by Maggi Gibson
So I give her a little wave and let the door slide silently shut behind me.
18
The next day at school, no one says anything more about the charity concert idea. Yet for some inexplicably infuriating reason I can think about nothing else! It’s partly cos of what the old lady at the home said – you know, about using my talent. And partly cos I suspect the rest of Eco Club’s disappointed in me, that they think I’m being selfish, that I’m letting Taslima down. I mean, if someone would actually come out and SAY that, then I could put my case, justify my position. I could maybe even come up with another idea for raising money. Though, to be honest, I don’t have one. Yet.
All day it’s been incredibly warm. Clouds have been gathering and the sky’s been growing ever darker. ‘A storm will clear the air,’ Miss Peabody said just before the bell rang. ‘But let’s hope you all get home safely first.’
As I hurry towards the side gate, Twig’s sitting on the wall, waiting.
‘Hi!’ he says, leaping down and falling into step beside me like he’s never been away.
‘Hi!’ I reply quietly.
‘So how are things?’
‘Not great.’
‘So,’ he says playfully. ‘I go away for a few days and your life falls apart.’
‘You could have phoned.’
‘Actually, I was going to, but I couldn’t get a signal. Mum lives in the middle of nowhere. She doesn’t have a landline or Internet. But I did send a carrier pigeon.’ He smiles at me through his flop of hair. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘Uh uh,’ I shake my head. ‘It must’ve got lost. So what did this message say?’
Twig turns and walks backwards so he’s facing me, then he makes these silly pigeon sounds.
‘Sorry, I don’t speak pigeon. Can you translate?’ Despite myself a smile twitches at the corners of my mouth.
‘Certainly,’ Twig grins. ‘It said, “Twig’s been thinking about things while he was away. He says you must never give up singing”’
‘Yeah, well, the message has come too late,’ I say quietly.
We walk on in silence for a few minutes, above us the sky an ominous brown-black.
‘Megan told me about the idea for the fundraising concert,’ Twig says. ‘And I think you should do it.’
‘Look, Twig. Can we talk about something else?’ I snap.
‘But I don’t understand!’ He throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Why won’t you do the charity gig?’
‘What is there to understand?’ Frustration wells up inside me. ‘It’s simple. I tried singing. It didn’t work out. End of story.’
Twig jumps in front of me and blocks my path. I step to the right. He steps to the right. I step to the left. He steps to the left.
‘Are you going to let me past?’
‘If you answer one question …’ Twig holds my gaze. ‘What didn’t work out?’
‘Everything!’ I explode. ‘Surely I don’t have to tell you of all people! You were there! Y-Generation are NOT going to sign me and NEITHER is anyone else. Paradiso’s have seen to that. I can’t take on a huge multinational. So that’s it. Like I told you before, I’ve given up singing. Anyway, there are TONS of other things I can do.’
‘But singing isn’t just about recording deals,’ Twig counters. ‘It’s about people hearing your songs. Don’t you see, if you give up, if you won’t even sing for a charity gig, then you’re letting Paradiso’s beat you! I can’t believe you’re just rolling over!’
Twig’s words hit me hard. I can see what he’s saying. What’s worse, I know, deep down, he’s right.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter now,’ I mutter as the first fat drops of rain splat on to the path and a wind blows up as if from nowhere.
‘What’s your name?’ Twig asks sharply.
‘That’s a silly question. You know my name!’
‘Just say it!’
‘Sassy,’ I reply. ‘My name is Sassy.’
‘Well, maybe you should try to live up to it! Look it up in the dictionary when you get home. Someone who was really sassy would do the fundraising concert. Someone who was really sassy would get up on that stage and sing. Don’t you see, you need to prove to organizations like Paradiso’s that they might have all the money, they might have all the power, but they can’t silence you. They can’t silence any of us!’
‘OK,’ I bridle, ‘since you feel so strongly about it, then YOU get up on stage and do the concert. Why does it have to be me?’
