by Maggi Gibson
I stare at Twig. I can’t believe what he’s saying.
‘I thought you were different,’ he goes on, his voice so quiet I can hardly hear it. ‘I thought you cared. But maybe you don’t. Not really.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe you only care about yourself.’
‘I suppose you always do the right thing, do you?’ I explode. ‘So, I forgot you were waiting for me. Because I was excited. I’ve dreamed about a moment like that for years. Can you imagine what it means to a singer when someone turns up from a record company? And it’s not like I’ve signed with them. I’ve just agreed to go to the studio and do some run-throughs. See what they might offer…’
My voice trails off. Twig stares at his feet. He looks so unhappy. All my anger disappears as suddenly as it blew up.
‘Twig, I’m not going to sell out. I know what I will and won’t do. I’m not going to betray everything I believe in. And I’m NOT going to forget my friends.’
Twig looks at me long and hard, like he’s looking right into my soul.
‘Whatever,’ he says quietly, and disappears into the garden.
The last few days have been awful.
I have heard nothing from Twig. He’s not been on the school wall waiting for me at half three. Of course, I’ve been acting like I don’t care, but the truth is, I do. Megan offered to take a note home to him if I wanted, but I said no. I don’t want Megan acting as a go-between. What if she read the note? Or showed it to someone else. I just don’t think I can trust her. And I’m way too proud to ask her if he’s said anything. So I’ve pretended I couldn’t care less. Maybe I’m just never going to meet a chico I really get on with. Maybe I’m just going to be a career girl. Which is absolutely totally completely fine by me.
Every night this week when I asked Dad if he’d checked out the Y-Gen people he said, ‘Ooops, sorry, Sass, I’ve had so much to do, I clean forgot.’
Only when I threatened last night to begin divorce proceedings against him on the grounds that he was an unfit dad, putting the needs of his political career before my needs as a daughter, did I get some action. Finally, today, Dad got Digby to check Y-Gen out. And, wey-hey! And whoop! whoop! whoop! They’re completely legal and above board! (Which I knew already or Phoenix Macleod wouldn’t be with them, would he?)
So Mum phoned Ben at Y-Gen this afternoon and it’s all arranged. They’re sending a car to pick me up straight after school tomorrow!
I am totally completely over the moon. And Saturn. And Mars and Venus. And Pluto and Uranus. And several other planets besides. In fact I’m not even sure I’m still in the Milky Way. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find I’ve slipped through a black hole and entered a parallel universe where dreams come true.
Of course a bit of me is nervous about tomorrow too. I mean, I don’t know what to expect. What if my voice suddenly disappears? Or what if all my guitar strings snap at once? What if overnight I go tone deaf and end up sounding like Sindi-Sue doing karaoke or Midge Murphy doing his dying cat impersonation?
‘You’ll need some make-up in case you’re doing a screen test,’ Pip says as she shimmies into my room in her little black negligee and stuffs a pink zip-up bag into my ruckie. ‘So I’ve nicked some of Mum’s for you.’
‘Cheers, Pip,’ I say absent-mindedly, packing my guitar into its big old guitar case. As Pip boogies off to feed Houdini, I flump on my beanbag and flick through my song notebooks. I don’t know how many songs they’ll want to hear, but I’ve picked out five that are my faves. I finally managed to write the one about kids being forced to work in sweatshops, so I’m going to do it, cos it’s something I feel really strongly about.
I sing the lines through in my head.
She slaves every day in a clothes factory
Nine years old and she doesn’t get to play
She sews and she stitches from dawn until dusk
To make cheap clothes for people like us
So why do we buy them?
Why don’t we care?
Would we feel the same
If we were working there?
Would you turn away
And not want to know
If the kid who was slaving
Was your little sis or bro?
We care about the polar bears,
The penguins and the trees
So why not care about
Sweatshop kids like these?
Sweatshop kid, it shouldn’t be this way
While we’re having fun
It’s you that has to pay
Sweatshop kid, it shouldn’t be this way
While we’re having fun,
You never get to play…
Then I go through to Pip’s room where she’s all tucked up under her pink satin duvet, waiting for me to read Princess Popsicle and the Naughty Peanut. She’s far too old for it really, and she’s perfectly well able to read herself, but I’m glad she still wants me to do a bedtime story sometimes. It feels sort of safe and cosy.
