Seriously Sassy

by Maggi Gibson

  ‘I can’t find my black patent shoes!’ Pip sobbed.

  Cordelia narrowed her eyes, like she was trying to pick up a psychic signal. Then she disappeared into the back porch and reappeared a few seconds later, dangling Pip’s patent shoes.

  ‘Are these what you’re looking for, Pip?’ she said. Pip crawled out over the piles of junk, her face tear‐stained. That’s the thing about Pip. Even though she looks like a super‐confident Lolitaz doll, she stresses out big style about the tiniest of things.

  ‘So where did you find them?’ Pip asked, drying her tears with her sleeve.

  ‘In Brewster’s basket.’ Cordelia smiled. ‘You OK now, Pip?’

  Pip gave Cordelia a huge hug and I made a special mint, mango and ice cream smoothie to help restore Pip’s equilibrium. Then I dived into the shower, shampooed my hair, rinsed it till it squeaked, then came out wrapped up in my big fluffy robe, a towel wound turban‐style around my head.

  Once Cordelia had dried my hair, she used her straighteners on it. There was a dreadful smell of burning, and quite a bit of smoke, which she assured me was completely normal. But then singed bats’ wings are normal in Cordelia’s house.

  Pip, happy as a sandboy now with her little patent shoes on, kept rushing in and out of my room, nicking things from Cordelia’s make‐up bag. I don’t know how she does it, but Pip can even make school uniform look naughty. Then Cordelia headed for home and I packed my rucksack for the party – Jamila’s dress, strappy little sandals, mirror, eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss, hairbrush… and mints – just in case!

  Suddenly the big grandfather clock in the hall starts bonging, which means we should have gone ten minutes ago, and Mum’s hollering. ‘SASSY! ARE YOU READY? WE’RE ALL WAITING! LET’S GO! NOW!’ And Brewster’s barking cos he hates all the noise. But I’m still in my bra and knickers, so I leap into my detestable despicable disgusting uniform. (I even have to wear white knee socks. Crimes Against Humanity – that’s what those knee socks are!)

  By the time we get there the town hall car park is completely full. ‘That,’ Dad hisses as we park the car on a double yellow about a mile and a half away, ‘is because Sassy made us late!’

  OK, Father. CHILL! I think, but I keep schtum. I want to make it to the party. And I don’t want to blow my chances of a demo disc either.

  As we set off behind Mum and Dad, Pip takes my hand and grips it really tight.

  ‘You will stay beside me, Sassy?’ she whispers. ‘You won’t leave me?’

  ‘No worries, little sis,’ I reassure her as we trot along behind Mum and Dad. ‘You stay with me and you’ll be OK.’ Then I wink at her, like we share a secret.

  Ten breathless minutes later we’re scurrying up the front steps of the town hall, the oldest and most important building in Strathcarron. As we approach the big oak doors Dad decides he and Mum should make a grand entrance together, with me and Pip bobbing in their wake. The way they’ve been hyperventilating, I’m expecting some guy in an ancient white wig booming, ‘THE LATE MR AND MRS WILDE AND THE TWO LITTLE MISS WILDES.’ But there’s no one waiting to announce us. We just have to elbow into the main hall, which is huge, with big paintings of Very Important People all round the walls, and so mobbed I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed if we’d been there or not.

  When Pip sees all the people she clings to me like a traumatized limpet. Pip does not like crowds.

  Dragging her with me, I push my way through to the buffet table. Taslima says we should all make sure we eat before tonight’s party. She’s read in her SIZZLE! (The mag for girls who wanna be hot! ) that you should never go out partying on an empty stomach. If you do and then you accidentally sip an alcopop or something it’ll go straight into your BLOODSTREAM and you might find yourself waking up in a hedge with a sick tummy and a sore head, remembering NOTHING, and at school everyone will nudge each other when you walk past and your photo might appear on some guy’s MOBILE and then on someone else’s and someone else’s and hey presto your life’s in TATTERS – and all because you didn’t eat a cucumber sandwich before you went out in the first place.

  The buffet table is surrounded by parental‐type people clutching paper plates and grabbing for food like famished piranhas. Not a pretty sight.

  I pull Pip through a tiny gap. Ouch! Some of these older women have sharp elbows. And, I have to say, the underarm odour of the over‐forties is far from pleasant. Like Brewster when he’s rolled about in cow poo. No kidding! Some of these wrinklies could do with being introduced to a nice bar of organic soap.

