by Maggi Gibson
‘Look,’ Magnus lets out a huge sigh. ‘I just want ONE burger. Not a whole cow. OK? I’m hungry. That’s all.’
Minutes later we’re inside. I can’t bear it. The tinny music. The silly brown and white uniforms with their bullhorn hats. The smiley cow logos.
Magnus places his order. A Super King Size Doubler. He turns to me.
‘So what do you want?’ He takes a fiver from his pocket. ‘I’m paying.’
I stare at the fiver and avoid his eyes. I feel positively squeamious.24
‘Nothing, thanks. I’ll wait outside.’
I am so glad to get out! I take a big deep breath to calm myself. Those boy‐hunting hormones must be softening my brain. Pip has had three‐day tantrums in the past because I’ve insisted our family NEVER EVER eats in places like Meaty MacBurger’s. Or Florida Fried Chicken.
And Magnus had me in there! Actually IN there.
And that’s when I see it. Spray‐painted in huge dramatic letters across the town‐hall doors.
HANDS OFF BLUEBELL WOOD
In bright green! The same luminous green of the paint can Cordelia found among the ferns. And Twig stuffed in his pocket! Yay! I should have guessed the tree boy would do something like this!
I take out my mobile and switch it to camera mode – just as Magnus emerges from Meaty MacBurger’s.
‘What are you doing?’ Magnus asks, chewing on a mouthful of burger.
‘Oh, it’s for my art portfolio,’ I lie, taking a couple of shots. ‘For Miss Cassidy.’
‘I can’t stand vandalism.’ Magnus scowls at the town‐hall doors.
‘But it’s not vandalism!’ I protest. ‘It’s direct action. To save our heritage.’
‘Our heritage?’ Magnus snorts, as he takes another mouthful of burger.
‘Bluebell Wood. Haven’t you heard? They’re going to chop some of the trees down –’
‘Of course they are!’ Magnus laughs. ‘They’re going to chop ALL of the trees down.’
‘But they can’t!’ I gasp. ‘Those trees are hundreds of years old. And all sorts of animals live there. Squirrels and foxes and birds and –’
Magnus finishes off his burger, drops the empty wrapper in the gutter and wipes his hands on his jeans. I’m about to protest that he should’ve found a bin, when he takes both my hands and pulls me towards him.
‘Yeah. But guess what we’re getting instead,’ he says, eyes gleaming like he’s got the best ever surprise for me. He hooks his hands round my waist and I look up into his face. Does he really think there’s something better than a beautiful old wood, with a stream running through, and trees to climb, and places to have campfires on summer evenings, and squirrels and rabbits and birds and flowers and fresh raspberries?
‘Houses or something?’ I say, trying not to smell his burger‐breath.
Magnus’s eyes shine. ‘Only a decent cinema, and an ice rink and a shopping mall, and – the best bit of all – an Olympic‐size swimming pool! Which means I’ll be able to train here without travelling!’
My heart plummets into my shoes. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? They’re going to chop down the wood and put a huge concrete mall in its place with a cinema and ice rink and swimming pool all inside it. People have been asking for something like this for years. It all makes a horrible sort of sense.
Crestfallen, I pull away from him. ‘How come you know all this?’
‘You know how Lovelace is my swim coach?’ Magnus grins, really animated now. ‘Well, he told me last week. When we were at the time trials in Edinburgh. It’s inside info and I’m supposed to keep it quiet. But he won’t mind me telling you.’ He looks into my eyes and smiles. ‘After all, you are my girlfriend.’
Magnus walks me home. And all the way he keeps telling me how fab what he calls the new ‘mega‐mall‐multiplex’ is going to be.
‘When the new pool’s open it’ll be brilliant! Just think, you’ll be able to come along to my time trials and cheer me on,’ he says. ‘That would be really cool.’
I try to argue about how special the Bluebell Wood is. I even take him into the woods, thinking that way he’ll understand.
We walk down the path as dusk is falling. Squirrels go scurrying up the trees. Birds dart through the branches. The place is totally alive. Tiny white flowers glow like fallen stars in the half dark. We stop under an old oak tree that Mum told me when I was little was hundreds of years old.