When I finish she gives me a big hug. ‘When you’re famous,’ she whispers as she snuggles up to me, ‘will you still make time to read me bedtime stories?’
‘Course I will.’ I tuck her in and kiss the top of her head. ‘You’re my little sis, aren’t you? I’ll always have time to read you Princess Popsicle and the Naughty Peanut.’
‘Even when I’m, like really old, like nineteen or something?’ she asks sleepily.
‘Even when you’re really old,’ I reassure her. ‘Like ninety-nine or something.’
She giggles and snuggles down under the covers so all that’s showing is the top of her head. I tiptoe out.
By the time I get back to my own room there’s a new text message from Cordelia.
Jst cst spll 4 u 4 2moro. Omens gd. Cx
I smile as I text Cordelia back. Then, yawning, I climb into bed and pull my duvet up over my ears. I am so lucky. Lucky to be getting a break. Lucky to have friends like Cordelia and Taslima. Lucky, lucky, lucky…
So why can’t I get to sleep?
Half an hour later I’m still awake. I bash my pillow and kick my duvet off. I try sleeping upside down. I lie with my feet halfway up the wall, with my pillow on top of my head, with my duvet up over my ears, with my duvet on the floor.
But nothing works.
Which is not fair. Because I should be sound asleep having lovely dreams about singing at the Glastonbury festival. Or collecting my first platinum disc.
Downstairs the old grandfather clocks booms out midnight. In desperation, I sit up. There’s only one thing for it. A fridge raid.
I creep out on to the landing. From my parents’ room I can hear Dad snoring. At least I hope it’s Dad. I’d hate to think Mum could snore like that.7 There’s no sound from Pip’s room except for Houdini spinning furiously on his exercise wheel.
I pad downstairs without putting any lights on. Brewster, in his basket in the hall, looks like a ghost dog, eerily white in the shadows. He’s chasing imaginary rabbits in his sleep – or maybe it’s imaginary lady dogs – his paws twitching furiously.
I tiptoe past him and into the kitchen. As I open the fridge a pool of yellow light floods out. Carefully, I pour a big glass of milk, then take a banana from the fruit bowl. Milk and banana, Taslima says, provide a combination of chemicals that should make you fall asleep easily.
Minutes later I’ve scoffed the banana and gulped down the milk. But I still don’t feel in the least sleepy. I just feel sad. Which doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m thirteen years old. I’ve just had a video on the Internet. I’m getting the chance to impress a brilliant record company. All I’ve got to do is play my guitar and sing, which I totally love doing…
Just then Brewster whimpers and the kitchen door opens. Mum switches the light on and I blink against the sudden brightness.
‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ she asks, pulling her robe tight around her waist.
‘Nothing,’ I lie. ‘I’m a bit over-excited, that’s all. I was just on my way back to bed.’
What I don’t say is what’s really bothering me. And what I’ve spent all week trying not to acknowledge. I upset Twig and I really, really didn’t mean to, and I don’t know how to explain that to him, and I’m not sure he wants to hear my explanation anyway.
Mum gives me a big hug. ‘You know, you don’t have to do this recording thing tomorrow,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘I can phone them in the morning. Say you’re not ready for it yet. You’re young, Sassy. You’ve got plenty of time.’
I snuggle into Mum, breathing in her warm, sleepy smell and the sweet scent of her shampoo. For a moment it’s like I’m six years old again.
‘It’s OK, Mum. I do want to do it.’
‘Honest?’ Mum says, smoothing my hair.
I pull away and flash her a super-confident smile. ‘I want to sing my songs, Mum. That’s more important to me than anything else. I wouldn’t miss out on this for anything.’
And it’s true, I think, as I climb the stairs to go back to bed. Nothing is going to stop me from being brilliant tomorrow. And if that means wiping Twig from my memory, then that’s what I’ll do. I picture him one last time, his flop of hair hanging over his eyes, his funny smile, his soft voice. Then I press an imaginary DELETE button in my brain. That’s it. He doesn’t exist any more. He can’t upset me any more. I’m not going to think about him any more.
