by Maggi Gibson
‘You’re sorry?’ I gasp. ‘No, it’s me that’s sorry.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘You told me that before. In the kitchen. Remember? When you had a blob of scooshy cream on your nose. But I’d got myself into such a bad place I just wouldn’t listen. I shouldn’t have –’
‘I shouldn’t have abandoned you for the Y-Gen people –’
‘Look,’ Twig interrupts. ‘We could go on like this forever. Can we just put it behind us? Forget all about it?’
‘Forget all about what?’ I ask, smiling.
‘Dunno,’ he grins. ‘I’ve forgotten. Anyway, what are you doing now?’
I check my watch. ‘I pretty much have to go home. The parentals are in a foul mood. Pip’s been grounded for a year.’
‘So can I walk you home?’ Twig asks shyly, and my heart sings.
‘Sure,’ I grin. ‘The long way round, or through the woods?’
‘Through the woods,’ Twig says. And then he takes my hand. And I fill up with this big surge of happiness. And, you know, if Twig wasn’t holding my hand I think I’d float right off, up into the sky. And take him with me, of course!
Some things are just too good to ever let go of.
The following morning birdsong wakes me. I blink my eyes open and turn to see the time. It’s only half-past five but already it’s bright daylight outside. I snuggle under the duvet and try to sleep. I was having a beautiful tropical island dream and I want to go back there. But I can’t, can I? Because it was just a dream. And dreams aren’t real life.
I turn over and watch the early morning light creep across the ceiling. I was so happy in my dream. There was just me and Twig on this tropical island and I sang my songs for him every night and everything was perfect. Taslima says that when we dream we’re really working out things that are bothering us in our waking lives. She says we should listen to what our dreams are telling us. Which makes me wonder, am I making a mistake wanting to be a star? Maybe it’s enough just to sing for the people I love. Maybe that’s what the dream was trying to tell me.
When the grandfather clock in the hall booms out seven o’clock I know I can’t stay in bed any longer. I’m just not sleepy enough. In any case, there’s a new song forming in my head. I get up and swish my curtains wide open. Little white fluffy clouds tinged with pink drift across a perfect blue sky. I get my notebook and sit cross-legged on my rainbow rug, then start scribbling.
Boy, I dream of being with you
Where the sea is warm and the sky is blue
I want to walk along the sand
I want to have you hold my hand
And every night when the sun sinks low
And the ocean flames with its orange glow
I want to sit with you high in a tree
And watch the moon rise over the sea
Cos, boy, I dream of being with you
I hope you dream of being with me…
It takes me a while to get the lines the way I want them, but even as I’m trying to get the rhymes this little melody starts to form in my head. I hum it softly as I scribble, then I try putting the two together. It’s not quite there yet, but it’s sort of coming. I pick my guitar up and cradle it across my lap, then I start strumming and trying to find some basic chords to fit. At last it comes together. I shove a blank tape in my music system and push the record button. I know I’ll need to work on it more, but I also know there’s something there. Something special. I’m halfway through when the door opens and Mum stands grinning down at me.
‘Don’t laugh at my songs!’ I explode, my colour rising. It’s almost like my mum has trespassed into one of my dreams! ‘And KNOCK before you come bursting into my room!’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Didn’t you hear the phone?’ she asks.
I shake my head and glance at my bedside clock. It’s almost ten! I can hardly believe it.
‘Anyway, it was Zing,’ Mum continues, ‘and guess what?’
Zing! The minute Mum says her name my heart starts to race like a hyperactive hamster in an exercise wheel.
‘I don’t want to guess, Mum. Just tell me quick. Please?’ I squeeze the words out, high-pitched.
‘Well,’ says Mum, sitting on the edge of my bed, ‘you left your purple hair scrunchie at the recording studio, and they’re going to put it in the post.’
‘Oh,’ I say, this huge lump of disappointment bulging in my throat.
‘And,’ Mum continues, ‘they’re very interested in signing you, but –’
‘Sorry, Mum. Can you say that bit again?’
‘They’re interested in signing you –’
‘Oh My Jimminy Crimpets Joogledy Boogledy!’ I exclaim, throwing my guitar on the bed and hugging Mum.
‘Don’t you want to know what the “BUT” is?’ Mum laughs, ruffling my hair.
