by Maggi Gibson
But then again, I remind myself, Cordelia’s hunch might be wrong. I mean, maybe Dad’s not gay. Maybe Digby is just a new friend or work colleague.
But if Digby is a work colleague why would he be calling him late at night? And why would Dad be out so much in the evenings?
I get myself into such a tizz in English that when Magnus turns round and smiles at me I totally blank him. Then I feel bad about it, cos I really didn’t mean to be rude.
The thing is, the more I think about Cordelia’s ‘gay dad’ theory the more sense it makes. I mean, Mum and Dad haven’t exactly been playing perfect partners recently. There have been quite a few rows. Especially about Dad rushing home for tea then rushing back out again. Mum even threw her Little Book of Calm at him last week.
As the afternoon ticks towards three o’clock my imagination desperately tries to come up with other possibilities. I make a list down the margin of my history notebook:
1. Digby is Dad’s love child from before he met Mum.
2. Dad was adopted, but never knew it, and Digby is his long‐lost little brother.
3. Digby is a code name. Dad is a government spy and his cover’s been blown and we’re being sent to live in Reykjavik or Beijing or somewhere.4
That’s as far as I get before the bell rings for home time.
After school Taslima and Cordelia walk home with me. When we stop at the gate Brewster bumbles down the path to meet us.
‘Over here, boy,’ I call as he sticks his nose in the air, trying to sniff me out. Brewster’s a spotless Dalmatian. At least, that’s what Dad told me when I was three. (I was all of five before I realized there was no such thing.) Anyway, Brewster’s fifteen, which means in doggy years he’s one hundred and five. Oh, and he’s blind.
Cordelia tickles Brewster’s ears and he points his nose adoringly at her. ‘Maybe best not have Brewster in the Family Meet,’ she says. ‘The shock might kill him.’
Then my two best mates in the whole wide world hug me and I force myself up the garden path towards the front door. Dad’s car is in the drive, parked behind Mum’s like it’s stopping her from getting out. Pip will be home already, so they’re probably all waiting.
I stop in the hall and peer through the glass door into the kitchen. There’s no sign of Pip or Mum. Dad’s there, busily making coffee. And he’s not alone. There’s a young man with him. They’re talking and laughing together, and I can’t help noticing the young man’s wearing a suit and a lilac shirt and a pink tie. And I know I shouldn’t make assumptions about people because of what they wear, but I can’t help thinking, What if Cordelia’s hunch is right? What if this is Dad’s new boyfriend?!
I take a deep breath and go in.
‘Sassy, I’d like you to meet Digby,’ Dad says. Then he puts an arm round the young man’s shoulder and they both grin at me, like the happy couple!
‘I’ve heard all about you, Sassy.’ Digby smiles nervously. ‘I’m sure we’re going to get on just brilliantly.’
I pull back a chair and plonk myself huffily down on it. There’s an assortment of cakes on a plate in the centre of the table: two cream doughnuts, two eclairs and a huge meringue. Meringue’s my fave. My tummy betrays me and rumbles noisily. My mouth’s no better. It starts watering.
Scowling, I fold my arms across my chest.
Finally Dad stops struggling with the cafetiére and puts five mugs out on the worktop. Just then Pip bounces in. Her eyes alight on the cakes and she’s ecstatic. She grins at Digby and hugs Dad. One cream doughnut and Pip has sold out!
But I can’t be bought so easily. I’m holding back till I find out what Dad’s up to. I mean, if he’s about to tell us that Digby is his new partner or his long‐lost love child, then he can stuff his meringue.
There’s an awkward silence as we wait for Mum. It gets to the point where I really can’t stand it any more.
‘Dad, I’m not sure I want to hear what you’re going to say,’ I blurt. ‘I’m perfectly happy with our family the way it is.’
‘Delighted to hear it,’ says Mum, who’s just floated in looking absolutely stunning in a tight‐fitting dress and sexy shoes. ‘I’ll remind you of that next time you’re begging to be put up for adoption.’
Digby stares at her in a decidedly un‐gay way and leaps forward to pull out a chair.
‘Thank you, Digby.’ She smiles. ‘And now, Angus, maybe you’d like to tell the girls what you and Digby are up to.’
