Seriously Sassy

by Maggi Gibson

  Quickly I shampoo my hair and rinse it. As I rub myself dry with a big fluffy towel I hear everyone coming home.

  By the time I get downstairs Pip and Mum are sticking pizzas in the oven and Digby’s in the living room on his hands and knees poring over some old maps. Dad’s on the phone.

  ‘Yes, I’ll hold,’ Dad says.

  ‘This new multiplex centre,’ I blurt angrily. ‘I suppose you’ve heard where it’s going to be?’

  Dad sighs and puts his hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Yes, Sassy, sweetheart,’ he says quietly. ‘And I agree it’s a problem. The Lady Mayor’s obviously pulled it as a pre‐election stunt.’

  Digby looks up from his map. ‘It’s proving very popular with the voters. It’s going to bring new jobs to the area. Help compensate for the car‐factory closure.’

  ‘But what about Bluebell Wood?’ I protest. ‘Trees are the Earth’s lungs. They soak up lots of harmful greenhouse gases. Planting new trees with teensy little leaves doesn’t make up for losing big, mature ones.’

  Just then Digby’s mobile rings. He dives to answer it and disappears into the campaign cupboard.

  ‘Look, Sassy,’ Dad says firmly. ‘Let us get on with it, will you? The election’s two days away. We’re doing what we can.’

  ‘So you’re just going to give in!’ I explode. ‘Just because you might lose a few votes!’

  ‘That’s enough, Sassy!’ Dad orders. ‘Getting elected is the priority at the moment. If I win I’ll be able to campaign against a whole lot more than just the Bluebell Wood plans.’

  Digby reappears. ‘Sometimes you have to lose a battle to win a war,’ he says, kneeling down on the floor again.

  ‘Now off you go to your room and play your guitar or whatever it is you do up there!’ Dad hisses. ‘Just get out of my hair!’ He takes his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘Hello. Yes, I’m still here.’

  ‘OK, Dad. OK! Keep your wig on,’ I mutter and stomp off.

  At the top of the stairs I turn and shout, ‘By the way, Dad, the guitar’s just a cover. I’ve got boys up here. And drugs. And alcohol. Maybe that’s the kind of daughter you’d rather have!’

  Mum appears at the foot of the stairs, her reading glasses on top of her head, a bundle of papers in her hand. She looks up at me. ‘Sassy, honey,’ she says gently. ‘Take some time out. Calm down.’

  I stomp into my room, slam the door and fling myself down on the bed. I close my eyes and try to find a still, calm place deep inside. Cordelia’s been reading this book on Eastern well‐being. It explains how if our chakras get out of balance we get ill. Silence and meditation can help balance the chakras, Cordelia says.

  So I turn on to my back, flick on my whale songs CD and close my eyes. The sound immediately calms me, the whales singing soulfully, the waves splashing gently. Then I visualize my favourite shade of blue. Cooling, tranquil, peaceful. I’m just beginning to feel better when this god‐awful racket starts up in Pip’s room.

  Fat chance I have of balancing my chakras with Pip rehearsing her own personal high school musical through the wall. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Moments later I’m hammering on Pip’s door. But does she hear? Of course not. And do my crazy parentals who are downstairs planning the take‐over of the world – or of Strathcarron, at any rate – do anything to take their wayward child in hand? Of course not! Exasperated, I push the door open.

  And stop in my tracks.

  The curtains are drawn. Her disco ball spins, casting diamonds of dancing light around the darkened room. Pip’s in the centre of the floor, wearing Jamila’s tiny glam dress, which I’d got all fixed up to give back to her, and a pair of Mum’s stilettos. Pole dancing, like something from late‐night MTV – with my old pogo stick!

  I switch the light on and she drops the stick. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I gasp. Pip stares at me through mascara‐laden lashes. ‘For God’s sake, Pip! You’re nine years old. You should be playing houses or climbing trees or… something… healthy!’

  ‘I’m dancing,’ she shouts back. ‘Enjoying myself ! Something you’d know nothing about!’

  I barge over to her music system and unplug it. The music stops abruptly.

  ‘Give me the dress,’ I snap. ‘It’s not even yours.’

