Seriously Sassy

by Maggi Gibson

  ‘Right,’ Cordelia says. ‘Let’s get down to work!’

  I put the smoothies down and stand in front of the mirror. Cordelia circles me, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Taslima chews her bottom lip like she’s working out a really difficult maths equation.

  Suddenly self‐conscious, I try to flatten my curls,8 as if in some way that makes me look better.

  ‘You’re gonna have to change your image,’ Cordelia says at last. ‘Just for the party.’ Then she starts riffling through the leggings, jeans, vest tops and Ts piled on the floor. ‘Haven’t you anything PINK?’ she asks as she chucks aside a black and red rugby shirt. ‘You need to look a bit more… well… vulnerable and needy.’

  ‘But why do I have to be vulnerable and needy?’ I whine, in an alarmingly vulnerable and needy way.

  ‘Well,’ says Taslima, with her psychologist frown on, ‘Magnus needs to think he’s your protector. I mean, what’s the point in him doing all that swim training, developing such a gorgeous bod, if you look like you could arm‐wrestle him to the floor? See, Sassy, you’ve got to think of him as your knight in shining armour… ’

  ‘Oh, I can do that easily enough,’ I laugh, leaping on to the bed. All mock‐dramatic, like Miss Peabody doing Shakespeare, I wave my arms around and wail in a high‐pitched voice. ‘Look yonder! Who is that handsome knight? Why gallops he so gallantly towards this dark and damnéd tower?’

  ‘Because he’s looking for a damsel in distress, so he can rescue her?’ Taslima suggests. ‘And you, Sassy, have to be that damsel. And damsels do NOT go stomping around at parties wearing saggy old jeans and boggy old Ts!’

  ‘OK!’ Cordelia says. ‘Chuck all the rejects on the floor, leave the possibles on the bed.’

  Five minutes later my entire wardrobe is on the floor.

  ‘I know! I can get exactly what you need!’ Taslima squeals, leaping up. ‘Jamila has this most gorgeous, slinky little glam dress. It’s pale blue. You’d look amazing in it, Sassy. Honestly!’ Jamila is Taslima’s nineteen‐year‐old sister. Jaw‐droppingly gorgeous. With real boobs and long brown arms and legs. I can’t imagine wearing anything Jamila would wear.

  ‘OK, you get that, Tas, and I’ll go get my make‐up and stuff!’ Cordelia grins.

  In no time at all my self‐appointed fairy godmothers are back in my room with Jamila’s dress, Cordelia’s hair straighteners and a sackful of make‐up. I’m half expecting them to turn Mum’s old Saab into a pink stretch limo, and Brewster into a minder in a white tuxedo.

  ‘Nothing that’s been tested on animals!’ I warn as Cordelia unscrews the top of a bright green tube.

  ‘Listen, little Miss Eco‐warrior‐babe,’ Cordelia scolds playfully, ‘I might eat bat‐wing stew and fried rats’ tails, but I’m not a complete barbarian. Right, first we have to deal with Vesuvius.’ And she plonks something damp and stinky on to my third‐eye spot.

  Half an hour later a zitless glam chica with straight, glossy hair, long legs and dark kohl‐rimmed eyes stares back at me from the mirror.

  ‘Don’t look so worried!’ Taslima smiles. ‘You’re not selling out. You’re still the same old Sassy on the inside!’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I sink down on to the edge of the bed. ‘Look, guys. You’ve been great. But I was thinking while you were away getting all the stuff… I’m not sure I should go –’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Taslima exclaims.

  A huge sigh escapes from me. ‘It’s Megan. It doesn’t seem right, you know, going to her party… not when I really don’t want to be friends with her!’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you should worry about it,’ Cordelia snorts dismissively. ‘Megan dissed you back in Primary Seven, didn’t she? So, technically, she owes you. So you have every right to go to her party.’

  ‘But what if she thinks I’m friends with her again?’ I ask, not quite convinced.

  ‘What Megan thinks doesn’t matter,’ says Taslima. ‘It’s what you think that counts.’

  ‘Come on, Sassy,’ Cordelia says as she packs up her make‐up. ‘You have to stop holding such a big grudge against Megan. Let it go. It’s creating all this negative energy.’ She holds her hands up in front of me like I’m firing off bad vibes. ‘It’s messing up your chakras9 big time.’

  ‘You both think I should go? I mean, it’s not two‐faced or anything?’