  I snatch the last plate for me and Pip to share. And that’s when I see them. The chicken drum‐sticks. Piled high on a silver platter. Pale grey and sweating.

  Pip reaches a skinny little arm out to grab one but I get there first. I lift up the whole big silver tray, turn on my heel and reverse through the crush of grey suits and tutting women.

  As I look for a sign for the kitchens, an ageing blonde in a turquoise creation stretches her painted talons towards the drumsticks.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ I exclaim. ‘Show some respect for the dead!’

  And with that I march off, Pip in tow.

  I barge through the swing doors marked STAFF ONLY and follow the sound of clattering dishes until I find the kitchens. A plump woman in a big white apron, surrounded by piles of plates and small mountains of clingfilm‐which is NOT biodegradable and will probably end up down some poor seagull’s gullet, causing it to suffer a slow and torturous death – smiles cheerily at us.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, holding up the tray of chicken drumsticks. ‘Would you happen to know if these are from free‐range chickens?’

  ‘I’m not sure, dearie.’ She smiles as she arranges a huge chocolate gateau on a plate. ‘I never thought of looking. But the wrappers are all there in the bin, if you’d like to check.’

  I set the tray on the worktop and peer into the swing‐top bin. There’s a big plastic bag, dripping with watery blood, right at the top. I inspect it closely.

  CHICKEN DRUMSTICKS.

  CATERERS’ PACK.

  BEST BUMPER VALUE.

  CHEEP! CHEEP! CHEEP!

  No mention of free range.

  Or barn‐raised.

  Or organic.

  Honestly. Just as I suspected.

  ‘Found what you want, dearie?’ the woman asks as she offers Pip a creamy spoon to lick clean.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know who’s responsible for ordering these?’ I say, once more picking up the tray of drumsticks.

  ‘Well, I suppose that would be the Lady Mayor,’ the woman sighs, sprinkling icing sugar over a Victoria sponge. ‘I just take them out of the bag, shove them on the trays, stick them in the oven, take them out of the oven, stick them on the plates. Now perhaps you’d like to test one of these for me, precious? Check they’re not poisoned?’

  She holds out a plate of snowy‐white meringues. They look so lovely. All big and fluffy and crumbly, each with a perfect red strawberry stuck into the cream.

  And I’m torn. I mean, it would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?

  As I wipe the last sugary crumbs from my mouth, I assure Rosie – that’s the cook’s name – that her meringues are scrumptious, and that if I keel over dead in five minutes I’ll come straight back and tell her, then I pick up the tray of chicken drumsticks to head back to the hall and find the Lady Mayor.

  ‘Can I stay here with you, Rosie?’ Pip asks sweetly. ‘In case you need any of the other cakes checked?’

  ‘Course you can, lovie,’ Rosie beams. So I leave Pip behind, happily ‘helping’. Rosie holds open the door to the corridor and pops an extra strawberry in my mouth, and I find myself thinking how strange it is that some people can be so thoughtless about the chickens and the clingfilm, yet so lovely too, all at once.

  Moments later I push back through the swing doors and into the crowded, noisy hall. And I’m wondering how I’m going to find the Lady Mayor when I see a tall woman in a pink suit getti
ng up on to the stage. She’s wearing a huge gold chain round her neck like some bling‐gone‐mad senior citizen.

  Everyone stops talking and starts clapping as she approaches the microphone. I wait until the applause dies down, then grab my chance.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I say in my loudest voice. In the hushed silence of the cavernous hall it sounds tiny and high‐pitched. Everyone turns to stare. ‘Are you the Lady Mayor?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ the Lady Mayor smiles. The microphone screeches and a man in a suit rushes to adjust it. For a split second my nerve almost fails. I wonder if I can get away with saying something like, ‘Oh, can I have your autograph, please?’ then run out and crawl into a hole and never emerge again. But then I think of those chickens. And how they would have suffered, and I know I HAVE to speak out.

  ‘I just wanted to know,’ I begin shakily. ‘Are YOU responsible for ordering these?’ I hold the tray of drumsticks high so everyone can see them. One slides from the pile and tumbles to the floor.

