Seriously Sassy: Crazy Days

by Maggi Gibson

  Pip’s at school and Mum’s gone out to help her mad hippy friend Cathy who’s opened The Totally Scrumptious Cake Cafe in the town centre. She says she should be back by early afternoon. Dad and Digby have gone to visit the factory that’s making the new cycle safety gear. (Hopefully they’ve realized they’ll never get young people to wear safety waistcoats and helmets if they make them look like extras from a spoof alien film.)

  Normally if I have some time on my own I spend it playing guitar and writing songs. But I won’t be doing that again now. Ever.

  I stare at my guitar. It stares back. And I’m just thinking about what to do with it – like dig a big hole in the back garden and bury it, or build a ceremonial funeral pyre and set it alight – when the doorbell rings. DING DING DONG!

  Pointedly I ignore it. But then it rings again. DING DING DONG And this time it just keeps going. DING DING DONG DING DING DONG!

  ‘OK, OK, OK!’ I mutter, tugging on my dressing gown and slobbing downstairs. I open the front door a crack and I’m about to explain there’s no one at home, just miserable little me and since I’ve got TERMINAL DEPRESSION and it’s HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS it’s probably better to leave IMMEDIATELY – when my jaw drops open.

  ‘Taslima!’ I exclaim, dragging her inside before anyone spots her and reports her to school. ‘I tried to call you last night but your mum hung up! And I really wanted to speak to you, cos …’

  ‘Sassy, I –’ Taslima begins.

  ‘Oh, don’t say anything, Tas,’ I blurt as she follows me into the kitchen. ‘Everything’s such a mess. I don’t know what I’m going to do –’

  ‘Sassy!’ Taslima interrupts. ‘Can you stop talking about yourself … just for a minute … please?’

  I stare at her, open-mouthed. Tas is usually so sympathetic!

  ‘I came round cos something awful’s happened.’ She sinks on to a kitchen chair. ‘In Pakistan. Where Mum’s family are. There’s been a huge earthquake. Mum spent all last night trying to get in touch with the Pakistani Embassy, but it’s hard to get any info cos the phones are down.’

  ‘Oh, Tas, I’m really, really sorry.’ My brain whirrs as it catches up with what Taslima is saying.

  ‘Mum told me this morning you’d phoned,’ Tas sighs heavily. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here, but I had to see you …’ Her voice trails off as she tries not to break down.

  ‘Are Aisya and her family OK?’ I ask quietly. Tas and her big sis, Jamila, went on holiday to Pakistan last summer. They stayed with Aisya and brought back tons of photos.

  Taslima shakes her head. ‘We don’t know. We can’t get any news. Mum’s village is right in the middle of where the earthquake hit. That’s why I’m not at school. Mum’s decided to go to Pakistan to find them. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow –’

  ‘What?’ I ask, aghast. ‘You’re going to Pakistan? But you can’t, Tas. I mean, isn’t it still dangerous?’

  Taslima looks at me, her face pale, her eyes gleaming with tears. ‘Jamila’s got her finals at uni, and I can’t let Mum go on her own. She gets in such a tizz about planes and travel. She’d never cope. And we don’t know what she’s going to find when she gets there.’ Taslima’s voice wobbles as I follow her to the front door. ‘I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. But, listen, I have to go … Mum’s so upset already. She’s not good with stress. She’d freak if she knew I was here. But I didn’t want you to think I’d just gone off. You must be totally cut up about the record deal.’

  ‘Oh, Tas,’ I say, hugging her. ‘The record deal doesn’t matter. Not really. And I’ll always be your friend. You know that.’

  Tas sniffs and I feel her head nodding. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispers into my hair.

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’ I say as she pulls herself away. ‘Be careful, Tas.’

  As I stand in the doorway and watch as she hurries away, thoughts crowd my head. Thoughts of how sweet and brave Taslima is. Of how awful it must be to know your family’s caught up in a disaster halfway round the world. Of how much I’ll miss Tas. How I’ll worry about her till she’s safely back.