  She takes it off and throws it at me.

  ‘And the pogo stick,’ I demand.

  Eyes flashing, she kicks it towards me, then stands, jaw set defiantly, in the middle of the room. In nothing but Mum’s high heels, Minnie Mouse knickers and a pink trainer bra.

  ‘You’re in MY room,’ she screams. ‘And I don’t want you here. So get out!’

  ‘You know, Pip, you really disgust me,’ I say as I pick up the dress and the pogo stick. ‘You need to take a long hard look at yourself. And stop watching MTV and reading Lolitaz magazines. They’re turning you into a monster!’

  With that I storm back to my room and slam the door so hard the basketball ring comes unstuck and falls off. I throw myself on to my bed and bury my face in my pillow.

  Maybe, at last, I can get some peace.

  It’s hard when you feel out of step with the whole world. I mean, I know progress has brought lots of wonderful things. We were talking about that in history last week. Without progress we wouldn’t have warm houses, we wouldn’t have anaesthetics or antibiotics, we wouldn’t have clean water. People would die of plagues and famines.

  But there’s tons of things progress has brought that I can’t stand. Like the melting ice caps and climate change and weapons of mass destruction and whole species dying out.

  That’s what I’m thinking as I sit cross‐legged on my rainbow rug, my guitar cradled across my lap.

  It’s after nine now and starting to get dark, so I’ve closed the curtains and put my fave blue planet lamp on. It always calms me.

  I pick out a few chords. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About me. And the planet. And Bluebell Wood. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe it’s foolish to get into fights you can’t win. Maybe sometimes you have to lose a battle so you can win the war.

  See, what I’m thinking is this: maybe the only thing I should be aiming for right now is getting my first demo disc out. Then, once I’m famous, I can lead campaigns to save whole rainforests. Like Joan Baez, that folk singer Mum likes. She’s really old now but still turns out for demos and gets publicity for all kinds of causes.

  Or that ancient French actress who runs an animal sanctuary and campaigns for animal rights and everyone listens to her because she used to be a big star.

  Or that supermodel who campaigns against the fur trade.

  As these thoughts flit through my brain I gently strum my guitar. And slowly a new song starts to form at the edge of my consciousness.

  When the little birds stopped singing

  The TV sets were blaring

  I reach for my notebook and write those two lines down. There’s a melody forming in my head. I sing them softly a couple of times. It sounds good. Gentle and sad. I write down more ideas as they come to me.

  Coming up with songs is strange. It’s like there’s this tap deep inside you that you’re trying to turn on. If you can get even a few words, then more start to come. And that’s what happens now. Lines start flowing into my head, then down my arm and on to the paper.

  Until the night came creeping

  And darkness it came seeping

  Exhausted people snuggled down to sleep their aches away

  But the babies started crying

  Cos they knew their world was dying

  Cos no one stopped the little singing birds from going away.

  I scribble all the lyrics into my notebook, then try out a simple chord sequence. Playing guitar and making up lyrics always calms me. Like everything outside the song ceases to exist.

  Softly I begin to sing. I can see myself in the wardrobe mirror. My hair’s dried now, falling about my face in loose tendril curls. And I’m dressed the way I like, in comfy jeans and a little strappy co
tton top. For the first time in ages I feel at ease with myself.

  As I play I think about all the different kinds of birds who’ll lose their homes in Bluebell Wood. Blackbirds and robins. Thrushes and sparrows. Yellowhammers and herons. And as I sing it’s almost as if the birds in the tree outside join in.

  When I reach the final line, Cos no one stopped the little singing birds from going away, I close my eyes and hold the last note, letting it fade. But the birdsong outside continues. A magical sound.

  At first I’m amazed. But then it clicks. I cross to the window and swish the curtains open.

  And there, among the thick green leaves, is Twig. He grins cheekily and holds up a wooden whistle.

  ‘That was cool,’ I say, opening the window wide and leaning out.

  ‘No,’ says Twig. ‘That song was cool. Really sad. Where did you find it?’

  I feel my colour rise. I don’t know what to say. I go and get my notebook and show him the page, complete with score‐outs.

