Star Switch

by Alesha Dixon

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  For my girls,

  Azura and Anaya,

  who inspire me every

  single day.

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Lightning Girl - sample chapter

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes, I dream about being a famous pop star.

  I drift off into this crazy, amazing daydream about being someone else, someone glamorous and confident. I imagine stepping out on to a huge stage with spotlights shining down, thousands of fans looking up at me, screaming and cheering as I pick up the microphone and take centre stage, while my backup dancers all take their positions in formation behind me. The stage goes dark dramatically just before the performance begins, and suddenly the music starts up, blasting across the stadium. The crowd erupts with excitement at the first notes of their favourite song. The lights come up and I launch into an incredible dance routine in perfect time with my dancers, before I lift the microphone to my lips and—

  SPLAT!

  “AHHHHHHHHHHH!” I scream, leaping to my feet as a huge dollop of mashed potato hits me right in the face. “WHAT THE—”

  “Whoops!” My brother Roman sniggers. “Sorry, Ruby, I was aiming for Reggie.”

  Our scruffy dog, Daisy, comes bounding over from her bed and jumps up at me, barking happily and desperately hoping that the food will drop off my face and on to the floor.

  “It was a good throw anyway, though,” John comments from the other end of the table, lifting his head from his book long enough to inspect my potato-covered features. “It really hit Ruby in the centre of her face.”

  “Thanks, John.” Roman grins, loading another scoop of mash on to his spoon.

  “Can someone pass me a napkin?” I ask, sitting down and pointing at the pile of napkins out of my reach, as Daisy continues to bark at me. “It’s gone in my eye!”

  “It was a terrible throw,” Reggie argues, next to me. “Not that anyone should be surprised. Roman has always been the worst thrower in the family.”

  “Here we go,” Roman sighs. “Jealousy is an ugly quality, Reggie. You really need to get over the fact that I am by far the higher achieving, more talented, more intelligent twin. Not to mention better looking.”

  Reggie rolls his eyes. “We’re identical.”

  “I’m still better looking.” Roman shrugs. “I have nicer eyes.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Mum.”

  “Can someone PLEASE pass me a napkin?” I repeat over Daisy’s barking as I attempt to wipe the potato away with my hands. I somehow make it worse, so it’s just smearing across my face and all over my eyelashes.

  “Mum,” Reggie says, ignoring me, “did you tell Roman that he has nicer eyes than me?”

  “What, darling?” Mum replies from the top of the table, barely looking up from the manuscript on her lap. “Yes, you can have more potato. Help yourself. Daisy, stop barking, sweetheart, would you?”

  “That wasn’t my question, Mum.” Reggie laughs, shaking his head as Daisy starts barking louder. “Do you think Roman has nicer eyes than I do?”

  “You both have beautiful eyes,” Mum says, waving his question off and returning her attention to the manuscript. “All my children do. You get them from me.”

  “Napkin! Please! There is mashed potato in my eye!” I say desperately.

  “That’s not true, Mum. Jeroame has weird, goggly eyes,” Roman teases, getting his spoon lined up, ready to catapult his next dollop of mash across the table.

  “I have the eyes of a Greek god,” Jeroame replies, typing into his phone. “That’s a direct quote from a model scout who came over to speak to me once on the high street.”

  Reggie snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Mum, don’t I have amazing, model looks?” Jeroame asks with a sly smile.

  “Yes, darling, Daisy is a lovely dog,” Mum replies on autopilot.

  “CAN SOMEONE PLEASE PASS ME A NAPKIN?” I cry out, banging my hand on the table.

  “Whoa, calm down,” John says, chucking the pack of napkins across the table at me. “You just had to ask.”

  “Yes, no need to shout, Daisy. I mean, Ruby. Sorry, always getting mixed up,” Mum mumbles, scribbling something in the margin of the manuscript, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “But, Mum!” I say in exasperation, wiping the potato out of my eyes. “I asked so many times and no one was listening to me and I really—”

  SPLAT!

  “Whoops.” Roman sniggers as a new dollop of mashed potato slides down my cheek.

  Daisy barks ecstatically and jumps up so forcefully, she almost knocks me off my chair.

  “Someone really needs to train the dog,” John comments, turning a page of his book.

  “It’s official.” Reggie tuts. “Roman, you are the worst thrower in history.”

  “What about that time you threw the ball into the lake, Reggie?” Jeroame points out.

  “That wasn’t my fault!” Reggie says.

  I reach for another napkin and let out a long sigh as the chaos continues, my brothers all talking and arguing over each other.

  This is a daily occurrence.

  Being the youngest of six children means that I’ve grown up in constant noise. Dinner times are the worst. My brothers aren’t exactly morning people so they’re barely functioning at breakfast, which makes it a much more pleasant dining experience. But in the evenings, when we’re all back from school, it reminds me a little of a David Attenborough documentary I once saw about a family of meerkats.

