Sasha's Secret

by Cathy Cassidy

  I blink, pull in a deep breath and try to work out what I’ve missed.

  ‘You’re mad, you,’ Sharleen says. ‘“Just listen” … listen to what? The sound of freakin’ silence?’

  Romy hooks an arm through mine and drags me away, but I can still hear Sharleen jeering behind me.

  ‘There’s something wrong with you, you weirdo!’ she crows, and although I tilt my chin up and pretend not to care, deep down I know she’s right.

  Hey Sasha, Matt here. Good to talk to you earlier and cool that you’re happy to do something for the school mag. I was thinking we could give it the centre spread with lots of colour photos and use one for the cover too! #excited

  Hi Matt – sounds great! We’ve got band practice after school – I’ll tell the others & we can make a plan! Sasha x

  OK! Could do something this weekend maybe? Get it sorted before half-term? I’d really like to see how the whole thing works, talk to you and Marley about how you see things going, that kind of stuff.

  I’ll ask Marley if you can come and watch our practice on Saturday. You can take some pictures and then do the interview bits? Sasha x

  Perfect. Thanks for this, Sasha. Let me know what Marley says!

  3

  Black Holes

  Some days are fine … just normal days, easy days, with no vanishing acts involved; other days are pitted with endless black holes for me to fall into. I can never tell exactly what each one will be like, although if I’m honest the good days are rarer now. There haven’t been any totally clear days for a while.

  The worst time of all was at the end of the summer holidays, when the Lost & Found played a live radio slot as part of a competition, showcasing a brand-new song. We were all crammed into a tiny studio, hot and bothered and determined to do our best and win the competition … and I zoned out. I missed my cue and by the time I realized that’s what I’d done, the band had crashed to a halt in a mess of discordant chaos. We started again and I was OK, but we didn’t win the competition and my confidence took a real dent that day.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Romy had said to me at the time. ‘You’re just a daydreamer – we all have our moments.’

  Not everyone was so kind, though, and I know that unless I get my act together my days with the band are numbered. I haven’t let them down that badly since, but the fear of it is always there, because I never know when a black hole will open up and suck me in.

  And being thrown out of the band? I don’t honestly know if that would be a disaster or a relief. What with the stage fright and the recurring black-hole moments, my head is one big mess of confusion lately.

  Today, the black holes come thick and fast.

  I lose the plot in games and fail to block a goal in netball, which earns me a telling-off from Ms Trent; I flunk a vocabulary test in French because I don’t hear half the questions; I even zone out in the middle of eating and end up wearing a forkful of veggie lasagne on my Millford Park Academy jumper. Oops.

  Lexie, Happi, Bex and Romy peer at me curiously as I scrub away the mess with a paper napkin, take off my jumper and stuff it into my bag.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Lexie asks. ‘You seem distracted.’

  ‘Probably dreaming about Matt Brennan,’ Romy says. ‘He was chatting her up on the school bus this morning. Reckons he wants to interview the Lost & Found for the school magazine.’

  Bex raises an eyebrow. ‘Matt Brennan, huh?’ she says. ‘Mr Heart-Throb himself!’

  ‘He’s not interested in me,’ I protest, my cheeks pink. ‘Just the band.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Happi says with a shrug. ‘Good publicity to be in the Scribbler. Although Marley probably won’t be impressed by anything less than the national newspapers!’

  ‘Too ambitious for his own good,’ Bex agrees. ‘I just saw him outside the music room, signing autographs and smirking like the cat that got the cream. Says he’s got some exciting news for us at practice later …’

  ‘Hope he’s not going to make us rehearse every day over half-term,’ Romy groans. ‘He’s a slave driver!’

  ‘He just wants us to get to the top, that’s all,’ Lexie says as the bell peals for afternoon lessons. ‘But yeah … sometimes he is.’

  Mum is working till six today, and Dad has a big building job to oversee, so once school is finished I hole up in Bridge Street Library, ploughing through my homework. It’s cool and quiet and feels somehow safe, and I actually get some work done while sipping the orange squash Ms Walker, the pink-haired librarian, has made for me.