I lie flat on my back in my bed and stare at the blackness. I have to do my best tomorrow. Better than my best. I need to knock their socks off at the recording studio. And I can’t let a boy – any boy – get in the way of that, can I?
Well, this is it! Friday at last. Whoop! Whoop!
Miss Peabody looked distinctly green around the gills at Registration, then rushed out, her hand clamped over her mouth, making glubbing sounds like a haddock in a fishbowl. Rumour is that Mr Hemphead has moved in with her and is officially now her house-husband! So I suppose his cooking must be responsible.
Then in maths we had to write a definition of the properties of a triangle. And here’s what I wrote:
What I know about triangles by Sassy Wilde A triangle has three sides and three angles. These are called Cordelia, Taslima and Sassy. Triangles pop up all the time in the construction of bridges and buildings and things. This is because the triangle is a strong shape. It does not break easily. Which is what makes it the perfect shape for a friendship.
At three o’clock Taslima and Cordelia offer to walk with me to the main entrance where the Y-Gen car is coming to collect me. I pick up my rucksack and sling my guitar over my shoulder.
‘Remember to do that visualization exercise before you perform,’ Taslima advises as we walk round to the front of the school. ‘Think successful and you’ll be successful.’ Taslima intends writing self-motivation books as well as being a psychologist.
‘Yeah.’ Cordelia narrows her green eyes at me. ‘We’re counting on you, Sass. Come back with a recording contract or we’ll never speak to you again.’
‘There’s no pressure, then?’ I smile weakly.
‘Course not.’ Cordelia flashes a wicked grin. ‘Just be yourself. You’ll blow them away.’
‘And we’ll send you positive vibes later,’ Taslima reassures me. The thing is, I’m missing out on our usual Friday night sleepover at her house this week. Ben figures we won’t be finished till nine at the earliest, so we wouldn’t get back till ten. And cos Taslima’s mum’s really strict there’s no way I can turn up on her doorstep that late. But I’m happy enough. I can’t have everything, can I? And I know that me and Cordelia and Taslima will have zillions of other sleepovers.
As we wander to the front of the building, I glance across to the wall where A CERTAIN BOY used to sit and wait for me. (OK, so the DELETE button in my brain didn’t work, but it was worth a try.)
It’s daft, I know, but I really, really hoped he would be there today. That he would’ve realized how stupid it is to fall out over a silly misunderstanding and that he would’ve turned up to wish me luck.
I try to pretend I’m not looking for him. But Cordelia looks at Taslima, and Taslima looks at me, and what with one being psychic, and the other a psychologist, I guess they both know what I’m thinking.
As we wait at the main car park Megan appears. When she links arms with me I try not to pull back. Megan, Taslima figures, is lonely and confused since her parents divorced and Twig and his dad moved in. Taslima says we should let her hang out with us till she gets her self-confidence back. I can see what Tas is getting at, but to be honest I liked it better when it was just Cordelia, her and me. You know, the perfect friendship triangle.
Just then something whizzes past our heads and lands at Cordelia’s feet. Followed closely by Midge Murphy.
‘Sorry, ladies,’ Midge grins as he retrieves his shoe. His mates are standing a short distance away, hooting with laughter.
‘Attention-seeking behaviour,’ Taslima sighs. ‘A sign of immaturity in the male of the species.’
Then Magnus materializes at my side. ‘So, Sassy, when will you be back?’
Before I can answer, a huge black Hummer with dark-tinted glass windows swings into the school car park and pulls up just behind Miss Cassidy’s little Ka.
‘Oh no!’ I groan. ‘They said they’d send a CAR!’
‘Is that for you?’ Magnus asks, wide-eyed.
‘I hope not,’ I mutter, as the driver’s door opens and Ben leaps down and stretches like he’s been driving for hours.
‘Hi, Sassy!’ he waves cheerily. ‘Gorgeous day, isn’t it?’
Before I can reply, Magnus grabs my guitar and ruckie and heads across to the Hummer.
‘I thought you were sending a CAR for me,’ I say pointedly to Ben as I follow Magnus across.
‘Turned out I had to go over to Glasgow earlier,’ he explains. ‘I was coming past this way anyway… so I called the office, got them to cancel the car, decided to pick you up personally.’