‘Look!’ I point out the names cut into the bark, some of them high above us. ‘People who’ll be dead now once carved their names here. This is part of our history.’
Beneath my feet I can almost feel the heartbeat of the earth. In the distance an owl hoots, ever so softly.
‘This place is so special,’ I whisper.
Magnus starts laughing, ‘Sure, it’s great, Sassy. But it’s only a wood.’
‘Don’t laugh! I’m being serious!’
He smiles and puts his arms round my shoulders, his face shadowed in the dying light. ‘You’re so cute, Sassy. You really are. Especially when you’re all het up about something.’
‘I am not cute,’ I say, pulling back slightly.
‘You are, Sassy. There’s nothing you can do about it. Cute. Cute. Cute.’ He pulls me closer and my heartbeat starts to race.
‘I’m not cute, Magnus. Baby seals are cute. Little Bambi deer are cute. Brown‐eyed baby cows are cute.’
‘Yeah! And Sassy Wilde is cute!’
‘No, Magnus, I’m not! Cute things are helpless. And they usually end up –’
And I’m about to say ‘dead’, when suddenly Magnus pulls me forward and kisses me full on the mouth.
And I’m just thinking I wished I’d had some warning so I could’ve taken a deep breath first and made sure my lips were, well, damp but not slobbery, and I’m also thinking that this is my first real kiss and it’s not quite how I’d planned it25 – when he pulls back and smiles at me again.
‘And you’re funny,’ he says.
“What do you mean, funny?’
I’m expecting him to say, you know, that I’m witty and amusing and that’s what he finds so attractive, when instead he says, ‘You take all this save‐the‐planet stuff so seriously.’
I stiffen and give him a cold look, but it’s like he doesn’t register it at all. He just goes burbling on.
‘Don’t worry, Sass, you’ll grow out of it,’ he says, stroking my hair and making my spine go all tingly. ‘Just like my big sis. One day she was all Oh, save the dolphins, protect the pandas, honour the ancient oak, next she was working for the world’s biggest oil company! Dad says that’s what girls are like. They have all these daft ideas you just have to put up with.’
I pull back and stare at him. What is going on? I mean, this is Magnus. The guy of my dreams, isn’t it? Then the awful possibility pokes at the edge of my consciousness. Maybe, just maybe, the Magnus In My Head and the Real Magnus are not the same person?
‘Anyway –’ he pulls me close again – ‘you are cute. There’s nothing you can do about it.’
And my brain’s shouting, MAKE IT CLEAR RIGHT NOW, SASS, THAT YOU EXPECT HIM TO RESPECT YOUR VIEWS! when suddenly he leans forward and kisses me. Again! Even though I really don’t want him to! Something Magnus‐In‐My‐Head would never do!
Clumsily I push him back.
‘Do you mind!’ I gasp. ‘First you insult me, then you… you… you… ’ I’m so furious I can’t even find the right word.
‘Aw, come on, Sass –’ Magnus smiles, catching my arm like he really has not got the message.
I shake my arm free and stare at him, incredulous, and even though it’s dark now, it’s like I’m seeing him clearly for the first time.
And I don’t like what I see.
I give him one last filthy look then turn on my heel and stomp off through the trees towards the main road.
I refuse to talk to anyone when I get home.
‘How was the film, honey?’ Mum asks as she makes ho
t chocolate for Pip.
‘Rubbish,’ I mutter. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Pip looks up from playing with her Biker Girl Lolitaz. ‘So did he kiss you?’ she asks, wide‐eyed.
‘Well, if he did I wouldn’t be telling you!’ I growl. ‘You’re far too young.’
‘Ooooh.’ Pip pouts. ‘Sorry I asked!’ And Mum rolls her eyes. Honestly! I sometimes wonder what Mum is reading in those parental self‐help books.
I grab a couple of Mum’s freshly made scones piled high with jam, and a glass of milk and the handset from the hall phone, then retreat upstairs to my room. Throwing myself down on my beanbag I phone Taslima. She listens patiently. I can almost hear her eyebrows rising up with professional concern.
‘Magnus was UTTERLY out of order,’ I complain. ‘I took him into the woods cos I wanted him to see how lovely they are! And I thought it would be romantic!’