  The Lost & Found get special treatment at the library because we helped to save it from closing; we campaigned like mad and played our first proper gig at a festival to save the libraries, and I don’t think Ms Walker will ever forget it.

  ‘Want a snack?’ she asks. ‘The Knit & Natter group left half a packet of chocolate digestives, and you haven’t been home for your tea …’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, although the truth is I’ve had nothing since lunchtime and I won’t be home until eight. ‘Tonight’s our treat night – Netflix and a takeaway. Don’t want to spoil my appetite!’

  ‘Lovely,’ Ms Walker says. ‘Enjoy it! I saw the Lost & Found on the news last night … the art gallery gig. I’m so proud of you all!’

  I go back to my homework just as the first of several texts from Matt Brennan buzz through on to my mobile. The day hasn’t been a total disaster – I got to talk to a very cool Year Eleven boy with a rakish quiff and hazel eyes, a boy who is texting me to arrange a weekend meet-up. OK, so the meet-up is a photo shoot and interview and not a date, but so what? It’s a start.

  I text back, smiling, knowing that a boy like Matt can’t really be interested in me but liking the fantasy of it anyway.

  I must have zoned out again somewhere along the line, because the next time I look up it’s ten to five. I scoop my books into my bag and wave goodbye to Ms Walker before setting off across the park at a sprint. By the time I get to Greystones, the old mansion where our practice space is, my mobile says it’s past five, and I hurry across the grounds towards the vintage railway carriage where the Lost & Found rehearse.

  Marley is pretty strict about timekeeping, but it looks as though he’s in a good mood today. It’s unusually warm for autumn, and the whole band are sitting on the grass in the last dregs of afternoon sun, messing about with instruments and eating home-made flapjacks.

  ‘Want one?’ Happi asks brightly, holding out the tin. ‘They’re good!’

  I smile and take a flapjack, sinking down on the grass beside my friends. Bex is reading To Kill a Mockingbird, Sami’s sketching Lexie as she makes a daisy chain and Romy is playing the faintest whisper of a melody on her violin. Jake, the only one of the Lost & Found who doesn’t play an instrument – he’s our tech guy – takes a cold can of Fanta from under the old railway carriage and hands it to me.

  ‘Thanks, Jake,’ I say.

  Sometimes the old railway carriage is my favourite place in the whole world.

  ‘Good of you to join us, Sasha,’ Marley comments, putting his guitar down. ‘We couldn’t start without our lead singer, could we?’

  ‘Something cropped up,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘Won’t happen again, promise.’

  But it might, of course.

  How do you explain that your life is suddenly full of black holes? That several times a day a tear in the universe might swallow you whole and spit you out again? I am no expert on astrophysics, but I learned enough from GCSE science to know that black holes can turn you inside out and stretch you out like a strand of spaghetti. I know that they’re mysterious and dangerous, and that they distort time.

  What’s been happening lately seems a bit full-on to fall into the daydreaming category.

  ‘So,’ Marley says. ‘Now we’re all here … well, I wanted to say well done. You guys were amazing the other night. I think it’s safe to say we’re back on form – good work!’

  ‘It was fun,’ Bex says. ‘And we di
dn’t have to worry about Bobbi-Jo messing up on keyboards …’

  Bobbi-Jo joined the band briefly in the summer, but she was cringingly bad – we all know Marley only wanted her in the band because her dad worked for the local radio station. Bobbi-Jo’s with a hip-hop band now, and I’ve been filling in on keyboards. I sometimes think I’d be happier sticking to that than singing – less pressure.

  ‘That slot on the local news last night was good,’ Marley goes on. ‘We need to keep pushing on the publicity front!’

  ‘I was talking to Matt Brennan today,’ I tell him. ‘He asked me to have a word with you.’

  ‘Dark-haired kid in Year Eleven?’ Marley says. ‘Bit full of himself? What did he want?’

  ‘He wants to do a big feature on the Lost & Found,’ I explain. ‘Take some shots of our practice on Saturday and interview us … He reckons he’d get us on the cover.’

  Marley laughs. ‘Of the school magazine?’ he scoffs. ‘Big deal!’