‘This is the latest model, isn’t it?’ Magnus interrupts, his face glowing. It is SO sad. He’s obviously impressed by the big shiny thing on wheels. Megan rolls her eyes. Taslima takes out her notebook and makes a quick note. I know she’s been doing a psychological profile on Magnus. It’s clear he thinks Ben’s big shiny machine is the best thing ever.
‘Yep,’ says Ben, banging his hand against the bonnet like it was a horse. ‘Best on the market. Six-speed automatic transmission. Two overdrive gears. Six-point-two-litre engine. You can take this little baby anywhere.’
‘Little baby!’ I gasp. ‘That… that… THING… is hardly a little baby. It’s a huge ugly polluting gas-guzzling –’ I stop mid-sentence. They’re not even listening to me! Ben has opened the door. Magnus has dropped my guitar and rucksack and has his head stuck inside, gazing at the instrument panel.
Just then Miss Cassidy arrives, laden down with bags and followed by two senior boys carrying big boxes.
‘I don’t know how so much of my own stuff ends up in school every week,’ she groans as she opens the boot and folds the seats of the little Ka down. ‘OK, boys,’ she says. ‘Just bung all that stuff in.’
She takes a deep breath, straightens her skirt and looks at me, then at the Big Shiny Black Thing on Wheels, then at Ben, who’s still showing his ‘little baby’ off to Magnus.
‘And you are?’ Miss Cassidy says, scowling.
‘Ben,’ Ben grins. ‘Y-Gen Music.’ He pulls a card from his shirt pocket and passes it to Miss Cassidy. ‘I’m here to pick up young Sassy.’
‘And I really don’t want to take a lift in THAT!’ I sigh. ‘Everyone knows how I feel about huge four-wheel drives. They go completely against my eco-principles.’
Magnus, who’s been walking round the Big Black Shiny Thing on Wheels like he’s in a car showroom, reappears just then.
‘Will I put Sassy’s stuff in the back for you?’ he asks eagerly.
‘No!’ I growl. ‘You will not!’ It’s pitiful! It is so obvious he wants an excuse to open the boot.
&nb
sp; ‘Look, Sassy,’ Ben says, a sharp edge in his voice. ‘Do you want to go to the recording studio or not? Because really I don’t have time –’
‘Excuse me!’ Miss Cassidy interrupts. ‘I think Sassy has a point. I mean, you don’t need to drive a huge thing like that… unless, of course, you do tons of off-road…’ She looks him slowly up and down. His flash sunglasses, his loose silk shirt, his expensive designer jeans. ‘You’re not a farmer, are you?’
There’s a small crowd gathered round now. Cordelia, Megan and Taslima are still waiting to see me off. Like iron filings to a magnet, Midge, Beano and Karim Malik have been attracted by the Big Shiny Black Thing on Wheels. The two seniors who helped load up Miss Cassidy’s Ka are all ears.
‘No, I’m not a farmer,’ Ben says coldly. ‘But I am busy. And I need to get going, so –’
‘Maybe I could take Sassy,’ Miss Cassidy says brightly. ‘Where’s she going?’
‘Edinburgh,’ Ben says.
Miss Cassidy’s brow furrows. ‘Well, it’s quite a bit off my way, but I suppose I could –’
‘Pffff!’ Magnus interrupts. ‘How does that make sense? I mean, Ben’s going where Sassy’s going anyway. If you go there, Miss, and it’s not where you were actually going, then that makes more carbon emissions than if Sassy just took the lift from Ben in the first place… doesn’t it?’
Magnus looks at me as if he’s expecting me to give him a gold star for saying something environmentally friendly. Taslima nods wisely and makes a quick note in her notebook.
‘And in any case, Miss Cassidy,’ says one of the seniors, eyeing my guitar in its humungous airport case, ‘you’ll never fit THAT and Sassy into your little Ka.’
Miss Cassidy looks at the junk piled high in the back of her tiny car.
‘I suppose Magnus has a point, Sassy,’ she says. ‘As Ben’s here already, it probably makes sense to take the lift THIS time. No one’s going to think any worse of you for taking the occasional lift in a Hummer. Sometimes you have to compromise.’
