Shine On, Daizy Star

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Well done, Daizy,’ Miss Moon says. ‘The infant classes loved your ideas. They are going to have a wonderful time playing pirates and walking the plank and finding the buried treasure.’

  ‘I had a lot of help,’ I remind her. ‘It was a team effort.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘But the idea was yours. Next, Mr Smart will talk to the council about your design. They will look at safety issues and draw up plans… and we can start raising funds to help it become a reality! Does anyone have any fundraising ideas?’

  ‘Why not give everything a watery theme?’ Willow suggests. ‘To fit with Daizy’s design? We could have an Under-the-Sea Disco, with collaged starfish and fake seaweed draped around the walls…’ She flutters her lashes at Ethan, who looks a little scared.

  ‘Good idea,’ Miss Moon says. ‘A watery-themed disco – for the parents, perhaps?’ Willow looks deflated, Ethan relieved. ‘How about a raffle?’ Kelly Munroe offers. ‘The prize could be a treasure chest, full of chocolate coins and brightly coloured sweets and those necklaces you can get that are made of candy…’

  ‘Terrific,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Any other ideas?’

  Yasmin puts her hand up. ‘A sponsored walk?’

  ‘That’s not very watery,’ Freya says.

  There’s a silence, and Yasmin’s shoulders slump.

  ‘Well, make it a sponsored swim…’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and now it’s too late. The idea is out there, and it’s the worst I’ve ever had in my whole entire life.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Beth says.

  ‘It’d be fun.’

  ‘Let’s do it!’

  ‘You’re full of good ideas, Daizy Star,’ Miss Moon says. ‘Fantastic! Every child in the juniors can collect sponsor money! We’ll hire the pool for the day and get the papers along for publicity – we might get some extra donations that way. What do you think?’

  Willow puts her hand up. ‘We can add all the lengths together and work out how far we’ve swum,’ she suggests. ‘Like… Brighton, or Paris, or… Timbuktu?’

  ‘We could call it the Big Swim. Or Swim Around the World!’ Freya declares.

  I put my head in my hands. Swimming around the world? I didn’t think anything could be worse than sailing around the world, but I was wrong.

  ‘OK, Daizy?’ Murphy Malone whispers.

  ‘Never better,’ I lie.

  Murphy puts his hand in the air. ‘What about the kids who can’t swim so well?’ he asks. ‘Won’t they feel a bit left out?’

  ‘We’ll make sure everyone is an important part of this,’ Miss Moon promises. ‘Non-swimmers can still take part, with armbands or floats or whatever – it’s all about doing your own personal best.’

  Miss Moon starts planning possible dates for the disco, the raffle and the Big Swim. She divides the class into groups, making posters and decorations, designing tickets and sponsorship forms and drafting a letter to the newspaper. Everybody gets stuck in, full of ideas and enthusiasm.

  Everyone except me.

  I sit quietly, making a collage starfish out of card and tissue paper. It’s going quite well, until Beth points out that starfish only have five pointy bits and mine has seventeen, and I get huffy and scrunch it up and chuck it in the bin.

  I’m still feeling gloomy later, walking home with Murphy and Pixie. Pixie is skipping on ahead, trying not to stand on the cracks in the paving stones.

  ‘You must be pleased about your shipwreck design,’ Murphy says, trying to cheer me up. ‘It’s going to be awesome!’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘The fundraising should be fun,’ Murphy says. ‘I was surprised you suggested a sponsored swim, though.’

  I was a bit surprised myself, but I can’t tell Murphy that. I will just have to think of a way out of the mess – a sudden fever or an all-over rash that means I have to stay in bed all day, perhaps. My mind starts plotting. A thermometer dipped in a hot cup of tea? A face full of red spots dabbed on with poster paint?

  ‘Dad signed me up for that class, remember?’ I remind Murphy brightly. ‘Success guaranteed. I’ll probably be swimming like a fish by then.’

  Murphy grins. ‘That’s great. It takes courage to conquer a fear like that. You’re some girl, Daizy Star.’

  Some idiot, more like. We’re in Silver Street, and Pixie is swinging on the garden gate, waiting for us to catch up.