Dad puffs himself up to his full height.
‘OK, girls.’ He clears his throat dramatically. ‘Your father is going into politics.’
I can hardly believe my ears. Did he just say going into politics? I mean, my father does not have a political follicle in his entire body! I can never get him to support any good causes. Only last month I tried to get him to take part in ‘Give It Up for the Planet Day’. All he had to do was agree to sell our car and use a bike instead. But he totally refused.
‘The point is,’ Dad explains, ‘the town hall is rife with corruption. Someone’s got to do something. There’s a general election coming up. And, to cut a long story short, I’m proud to report I’ve been accepted as a candidate.’
I stare at Dad, mouth open. I mean, why couldn’t he just have said that at breakfast? And saved me hours of agony and mental torture? If I end up in therapy it’s going to be all his fault. I hope MPs earn lots of money cos he’s gonna have to pay for it.
‘Young Digby here has offered to be my election agent,’ Dad says. ‘So he’s going to be around the house a lot from now on, masterminding the campaign.’
Digby beams at us.
‘Now obviously I’ve discussed this with your mother,’ Dad continues, ‘and she’s on board. So now I’d like you two to tell me what you think.’
He says you two but he stares at me. As usual, as First Born and Older Sister, I have to shoulder ALL the responsibility. Next time I must make sure to be born second.
‘Yeah, sure, cool,’ I say as I reach for the meringue before someone else bags it. ‘I mean, what you do in your own time’s your business.’5
‘Ah, but not quite, Sassy,’ Digby says. ‘We need to be sure you’re fully on‐side.’ He fixes me with a freaky stare.
‘What Digby’s saying is this –’ Dad sits down opposite me – ‘when the election campaign starts in a couple of days’ time, the whole family will be in the spotlight. Unless you promise you’ll behave, then there’s no point in me standing.’
I’m about to protest that I always behave when Mum cuts in. ‘To put it bluntly, Sassy, a repetition of the Paradiso’s Panties Incident could ruin your father’s chances.’
I sigh heavily. Whenever my parentals want to get at me they bring up the Paradiso’s Panties Incident.
‘Those knickers were being made in sweatshops by tiny kids working for slave wages!’ I splutter, spraying flakes of meringue across the table. ‘All I was doing was highlighting a serious issue. It’s not like I do drugs or mug old ladies or shoplift or anything –’
‘All we’re saying, Sassy,’ Digby says evenly, ‘is that a mock hold‐up at the local supermarket with a water pistol and a pair of knickers over your head might not win your father any votes.’
‘So, Dad, you want me to sell out my principles so you can go into politics?’
There’s an uneasy stand‐off. Mum rolls her eyes in an I‐knew‐this‐would‐happen way. Digby looks nervous. Pip tucks into the second cream doughnut. The big grandfather clock in the hall chimes.
‘I’m prepared to make it worth your while,’ Dad says as the clock falls silent. And I’m just thinking of asking for a rise in my pocket money, when he says something I really am not expecting. ‘You behave for the next three weeks, Sassy, and I’ll pay for a demo disc.’
I blink as if that will clear my ears. I’m so sure I must have misheard him. I’ve been trying to get the parentals to cough up for a demo since I was nine.
‘Done!’ I say before he can regain his sanity.
‘For a day in a recording studio, I’ll be a perfect daughter.’
Digby stretches out a hand for me to shake. ‘It’s a deal,’ he says with a grin.
‘But none of your shenanigans, Sassy.’ Dad scowls. ‘And I mean it. No run‐ins over school uniform. No switching off the school’s electricity to give the planet a break. No picketing the car factory in a hedgehog costume. Got it?’
I nod serenely…
angelically…
triumphantly!!!
Then I rush to my room to text Taslima and Cordelia. Sassy Wilde has just passed GO! And she’s gonna be a star!
I’m in English now. Romeo and Juliet. Yawn. Yawn. Muchos muchos boring. If Willie Shakespoke’s our greatest playwright ever, thank goodness we don’t do the rubbish ones.