‘Not really,’ I grin.
‘OK.’ Mum turns and heads for the door.
‘No! No! I do! Please!’ I grab hold of her sleeve.
Through my head a hundred different ideas are galloping –
BUT we don’t want to pay you.
BUT we want you to shave your head.
BUT we need you to take guitar lessons, singing lessons, dancing lessons, French lessons…
Mum looks suddenly serious. ‘I think you’d better sit down,’ she says.
Oh no! My heart almost stops. What if they want me to compromise? Like I’ve promised myself I will never do?
‘So what is it?’ I croak, my throat dry with nerves.
‘BUT… they want to see…’ Mum gazes at me with big concerned eyes. I grab a cushion and hug it to my chest cos I need something to hang on to.
‘… you play live first. In front of an audience.’
‘Play live?’ I repeat. ‘How will I ever get the chance to play live…? Maybe the school will let me do a lunchtime concert,’ I gabble excitedly. ‘It’s almost end of term –’
Mum shushes me. ‘Apparently there’s a music festival next weekend. Called something weird, like the Wiccaman?’
‘Yeah!’ I gasp. ‘Phoenix Macleod’s playing at it. Megan’s been rabbitting on about how she’d love to go –’ I stop mid-sentence as it hits me. ‘You don’t mean…’
Mum grins. ‘Oh yes, I do! They want you to do a few songs at it, see how you cope in front of a crowd.’
‘What?’ I gasp. ‘They want me to play at the Wiccaman?’
Mum looks at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I made a few notes,’ she says. ‘Y-Gen have one of their singers performing. That boy you just mentioned. Phoenix Macleod. They want you to do a few songs before he comes on.’
I sink down on my bed, my legs wibbly-wobbly as a jelly baby’s.
‘Pinch me,’ I say dreamily. ‘I think I must be dreaming.’
Mum nips me hard. ‘Ouch!’ I squeal.
‘We have to call them back and let them know if you want to do this festival thingy,’ Mum says. ‘As soon as possible. So what do you think?’
‘Of course I want to do it!’ I squeal, bouncing up and down on my bed like I used to when I was three and over-excited.
Just then Pip comes in. ‘What’s all the noise about!’ she complains.
‘I’m going to sing at the Wiccaman!’ I scream. ‘With Phoenix Macleod!’
‘Oh, is that all,’ Pip says and flounces back out. ‘Cos Houdini’s trying to sleep and you’ve only gone and woken him!’
As soon as I recover from the shock I phone Cordelia.
‘Stay right where you are!’ Cordelia says. ‘I’ll call Taslima. We’ll come straight round. Then you can tell us everything! This is so-o-o-o-o exciting!’
Minutes later they arrive at the front door and we all jump about in a group hug, Brewster barking at our ankles.
‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ Mum shouts from the living room. ‘Calm down, will you! I’m trying to call Angus and I can hardly hear myself!’
So we tumble into the kitchen and I pour us fizzy lemonade in champagne glasses and we chink the
m together.
‘I just KNEW something like this was going to happen!’ Cordelia grins. We all look at her quizzically.
‘I borrowed Mum’s crystal ball when she was out,’ Cordelia explains. ‘I was trying to find out what was going to happen over the summer hols, but all I kept seeing was this big crowd of people and flashing lights, so I guessed you were going to be appearing somewhere, Sass.’
Taslima and me exchange a look. We never can figure if Cordelia is serious about all this psychic business, or just great at kidding us.
‘You are so lucky!’ Cordelia looks all dreamy. ‘I bet the festival will be wickedly awesomely brill. I’d love to go to something like that!’
‘Well, who knows, maybe you will!’ says Mum, appearing in the doorway and twirling an imaginary wand like a fairy godmother. ‘I’ve spoken to Sassy’s dad. And I’ve checked out the Wiccaman festival on the Internet, and here’s what we’ve agreed. Angus is so busy with all his constituency work that we’re not getting a proper summer holiday this year, and since this Friday’s an In Service training day so you’d be off school anyway, I’m going to book a yurt –’
‘A YURT?’ says Pip, who’s just arrived and set Houdini in his salad bowl in the centre of the table. ‘What’s a YURT?’ She pops a grape in and it bounces off Houdini’s head.