  ‘I didn’t stand on a single crack in the pavement,’ she tells us. ‘Not one!’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘What happens if you do?’

  ‘Something really, really terrible,’ she says firmly.

  That’s great. I must have stepped on about a million.

  As if things could get any worse, the Big Swim is scheduled to take place the day of Pixie’s birthday. Two terrifying events in one day… perfect, huh?

  Pixie has been busy designing mermaid-themed invites and asking all her friends along. She is so excited about the party, she may actually explode before it actually rolls around.

  Any plans I had of pulling a sickie and staying in bed all day are clearly not happening now – I can’t let Pixie down, can I? I’ll just have to think of something else.

  Soon.

  A whole bunch of nightmares about swimming to Timbuktu or playing pass the parcel underwater start to liven up my nights, in between the usual octopus/iceberg/shark-attack dreams. It’s all very worrying.

  Still, nothing can take away the buzz of knowing my shipwreck idea is going to be the theme for the new adventure playground. Being picked for Star of the Week would be cooler still… I must be in with a good chance now, surely? Miss Moon did say I was full of good ideas, and suggesting a sponsored swim must count for something too, even if it is the worst idea in the history of the universe.

  I could be Star of the Week, I really could.

  Yeah, right.

  On Friday morning, Ali Hamood rescues a kitten from the canal on the way into school. A reporter from the Evening News comes to school to take his photo, and of course Miss Moon makes Ali Star of the Week.

  Typical.

  Dad has dismantled Pixie’s swing to make space in the back garden. Now when you look out there you can see the framework of the Haddock taking shape, like the skeleton of a whale.

  Dad works from dawn till dusk, sawing, sanding and clamping bits of wood together. He gets Bert from next door to help him, and the two of them spend hours poring over plans and charts, sipping tea and shaking their heads. Then they measure the boat and fiddle about with the spirit level and shake their heads again.

  Today, Dad and Bert have begun to fit the hull around the framework. It’s a little bit lumpy and uneven in places, like a larger version of the model boats we made in Year Four, out of string and balsawood and Blu-tack. We took them down to the canal for a test run, and every single one of them sank.

  I’m sure things will be different for the Haddock.

  Pixie and I have been roped in to help hold a panel in place while Dad and Bert nail it down. The trouble is, the panel doesn’t seem to fit, so we do a lot of standing around holding the thing while Dad and Bert huff and grumble and consult the plans again.

  ‘We might need to steam it,’ Dad says.

  ‘Perhaps if we trimmed this pointy bit down and tacked an extra bit on the far end?’ Bert muses.

  Pixie and I exchange looks. This could take some time.

  Becca saunters out into the garden with mugs of tea for Dad and Bert. The purple dye has long since washed out, but still, she looks as if she applied her make-up in the dark, and combed her hair in a gale-force wind, using a forked twig.

  ‘Is it meant to look like that?’ she asks, eyeing the Haddock.

  Dad frowns. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’ve botched it together from old packing crates and broken floorboards,’ Becca says. ‘Is that gap meant to be there?’

  ‘We haven’t finished that bit. Obviously.’

  ‘You can’t have a gap in the h
ull when you’re building a boat,’ Becca points out. ‘Water will come in.’

  ‘I know that!’ Dad snaps.

  ‘This panel won’t fit, either,’ Pixie pipes up.

  ‘Pixie, shhh!’ I hiss. I don’t want Dad getting any more wound up. He could explode at any moment, seriously.

  ‘We’re having trouble with the plans,’ Bert-from-next-door admits. ‘Complicated, they are.’

  ‘Or maybe Dad’s just not very good at woodwork,’ Becca says.

  ‘Young lady, haven’t you got homework to do?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Revision then?’ Dad grumbles. ‘Your hair looks like you’ve just crawled out of a bramble bush. Tie it back, can’t you?’

  ‘I like it like this,’ Becca grins.

  Dad puts down his hammer and gives Becca a stern look. It’s his geography-teacher look – an arctic glare that can reduce spotty Year Nine thugs to mush at fifty paces. Unless they are planning to set the world on fire, of course.

  Dad must be losing his touch, lately, because it doesn’t work on Becca, either.