Miss Peabody, our teacher – a woman of uncertain years and even more uncertain sanity – is having a ball acting all the parts herself. Cordelia’s playing with her tarot cards under her desk. Taslima’s doing her freaky asleep‐with‐her‐eyes‐open thing, and I’m chewing the end of my Friends of the Forest pencil,6 gazing dreamily at the back of Magnus’s head, when suddenly Miss Peabody wails and collapses in front of the whiteboard. Apparently she’s Juliet and she’s just found Romeo’s body.
Thought: If I found my one true love lying dead would I kill myself? No way! But it would make great publicity and I could write tons of tragic love songs after.
Miss Peabody is dying now. Tragically, noisily. She’s so passionate… I wonder why she never married. Maybe she just never met the right fella, then her hormones shrivelled up and she became an English teacher. Oh horror! What if that happens to me?
Just then Magnus twists round in his desk and gives me this big smile, and before I know what’s happening I kind of smile back, and suddenly these song lyrics flood my brain and I start scribbling furiously, pretending I’m taking notes.
I don’t want to be a Juliet to your Romeo
I don’t want to be a tragic heroine
I just want to walk a while by your side
I just want to hear you say you are mine.
Cos I lost my heart that day back in class
When we shared a cake, and we shared a laugh
I had my own plans, to fight injustice and greed
But you came along and boy, you’re what I need.
I stop scribbling just as the bell goes, shut my jotter quickly and stuff it in my bag – before anyone can see what I’ve written. I’ll do some guitar chords when I get home. I mean, it’s good for a singer to show a range and I suppose I should have one love song on my demo disc. No one needs to know who I’m singing about, do they?
At lunchtime me, Cordelia and Taslima hang out near the games field. The sun’s shining and I’d like to start getting a bit of a tan. I have the kind of sallow skin that looks pale green in winter but eventually turns brown if only I can get out enough.
Cordelia finds a perfect place where I can get the full ultra‐violet blast and she can sit under a tree. As a Dolly Goth it would be a disaster for Cordelia if she got a tan. She likes her skin to be pure white, like one of those porcelain dolls. Taslima’s naturally cappuccino‐coloured, so she sits between us, half in, half out of the shade.
Just then Megan Campbell – yeah, THAT Megan Campbell – appears and homes in on us like a bluebottle to a sticky doughnut. Taslima raises an eyebrow at me. Until recently Megan was under the spell of Hannah Harrison, chewing gum and hanging about outside the chippy in the town centre.
‘Hiya!’ she squeals, waving her hands excitedly. ‘Guess what?’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Cordelia says, putting two fingers to her brow and closing her eyes. ‘You’re… having a… party… this… Friday,’ she says like she’s receiving a psychic message. ‘And you’d… love it… if… we… could come.’
‘Wow!’ Megan’s eyes widen. ‘That is so freaky! How did you do that?’
‘It’s a gift.’ Cordelia flashes her green eyes enigmatically. I can’t help smiling. She was sitting beside Sindi‐Sue Shaw last period and, if I had to guess, I’d say Sindi‐Sue told her all about it.
‘Is it a birthday party?’ Taslima asks.
‘Nah.’ Megan tosses her long blonde hair and it shimmers in the sun. ‘Mum wants my new stepbro to meet some of my friends.’
‘New stepbro?’ Cordelia repeats.
‘Yeah,’ Megan sighs. ‘He came with my mum’s new partner. Like a non‐optional extra, you know? Like chips with chow mein?’
We exchange a confused look.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘they want him to start school here, but he’s not, like, biting. So the wrinklies are going to stay out till midnight so he can meet some peeps. It’d be so cool if you guys could come.’
‘So who’s all going?’ Taslima asks. ‘Is Hannah going to be there?’
‘Nah,’ says Megan, ‘I don’t hang about with Hannah any more.’ She throws me a meaningful look, but I make a point of not catching it. ‘She was bad news, y’know? So it’s mostly folk from our year.’ Then she leans in close. ‘You know Magnus Menzies, the swim champ?’ she whispers, and, despite myself, my heart skips a beat. ‘Don’t you think he is s‐o‐o gorgeous? Well, I’ve just asked him, and –’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Cordelia gasps, closing her eyes dramatically and spreading her fingers wide. ‘And… he… said… yes!’