  Most of the noise generates from Roman and Reggie, who are identical twins and seventeen years old. They’re very outgoing with loads of energy and are both really good at sport. They’re in constant competition to be captain of every team, and so far, they have an equal number of trophies. They also love to wind each other up, so a lot of the time they play pranks or challenge each other to do stupid things that end in disaster. Like yesterday when Reggie challenged Roman to slide down the stairs in a laundry basket.

  He broke the laundry basket and somehow got his foot stuck in the banister. Reggie threw his head back to laugh loudly and accidentally knocked over a lamp, which smashed everywhere.

  Jeroame wasn’t laughing. He came out of his room to yell at them for being so loud that he couldn’t hear his boss, who was on the phone. Jeroame has left school now; he’s nineteen and doing a gap year, gaining experience at a scientific research facility before going to Oxford to study chemistry. Most Friday evenings, he chooses a documentary for us to watch together. Somehow he can retain every bit of information he hears. It’s nice to have him still living at home for a bit, especially now that Isabella’s left.

  Isabella is the eldest. She’s twenty-one and
at university studying to be a doctor, following in Dad’s footsteps. He’s a surgeon. I miss Isabella a lot as it was nice having another girl around the house. She always used to yell at the boys when they left their smelly socks lying about and they would listen to her most of the time. None of them ever listen to me, except maybe John.

  John is the nearest to me in age, being two years older at fifteen, so, as the second youngest, he kind of understands what it’s like to be bottom of the food chain. He doesn’t seem to care much about being ignored though; he’s happy to do his own thing. Quiet and bookish, John is a lot like Mum: in his own world. He won a BBC writing competition last year for a story he wrote in his free time, and he was on TV and everything. He wants to be a book editor and has already picked up Mum’s habit of carrying books wherever he goes, even if it’s just to the table for dinner. They even have the same mannerisms. It’s spooky.

  So, yeah. That’s my big, bonkers, high-achieving family. Dad, who’s a surgeon; Mum, a renowned book editor; Isabella, a future doctor; Jeroame, a science whizz; Roman and Reggie, sport stars; John, the literary genius; and then there’s . . . well . . . me.

  I’m not anything, really. I’m not top of any classes or good at any sports. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

  I don’t seem to stand out at anything.

  “Ruby, are you all right, darling?” Mum says suddenly, smiling warmly at me across the table as Roman and Reggie argue over who gets the last bit of vegetable pie. “You’ve gone into another one of your dazes.”

  “When is Ruby not in a daydream?” Dad says suddenly from the doorway, coming over to give me a hug and plant a kiss on the top of my head, making me smile. “And why is there mashed potato all over the table? Daisy even has some on her nose.”

  We laugh as Daisy goes round and round in circles, desperately trying to shake the potato from her fur and on to the floor.

  “How did the operation go?” Mum asks, standing up to greet him.

  “It went well. The patient is going to be absolutely fine.” He smiles, before noticing the manuscript in her hands. “A future bestseller, I assume?”

  “Of course.” She grins, giving him a kiss.

  We all groan in unison and Roman throws a carrot at them in protest. My parents are very happy together. It’s gross.

  “Right,” Mum says, pulling away from Dad and clapping her hands together, “whose turn is it to clear the table?”

  “It’s Ruby’s turn,” Reggie says, jumping up from his seat.

  “Yep, definitely Ruby’s,” Jeroame agrees, following suit.

  “What? No, it’s not!” I protest, sitting still as everyone else gets up and pushes their chairs under the table, the chair legs screeching loudly and drowning me out. “I did it yesterday! And I really need to go wash the potato off my face.”

  “Nice try, little sis.” Roman laughs, coming over to ruffle my hair. “I can’t remember the last time you did any of the chores around the house. Shotgun the remote.”

  “Yeah, the youngest always gets spoilt,” Jeroame says with a cheeky grin. “It’s about time you pulled your weight, Rubes. And no chance, Roman, we’re watching a science documentary that’s on in five minutes.”

  “HA! Over the football? We’ll see about that.” Reggie cackles.

  “This is SO unfair!” I huff. “Mum! Dad! Tell them.”

  “Yes,” Dad begins, pouring himself a glass of water. “Everyone should—”

  But before he can finish his sentence, they all race out of the kitchen in a whirlwind of noise, barging each other out of the way. We hear the TV being switched on, the volume turned up, and then a heated argument break out over the remote, while John’s footsteps thud up the stairs to his room.

  I’m left at the table on my own.

  “Those boys! Don’t worry, I’ll help you, Ruby,” Mum says with a chuckle, shaking her head.

  “Me too,” Dad says. “We’ll get it done in no time and, I promise you, tomorrow, someone else will do it.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday,” I say grumpily, getting up and starting to pile the plates.

  “Ruby?” Dad says gently.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well. . .” He pauses. “Did you know that you have mashed potato in your eyebrow?”