  ‘Tie your hair back,’ he says grimly. ‘I can’t even see your face these days. Although you’re wearing so much make-up I doubt I’d recognize you anyway! What must your teachers think?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Becca shrugs.

  ‘You used to care!’ Dad says.

  ‘I used to have a life too,’ Becca snaps. ‘But you put paid to all that. My friends pity me, do you know that? Don’t expect me to care about teachers, Dad. Why should I?’

  We are not the kind of family who have loud, in-your-face arguments in the back garden, in front of the neighbours. Until now. Pixie stares, fascinated, while I chew my lip in distress.

  ‘Tie your hair back,’ Dad repeats, and Becca just sighs and pulls the curtain of hair back from her face.

  I blink. My sister Becca has a small silver stud piercing her right nostril.

  Dad stares, horrified, and Bert-from-next-door coughs and says his lunch will be ready about now, making a hasty exit. Pixie’s eyes have gone round and huge, and she digs me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

  ‘Get. To. Your. Room,’ Dad says slowly and painfully. ‘NOW!’

  Becca rolls her eyes and turns away. ‘By the way,’ she says, over her shoulder. ‘That panel is upside down.’

  Dad just glares, and turns to the panel. ‘Ridiculous,’ he mutters.

  He stomps into the house.

  Pixie and I lift the panel and turn it the other way up, holding it into place against the frame.

  It’s a perfect fit.

  My sister Becca is grounded for life, or at least until her pierced nose has healed up. That might take a long time, because whenever Dad is not around she puts the stud back in. She does it now, walking down Silver Street with me and Pixie on Monday morning.

  ‘Don’t the teachers mind?’ Pixie wants to know.

  Becca laughs. ‘Of course not. Dad is so old-fashioned! He’s ruining my life. How am I supposed to see Spike now?’

  ‘Spike?’ Pixie echoes.

  ‘Her boyfriend,’ I explain. ‘He has green hair, eyeliner and a pierced lip.’

  ‘Cool,’ Pixie breathes. ‘Bring him round to the house! We can watch my Little Mermaid DVD.’

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ Becca says. ‘Thanks, Pixie. But there’s no way Dad is meeting him! If he flipped out over one tiny nose stud, I dread to think what he’d make of Spike…’

  Becca has a point. If Dad finds out about Spike it’d just about finish him off. He’d probably sail us directly to a desert island and maroon us all there forever, far away from boys with piercings and friends with names like Skidd, Razz and Ziggy.

  ‘Can Spike come to my birthday party?’ Pixie begs. ‘Please? Dad would have to be nice to him then.’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Becca considers. ‘After all, Dad wouldn’t need to know that he was my boyfriend. We’ll see. Me and Spike can still pick you up from Baby Dolphins later, can’t we, Daizy? Dad can’t stop me from doing that. You are still going?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world…’

  Freya Jenks is made Star of the Week for bringing in chocolate krispie cakes for everyone in class. I wish I’d thought of that. How are you supposed to guess what might make you Star of the Week? It’s very puzzling.

  I have enough on my mind as it is.

  Life is getting seriously complicated. Beth and Willow are planning a sleepover, and they want to hold it at my place.

  ‘The last one was at mine,’ Willow says. ‘And the one before that was at Beth’s, so it’s your turn. OK?’

  ‘Well…’

  Beth frowns. ‘Daizy?’ she says. ‘Is it OK? Or not?’

  ‘Um… not,’ I squeak out.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘We never see you out of school, these days,’ Willow says. ‘It’s ages since you asked us for tea or anything.’

  ‘I’ve been busy!’

  ‘Busy? Doing what?’

  Building a boat, I think gloomily, but I can’t say that, of course.

  A guilty blush creeps up my cheeks. ‘Mum’s been working late shifts,’ I bluff. ‘And Dad’s doing some… some woodwork. The house is a bit of a mess.’

  There are wood shavings on the carpet and a lopsided Haddock in the back garden, but I can’t go into detail. Beth and Willow exchange glances, and I know right away that Ethan Miller is not their only topic of conversation these days.

  They have been talking about this. About me. A lump forms in my throat, sharp and scratchy, like a sliver of glass.