  But one big thought dominates. How oh how could I get so upset about a stupid recording deal?

  8

  I remember hearing Mum say once that you’re only given one life, so you have to make sure you live it. I didn’t understand that at the time, but I think I do now.

  After Tas goes I switch on News 24. Live reports are starting to come in from the earthquake area. I pull my dressing gown tight round me as footage of devastated towns and villages floats across the screen. Everything looks grey and dusty. Buildings have crumpled as if made from cardboard. Exhausted people sit in shock in front of fallen houses. Ambulance sirens wail. Workers with shovels and pickaxes risk their lives trying to help the trapped and the injured.

  And that’s when it hits me. I am so lucky to be alive! OK, so no way am I ever going to sing again – Y-Generation and Paradiso’s have seen to that – but there must still be tons of other things I can do with my life. From here on in I’m going to practise POSITIVE THINKING.

  I switch the TV off and swing into action. First I leap into the shower and let the hot water run over my shoulders and wash all the gallons of self-pity I’ve been wallowing in down the plughole.

  Back in my room, as I open my wardrobe door to get some clothes, my hand brushes against the lovely purple shirt Phoenix gave me at the Wiccaman festival. I remember the text messages I got last night and how much they cheered me up. Go on, Sassy, put Phoenix’s shirt on, a little voice says inside my head. It will make you feel better. You know it will.

  But no! I tell that little voice it is WRONG. It was sweet of Phoenix to send those texts, but I absolutely cannot wear Phoenix’s shirt while I’m Twig’s girlfriend. So I take a deep breath and shove the shirt into the darkest corner, behind old tops and jackets I’ve not worn for years, then I pull out a clean Tee and shorts and slam the wardrobe door shut.

  By the time I head downstairs, Mum’s home. ‘Honey!’ she beams as I bounce into the kitchen. ‘It’s great to see you up and showered. That smoothie you didn’t want this morning’s in the fridge. Would you like it now?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say and give her a hug.

  And guess what? When I taste the smoothie it’s not bitter in the slightest. It’s lovely. In fact, it’s just the way I like it.

  I down the smoothie out on the patio, then sit for a while thinking. Tas once told me that some people go through life moaning that their glass is half empty. Other people think they’re lucky cos their glass is half full. But both people have the exact same amount! Tas figures you can choose whether to be happy with the way your life is, or be unhappy with it. I’m still healthy, and my house is still standing and my family are safe, so I guess my glass is at least half full and that’s not a bad way to be.

  As I count up all the reasons why I’m actually a very lucky person, I wander up to my room and fetch my TOTALLY SECRET NOTEBOOK and a pen.

  Moments later, sitting on the old swing at the bottom of the garden, the bees buzzing lazily in the honeysuckle that climbs up over the potting shed, I open the notebook and start writing.

  My Resolutions

  I know it’s not New Year or anything8, but hey! Today marks a whole new phase in the life of Sassy Wilde. Yesterday I thought I was going to be a singing star, but now it’s all over and that is FINAL.

  Cos today I’m going to be something else.

  Just like the caterpillar cannot possibly know when it crawls from the chrystalis chrissalist chrystallist cocoon that it’s now turned into a beautiful butterfly, so I do not yet know as I emerge from the wreckage of my singing career what I am
actually in fact turning into.

  It must be the same, I suppose, for a tadpole. I mean, you spend the first part of your life swimming about thinking, ‘Hey, this is fun! I really love having a little ink-blob head and a wiggly tail and playing races with all my little brother and sister tadpoles.’ Then you sprout legs and turn green and grow warts and next thing you’re hopping about and croaking and catching insects on your tongue.

  I score that last bit out after I write it. I prefer the bit before about the butterfly. I wouldn’t mind being a butterfly, looking pretty, flitting from flower to flower9 … But imagine going to sleep a tadpole and waking up a toad? Hmmph … that would be a bad start to the day.

