global warming, obviously. I haven’t told anyone that Dad has jacked his job in to build a boat and sail around the world, because if I say it out loud it’ll be real, and I just don’t want it to be. I need a bit more time to get used to the idea myself before I unleash it on the world.
‘Dad’s got a few days off,’ I say quietly, before he gets a chance to tell Murphy the whole story, but Dad isn’t even listening. He hands me the sheet of paper.
‘Look at this, Daizy!’ he says.
I read the flyer with a feeling of doom. The Baby Dolphin Club are running swimming classes for beginners twice a week, just after school. Success is guaranteed.
‘I’ve signed you up,’ Dad says brightly. ‘You’ll soon be swimming!’
‘Dad, no!’ I argue. ‘You know how I feel about swimming…’
‘It’s important,’ Dad says.
‘Very important,’ Pixie agrees. ‘Especially now that we’re –’
‘I’ll do it!’ I blurt, before Dad and Pixie can blab everything to Murphy and ruin any last shreds of normality my life may have. ‘I’ll join this class, learn to swim, OK?’
Murphy gives me a sympathetic grin. ‘You can do it, Daizy Star,’ he grins. ‘Remember? You can do anything you set your mind to.’
I smile weakly. Just what have I got myself into?
Murphy slopes off down the steps with a wave and a grin. I breathe a sigh of relief. My secret is safe – for now, at least.
You wouldn’t think that things could get worse, but of course, they can. My sister Becca, who has been flumping about for the past few days looking huffy and tragic, comes out of the bathroom on Friday morning in neon-pink eyeshadow with thick smudges of black eyeliner under each eye. Her hair is wild, back-combed and topped with a black lace ribbon. She looks like an extra from The Addams Family.
‘Are you in fancy dress?’ I ask, before she can sneak back into her room. ‘Is it a non-uniform day? Raising money for… I don’t know, deprived teen goths or something?’
‘Funny,’ Becca says. ‘It’s my new look. What d’you think?’
‘Scary,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure about the pink eyeshadow, or the eyeliner. You look like you’ve been up all night crying.’
‘I like it,’ Becca sniffs. ‘So what if I look sad and scary? That’s how I feel – and angry too! Dad is ruining my life. All those years I worked hard at school, wore perfect uniform… Where did it get me? Nowhere!’
‘But…’
‘But nothing, Daizy,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have some fun while I still can. What’s wrong with that?’
Becca picks up her rucksack and puts on her iPod. It’s so loud I can hear the crashing, wailing rackety music right across the landing.
‘Love ya, Daizy,’ she says, then runs down the stairs and out of the front door before Mum or Dad can catch her.
At least at school I can still try to ignore the fact that my family are going crazy. I do not have to think about sailing around the world or swimming lessons with the Baby Dolphin Club, or a sister who has gone from goody-two-shoes to goth in less than four days.
At least Murphy hasn’t asked any awkward questions about Dad’s time off or the sudden importance of swimming lessons. Phew. I just have to listen to Beth and Willow getting mushy over Ethan Miller and finish off my new-look playground design and figure out the mysteries of the decimal point. It’s practically a holiday.
But then I go home, and I can’t escape the nightmare. Dad has enrolled in a woodwork-skills class and started to buy hammers, saws and pots of stinky glue. Thick, dusty books on sailing are piled around the room, and navigation charts are spread out across the dining table.
Mum is trying to clear a space for the tea, but it’s a losing battle. Dad doesn’t even notice – he is combing the Internet for information on kit boats.
‘Our boat must be stable enough to withstand an ocean storm,’ he tells us. ‘It needs to be sturdy and strong and hard to capsize…’
I have a sudden vision of us floundering around in icy seas, clinging on to splintered bits of wreckage. I swallow hard. There are so many things to think of: icebergs, tropical storms, whales, leaks, gale-force winds, pirates…
‘There’s a kit here that seems really good value,’ Dad goes on. ‘They send you all the pieces, ready cut, with plans and instructions. It’s foolproof.’
‘It will need to be,’ Mum says darkly.
‘I’m going to order it,’ Dad says. ‘The Haddock, it’s called.’
I stifle a snort. ‘The Haddock? Seriously?’
‘Isn’t that a fish?’ Pixie wants to know.
‘It is. It’s a good name for a steady, sensible, ocean-going boat,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t see what’s funny.’
‘Nor do I,’ Mum says, hiding a smirk. ‘It tastes very nice fried and battered and served with chips too.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’
Becca appears in the doorway wearing purple lipstick and black nail varnish, with her hair carefully crimped and back-combed. She is wearing a black tutu, red fishnet tights over black leggings and clumpy biker boots with shiny silver buckles.
Dad glances up from the laptop and almost falls off his chair.
‘Rebecca Star, what on earth are you wearing?’ he chokes out.
‘Honestly,’ Becca says. ‘Everyone wears stuff like this, these days. It’s the fashion.’ She winks at me cheekily.
‘Are you going out?’ Mum asks carefully. Becca hardly ever goes out, unless it’s to orchestra practice or advanced-maths lessons, but I don’t think she’s all dressed up for a night in with her homework.
‘No big deal,’ Becca says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m going to the park with Skidd and Razz and Ziggy.’
‘Skidd and… what? Who are these people?’ Dad blurts. ‘I don’t like the sound of them!’
‘They’re my friends,’ Becca says.
They are, actually. I happen to know that Skidd is Sophie Skidmore, Razz is Rachel Lowe and Ziggy is Maria Zigowski. They’ve been Becca’s friends since nursery school, but Dad doesn’t know this. He looks terrified. He is probably imagining black-clad teenagers with leather jackets and chains hanging from their trousers.
Actually, it’s a while since I last saw Skidd, Razz and Ziggy. Dad may not be too
far off the mark.
‘I’ll be back by ten,’ Becca says. ‘Not that you care.’
‘Of course I care!’ Dad yells, but Becca has gone, in a blur of hairspray and black net, slamming the door behind her. ‘What’s going on?’ Dad asks. ‘Where did she get those clothes from? That attitude?’
‘It’s just a phase,’ Mum says soothingly. ‘She’s rebelling, that’s all. It’s a teenage thing.’
I wonder if Dad wanting to sail around the world is a phase too. I hope so.
‘This going out on a school night will have to stop,’ Dad says grimly. ‘Becca has her grades to think of. She’s getting in with the wrong sort of crowd… thank goodness we’re leaving all this behind. I will not stand by and let Becca turn into a juvenile delinquent!’
‘I don’t think it’s got to that stage just yet,’ Mum sighs. ‘Go back to your boat kits.’
‘Am I a juvenile delinquent?’ Pixie pipes up. ‘I am almost seven. What is one, anyway?’
‘A juvenile delinquent is a young person who is very, very naughty,’ Mum says. ‘You’re definitely not one, Pixie, and nor is Becca.’
‘Well, I’m not really young any more, am I?’ Pixie says thoughtfully. ‘After all, I will be seven next month.’
‘Exactly,’ Dad says absently.
Pixie looks as though she might explode. ‘I’m actually very grown up,’ she says. ‘Because I am very nearly, almost, just about SEVEN!’
‘Dad,’ I say, hiding a smile. ‘I think Pixie’s trying to tell you something!’
He tears his eyes away from the laptop. ‘Sorry, Pixie,’ he says. ‘Almost seven years old! How about that?’
‘So can I have a mermaid party, with all my friends?’
Mum looks up from her battle with the navigation charts. ‘Oh, sweetheart, this might not be a good year for a party…’
Shine On, Daizy Star Page 3