‘Yeah! But how did you –?’ Confusion clouds Megan’s face. ‘Oh never mind. Isn’t it brilliant? I mean, that boy is so hot!’ Megan goes all swoony and something inside me pings, like a tiny alarm going off.
‘OK,’ Cordelia smiles. ‘We’ll be there. What time does it start?’
‘Any time after eight?’ Megan suggests, then stands around like she’d like to chat. But I don’t want to. Not unless she’s prepared to apologize for the Unforgivable Crime Against Sassy, which she perpetrated when we were in our last year at primary school, and which she has never owned up to and has never said sorry for.7
At last Megan simpers, ‘See you Friday, then.’ And minces off.
As we watch Megan disappear Taslima says quietly, ‘There’s something about Megan I don’t quite get. It’s like she’s always trying too hard. I think she’s quite lonely, actually.’
‘Maybe she shouldn’t steal from her friends!’ I snort.
‘Never mind Megan!’ Cordelia fixes me with a piercing, don’t‐lie‐to‐me‐or‐I’ll‐turn‐you‐into‐a‐warthog stare. ‘Sassy Wilde, I’m only going to ask you once, do you fancy Magnus Menzies or not?’
And I have to be the world’s worst ever liar! Even thinking about fibbing makes me feel guilty. And that makes me go pink and grin like a half‐witted Cheshire cat.
Taslima looks at my pink face and shakes her head in an exasperated sort of way. ‘Why are you in such denial, Sass? It’s perfectly normal to fancy the male of the species. And Magnus is pretty much a perfect specimen. So he fancies you – you fancy him. Why not just give in to it?’
I look at her with sad puppy eyes and I know I’m a fool. But I’ve never had a boyfriend before, and, to be honest, I find the prospect pretty terrifying. Which is daft, because hardly anything scares me. I can pick up spiders, I can perch on the edge of cliffs and dangle off the topmost branches of a tree.
‘OK, OK, OK, I suppose I do,’ I sigh.
‘Well, in that case you have to go to Megan’s party. Because if you don’t, then she’ll sink her pretty pink talons into Magnus and you’ll end up all heartbroken and tragic like Miss Haversham in that old Dickens book, with cobwebs in your hair and bats flapping in your belfry,’ Cordelia warns.
‘But I can’t go to the party,’ I protest. ‘I’ve got nothing to wear. And I’m skint.’
Just then a football rockets across in front of us. And who should come running after it – but Magnus. I try to disappear into the grass, but it’s no use, it’s only a centimetre long. ‘Hi, Sassy!’ he calls, and gives me a big wave.
Cordelia and Taslima exchange a kno
wing look. ‘You are going to the party on Friday, Sassy Wilde,’ Cordelia says, her green eyes gleaming. ‘And no excuses!’
‘Yeah,’ Taslima giggles. ‘Leave it to your fairy godmothers. We’ll soon find something for you to wear.’
After school Cordelia and Taslima come round to my house. I try to put them off, say I’ll go to the party in jeans and a T, but they’re not having it. Cordelia and Taslima make for my room while I throw together three peanut‐butter smoothies with pistachio ice cream topped with rainbow sprinkles, all served up in tall glasses with fluorescent curly straws. Yummy. There’s music blaring out of Pip’s room, which means she’s most probably practising one of her disco‐dancing routines.
Digby and Dad are holed up in what Mum now calls the campaign cupboard. Dad calls it his study, but there’s no window and not enough room to swing a sausage. They’re surrounded by half a rainforest of paper. I’ve already told Dad what I’d like in his manifesto. I’ve scribbled suggestions on little Post‐it notes and stuck them all over the house – on the fridge, the bathroom mirror, his computer screen. Even on his spectacles. Which got him a bit mad. (He was reading at the time.)
Anyway, I think it’s a modest enough list:
• A wormery for every home for disposal of all organic matter (veggie skins, etc.)
• Special exercise bikes linked to generators powering TVs (tackle child obesity and the power crisis in one fell swoop)
• Instant release into the wild of all factory chickens, turkeys and rabbits
• Deportation to the Siberian tundra for anyone who chops down a tree.
By the time I get back upstairs Cordelia and Taslima have tipped my whole wardrobe out on to the bed, shut the curtains, arranged the mirror and set my reading lamp like a spotlight.