Gently Twig touches my cheek, forcing me to look into his eyes. ‘Cos you’re the one with the voice,’ he says softly as the rain falls heavier around us. ‘You’re the one with the songs. Agree to do the concert and I promise I’ll do everything I can to help. Megan and Cordelia will do what they can. Everyone will. But you’re the only one that can get kids to buy tickets. You’re the one they want to hear.’
I’m trying not to listen, but even so the meaning of Twig’s words filters through. And I remember what the old lady in the care home said: ‘You’ll get to my age and you’ll wonder, “Why didn’t I do what I was put on this earth to do? Why didn’t I fulfil my destiny?”’
‘I can’t,’ I say stubbornly.
‘Why not?’ Twig fires back at me.
‘Because!’
‘Because what?’ He looks deep into my eyes.
‘Because …’ I search for something I can say that will make him back off, leave me alone. ‘Because … I … I don’t have a guitar any more.’
‘So that’s your excuse?’ Twig snorts.
‘Yeah. If that’s how you want to see it, that’s my excuse. No guitar. No concert! OK?’
Something flits across Twig’s face. Something I can’t quite place. ‘So if you had a guitar you’d do the concert?’ he shouts above the wind that’s coming in big angry gusts now.
And I’m about to say, Well done, you’ve got it – when he grabs me, kisses me on the nose, then turns and runs away.
BOYS! AAAAARGH! Honestly. They are SERIOUSLY WEIRD!
This is just not my day!
By the time I get home I’m soggy-sodden-soaking wet. And there’s a note from Mum saying she’s had to go out and help at Cathy’s Totally Scrumptious Cake Cafe (AGAIN)! Dad is in Edinburgh with Digby, Pip has gone to a friend’s straight from school and – can you believe it? – just when I desperately need some comfort food, there’s NOT ONE home-made cake or brownie or tray-bake anywhere in the house. Honestly! My mother is neglecting her maternal duties since she started ‘giving Cathy a hand’. She’s giving her more than a hand! She’s also giving her all the cakes that used to be kept in the fridge for yours truly and her little sis – a sorry state of affairs, which I for one, find totally intolerable!
I make do with a brace of ancient Jammie Dodgers and a cracked Bourbon cream scavenged from the bottom of the biscuit tin, grab a big glass of milk, wander through to the living room and switch on News 24 – just as a bulletin comes in live from Pakistan. There have been more tremors in the earthquake area, the newsreader announces, as fresh images of devastation appear behind him. I know it’s foolish, but even so, I lean forward and scour the screen, just in case I catch a glimpse of Taslima.
Then an aid worker comes on. Behind him a group of men dig through the rubble of a collapsed school. The news reporter says they believe there are survivors still trapped beneath the masonry. Several ambulances sit with their lights flashing.
‘We know from previous earthquakes that people can survive in air pockets for days, sometimes weeks, if they have water and food in reach. But we need more aid, and we need it now,’ the aid worker says passionately. ‘Thousands have b
een killed and those who’ve survived are living rough on the mountainsides. In some ways the humanitarian crisis is just beginning. We urgently need tents and blankets. Water sources are polluted from burst sewer pipes, so we need water purification tablets. I appeal to all of you to help. Send your donations to the disaster relief fund. We can save hundreds, maybe even thousands of lives, but we need your money!’
Troubled, I flick the TV off and sit staring at the blank screen. The storm Miss Peabody predicted is in full flow now, the rain rattling angrily off the windows. I imagine being out on a mountainside, with no protection, nowhere safe to shelter. Twig’s right. Kids at school would pay for tickets for a concert. Megan and Cordelia and Sindi-Sue – and even Magnus and Beano – would all rally round and do their bit. All I need to do is agree to sing.
I go into Dad’s computer cupboard and press a button. The computer whirrs into life. I click on the online dictionary and punch in my name. S-A-S-S-Y. It comes up right away. SASSY |sæsi| adjective – lively, bold, full of spirit.