  When I finish clearing the table and stacking the dishwasher, I head upstairs to my bedroom with Daisy trotting loyally at my feet. Daisy immediately jumps up on to my bed and makes herself comfortable on the duvet while I slump down next to her and stare at all the posters across my wall. They’re all of the same person. The most famous person on the planet and my favourite pop star of all time.

  Naomi Starr.

  Naomi Starr is the BEST singer and dancer ever and she’s crazy famous even though she’s only thirteen years old. I am Naomi’s number one fan and have listened to her albums maybe a hundred billion times. Whenever I’m having a bad day, her songs always manage to cheer me up. Hiding away in my room and listening to her music or watching her music videos is basically the only time I ever get to myself, when I can shut out my crazy household.

  I know every single lyric and dance move for every one of her songs.

  And that’s because I secretly spend my spare time dancing along in perfect sync to the choreography of her music videos and singing all the words.

  Not that I will ever tell anyone that. I mean, EVER. No one has any idea that I can sing, let alone dance. Except my best friend, Beth, but she has been sworn to secrecy on pain of death. Because it’s stupid. I’m only messing around. As I’ve said to Beth a hundred times, whenever she tries to persuade me to sign up for a school talent show or theatre auditions, it’s a silly daydream. I’d never be good enough to be on a stage.

  It’s just fun to pretend sometimes.

  I leave Daisy snoozing on the duvet and prop my phone up against a stack of textbooks on my messy desk. Clicking on Naomi’s music video for her new single, I move into the space in the middle of my bedroom floor, excited to learn some new dance moves.

  Naomi appears on the screen with her hair styled amazingly, her eyes glittering as she struts towards the camera in an incredible outfit, before she launches into the coolest routine with her backing dancers. I watch her, transfixed, before starting the video again to attempt to learn the first couple of steps. As I move back into the space, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m in my badly fitted school uniform, my hair hasn’t been brushed today and I still have a bit of mashed potato in my eyebrow. I look back at Naomi dancing on the screen and sigh. We are worlds apart.

  For a moment, I shut my eyes and imagine what it’s like to be Naomi Starr.

  I bet her life is perfect.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My life is a DISASTER.

  I’ve said that out loud about eight times now, but no one is listening to me. They’re all too busy pacing around my Chelsea townhouse sitting room, barking instructions into their phones and completely ignoring any ideas that I might have to sort out this mess.

  “Here’s your fresh blended juice, Miss Starr,” my assistant says, sidling over to where I am lounging on the sofa and holding out a tiny silver tray with a green juice on it. “Your chef made it just how you instructed.”

  I take the glass, have a sip and then grimace dramatically, plonking the glass right back on that stupidly small tray with a loud clang.

  “EW!” I quickly grab the glass of sparkling water nearby and down it to get the taste out of my mouth. “GROSS! Simon, that tastes like . . . I don’t even know! But something disgusting!”

  “Um . . . it’s . . . uh . . . my name is Sam.”

  “What is even IN that?” I stare at the offending juice on the tray.

  “It was all the ingredients that you listed and—”

  “Simon, please taste that and tell me what you think,” I say, nodding at the juice. “Seriously, have a sip. I need someone else to confirm that it’s gross.”

  He nervously picks up the jui
ce and takes a tiny gulp before wincing and setting it back down. He nods in agreement with me.

  “Yeah. It tastes like . . . pondweed.”

  “Pondweed! That’s it. Is Chef trying to kill me?! Ugh, can you take that back and get a new one that doesn’t taste like pondweed, please? But still with all those ingredients that I requested before. I read that they are really good for your skin. Thanks.”

  He scurries off and I watch Mum pace round and round my white carpet along with the rest of my entourage, looking very stressed as she talks into her phone.

  I made everyone take off their shoes, so my pristine carpet would be protected from all this pacing, and then had to get Simon to bring in a load of air fresheners to make sure our noses were protected from all these sweaty socks being out in the open.

  “There can’t be any lilies in the bouquet. No lilies,” Mum is saying sternly into the phone, running a hand through her curls. “The recipient, Marina Blair, hates them. And make sure it’s the biggest bouquet you’ve ever created. I mean it, John, make it big.” She pauses as John talks on the other end and then her eyes flicker towards me. “Yeah. You’ll see what happened in the press. Please get those flowers to her ASAP. Thanks, John, as ever.”

  She hangs up and then marches over, towering above me and crossing her arms. I pretend not to notice she’s there and continue to casually scroll through my phone.

  “John is sorting the flowers,” she states, frowning. “Hopefully that will smooth things over a little. He’s the best florist in London.”

  “Whatever. Chef just tried to kill me by giving me pondweed in a glass.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Are you talking about that juice you asked him to make? You know he spent hours tracking down all those strange, rare ingredients you said just had to be in it.”

  “Simon can back me up here. It was pondweed.”

  “Who’s Simon?”

  “My assistant.”

  “His name is Sam.”

  “Do you think I need a new chef?”

  “No, Naomi,” Mum sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I think your chef is just fine. You’ve already changed your chef twice this year.”