  At least we’ve got each other,’ Willow tells Beth, and I can barely believe my ears. Am I losing my best friends now, as well as everything else?

  ‘You’ve got me too!’ I argue.

  Beth sniffs. ‘Well… if you’re sure you’re not too busy.’

  ‘I’m not!’ I insist. ‘Things are a bit awkward at home just now, that’s all.’

  Willow softens. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks.

  ‘No!’ I bark. ‘I mean, yes, but not just yet. It’s… complicated.’

  My life is one big knot of secrets and lies… and if you pull too hard, the whole thing might just unravel.

  On Thursday I sit in the sports-centre cafe for ages, with Murphy’s skull-print scarf draped around my head like a hijab. I am in disguise, obviously. The Baby Dolphins flounder around in the pool below while I study my spellings and try to come up with a foolproof plan to get me out of the sponsored swim.

  On Monday I huddle in the corner in a hoody and a baseball cap, trying to make a flapjack and lemonade last for an hour and stitching away at the life-size mermaid’s tail I am making for Pixie’s birthday. It’s quite cool, in a fishy, scaly kind of a way. It’s made from an old dress of Mum’s, all sea-green silk and silvery stitching. I am sewing on scales made from silver foil for a bit of extra sparkle.

  The cafe lady comes over to my table to wipe away the flapjack crumbs and rattle my lemonade can to see if it’s empty. ‘You can’t have that… that tail in here,’ she sniffs. ‘It’s against the rules.’

  ‘There’s a rule about no tails in the cafe?’ I raise one eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

  She glares. ‘You’re getting silver foil all over my nice clean floor.’

  Nobody susses I haven’t really been swimming, though. I remember to rinse my swimsuit under the tap in the ladies’ loo in case Mum spots that it’s still dry, and I splash my hair so that it’s all ringlety and damp. It fools Becca and Spike, and it fools Mum, Dad and Pixie too.

  ‘Good lesson?’ they ask, and I tell them I’ve made a real impression on the instructors. It’s true… just not the way my family imagine.

  On the Thursday of what should have been my last Baby Dolphin lesson, I have a stroke of luck. I am skulking down the stairs past the changing rooms wearing Mum’s floppy gardening hat and a lime-green scarf from the school lost-property box, happy tha
t Monday and Thursday afternoons will no longer be spent holed up in the sports-centre cafe. Then I spot a small blue badge on the floor at my feet.

  I bend and pick it up.

  It’s one of those woven badges you’re meant to stitch on to your swimsuit, to prove that you can swim – and embroidered on to the blue background is a leaping dolphin.

  Perfect.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Becca asks when she and Spike come to collect me. ‘Today was your last lesson – did you pass?’

  I show her the badge, and I only feel a tiny bit guilty when she tells Spike that I am the cleverest kid in the world. If I was that clever, I’d have figured out a way to wriggle out of the sponsored swim while still being around for Pixie’s party. I’m working on it, though.

  Back home, Mum has made a celebration tea, with cheesy pasta and chocolate cake, and orange juice and lemonade in tall glasses, with umbrellas in the top. I can barely choke down any of it, I feel so guilty.

  ‘We’re proud of you,’ Mum says. ‘Well done!’

  ‘It’s a real achievement,’ Dad tells me. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Daizy,’ Pixie says, ‘you are a star!’

  I wish.

  Right now, my only star quality seems to be lying…

  Everything is ready for Pixie’s birthday. Becca has made the mermaid cake, shaping pieces of sponge and sticking them together with buttercream before hiding the joins beneath layers of coloured icing. It looks amazing. We are keeping it in a tin in Bert-from-next-door’s kitchen, so as not to spoil the surprise. Mum is planning to make about a million sandwiches, plus a vast green jelly with fish-shaped sweets set inside it.

  Pixie’s present is almost ready. I have to work on it when Pixie is not around, or sneak out to the cabin of the Haddock and stitch it there, by torchlight. It is stitched and tapered like a real mermaid’s tail, so Pixie can wriggle into it and pose on the side of the pool and imagine how it feels to be a mermaid for a day. I have stuffed the tail with the insides of two old pillows, and put elastic at the top so it fits around your waist.