  ‘We’ve got a growing fanbase at school,’ Lexie points out. ‘Why not build on it?’

  Marley shrugs. ‘Matt’s supposed to be OK with a camera,’ he admits. ‘And any publicity is good publicity, right? Yeah, tell him to come on Saturday. Why not?’

  ‘Louisa Winter’s exhibition has sold a load of paintings already,’ Lexie chips in. ‘They’ve raised lots of money – and awareness – for the refugee charity. And like Bex says … it was fun!’

  ‘Not just fun,’ Marley says. ‘We were awesome. And I’m not the only person who thought so – Ked Wilder was really impressed, he told me so. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was happening, but – well, this is a massive opportunity for us. Our big break, if you like –’

  ‘What is?’ Lee interrupts.

  ‘Big break?’ Bex echoes.

  ‘What massive opportunity?’ Dylan asks. ‘What are you talking about, Marley?’

  ‘Give me a chance and I’ll tell you!’ Marley is enjoying the fact that he finally has everyone’s attention. ‘If you’ll all just shut up for a minute. I need everyone to clear their diaries for half-term. I know it’s a big ask, but this is important …’

  ‘What is?’ half a dozen voices demand.

  ‘The Lost & Found are going to Devon for the week,’ Marley announces. ‘We’ll be in Ked Wilder’s studio, cutting our first EP with a sixties pop legend mentoring us every step of the way!’

  There’s a shocked silence, then a cacophony of excited whoops and yells, but all I feel is the sudden curdle of fear in my stomach.

  163 likes

  SashaSometimes Exciting news … can’t say anything yet, but watch this space!

  #Lost&Found #BigNews #TopSecret #Shhhhh #TeenBand

  littlejen Ooh! Something to do with the Lost & Found?

  Yorkie_Joe Recording deal?

  Kezsez07 We need a clue! Please!

  MillfordGirl1 #NeedToKnow

  4

  Treat Night

  In case you think that things are still grim at home, I can tell you that they’re really not. My parents work hard, but they’re kind to each other and most of the time we’re OK. I do my best to keep it that way.

  Dad’s a foreman with a small building firm, working with a team he’s known for years now. The days of job uncertainty and low wages are over; Dad puts in long hours and is brilliant at what he does.

  Mum loves her job on the beauty counter at Barlow’s department store, and she’s good at it too. Women drift past her counter feeling tired and drab, and Mum smiles and chats and sits them down, offers them a free mini makeover and her own personal brand of pep talk. When they look in the mirror, they see a whole new person gazing back – someone brighter, braver, ready for anything. Mum gives them a couple of free samples and they walk away feeling ten feet tall, and come back again and again to buy palettes of colour, jars of sparkle and pots of cream that smell of vanilla and adventure.

  ‘I don’t sell make-up,’ Mum likes to say. ‘I sell dreams.’

  Three nights a week Mum cooks, and we eat healthy salads, fish pies, veggie bakes and green smoothies that taste a whole lot better than they look. Three nights a week Dad cooks, and we eat oven chips and microwave dinners, and sometimes his signature sausage and mash with onion gravy. On the seventh night we order a takeaway and pick a movie from Netflix, and nobody has to cook at all.

  Tonight is takeaway night and Dad has ordered Indian. I don’t think Mum’s impressed, because they seem to be having a whispered conversation that halts abruptly when I arrive.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask. Dad says it’s nothing, and Mum just says that curry gives her heartburn. She starts making a sandwich with peanut butter and sliced gherkins instead, and Dad rolls his eyes.

  ‘Curry gives you heartburn but that little lot doesn’t?’ he asks, pulling a face.

  She picks the film, a cheesy ancient American teen romance in which everyone wears dodgy clothes and the heroine is almost certain to choose completely the wrong boy. Dad threatens us with something bloodthirsty next week, but it doesn’t matter because we’re snuggled on the sofa, Mum wolfing her sandwich, me and Dad eating onion bhajis from the box.

  ‘Good day at school?’ Mum asks absently, her eyes still on the screen.

  I could mention the black-hole moments, how they’re getting worse, how they’re scaring me … but that would worry my parents, of course.