‘It’s a kind of tent thing,’ Mum explains. ‘Like the nomads on the Russian steppes use.’
Pip curls up her nose. Houdini demolishes the grape. Pip might fret about her own weight, but she’s certainly not worrying about his. He’s turning into the fattest hamster I’ve ever seen.
‘But the point is,’ Mum continues, ignoring Pip, ‘the yurts are big – they can sleep up to eight. So, Sassy, you can bring some friends along and we’ll make a long weekend of it, Friday to Sunday. It sounds super. Right beside the sea. What do you think?’
‘That sounds fantastic!’ Cordelia whoops. ‘And I’m sure Mum will be OK about it. She’s been moaning on about needing some time to herself!’
‘I’ll have to check with my parents,’ Taslima says. ‘And if you speak to them, Mrs Wilde, I’m sure they’ll agree. I’d love to come. Thank you.’
‘That is so brilliant!’ I beam and throw my arms round Mum’s neck. ‘You’re the best mum ever!’
‘There’s just one thing,’ Taslima adds quietly. ‘How many did you say the yurt sleeps, Mrs Wilde?’
‘Eight,’ Mum replies. ‘So even with me and Pip – and we’ll take Brewster of course – and Sassy and you and Cordelia, there’s tons of room.’
‘In that case,’ Taslima says, looking from Cordelia to me, ‘don’t you think there’s someone else you should invite, Sassy?’
I drop my eyes. I know who she means.
‘Taslima has a point,’ Cordelia says. ‘Megan’s absolutely crazy about Phoenix Macleod. It would be mean to just go off without her. If there’s space, that is.’
Mum looks at me. ‘It’s your call, Sass.’
And I tussle again with the fierce little jealousy-beast that raises its hackles whenever Megan’s name’s mentioned.
‘Think about it, Sassy,’ Taslima says in her soft voice. ‘How would you feel if Megan, me and Cordelia went off without inviting you?’
I flinch when Taslima says that. I want to say, but that’s different, Taslima. You, me and Cordelia are best buds. I would have a right to be hurt if you went off with Megan without me.
But in another way I know Taslima’s right. It would be really mean not to at least invite Megan – though a bit of me still hopes she won’t be able to come and things will be the way they were before, just me and my two best mates.
‘OK,’ I say at last, and the jealousy-beast sulks off, defeated, into the darkness. And then I have a brainwave! In fact, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. ‘But if Megan comes can Twig come too?’
‘No way!’ Mum laughs. ‘This is a strictly all-girls’ trip. Apart from Brewster, of course. And, young lady, might I remind you that you’re only thirteen! Far too young for a serious boyfriend.’
‘Worth a try,’ I shrug.
‘You’ve made the right decision, Sassy,’ Tas says, handing me the phone. ‘Now call Megan right away. Before you change your mind.’
So I phone her. And she’s delighted. And strangely enough, when I hear how pleased she is, I’m glad that I overcame the jealousy-monster. After all, it’s only for one weekend. And I used to be such good friends with her when we were small. Maybe Taslima and Cordelia are right. Maybe she’s OK after all. And maybe being in a group of four friends might work too. Though a friendship rectangle doesn’t sound quite as good as a triangle, does it?
By teatime it’s all planned. We’ll be leaving first thing on Friday morning. Mum has arranged to borrow a camper van from her mad hippy friend, Cathy, so we can all travel together. And what’s more, Cathy’s van runs on a new bio-fuel made from seaweed, so it’s less harmful to the environment than petrol or diesel. Dad will stay at home, run the country from our front room, and look after Houdini.
And next Saturday night, I’ll be doing my first ever gig!
That night Dad calls me into the living room. He’s got his SERIOUS FATHER face on, so I guess what’s coming. Sure enough, he sits me down for a lecture.
Apparently, I must behave impeccably at the Wiccaman or I will never ever be allowed to go anywhere again ever in my whole entire life.
‘Does that include school?’ I ask mischievously. ‘And Great-Gran’s?’
‘Sassy!’ Dad snaps. ‘I am deadly serious. I was young once upon a time. I know what goes on at these festivals, and they can be very dangerous for young girls.’