  ‘Ultimately, yes, as this is my buffet, I suppose I am. Is there some sort of problem?’ the Lady Mayor asks coolly.

  ‘Well, there is for the chickens!’ I blurt. ‘I mean, there are… ’ I do a quick guesstimate of the chicken drumsticks on the tray. ‘… eighty‐five chicken drumsticks here. That means… um… forty‐two and a half chickens… without their legs tonight!’

  I take a deep breath and eyeball an obese gentleman holding a half‐chewed drumstick. ‘Chickens who were forced to live stunted, painful lives cooped up in tiny boxes, chickens who never saw daylight or touched a blade of grass or felt the sun on their feathers, chickens whose young lives were tragically cut short –’

  The Lady Mayor comes down from the stage and clicks her way across the hall. Silently, the crowd parts to let her through. Just then I see Dad, over by the side of the stage, his mouth hanging open in horror. I feel my knees start to wobble and I start to wonder – rather late – just how much power a Lady Mayor has? Like, can she order me to be taken to the dungeons? Or publicly flogged? Or sent to a Home For Horrendously Behaved Girls?

  Her tall figure click clack click clacks closer and closer and closer. Until at last she looms above me. And then, just when I’m thinking, That’s it, I’m about to be boiled in oil, she lifts the tray from my trembling hands and says, ‘I take it you’re offended, my dear. And so am I. Factory chickens are kept in atrocious conditions. I’ll speak to the caterers and make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Then she beams down her nostrils and says loudly so everyone can hear, ‘It’s good to know there are still young people who care enough to make a fuss.’

  And suddenly everyone’s applauding!

  WOW! I SO DID NOT EXPECT THAT!

  See, I think as I head for the buffet table so I can get that much‐needed cucumber sandwich, sometimes it pays to stand up for what you believe in.

  Dad obviously does not agree.

  He homes in on me from the other side of the hall, his face set in a scowl. Uh oh, I think, as he bears down on me, so this is how a baby seal feels when it sees a hunter coming towards it. I gulp down a half‐chewed mouthful of cucumber sandwich, wondering if it might be my last morsel ever.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Dad hisses as he ushers me out and into a darkened cloakroom.

  ‘Chickens have rights too,’ I mutter, ‘and I am a member of Friends of the Fowl.13 I have responsibilities.’

  ‘SASSY!’ Dad interrupts. ‘You agreed you’d behave NORMALLY.’

  ‘But I am behaving normally,’ I whimper. ‘For me.’

  ‘But I especially asked you to lie low!’ He throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Don’t you understand? You could have completely blown my election chances!’

  ‘Sorrreee!’ I mutter, but I guess it comes out less than convincingly, cos Dad’s face turns the colour of an overcooked beetroot. Which worries me, you know. If he goes on like this he’ll have a heart attack before he’s fifty, suddenly keel over and leave Pip and me fatherless, and Mum a Merry Widow.

  Dad takes a deep breath in. ‘All you had to do was smile politely, look angelic, come across like a well‐behaved, well‐mannered child. But could you do it? Oh no!’

  An uneasy silence descends.

  ‘OK,’ he says at last. ‘I’m going back in, but you’re not. You’re grounded! And as for the demo disc, well, I’ll have to think about that.’

  I watch, shocked, as Dad disappears back along the dark, shadowy corridor towards the brightly lit hall. As he opens the door the excited babble of voices spills out, then the door swings shut and I’m left alone. I find a dark corner behind the racks of coats and slide down to my hunkers.

  A huge sigh escapes from me. I can’t believe it – I do the right thing and I get grounded!

  Sometimes I wish I didn’t care so much about the planet. Sometimes I wish I was like my parents’ generation, happy to kill off entire species, to melt the ice caps, to use up all the fuel, to keep animals in inhumane conditions, to chop down acres and acres of forests that took hundreds of years to grow – and not worry about it at all. Just go and have a good night out, an easy life, a guilt‐free chicken drumstick.

  I glance at my watch. I can just make out its tiny fluorescent hands. It’s almost eight. Megan’s party will be about to start. She’ll be mincing around, all hair‐tossingly, eyelash‐flutteringly glamorous. And closing in on Magnus.

  The cloakroom is gloomy and silent. Eerie even, with all the coats hanging from their pegs, like limp, headless bodies.

  Minutes pass slowly. Very slowly. Very, very slowly.