  But to get to the point. I, Sassy Wilde, as of right now this minute, am going to be a totally different person. Life is too short. You never know when something awful might happen. Like an earthquake or a tsunami or a volcano erupting or a meteor hitting the earth or something. Especially with the planet heating up and all the scientists warning us about climate catastrophe and all the politicians messing about and not taking it seriously.

  So, as I am fed up with everyone thinking I am TROUBLE and BAD NEWS and only interested in myself, I do hereby faithfully and most solemly solemenly solemnly make the following resolutions:

  I will do at least five (5) good turns EVERY day.

  I will be nice and sweet and kind to everyone … OK, I suppose that has to include Magnus Menzies.

  I will NEVER EVER sing again. Instead I will be open-minded about what I should do with my life and I will try out NEW THINGS till I find something I am really really good at which will make my life WORTHWHILE and INTERESTING.

  Signed Sassy Wilde

  I snap the notebook shut then run up to my room and I’m tucking it into the back of the drawer in my bedside table when I notice my guitar, still leaning against my desk. A reminder of what might have been. What now will never be. Part of my past. A past I am determined to put behind me forever.

  I tug my big black guitar case out of the wardrobe and lay the guitar carefully inside. For a moment it feels like I’m placing it – and my career – in a coffin. I stroke the smooth wood for the last time. Then I quickly close the lid and clip the case shut.

  Of course, when I tell Mum what I’m about to do she tries to stop me.

  ‘Can’t you just put your guitar up in the attic or something?’ she suggests as she looks up from her book, Cakes to Kill For. ‘Just because Y-Generation don’t want to sign you, doesn’t mean you have to give up singing completely. Honestly, Sassy, there’s no need to throw the baby out with the bathwater!’

  ‘Look, Mum,’ I say as I head out the door. ‘I’m thirteen. I know what I’m doing. This is my life. I have the right to make my own decisions. My guitar is part of my past now. I want it to be sold for charity. I’m making a fresh start and I really don’t think you should be trying to stop me!’

  Mum shakes her head and snaps her book shut. ‘Why have you always got to go to extremes, Sassy?’

  ‘And why have you always got to treat me like a two-year-old when I am level-headed, balanced and mature!’ I explode as I pick up my guitar and flounce out (like a two-year-old) before she can stop me.

  As I approach the charity shop I almost lose my nerve. I swear the handle of the case feels like it’s superglued to my fingers. I even imagine I can hear my guitar’s strings quietly twanging, like it’s pleading with me not to give it up for adoption.

  Resolutely I look at the posters in the window about the work Oxfam does with the money it raises, like helping street kids who have nothing, and sick babies in drought-stricken countries who need clean water. I think about Tas and how brave she is, going to an area hit by an earthquake to find her relatives. And I know I’m doing the right thing.

  The woman in the shop is delighted when I hoist the guitar case on to the counter. ‘We often get young people looking for a first guitar,’ she beams at me as she undoes the clips. ‘I don’t think they realize it takes a lot of patience. You’ve really got to work at it.’

  ‘I know. I just couldn’t be bothered with all the practice,’ I lie.

  She opens the case and takes my guitar out. ‘Well, it’s beautiful. It’s sure to be snaffled up by someone who’ll have great fun with it.’ She strums it gently and tears spring up in my eyes. Quickly I head for the door, a big lump forming in my throat. Outside, I watch as she balances it in the window beside a baby buggy and a rusty old lawnmower. It takes all my strength not to rush back in to say Sorry, I’ve changed my mind, can I have it back, please?

  As I walk swiftly away a small voice niggles at me. You’re making a big mistake here, Sassy. You can no more give up singing than you can give up breathing. And you can’t do this to your guitar. It’s part of your life. Part of your family. You wouldn’t give Brewster away, would you? Think of all the good times you had together. Turn round. It’s not too late. Get it back!

  I start whistling to drown the little voice out and a Big Issue seller standing outside the post office grins at me.

