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Seriously Sassy

Page 16

by Maggi Gibson


  ‘So,’ Dad interrupts her calmly, ‘it has nothing to do with the fact that your husband is one of the developers, and the town council sold Bluebell Wood to his company at a knock‐down price –’

  ‘Exactly what are you saying?’ the Lady Mayor snaps, her eyes ice cold.

  ‘I’m saying that this whole deal is corrupt. And that you had no right to sell Bluebell Wood in the first place.’ Dad lifts a bundle of yellowed papers tied with pink ribbon from the picnic table. ‘Because these deeds state that Bluebell Wood is a protected site. It cannot be sold. Ever. To anyone!’

  All manner of mayhem breaks loose then. The tree protestors cheer and whoop as the Lady Mayor spins on her heel and strides towards her car.

  The journalists and TV cameras follow her, baying, ‘Is this true, Lady Mayor?’

  ‘Give us a statement!’

  But she ignores them, slams her door and orders her chauffeur to drive off.

  Up in the trees everyone’s cheering, ‘WE SAVED BLUEBELL WOOD! WE SAVED BLUEBELL WOOD!’

  ‘We did it, Sassy!’ Twig says, grinning. ‘Well, with a little help from your dad!’ Then he hugs me. And I’m so surprised I almost fall out of the tree. Again.

  Everyone’s delighted. Dad’s still busy talking to the journalists, showing them the ancient documents, opening maps out on the table.

  I don’t wait around to hear what he’s saying. I just take my guitar and slope off quietly home. Twig comes with me to the end of my road. He seems kinda shy now.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he asks, looking at me through his flop of hair. ‘Soon?’

  ‘Course you can.’ I smile. ‘I’ll probably be grounded forever. But I guess you know where my window is.’

  ‘So I can call any time?’ He blushes pink, and for a split second I get that squidgy feeling inside. You know the one I usually only get when I see tiny panda cubs or baby seals?

  ‘Any time.’ I smile again.

  ‘OK!’ he grins, his face a deep pink now. ‘See ya around!’ And he disappears up the road.

  Brewster bumbles towards me, sniffing the air, and I tickle his ears. Then I slip round to the back garden and climb up the tree. I don’t want to see Mum. In fact I don’t want to see anyone. Not for a while. I’ve got a lot to think about.

  I climb in my window and close the curtains and lie down on the bed, exhausted. In a way, I’m happy. Because Bluebell Wood is safe. And I’ve kept my promise to Pip.

  But I’m not totally happy. The election is tomorrow. The Bluebell Wood protest will be all over the news tonight and the voters are going to be fuming when they hear they’re not getting their new shops, their new swimming pool, their skating rink, their cinema. They’re hardly going to vote for Dad, the man who took their new shiny mega‐mall multiplex away.

  We might have saved the wood, I think as I pull my duvet over my head. But there’s no way Dad can win the election now. And it’s all my fault.

  How wrong can you be?

  I should have known Dad wasn’t so stupid! The election was yesterday. And guess what? Dad won!

  While I came home to weep all over my room and worry like a neurotic newt that I had ruined his political career forever, Dad was saving his own skin.

  Remember all those papers Mum and Dad and Digby were so busy with? They were the same ones Dad showed to the reporters. The wrinklies had been taking the threat to Bluebell Wood seriously all along! They ploughed through all the old documents with a fine‐tooth comb cos Dad suspected – rightly – that there might be a clause that would stop the sale of Bluebell Wood for development.

  And remember Dad had gone to speak to the car‐factory people? Well, after me and Twig left Bluebell Wood, Dad announced on nationwide TV that he’d already found a new site for the mega‐mall multiplex. It’s going to be built on the car‐factory site when it closes down – which otherwise would have become derelict and an eyesore. The people who work in the factory now will get new jobs building the new complex, and will be able to work in it afterwards.

  So Dad worked out a solution where everyone – except the Lady Mayor – got what they wanted. And that, Digby says, won him the vote!

  It’s three days now since the election. Yesterday I had to go into school with Mum for a meeting with Mr Smollett about my exclusion.

  ‘Sassy’s father,’ Mum explained to Mr Smollett, ‘is unable to attend. He’s too busy getting ready to take up his post as the newly elected Member of Parliament for Strathcarron.’