  ‘You don’t have to LOVE Megan to go to her party!’ Taslima laughs.

  ‘Anyway, we want you to go!’ Cordelia hugs me warmly. ‘So you’re going, aren’t you?’

  So I suppose I am.

  And I suppose the girls are right. I have to stop feeling so negative about Megan. It’s not good for me. I need all my creative energy for my songs. Going to her party will be a mature step in the right direction.

  As soon as Taslima and Cordelia head for home I give myself the once over in the mirror. From every angle. It feels different being dressed like this. More grown up. And sort of feminine. Quite nice really.

  I spend a few more minutes posing in front of the mirror, making sure I can sit down without showing off my knickers – which would totally freak me out – then I leap back into my baggy old jeans, pick up my guitar and sit cross‐legged on my bed gazing out at the sunlight flickering through the leaves.

  Somehow or other my mind drifts to Magnus. I try to imagine his face when he sees me all dressed up.

  Then I dig out my English notebook and pick out a few chords and softly sing the lyrics I wrote this afternoon.

  I don’t want to be a Juliet to your Romeo

  I don’t want to be a tragic heroine

  It sounds pretty good. I know I’ll need to practise a whole lot more, but I’ve got this fizzy feeling about it – and I’m glad I took that bite of Magnus’s muffin.

  And I’m glad that in three weeks I’ll be cutting my first demo.

  And I’m glad that Cordelia and Taslima are such great mates.

  And I’m glad, too, that they’re making me go to Megan’s party.

  Biology. And can you believe it? Mr Hemphead10 has only gone and paired me with Magnus for leaf dissection! Megan looked like she was going to burst a blood vessel. Which, I have to shame‐facedly admit, gave me a certain amount of pleasure.

  Mr Hemphead passes out the scalpels and the leaves. The curriculum specifies worms, but Old Hemphead’s a born‐again vegetarian. He says worms and stick insects are a manifestation of the wonder of the universe, so we’ve got to get by on dissecting non‐thinking organisms. And, as a non‐violent pacifist, I agree with him. If he’d insisted on worms I would’ve had to refuse, even though that would’ve caused all sorts of trouble, which, of course, I’ve promised I won’t get into.

  So here I am, inches away from Magnus, trying to concentrate on a leaf. Fortunately my zit has disappeared, frightened off by a dab of what Cordelia claimed was spider spit, but smelled like tea‐tree oil.

  Magnus gives me the scalpel first. It’s really disconcerting standing this close to him. I try to ignore the weird fluttery feeling in my tummy, which, I suppose, must be one of my chakras getting all overexcited. Then I place the scalpel carefully at the top of the leaf and I’m just about to slice down the spine when there’s this awful scream from the other side of the lab.

  I spin round. Megan’s hand is spurting something that looks suspiciously like tomato ketchup.

  ‘Mr Hemphill, sir! Megan’s cut herself, sir!’ Sindi‐Sue shouts. Then all hell breaks loose. Megan wails. Mr Hemphead grabs the first‐aid kit from the wall, rushes across the room, sees the blood, turns deathly pale, goes all wibbly‐wobbly faint – and keels over!

  Megan’s howling now like she’s amputated her whole arm, and someone’s hollering, ‘Is there a first aider in here?’

  Magnus jumps up and says, ‘Yeah, me. I am.’

  And he leaves me, leaps over Mr Hemphead – and takes Megan’s hand! Next thing he’s dabbing at the blood with cotton wool and antiseptic, and she’s gazing up into his eyes like she
’s the Sleeping Beauty and he’s the Prince.

  And I’m left standing there, gripping my scalpel really tightly. All of a sudden Taslima appears on one side of me, and Cordelia on the other, and before I can say anything they frogmarch me towards the door.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I squeak, as they push me out into the corridor and slam the door shut.

  ‘You looked so weird in there!’ Cordelia gasps, at last releasing her grip.

  ‘Like you were going to lunge at Megan!’ Taslima says in a dramatic whisper.

  ‘So we thought it best to get you out –’ Cordelia adds.

  ‘ – before you did anything really stupid!’ Taslima finishes.

  I look from Cordelia’s face to Taslima’s. ‘Don’t be so silly!’ I exclaim. ‘I’m a pacifist! I’m hardly going to turn violent over a… a… boy.’

  ‘But you did have this mad glint in your eye. Really scary,’ says Cordelia.