  ‘We had a French test,’ I say, not mentioning that I flunked it. ‘And I went to the library after so I’m pretty much up to date with my homework.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Dad says. ‘The lads on the site saw you on TV last night. You’ve got some new fans there!’

  ‘The girls at Barlow’s were talking about it too,’ Mum adds. ‘I was ever so proud!’

  ‘I signed my first autograph today,’ I tell them.

  ‘First of many, I bet,’ Dad crows. ‘My famous daughter!’

  I pull a face. ‘No way,’ I argue. ‘Not yet … anyway, it’s a team effort. We’re all in it together!’

  Mum looks sceptical. ‘You’re the lead singer,’ she says. ‘The face of the band. That’s why they’re asking for your autograph, Sasha – get used to it!’

  ‘I don’t think I could ever get used to that kind of thing,’ I say honestly. ‘It’s weird. Why should people treat us differently just because we’ve been on TV? We’re no different from before! On the bus this Year Eleven boy from the school magazine – Matt, his name is – asked if he could take our photos at the practice on Saturday. He might put our picture on the cover – just imagine!’

  ‘Why not?’ Mum says. ‘You’re talented kids, all of you. So … is he nice, this Matt?’

  ‘Mum!’ I bluster. ‘He’s just a boy. I don’t even know him!’

  But my pink cheeks give me away, and Mum is smiling as she watches the movie. I swear she has a radar for this kind of thing. She can pick up the faintest flicker of excitement in my voice, the slightest sign of interest.

  ‘I don’t think you realize how good the Lost & Found really is,’ Dad says, biting into a samosa. ‘You’ve really got something. You could go all the way to the top!’

  I squirm a little. It’s great that my parents are proud of me, of course, but I feel a bit of a fraud. The thing is, I’m an average kind of girl. I get average grades, and without the help of make-up, my face is girl-next-door, not especially pretty, not especially plain. My blonde hair is probably my best feature, and even that has had a lot of help from wash-in hair colour. Until recently, I’ve never been the kind of girl to stand out from the crowd, but blending in isn’t really an option when you’re singing your heart out centre stage.

  I wish my parents could be proud of me for something else, like my ability to stack the dishwasher without complaining or the fact that I can change a plug and make cheese sauce and do a pretty good cartwheel – not all at the same time, obviously.

  When Marley first dragged me along to audition for the Lost & Found, the last thing I expected was to end
up as lead singer. It was just a bit of fun at first, but then it got serious. Marley told me I’d get more confident with every performance, but I think the opposite is happening. And now, with the black-hole thing, everything seems so uncertain, so scary.

  My parents are proud of me for something that is bound to go wrong, and when it does, I won’t just let my friends down, I’ll disappoint them too. Great.

  Mum pokes me with one fluffy slippered toe. ‘My daughter the pop star!’ she teases, and I laugh and strike a pose, and the anxiety recedes for a moment.

  ‘In my dreams,’ I say.

  ‘Dream on,’ Dad says. ‘Why not? Ked Wilder really rates you and he’s a total legend – he must know what he’s talking about!’

  The mention of Ked Wilder brings me back down to earth with a bump, and I put down a half-eaten samosa and fix my eyes on the TV screen. The main girl character is trying to make a prom dress out of something hideous her dad has bought her, but I can’t seem to focus on the movie at all.

  What would happen if I just didn’t mention Ked Wilder’s offer?

  My parents would find out sometime, though, and then I’d never hear the last of it. They’re both very big on grabbing opportunity with both hands, and this is an opportunity all right.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Actually … Ked Wilder wants to get us into the studio at half-term,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘Which is cool, but it means going down to stay at his place in Devon, and it’s really short notice, so I’d understand if you said no …’

  Mum almost chokes on a sandwich crust. ‘Say no?’ she shrieks. ‘Say no? Why would we do that? This is amazing, Sash! I mean it really is a once-in-a-lifetime chance … I’d go myself if I could! How did you manage to keep that one quiet?’

  I fix on a smile. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were both in a good mood before I mentioned it, that’s all,’ I bluff. ‘It’s such short notice and I don’t think everyone’s going to be able to make it …’