  I glance at my watch again. Just after eight. I am utterly miserable.

  No party. No Magnus. And I suppose I’ve blown the demo disc too. Maybe being an eco‐warrior demands too big a sacrifice.

  Maybe I’m just the saddest, loneliest girl in the entire universe.

  At last nine o’clock comes, the lights go on in the cloakroom and people start collecting their coats and heading home. One or two even come over and say how much they admire me for speaking up on behalf of the chickens. I smile weakly and don’t let on that I kinda wish I’d never done it.

  Dad’s still bottling his rage as we leave the town hall. He and Mum and Pip walk along in front, arm in arm, while I trail meekly six paces behind.

  Apparently Mum had a great time at her first political do. ‘Everyone was saying you’re a super candidate,’ I hear her telling Dad. ‘They think you’ve a great chance of winning.’

  Bless Mum. She’s doing her best to calm Dad down AND massage his ego before we get to the car. And it’s working. He even begins to chuckle a bit. Yes, yes, yes, I think, and my heart dares hope a little that he’ll change his mind and un‐ground me. That maybe, just maybe, little Sassy‐Cinders will go to the ball after all!

  ‘What’s that thing on the wheel?’ Pip says as we approach the car. Something metallic glints under the streetlight. Mum groans.

  Dad whooshes up like a dodgy firework.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he splutters. ‘We’ve been clamped.’ He turns to me. ‘This is YOUR fault. YOU and your SILLY carry‐on getting ready. YOU made us late! YOU made me park on a double yellow! I have never EVER in my life, EVER before, parked on a double yellow!’

  ‘Don’t blame me!’ I snap. ‘I don’t think we should even have a car! If less people had cars then the North Pole wouldn’t be melting and the polar bears wouldn’t be disappearing through all the holes in the ice!’

  ‘Shhhhhh… Shhhhhhh… ’ Mum’s going, looking around anxiously.

  ‘I’ll remind you how much you dislike cars next time you ask for a lift,’ Dad grunts, crouching down and tugging at the metal clamp as if he thinks he’s the Hulk and it’s just going to suddenly unlock and come off in his hands.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Angus!’ Mum hisses. ‘Stand up and calm down!’

  Pip slips her hand into mine and grips it tight. She hates any kind of confrontation or anger. She just starts
to quiver and grow tinier and tinier. If Pip had to live in a war zone she’d disappear. I put my arm round her shoulder and hug her close.

  ‘We’ll get a taxi home and sort out the car in the morning,’ Mum says, taking out her mobile and punching in a number.

  ‘Well, Sassy can pay for that – and the parking fine – from her savings!’ Dad growls, standing up and straightening his suit.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sassy,’ Pip whispers. ‘You can have all my pocket money.’ Which is so sweet of her.

  As we climb into the taxi and it speeds us homewards, I fight back the tears. My last chance of going to the party’s totally blown now. In fact, I’ll be lucky if I’m not grounded, like, forever. And the chorus of my new song whirls round and round inside my head: Why must my dad try to ruin my life?

  Back home Mum tucks Pip up in bed, then sits Dad down in the living room, puts the TV remote in his hand, his slippers on his feet, and starts making hot chocolate. Cocoa has calming properties, Mum says, so when she’s not looking I dollop an extra couple of spoonfuls into Dad’s mug.

  ‘I’m sorry about the party,’ Mum whispers to me in the kitchen.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I lie. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Mum smiles sadly. ‘Tomorrow’s a fresh day. Night‐night, honey.’ She gives me a hug and a kiss, then I wander up to my room, telling myself all the reasons why it’s actually BRILLIANT that I’m not going to Megan’s party.

  1. I don’t like Megan anyway.

  I’m in my room and struggling to come up with number two when my mobile buzzes. I rummage to the bottom of my backpack, chucking Jamila’s dress on to the bed. Three missed messages from Cordelia.

  Message one: Magnus here! Woo hoo! Where r u? xxx

  Message two: Come kwik.

  Message three: SOS! Megan closing in on Magnus! Hurry up!!!!!

  I take my stupid school uniform off and chuck it on the floor. I’m just about to stamp on it for good measure when my eye is drawn to the little pale blue glam dress, lying crumpled and sad on the bed. I pick it up and smooth it. Before I know what’s happening the dress is over my head and my hand is zipping it up!