  ‘Yeah! Only cos I wanted to turn Megan into a slimy toad. That’s all,’ I protest.

  ‘In that case,’ Taslima says in an even voice, ‘give me the scalpel, Sassy.’

  I glance down at my hand. I’m still gripping the scalpel, so tight my knuckles are white.

  Carefully I hand it to Taslima. And she heaves a huge sigh of relief.

  It’s Thursday teatime. Party tomorrow! I’ve got everything under control – hair, make‐up, dress. Just one problem. I still haven’t asked my darling parentals if I can go.

  Truth is, I almost changed my mind after yesterday’s little incident. I mean, Magnus did abandon me and go running to Megan’s rescue. But, as Taslima pointed out, a trained first aider couldn’t possibly have left her to bleed to death all over the floor, could he? It would hardly have been fair on Hilda, the school cleaner, who’s downtrodden and suicidal‐looking as it is.

  What’s more, after Megan and Mr Hemphead were carted off to the school nurse, Magnus asked me what I was doing on Friday night. And I said, ‘I’m going to Megan’s party.’ And he said, ‘That’s great. So am I. See you there, then!’

  And even though the thought of seeing Magnus at a party is kind of scary, it’s exciting too. He looked so heroic with his shirt all covered in Megan’s blood. What’s more, Taslima says that the way he went to her rescue shows he has a caring side, which is so important in a chico.

  And she figures that having a boyfriend and a singing career are not mutually exclusive.11 She says a steady relationship with a sensitive and supportive chico might even be a good thing for a star. It would make it so much easier to bat off unwanted advances from fans, for example. And when you came back from a gig he could make you toasted cheese for supper and run a hot soapy bath for you, and tell you how wonderful you are.

  I wait patiently while Mum serves the veggie spag bol. If I time it just right Dad will be halfway through shovelling a forkful into his mouth, which means Mum will have said yes before he can swallow and start up his THREE THOUSAND AND ONE QUESTIONS I MUST ASK TO KEEP MY DAUGHTER SAFE.

  ‘Mum, there’s a party at Megan’s tomorrow. Can I go?’ I say, just as Dad’s jaws close round his loaded fork.

  ‘Of course, honey bunch,’ Mum says absent‐mindedly.

  Then Dad gulps down his pasta and starts to splutter. ‘Party? What kind of party?’

  ‘A party party,’ I explain. ‘What other kind of party is there?’

  ‘A political party!’ Pip giggles, and I try to kill her with a stare. I am treading delicate territory here. I do not need Pip the Precocious antagonizing my father.

  ‘I mean,’ Dad says, ‘are you talking all girls – you know, a sleepover kind of scenario – or will there be boys there?’

  I clench my teeth. ‘It’s a party, Dad. I’m a teenager. Remember? So I imagine there will be boys there!’

  I look to Mum for support, but Dad’s on a roll.

  ‘And alcohol? Because if there’s going to be alcohol or drugs or any kind of funny business, then forget it, Sassy! You may be a teenager, but you’re only fourteen.’

  ‘Thirteen, Dad,’ I correct him.

  Dad shrugs. ‘OK, thirteen. Anyway, you can’t go. I have other plans for you for Friday.’

  ‘Other plans!’ I gasp. ‘What do you mean you’ve got other plans? You can stuff your other plans. Mum’s said I can go.’ And I’m all ready to make a grand foot‐stomping exit, complete with slamming door, when, instead of exploding at me, Dad calmly places his fork on his plate and leans back in his chair.

  ‘Well, your mother has forgotten one small fact,’ he says smugly. ‘It’s the Lady Mayor’s Buffet to mark the start of the election campaign. All the candidates AND THEIR FAMILIES will be at the town hall.’

  Mum slaps her forehead. ‘Sorry, Sassy,’ she says. ‘I completely forgot.’

  ‘Don’t I get a say in this?’ I demand.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ Dad snaps, suddenly losing his cool. ‘We have an agreement, remember? You’re on board with my campaign. For the next three weeks we are one happy and perfect family.’

  I stare, incredulous, at our happy and perfect family. Mum’s mouth is covered in spag bol, her white blouse spotted with tomato sauce.12 She looks more like a bulimic vampire than a caring mother.

  Pip’s sucking in a spaghetti strand in the most disgustingly suggestive manner.

  And Dad’s doing an impersonation of an irate orang‐utan.