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood!’ he quips. ‘It’s a lovely thing to see. There’s too much misery in this world. Want to buy a magazine? Help the homeless?’

  I’ve only got enough for my bus fare, but I suppose if I buy a Big Issue, then that would make Good Deed Number Two for today. Unfortunately it also means I’ll have to walk a couple of miles home – but, I remind myself as I hand the money over, walking is more eco-friendly. The planet will thank me for it.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he smiles. ‘God bless.’

  As I set off briskly for home I force myself to think of my new life ahead. Maybe I’ll be a doctor and, you know, help people caught up in war zones. Or an investigative journalist uncovering scandals and cover-ups by big companies like Paradiso’s. Or a charity worker helping build hospitals and schools in Africa. Or a scientist developing a cure for cancer.

  See, I tell myself, the possibilities are limitless! I could be an astronaut, or an artist, a footballer, an animator, a vet, a forensic scientist, a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a psychopath10 – Ha! I could even be a dentist and earn pots of money!

  But one thing’s for sure, I’m not going to be a singer.

  So I’m NEVER going to need a guitar again.

  As soon as I get home I send Twig a quick email to say thanks for being sweet last night and to let him know I’m fine. It takes about three seconds to write the email. And about three hours to decide how to sign off, cos I really don’t know how you sign off to a boyfriend.

  I try:

  Byeee, Sassy

  C U soon! Sass x

  Lots of love and kisses, Sassy xxx

  Luv & Hugs, Sassy W.

  Can’t wait to see you, S x

  Rock the Planet! Sassy xxx

  Yours sincerely, Ms Sassy Wilde

  In the end I type S, decide on one x, add another one for good luck, hope that’s about right, press Send, and set about continuing with my good deeds.

  Mum’s in the kitchen baking a pile of sweet little fairy cakes for Cathy’s Totally Scrumptious Cake Cafe, so I explain at length my new philosophy for life and how I am going to be a totally good person now and dedicate myself to helping others. ‘So how can I help you?’ I ask at last.

  ‘You can’t,’ Mum takes the tray of cakes from the oven. ‘I did the washing-up while you were telling me about how helpful you were going to be. In any case,’ she adds as she gives me the cake-mix spoon to lick clean, ‘it’s a beautiful day, sweetheart. Why not go round and see Cordelia? You’ve had a tough time – you need to relax!’

  ‘But I don’t want to relax!’ I protest as I lick the
last of the cake mix from the spoon. ‘I want to help people!’

  ‘OK,’ she sighs. ‘Your dad’s through in the dining room. Maybe he’s got letters needing posting or something. Goodness knows, he’s up to his eyes in constituency work. I suppose he would appreciate an extra pair of hands.’

  Since Dad’s election our dining room has become Dad’s office. He’s assured me and Pip that this is a temporary measure until Digby finds him suitable premises in the town centre. Meanwhile, the dining room’s a muddle of files and folders and piles of papers and letters.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anything you can actually do to help,’ Digby says, riffling through a mess of correspondence. ‘The thing is, the system’s a bit chaotic.’

  ‘Digby means non-existent,’ Dad groans. ‘But we’re working on it.’

  ‘I suppose you could shred that lot.’ Digby points at a big untidy pile of papers and a tiny shredder. ‘We’re about to run through your dad’s diary for the week, so you’ll need to be quiet, though.’

  ‘No worries,’ I assure him brightly as I settle down in the corner with the shredder. ‘I can be very quiet.’

  Which is how I find out about the visit to Fossil Grove Old Folks’ Home.

  ‘So I’ll pick you up at seven on Wednesday and we’ll go straight there,’ Digby instructs Dad. ‘The matron will be waiting to meet you. You’ll have tea and cake with some of the younger residents, shake a few hands, have a few photos taken, and then we’ll leave.’

  ‘Dad,’ I interrupt as a brilliant thought hits me. ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘What?’ Dad sounds surprised. ‘It’s a retirement home, Sassy. Full of old people. You moan if you have to visit your own gran!’