I sit staring at the screen. Thinking. I guess if I give up singing cos Y-Generation won’t sign me, then I’m not being true to my name. I’m being a wimp. A walkover. I’m letting Paradiso’s win. And deep down I know there’s a tiny voice trying to be heard, a tiny sassy voice, whispering: Actually, Sassy, you do want to sing again, you’re just being stubborn and wrong-headed.
But then again I tell myself OUT LOUD18 so I can drown the little voice out: ‘IF YOU WERE MEANT TO SING, THEN Y-GENERATION WOULD HAVE SIGNED YOU!’
All irritated and out of sorts I wander upstairs and open the door to my room. Oh no! I must have left the window open this morning. The rain-soaked curtains are billowing and flapping as the storm blows in. I dash across and slam the window shut just as a flash of lightning splits the sky. And that’s when I see it. Propped against my desk.
At first I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a guitar! And not just any guitar. It’s MY guitar! A massive peal of thunder booms right above the house. I stare open-mouthed as another lightning flash floods the room, momentarily blinding me. When my eyes readjust I half expect the guitar to have disappeared, like it was an illusion, a trick of the brain, something Cordelia had conjured up with one of her spells.
But it’s still there! I rush over and pick it up. Solid and real and … err … damp. Grabbing a T-shirt, grinning insanely, I wipe it dry. Then I strum a few times and suddenly, despite all my resolutions about never wanting to sing again, I’m so happy I could cry!
And I’m wondering how on earth it got there, when I realize there’s a label tied round its neck. On it a carefully handwritten message:
If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito
The Dalai Lama19
I read and re-read the words. Until finally I understand.
With tears in my eyes, sniffing and smiling, all at the same time, I tune my guitar. As I strum its strings, it vibrates against me, like a cat purring contentedly. I bend over and kiss its frets, and that’s when I notice that Twig’s friendship bracelet – the old, faded, broken one – has gone. In its place is a fresh one, all beautifully woven in golds and purples – my fave colours, my lucky colours.
I take it off and tie it round my wrist. Twig’s right. I might be small, but like a mosquito, I can be effective.
And I’m not going to let bullies like Paradiso’s stop me.
Half an hour later the storm has blown itself out and the sun bursts through the clouds, edging them with silver.
I set my guitar on its stand, all dried and tuned, then clatter downstairs and hurry into the garage. I drag my bike out and furiously pedal round to Twig’s. As I fly along the rain-soaked, sun-drenched streets, steam rises around me in magic wispy clouds. The air smells green and fresh. Everything’s glistening. Like the whole world’s beautiful and new!
At Twig’s house I drop my bike in the drive and run towards the door – then stop in my tracks as something cracks off my skull. A nut! I look up into the tree where Twig likes to sit, but there’s no bright face grinning down. I squeal and rub my head as another nut bounces off it.
‘So you found it?’ Twig’s hanging out of an upstairs window, his hair flopping forward.
‘Yeah, I did. Thanks!’ I beam up at him.
‘Wait there!’ he shouts and seconds later he opens the door.
‘How did you do it? I mean, why?’ I splutter.
Twig shrugs. ‘When Megan told me you’d taken your guitar to the Oxfam shop, I knew you’d done the wrong thing. So I thought I’d better buy it before anyone else did. I guessed you’d want it eventually.’
‘So how come you knew I’d done the wrong thing before I did?’ I ask, confused, as I follow him through to the kitchen.
Twig smiles and takes two glasses from the cupboard. ‘Good friends look out for each other,’ he says as he pours out some mango juice. ‘You’re too good a singer – and a songwriter – to give it all up.’
‘Look, I owe you, Twig. Whatever it cost to buy the guitar at Oxfam, I’ll pay you back.’