‘Listen, Sass,’ Taslima advises, ‘you did nothing wrong. Forget Magnus. You need to find a chico who’s more like you. You know, someone who’s into all the eco stuff.’
Taslima agrees with me that no way should I be made to work with Magnus in biology. So I’m going to ask Mr Hemphead to be paired with someone else. Preferably female. To be honest, I’d even put up with Megan rather than have to partner Magnus.
And by the time I hang up the phone one thing is clear in my head. Next time some chico offers me a bite of his muffin – or anything else – I will most def absolutely completely totally utterly refuse.
I’ve had enough of boys for a long, long time.
That night I have a weird dream.26
It’s at some point in the distant future. The Olympics have just finished and Magnus has won seven gold medals. He’s Britain’s biggest ever swim star. And on account of his male‐model good looks he’s signed a mega‐million‐dollar deal with JOCKSTAR, the world’s biggest sportswear manufacturer.
And I’m his wife!
It’s awful!
I have to go jetting all around the world with him, and my thirty‐seven cow‐hide suitcases. ‘You mustn’t worry your pretty little head about the little calves who died to make your luggage,’ Magnus says. ‘They were killed humanely, and no part of them went to waste. I gobbled it all up in huge mega‐big meaty burgers!’
As his cutesy little wife, Magnus insists I have my hair straightened seven times a day by my Filipino maid, Juanita. Juanita is getting paid slave wages, even though we’re filthy rich. When I complain Magnus tells me I’m so cute when I get all het up that he loves me all the more.
And we’ve got a carbon footprint the size of a Third World country! We have all the rooms – in all our mansions – to heat, and our trans‐Atlantic flights, and our fully heated Olympic‐size swimming pool in our back garden, and our seven cars so Magnus can choose a different one for every day of the week.
‘It’s the price we have to pay for fame, cutie,’ Magnus says as he prepares to leave for another photo shoot. ‘Our fans expect it. Now, which car shall I take today, baby?’
I simper, toss my ultra‐long, ultra‐straight, ultra‐glossy hair, and look all doe‐eyed. ‘Oh, I don’t know, honey… maybe the sportster, or the big shiny SUV, or the Humvee… ’
‘You are so cute, princess,’ he says, kissing me. Then he’s gone. The door slams shut behind him. There’s a rattle as a huge key turns in the lock. The grinding of metal on metal as bolts are drawn across. Top and bottom.
I run to the window. I’m ten floors up, in a gilded tower. Far below, Magnus’s bright red sportster revs and vrooms off. Our automatic security gates swing open.
The paparazzi waiting outside the gates spot me and the cameras start flashing. Frantically I flap my arms. Help! I can’t get out! HELP!
But no one hears me.
They’re too far away.
They think I’m waving.
I wake up suddenly and sit bolt upright in bed and switch the lamp on to make my brain stop. I am SO glad I came to my senses about Magnus BEFORE we got married. I can’t even imagine now what I first found so attractive about him. Hormones or no hormones, I will NOT be rushing into another relationship.
After a while I tuck down under the duvet again. Exhausted, I drift into dreamless sleep, grateful I have learned my lesson in time.
Guess what arrived this morning?
Only a reply – at last! – from the Chief Exec of Paradiso’s. You know, about my demand that they stop using plastic bags and plastic packaging on account of the way it’s poisoning the oceans?
Mum and Dad, apparently, found the letter funny. But I didn’t. I thought it was downright insolent.
The Chief Executive’s Office
Paradiso’s Supermarkets
Milton Keynes
Miss Sassy Wilde
33 Anton Drive
Strathcarron
Date as postmark
Dear Miss Wilde,
Thank you for your letter regarding the negative impact of plastics on the environment. I have passed your comments to the relevant department.
In the meantime, as you are so obviously fond of fish, can I advise you of our latest special offers? Our dolphin‐friendly tuna is currently half price in all our stores, and our fresh farmed salmon is guaranteed at a price lower than any of our competitors.
And, in case of tummy ache, Paradiso’s Patented Tummy Soothers should do the trick. I enclose a free trial sample. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Please rest assured you are a valued customer.