  ‘Wow! You wrote it?’ Twig says, eyes wide.

  I nod.

  ‘It’s really good.’

  And before I can stop myself, I say, ‘I know. I’m going to be a star.’

  Twig smiles. ‘Yeah. That’s what Megan said.’ He shifts uneasily on the branch. ‘It’s a bit un comfortable out here. Can I come in?’

  I hesitate. I’ve never had a boy in my room before. Dad would really freak. And I’m not sure if there’s anything embarrassing lying around or not. But right now I’m feeling lonely.

  ‘Why not?’ I say, opening the window wide. I hold out my hand to help him in, but he’s really agile, and before I know it he’s landed on the floor.

  I flump on to my bed and settle cross‐legged on the rumpled duvet. For some reason I’ve got this little pleasure feeling, deep in my tummy. Sort of warm and ripply. The crystal mobile tinkles gently in the draught from the open window.

  ‘Cool room,’ he says, looking around at the posters of dolphins and polar bears, the butterflies on the ceiling above my bed, the huge illuminated globe lamp on my desk. He runs his eyes over my bookshelves, inspects the titles, pulls out Silent Spring and flicks through it.

  ‘I’ve heard about this. It’s one of the first books about pollution and stuff. What’s it like?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘Heavy going.’ I smile. ‘But worth it in the end.’ Truth is I’ve never got past the second page.

  He slides it back. I hold my breath, hoping he’s not going to ask me about The Revenge of Gaia. Cos I’ve not read that either.

  Instead he pulls out the first Animals of Farthing Wood book, and I’m thinking, maybe I should say that’s Pip’s, not mine. I mean, I’m a bit old now for the Animals of Farthing Wood.

  ‘I just love this book,’ he says, flicking thoughtfully through it. ‘And this is the exact same as mine. Same cover and everything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, relaxing. ‘I’ve read it tons of times.’

  ‘And you’ve got the whole series.’ Twig runs his finger along the spines.

  ‘They were my favourites when I was little,’ I say.

  ‘Mine too.’ He settles cross‐legged on the rug and smiles shyly at me.

  I’ve never paid any attention to what Twig looks like before, but now I notice the way his dark wavy hair falls over his soft brown eyes. He’s wearing really cool black jeans, a baggy green T‐shirt and on one wrist a faded green friendship bracelet. For a moment I wonder if it was a present from someone. A girl maybe.

  ‘You suit your hair curly like that,’ he says. ‘Straight doesn’t look right on you.’

  ‘I know. It was just a phase I was going through.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been through a few of those myself,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Like when Mum and Dad were splitting up I went through this heavy grunge phase.’

  ‘You, a grunge?’ I gasp. Twig’s tanned, a golden honey brown, like he spends most of his time outdoors. ‘You look far too healthy!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m happy just being me now.’ He flashes me a white smile. ‘It makes life easier.’

  As if to signal he doesn’t want to talk about himself any more, he gets up and wanders over for a closer look at my Disappearing Rainforests poster. He reads out the quote from the anthropologist Margaret Mead that’s printed along the bottom. ‘Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.’

  He turns and gazes thoughtfully at me, his head cocked to one side. It’s like he’s looking right inside my soul.

  ‘You really care about things, don’t you?’ he asks, his voice soft, gentle.

  ‘It’s our world,’ I say. ‘Grown‐ups don’t have to care what things are going to be like in fifty years. They just build more factories, churn out more cars, go on more flights. Like that’s all that matters. You know, when we’re the same age as them, the planet’s gonna be a total mess –’

  ‘I know,’ Twig says. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘If we don’t do something they’re going to chop down Bluebell Wood –’

  ‘Look, if you want me to ask my dad to help, forget it. He’s already refused. He can’t see past the election on Thursday.’

  ‘No, not your dad, Sassy. You.’

  ‘I’m just one person, Twig. I can’t do anything on my own.’

  ‘But you won’t be on your own,’ Twig says, his brown eyes shining. ‘There’s two of us. You and me. Isn’t that what that quote on your poster is all about?’