  Smollett looked mightily impressed!

  Of course, I had to sit through a long lecture about obeying authority blahblahblah, and then I had to agree never to lead any such wildcat protests again blahblahblah and to be a perfect pupil forever blahblahblah.

  Then Smollett said I could go back to school, on condition I did some kind of service for the school community. So I’m starting up an Eco‐awareness Group. We’ll meet every Wednesday lunchtime and come up with ideas to make our school greener. Miss Cassidy and Miss Peabody, who were both given a professional misconduct warning for attending the protest, have offered to be supervising teachers, so it should all be cool. Mr Hemphead, apparently, is taking early retirement to spend more time with his stick insects, which was what he was wanting to do anyway.

  It’s Saturday evening. Cordelia and Taslima are here for a girls’ night in. Taslima’s really excited that Dad’s an MP. She’s got a new journal specially to note down observations of how my family copes with the stress of public office. She’s even considering making a video diary of us.

  There’s an awful racket coming from Pip’s room next door. She’s practising a new dance routine: the Dance of the Endangered Dandelion. Pip’s decided to be an eco‐babe like me. I doubt it’ll last. When Pip decided to go veggie she crumbled completely the first time she got a whiff of a bacon butty.

  I bang on her wall to get her to turn it down a bit, then pick up my guitar and start tuning it.

  ‘So what’s happening about your demo disc?’ Cordelia asks, fluttering her freshly painted purple fingernails in their lacy fingerless gloves.

  ‘Not a lot,’ I say, twanging a string. ‘Dad says we had a deal. I broke it.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard,’ says Cordelia. ‘I mean, you did it for the right reasons.’

  ‘But a deal is a deal,’ Taslima interrupts in her professional psychiatrist’s voice. ‘Imagine the confusion it would cause if you made a promise, broke it, then got the reward anyway. It just wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘We’ve struck a new deal, though.’ I twang another string. ‘If I behave for the next three weeks, Dad says he’ll reconsider his position.’

  I twang the sixth string. ‘Perfect. Right. Want to hear my latest song? It’s not right yet, but it’s kinda taking shape.’

  ‘Cool.’ Cordelia grins, tugging the latest copy of Wiccan Weekly from her skull‐and‐crossbones tote bag. ‘Then I’ll read out our horoscopes.’

  ‘OK,’ I say happily. ‘It’s called the Ballad of Bluebell Wood.’

  We were there in the trees

  There was Twig, there was me

  We were putting up a fight

  For what we knew was right.

  We wouldn’t let them come

  With their axes and saws

  We protected the trees

  With our bodies, not laws.

  Cos the world is a gift

  Which we all need to share

  With the oceans, the woods

  And we all must take care.

  We were there in the trees

  There was Twig, there was me

  We were putting up a fight

  For what we knew was right.

  By the time I get to the last line Taslima and Cordelia are both helpless with laughter.

  ‘"The Ballad of Twig”, more like!’ Taslima sputters.

  ‘At the protest,’ Cordelia says, giggling so much she can hardly speak, ‘didn’t I see you… share a muffin… with Twig?’

  ‘Wasn�
��t a muffin,’ I say innocently. ‘It was a doughnut. It meant nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, but what about his fairy‐thingies? You might have got a whiff of them!’ Cordelia insists, fixing me with a don’t‐lie‐to‐me‐or‐I’ll‐turn‐you‐into‐a‐mollusc stare.

  ‘And what about that friendship bracelet?’ Taslima asks mischievously, eyeing the faded green bracelet on my wrist. ‘Who gave you that?’

  ‘Well, Twig, obviously,’ I reply, fingering it gently. ‘But just cos he’s a boy and I’m a girl, it doesn’t mean –’

  ‘Listen!’ Cordelia interrupts, excitedly waving the Wiccan Weekly. ‘You’re Scorpio, right, Sass? Well, Psychic Psandra says: Scorpio! Expect love in unexpected places –’

  Suddenly Taslima squeals and points at the window behind my head. Even before I turn I hear the sound of the whistle from the tree outside. Playing the tune for ‘The Ballad of Bluebell Wood’.

  ‘No! No! No!’ I wail, leaping to my feet and tugging the curtains shut. As I throw myself down on my beanbag Taslima and Cordelia stare at me like I’ve just flipped.