  ‘And one last thing,’ Dad says as he winds up another huge forkful of spaghetti. ‘I’d like you and Pip to wear school uniform.’

  That’s it! Dad knows I hate school uniform! As I’ve pointed out before, the Hitler Youth wore uniforms – and look what that led to!

  I storm up to my room and slam the door. I grab my guitar and start to strum furiously. I can feel a new song coming on. An angry, noisy, bitter song. I’m going to call it ‘A Cry of Pain in a World of Suffering’ and it’s going to be the title song of my first album:

  WHY MUST MY DAD TRY TO RUIN MY LIFE?

  I’M THIRTEEN, I’VE GOT SO MUCH TO GIVE

  I WANT TO GO OUT PARTYING

  I WANT TO BE MYSELF

  I WANT TO DANCE TILL DAWN

  NOT SIT HERE ON THIS SHELF –

  I’m making such a racket I don’t hear Mum tapping at my door. Finally she hammers it so hard it swings open. I scowl as she comes in.

  ‘OK, Sassy,’ she says, sitting on the edge of the bed, ‘I’ve negotiated a compromise.’

  Huffily I strum my guitar. STRUM! STRUM! STRUM!

  Mum places a hand over the frets. I’ve been crying and I know I must look really pitiful – leastways I HOPE I do – cos sometimes, just sometimes, your parents need to know how much they’re hurting you.

  Mum tugs a hanky from her sleeve and gently wipes away the tears tumbling down my cheeks.

  ‘The Lady Mayor’s Buffet starts at seven. We should be finished by nine. Then we can drop you at Megan’s.’

  ‘In my school uniform?’ I sniff. ‘Thanks but no thanks.’

  Mum smiles. ‘Put your party gear in a rucksack and change in the back of the car.’

  I lick some tears from my top lip and Mum strokes my hair then tucks a curl behind my ear. It makes me feel five years old again. And I can’t help but think, How will I ever be a star if Mum keeps being so sweet? I mean, all the indie singers I really admire are wild and stroppy and sulky. I can’t imagine any of them just calming down and saying, ‘That’s OK, Mum. Let’s hug.’

  ‘When do I get to stay out till?’ I sniff moodily. If Mum says ten, then I’ll say forget it. Ten would be SO humiliating and make it TOTALLY not worth going.

  She thinks for a moment. ‘Half eleven,’ she says. ‘But we’ll pick you up after.’

  I brighten immediately. ‘OK. It’s a deal.’

  Mum turns at the door. ‘I’m really glad you and Megan are talking again,’ she says. ‘You shouldn’t let old grievances fester, Sassy. It’s not a good way to live.’ Then she’s gone.

  For a split second I fee
l bad. Mum’s got the wrong end of the stick about Megan. It’s going to take a whole lot more than a measly party invite before I’ll forgive her for what she did.

  Then it hits me. I’m going to the party! And getting to stay out till half eleven!

  Suddenly life seems good again.

  I hate school uniform.

  I have always hated school uniform.

  I will always hate school uniform.

  When I was in Primary Six I had to sit and copy out this huge mind‐numbingly boring bit from the school handbook – The Importance of School Uniform.

  And all because I turned up in a Greenpeace T‐shirt!

  I ask you, how can that possibly be educational? Or good for the planet? I grab my pencil and notebook and scribble down some song lines I might work on later.

  Uniforms are army gear, and I don’t want to fight

  Don’t put me in a uniform, how can that be right?

  Don’t make me wear a shirt, don’t make me wear a tie

  Don’t make me wear a skirt, cos I would rather die

  The world is full of colours, there’s more than black and white

  So let me dress the way I please

  In leggings, jeans or dungarees

  In lilac, purple, lime or red,

  Cos when I wear your uniform

  When I wear your uniform

  I feel like I

  I feel like I

  I feel like I am dead!

  I chuck the pen and paper down on my desk and curse ever doing the deal with Dad about the demo disc. Cos right now I’ve got to get into my school uniform so I can be a perfect daughter for my perfect dad to show off his perfect family at the town hall.

  Cordelia came round after school to make sure I was all organized for the party later tonight.

  Pip was in the hall cupboard, chucking out all sorts of stuff: tennis racquets, skateboards, roller blades, Dad’s crampons, Mum’s exercise ball, an old hamster cage.

  ‘What on earth are you up to?’ I asked as one of Dad’s climbing boots flew out and Brewster ran whimpering for cover.