‘OK! OK!’ I giggle. ‘Chill, Papa! I was only joking.’
‘And I don’t want you drinking any alcohol whatsoever. Not even a sip. Do you understand?’
‘I promise, Dad, I will not take any alcohol,’ I sigh. As if! I hate alcohol anyway. I had a sip of Mum’s gin and tonic when I was about four. It was totally disgusting. Like drinking perfume.13
‘And drugs, Sassy. You must not touch drugs of any sort. Or accept anything from a stranger that looks like a sweetie, because it might not be.’
‘Look, Dad,’ I explain as patiently as I can. ‘I don’t eat sweets anyway. They are full of E-numbers, which are, in fact, drugs. And I have absolutely no intention of sniffing or snorting or snorkelling anything dodgy and ending up a saddo singer with a disappearing nostril. Neither do I intend ever falling in and out of taxis drunk, or putting my knickers on show to the general public.’
Dad’s mouth falls open. I do not normally say the word ‘knickers’ in his presence.
He clears his throat noisily. ‘Good. Glad to hear it. I’m only warning you for your own good. These music types can be very persuasive.’
‘And I am not easily swayed by other people,’ I protest. ‘I do know my own mind, Dad!’
‘Well, that’s true,’ says Mum, who’s just come in and perched on the arm of Dad’s chair. ‘Remember, Angus, when we were at the seaside that time, and all the other kids were going daft because they were giving out free ice cream. And you told Sassy to go and get a free ice cream too. And Sassy refused. I don’ wan ithe kweam, she said. I’m all fulled up. And you thought she’d regret it and be crying later because she’d missed out. But she didn’t.’
Mum looks all dreamy for a moment. Like she always does when she talks about when me and Pip were little. Sometimes she even says they were the best days of her life. Which I do hope they weren’t, cos there has to be more to life than constantly chasing around after two snot-nosed, soggy-bottomed weenies.
‘OK,’ Dad says at last. ‘So you do understand, Sassy, that, as MY daughter, I expect you to behave perfectly while you’re away?’
I nod.
‘Say it out loud, please,’ he says sternly. Honestly! When he’s not being an MP Dad’s a lawyer, and sometimes he forgets I’m his child, not the accused.
I raise my right hand
and chant in a monotone. ‘I-promise-I-will-behave-myself-and-not-let-anyone-lead-me-astray-and-not-take-any-alcohol-or-drugs-or-speak-to-bad-men-so-help-me –’
‘Sassy!’ Dad interrupts. ‘I hope you’re taking this seriously!’
‘Of course I’m taking it seriously!’ I say in my best most serious voice.
‘But we want you to have fun too!’ Mum exclaims.
‘No, we don’t!’ Dad objects.
Mum scowls at him. ‘Calm down, will you! You have nothing to worry about, Angus. I’m going to be there, keeping a beady eye on her. I don’t know what you’re stressing about!’
‘In that case,’ Dad smiles, ‘I hope you have a great time.’
I stagger from the living room, feeling like I’ve just been put through a shredding machine. And I feel guilty! Even though I haven’t done anything.
As I crawl upstairs I make a solemn promise to myself. When I have children I will NEVER EVER put them through this. It’s quite easy really. It’s just my silly parentals who can’t seem to get their heads round it.
As a parent, I will simply trust my sproglets.
All week, every day after school, I practise my guitar like crazy.
Cos the weather’s good and the Wiccaman’s an open-air festival, I try rehearsing out in the garden. You know, just to get the feel of it. And can you believe it? Even though my guitar’s acoustic – so it’s not like it’s amplified or anything – our crotchety neighbours complain about the noise pollution! A bit rich considering the horrible stink they kick up when they cook half a cow at a time on their barbecue.
Tas had a tough time convincing her mother to let her come along to the festival. She pointed out how she wouldn’t be missing school or anything, but even so Mrs Ankhar wouldn’t say yes. In the end, my mum had to phone and be all reassuring about how strict she’d be with us and how she’d not let us near boys or drugs or alcohol. Eventually Mrs Ankhar gave in and Mum sat down for a stiff gin and tonic to recover.
The evening before we leave Mum and Pip go off to Paradiso’s (the superstore that makes shopping heavenly) to stock up with food and juice for the weekend.