Thank you for your concern.
C. J. Sugar
Chief Executive
Paradiso’s – the supermarket that makes shopping heavenly!
99.9% of our customers say so!
Honestly! I’m so furious I could spit! And I’m even more furious that Dad went to Paradiso’s last week for his photo shoot. I follow him around the house haranguing him.
‘How could you sell out like that?’ I demand.
‘Sassy, I didn’t sell out. It was an excellent opportunity to make some points about environmentally friendly shopping. Read this morning’s paper and see for yourself. Paradiso’s exists. Some of us have to live in the real world. And,’ he adds, flapping the Strathcarron Herald, ‘there’s a lovely photo of you here too.’
He opens the paper at the middle page and hands it to me.
OK, so the headline does say ANGUS WILDE CAMPAIGNS FOR ECO‐FRIENDLY SHOPPING. But my eye is caught by the photo of Dad with his arm round me, standing under a big banner: PARADISO’S, WHERE ALL THE BEST PEOPLE SHOP. And I’m about to throw the paper at him and complain that it makes it look like I shop at Paradiso’s – which I most certainly do not – when the small print underneath catches my eye.
I peer closer.
Parliamentary candidate Angus Wilde with lovely daughter Sasperilla.
‘OH NO!’ I scream.
Mum looks up from her book. ‘What on earth is it now?’
‘He’s only gone and put my full name in the paper! Now everyone at school will know you called me after a drink and I’ll get teased stupid, like forever!’
Dad looks taken aback. ‘Oops,’ he says. ‘That must have been Digby. I wouldn’t have done that, Sass.’
I crumple the paper and chuck it at him.
‘No! You only gave me the ridiculous name in the first place!’
‘Well, actually, it was your mum,’ he mutters.
‘Yeah! With her mind all unbalanced after childbirth and who knows what drugs! You should have been more responsible!’
‘Lighten up, Sassy!’ Mum says. ‘It could have been worse. I might have had a craving for… Orangina.’
‘Or Fanta,’ Dad laughs.
‘Or Ribena!’ Mum giggles.
‘What about Sangria?’ Pip shouts through from the kitchen. ‘That’s a drink, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Pip,’ I snap angrily. ‘An alcoholic drink you’re far too young to know about!’
Mum is helpless now, snorting like a demented pig. Her
book has fallen to the floor. The Perfect Mother’s Handbook. I stare coldly at my parents.
‘Come on, Sass. Sometimes you have to learn to laugh at things,’ Dad says.
But I’m in tears. If Hannah Harrison ever gets a hold of this I will be unable to continue my existence on this planet.
Which is why I am going to my room.
And I may never come out again.
Monday morning.
As soon as I walk into the school playground Sindi‐Sue comes wiggling over. ‘Saw your photo in the paper yesterday,’ she says, and my heart sinks. If Sindi‐Sue knows my real name now, then everyone – including Hannah Harrison – will know by lunchtime. When it comes to secrets Sindi‐Sue’s as reliable as a hand‐crocheted sieve.
‘I never knew your full name was Sasperilla,’ she exclaims. ‘I don’t know why you don’t use it. Wish my mum had called me something like that. It’s so… so… exotic.’
‘See,’ Cordelia laughs as we wait for the first bell to ring. ‘Sindi‐Sue actually likes your name. And I do too. I think it’s really cool.’
‘And in any case,’ Taslima adds, ‘if you act like you don’t have a problem with it then nobody can tease you, can they? Wind‐ups only work if you let them.’
Then the bell rings and we go into registration. Miss Peabody is just taking the register when the door flies open and Mr Smollett strides in, his bald head shining, his black gown flapping, like an extra from a vampire movie.
We all have to stand up and chant, ‘GOOD MORNING, MR SMOLLETT.’ Apparently he is carrying out a Uniform Spot Check. He passes a beady eye over us. His beady eye stops on me.
‘Why are you not wearing a school sweatshirt, girl?’ he bellows.
‘Mr Smollett, sir, I am,’ I correct him.
‘You are, are you?’ He stares disconcertingly at my chest. ‘So where, pray tell me, is the school logo?’