Twig leans against the worktop and passes me a glass. ‘You don’t need to pay. Not in money, anyway … Maybe you could just do something for me instead?’ He pushes his hair back from his face and smiles cheekily. For a moment I think he’s going to ask me to kiss him, and that’s when an awful realization dawns on me – the way things have been between us recently, I’m not sure that I want to.
‘So this favour,’ I ask, taking a step back. ‘What were you thinking of?’
He looks into my face, his eyes shining, eager. ‘Do the fundraising concert, Sassy. Sing up on stage again. You’ve no excuse now you’ve got your guitar back.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what I think too,’ I smile. ‘You’re right. I should do it.’
‘Fantastic!’ Twig raises his glass to chink with mine. ‘Megan says there’re tons of folk willing to muck in. And Sassy –’ He takes a step closer and I can’t step back cos the wall’s right behind me. ‘I think you’re great.’ His breath flutters against my cheek and I just know he’s about to kiss me when the door bursts open and Megan comes bouncing into the kitchen.
‘Ooooops!’ she squeals, retreating back through the door. ‘Omigod! Sorree!’
‘Don’t go, Megan!’ I shout, nimbly stepping round Twig and going after her. Who would have thought? For once I am actually relieved to be interrupted by Megan!
Pleased, she bounces back into the room.
‘Good news!’ I grin. ‘Twig got me my guitar back. So it looks like we can do the concert. If everyone still wants to, that is.’
‘WHOOP!’ Megan squeals, throwing her arms round me in a big hug. ‘That’s great news! Break open the pink lemonade! Let’s celebrate!’
From [email protected]
To [email protected]
Hi Tas!
Maybe you won’t get to read this till you come home, cos there’s maybe no Internet where you are. Maybe not even any electricity. I AM SO WORRIED ABOUT YOU! But at least when you do read this you’ll know we’ve all been thinking about you.
Just wanted you to know too that even tho I’m never gonna be a big star now, me and some others (Cordelia, Megan, Midge, Twig, Magnus, Sindi-Sue and Beano) are gonna do a lunchtime concert at school to raise money to send to the Earthquake Appeal Fund.
I know it’s not a HUGE thing to do to help, but it’s all we can think of.
So be careful, Tas. I miss you lots. Remember, you’re my personal therapist, and, hey, do I need therapy. I’m in such a muddle about Twig, like you wouldn’t believe. I suppose it might just be a weird patch we’re going through. I so need y
ou to sort out my head. Especially cos I don’t know what to do about Phoenix either. He’s sent me a card and texted and I think he’d like to stay in touch … And so would I!
Cordelia says she’s cast a BIG magic spell to keep you safe. She’s been sending you psychic good luck messages too.
Can’t wait to hear from you – and for you to come home. Please tell your mum I am trying my ultra-bestest to be a good person.
Love ya Loads! BFF!
Sassy xxx :o)
PS Brewster sends a big doggy kiss too.
I click Send, and before I go to sleep I devise a plan for getting the school fundraising concert off the ground. First thing tomorrow morning, before Registration even starts, I will go and see Smollett. I’ll explain about Tas and the earthquake and how Eco Club wants to raise money to help, and how we figure the best way is a lunchtime concert, so all he has to do is let us have the use of the school hall. We can even try to get a piece in the local paper. STRATHCARRON HIGH STUDENTS DO CHARITY GIG-type thing. And maybe even a spot on local radio. Which, I will point out, would all be very good for the reputation of the school. So he’s bound to say yes.
Aaaargh! What is wrong with my family! First I can’t get into the shower this morning cos Pip beats me to it, which means I have to wait YONKS while she carries out her morning beauty routine.
‘I don’t want to end up with a face like a dried sultana by the time I’m fifteen,’ she protests when I try to drag her out. ‘Which is what will happen to you cos you don’t follow a proper facial care routine!’
It is almost quarter past eight before she flounces out on her silly kitten-heel mules and I at last get into the shower.