  ‘I’ve got the planet to save. And my singing career to get off the ground. I really don’t have time to be in love!’

  LAST TRACK

  They give us plastic palm trees

  They give us concrete walls

  They make the waves with wave machines

  They put up parasols.

  They pull up all the trees and flowers

  They poison all the seas

  They make a waste of all that’s ours

  Roads spread like a disease.

  They say this is de‐vel‐op‐ment

  Forget what they destroy

  They fill our lives with grey cement

  And then they say – ENJOY!

  By Sassy Wilde

  THANK YOU to…

  Kiera and Hazel, my lovely daughters, for the inspiration; Ian for his patience; Cathy for her encouragement; my son, Stuart, for putting up with me warbling on about Twig; Caroline at David Higham Associates for her support; Amanda for her amazing editorial input; Sara for her fab cover design; Hennie for her super‐sassy artwork; and all the rest of the Puffins, Sarah, Wendy, Louise, Tania and Sophie, for being wonderful!

  1 1312.

  2 Did I mention her mum is training her in the Dark Arts? When she’s eighteen she’ll be a fully fledged witch with her own private broomstick. Scary!

  3 Cordelia has this strange death fascination thing. I was a bit morbid myself when I was ten. I even wrote MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT and left instructions for my funeral. It was to be a happy and joyous celebration of my tragically short life. No flowers, please. All donations to Save the Dolphins.

  4 Told you I had an overactive imagination, didn’t I?

  5 I do wish my parents would get their heads round this simple concept when it comes to MY business!

  6 Hand‐crafted by peasants from sustainable woodlands in Papua New Guinea.

  7 Cordelia did suggest I should take revenge. Her advice involved a doll, a shoelace, a pile of pins, a box of matches and a bucket of water. Which, even though I’m furious with Megan, seemed a bit extreme.

  8 Dad says my hair is out of control. Mum says if I don’t calm it down she’s going to stick an ASBO on it. But I kinda like it. My hair is an expression of my personality. Naturally creative and a bit untamed.

  9 Chakras, Cordelia says, are the spiritual energy centres of our bodies. According to Cordelia, we each have seven. Personally, I’ve yet to find any of mine.

  10 Did I say that’s not his real name? He’s really Mr Hemphill, but no one ever calls him that. Not sure why.

  11 Which means, Taslima says, you don’t have to choose between them.

  12 Never ever eat spaghetti Bolognese in company. It’s impossible to do it politely. Unless of course you’re Italian, in which case you have a genetic disposition.

  13 FOF campaigns for better conditions for all farmed birds everywhere.

  14 He’s not called Mad Midge for nothing. He once ran away from home and lived in a wheelie bin for three days.

  15 Poor boy must have a death wish!

  16 I have read some not very savoury types use their pee! Yuck! I do NOT think so.

  17 I mean, if you put all the heat together of all the hair straighteners switched on in the world you could probably power a small country.

  18 Yikes! Where did that thought come from? This whole hormone thing is getting a bit frightening. I don’t even know if I want to have sproglets. Ever. With or without hair. I mean, an adopted donkey is already quite a responsibility.

  19 Give The People What They Want. Told you no one would remember it, didn’t I?

  20 Why does Cordelia keep asking questions which cannot be answered?

  21 A word Taslima is very fond of. Got something to do with shrinking. Think of a grape turning into a raisin, Taslima says. Or a plum turning into a prune. Our brains are plums. Our parentals’ brains are prunes.

  22 Who sadly passed away a few months ago. Poor Brewster. He’s still in mourning.

  23 Mum’s a bit dyslexic. I think she just chickened out of trying to spell Sasperilla.

  24 Squeamious = squeamish and nauseous all at once.

  25 And I’m thinking it’s strange how you can be thinking so many things at once when you don’t want to be thinking anything at all!

  26 Or maybe Cordelia’s psychic powers are rubbing off on me, and it’s a kind of warning!

  27 When Taslima says, You DO know, it means she’s gonna tell you something you most prob DO NOT know.

  28 With a witch for a mother, who knows?

  29 Overactive imagination. Remember?

  30 I have concerns, however, about the carbon emissions from burning people at the stake. Might have been OK in the Middle Ages. But hardly environmentally acceptable in this day and age.

 

 

 


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