  I laugh. He’s so sincere it’s kinda funny. ‘Look, Twig, we can’t save Bluebell Wood. No one can. It’s all signed and sealed. It was on the radio. They’re starting work right away. It’s too late.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Animated, Twig paces the room. ‘That’s what they want you to think! That you can’t do anything. But you can. We can. At the very least we have to try. We can stage a tree‐top protest. Tomorrow. Sit up in the trees to stop them chopping them down! Other people have done it. It’s worked before!’

  I let out a long exasperated sigh. I know all about tree‐top protests where eco‐warriors sit up in the trees to protect them from developers.

  ‘Look,’ says Twig. ‘If it’s your dad’s election chances you’re worried about, you needn’t. The Lady Mayor’s bought everyone off with this new Bluebell Centre. He doesn’t stand a chance anyway.’

  ‘Listen, I’m so mad with Dad I couldn’t care less about his election chances. In fact, I kinda hope he doesn’t get elected.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  ‘I did a deal with him,’ I sigh. ‘If I stay out of trouble he’ll pay for a demo disc.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I don’t want to blow my chances, do I? Who knows, I might get a recording contract, and just think: when I’m famous I’ll be able to campaign all over the world. Maybe even save whole rainforests!’

  Twig looks at me, his eyes suddenly cold. And I know I’ve let him down. ‘That song you sang,’ he says. ‘It made you sound like someone who cares. But maybe you don’t. Not really. Maybe all you care about is you.’

  I pick my guitar up and make out like I’m tuning it.

  Twig puts one foot up on to the window sill, ready to leave.

  ‘I’m going to be at Bluebell Wood first thing.’ Twig steps out on to the branch. ‘It’d be good if you were there. But I suppose that’s too much to ask.’

  I strum my guitar angrily. STRUM! STRUM! STRUM!

  ‘Cos you’ll be too busy.’ He pauses. ‘Selling out.’

  I stop strumming and look up at him.

  ‘Why don’t you just face up to it, Sassy,’ he says. ‘Fame’s what you really want. You’ll pay whatever price you have to, just so you can be a star.’

  And then he’s gone.

  I am so rattled! I feel as irritable as a snake who needs to shed a skin.

  I bang my window closed and tug my curtains tight shut, th
en go downstairs to get a drink.

  How dare Twig accuse me of selling out! Who’s he to come over all holier‐than‐thou?

  Boys really are more trouble than they’re worth! Mr Hemphead says some creatures, like slugs and starfish, don’t need mates to reproduce. They just do it all on their own. Mr Hemphead says they’re called hermaphrodites. Maybe that’s what Cordelia’s mum is. And, right now, that’s what I’d like to be. A hermaphrodite. I mean, who needs chicos?

  ‘Everything OK, honey?’ Mum asks when I bang the fridge door shut. She’s just made a tray of flapjacks, all sweet and sticky. ‘You can have one if you want,’ she says, smiling. ‘Go on. You know you love them.’

  I turn my head away. ‘No thanks. I’m not hungry,’ I mutter.

  Mum pulls up a chair. ‘Come on, sweetie. Give.’

  I breathe in deeply but keep my lips tight shut.

  ‘You’ll feel better if you talk about it,’ she persists.

  ‘I won’t,’ I say as I leave the room. ‘Nothing will make me feel better. Ever.’

  The big grandfather clock in the hall booms as I pass. And gives me a brilliant idea! I shall rewind my memory clock to an hour ago. To before Twig turned up. You can do that with computers if they hit a problem. You choose an earlier time and date to restore them to. I will restore my life to the pre‐Twig point when I’d just worked out my perfect plan.

  In my room I pick up my guitar again. Softly I play the opening chords for ‘When the Birds Stopped Singing’.

  I open my notebook at the page and start to sing.

  When the little birds stopped singing

  The TV sets were blaring

  The cars were roaring up and down the busy motorways

  It doesn’t feel right. The words stick like sawdust in my mouth.

  Until the night came creeping

  And darkness it came seeping…

  There’s no birdsong. No Twig. The song sounds totally rubbish. I hurl my notebook across the room. It thuds off the rainforest poster and, like a wounded bird, falls, white pages fluttering, to the floor.