Pinch me, I'm dreaming...
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PUFFIN BOOKS
Seriously Sassy*
Pinch me, I’m dreaming
Hey! Here it is, my second book – woop woop! So, what’s up? Well, Cordelia and Tas are still the best bezzies ever. OK, so Cordelia freaks me out sometimes when her green eyes flash in that spooky way. And Taslima thinks my whole family are nuts! But I’m SO glad they’re both around.
Megan’s still lurking. Magnus too. Which bothers me a bit! And then there’s Twig, who can hang around as much as he wants…
But mostly this book’s about my BIG DREAM. You know, getting my music out there. And I was thinking, maybe you have a BIG DREAM too?
Like, maybe you want to be a singer, an Olympic athlete, a hot-shot lawyer, a brilliant scientist or whatever.
Or maybe you’ve got a massive CRUSH on someone you think will NEVER EVER notice you!
Well, don’t give up! Cos sometimes dreams CAN come true. Even if it’s in the way you least expect – I should know! Read on and you’ll find out why…
Sassy x
PS Pip sends a big mwah–mwah kiss too!
THANK YOU to…
Maggi would like to thank all those who
helped this book become more than just a
dream. Her brilliant editor, Amanda. Her
wonderful agent, Caroline. Hennie for the
fab artwork, and Sarah for the design. Jennie
for the great copy-editing. Tanya, Sophie and
Louise for helping Sassy and her friends get out
there to the readers. And all the other Puffins
who busy away behind the scenes.
Thanks too to Ian, Cathy, Hazel, Keira and
Stuart for their invaluable input –
and their inspiration!
To Hazel and Keira
The two brightest stars
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published 2009
Copyright © Maggi Gibson, 2009
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-192407-6
IF YOU WERE A PANDA
If you were a panda
All cuddly, cute and sweet
I’m sure that I’d love you
And when you say ‘Let’s meet’
I’d jump at the chance
I’d sing and I’d dance
I’d high–five my mates
I’d say I just can’t wait
For our very first date…
But the thing is this
You’re just a guy
When you say hello
I wanna say goodbye.
If you were a polar bear
All fluffy and white
I’m sure I would love you
And when you say ‘Tonight?’
I’d jump at the chance
I’d sing and I’d dance
I’d leap in the air
Spend hours doin’ my hair.
But the thing is this
You’re just a guy
When you say hello
I wanna say goodbye.
If you were a dolphin or a tiny baby seal
I know what I’d think, I know what I’d feel
My heart would melt,
I’d jump up and down for joy.
But the thing is this – you’re just a boy
You’re not that cuddly, you’re not that sweet,
You’re not a rare species or under threat
But hey there, chico – don’t look so upset
Cos I’m not sayin’ never –
I’m only sayin’ – not yet!
By Sassy Wilde
Dad’s going to kill Pip. That’s my little sister. Nine years old at the moment, and unless she finds Houdini, her new Dwarf Hairy-Footed Hamster, and locks him up securely out of Dad’s way, she ain’t gonna make her tenth birthday. Which means I’m going to end up an only child with a murderer for a father, trailing to visit him in prison with sad little food parcels and the same message every time, No, Dad, Mum hasn’t forgiven you yet.
Right at this moment Mum’s in a bit of a tizz cos there’s a photographer and journalist coming to do a piece on Dad – you know the kind of thing, the new MP at home – so me and my bezzies are lying low in my room.
‘For goodness’ sake, Pip!’ Mum howls as she rushes along the landing in her dressing gown, her face plastered with cucumber ten-years-younger mudpack. ‘Where did you last see him?’
My best friend, Taslima, is sitting cross-legged on my rainbow rug, scribbling into her new pink notebook. Taslima wants to be a psychologist and she’s using my family as her first case study. Basically, she thinks we’re all nuts. And sometimes I have to agree. I mean, how’s Dad going to cope with the demands of running the country now he’s an MP? He can’t even run our house.
Take, for example, the loo. It doesn’t work properly. It’s SO embarrassing. You have to flush at least three times to get the most pitiful trickle of water.
Suddenly there’s a piercing scream. Taslima looks up from her notebook and we both look towards the door. The toilet flushes (three times) and Cordelia rushes in, followed closely by a hysterically wailing Pip.
Moments later Mum appears.
‘Calm down, Pip,’ she remonstrates through gritted teeth. Her mudpack’s almost dry and she’s trying not to crack it. ‘The girls will help you find Houdini before Digby gets back.’ She flashes us a please-help-me-out-here smile. Big mistake. Her face splits like something from a late-night horror movie.
‘Gets back from where?’ I ask, putting my guitar down. I had been hoping to let Cordelia and Taslima hear the new song I wrote last night, ‘If You Were a Panda’. I wrote the lyrics a while back – before I met Twig, natch – and I’ve finally worked out some chords and a melody.
‘Dad’s sent Digby to get a mousetrap.’ Pip throws herself on to my bed, her tiny body shuddering with big tragic sobs. ‘They’re going to kill Houdini! Murder him. In cold blood! And he’s only a teensy helpless hamster. Sassy, you’ve got to do something,’ she splutters through a tsunami of tears.
‘Calm down, Pip!’ Taslima says in an authoritative voice. ‘Tell us where his hideouts are, and by a simple process of elimination we’ll track him down.’
Amazingly, Pip quietens as if someone’s just thrown her ‘off ’ switch.
‘Thanks, girls,’ Mum sighs. ‘I’ll go and get this stuff off my face.’
And with that she disappears.
We bundle downstairs to check the places where Houdini’s been found on previous escapes. Last time he was in Brewster’s dog bowl. Poor old Brewster! He’s almost blind and he’s not used to sticking his nose into his bowl and his food suddenly moving.
The time before, Houdini was in the rubbish bin under the sink. He tumbled on to Digby’s foot with a ribbon of carrot peel dangling from his mouth. Digby thought he was a mouse, jumped up on to the worktop and – can you believe it – screamed the house down!
In the living room Dad’s busy flicking through a big pile of papers. I heave the sofa out from the wall. Taslima and Pip peer under the armchairs. Dad’s not helpful in the least. He just witters on about how a wild rodent running amok during his ‘New MP at Home’ interview is not going to do his public image any good.
‘If you don’t find him before the newspaper people get here,’ he says, putting his papers down, ‘I’ll have no option but to put a big piece of cheese in a mousetrap and let nature runs its course.’
‘Dad!’ I protest. ‘Mousetraps are NOT natural. Plants are natural. Trees are natural. Mousetraps are man-made. And Houdini doesn’t even eat cheese! He’s vegan.’
Just then Cordelia comes drifting in, her green eyes shining, which usually means she’s communing with some higher level of consciousness.
‘Sshhhhh…’ Cordelia says as she stares like a fortune-teller into the depths of Houdini’s clear plastic exercise ball. ‘I need you to focus your psychic energy in this direction,’ she commands.
We all stare at Cordelia – even Dad – as she moans and sways gently, her long black hair falling forward over her face.
‘Can you see anything?’ I whisper.
‘It’s… small… curled up… sleeping…’ Cordelia mutters.
‘Where?’ Pip breathes.
‘Somewhere dark –’
Just then the doorbell rings and Cordelia’s eyes snap open.
‘That’ll be the people from the paper!’ Dad gasps. ‘They’re early.’
Mum takes control. ‘OK, everyone. Forget about the hamster. With some luck he’ll stay asleep till they’ve gone.’
Dad pushes the sofa straight, plumps up a couple of cushions and strides off to answer the door. Mum ushers us all out of the living room and gives us strict instructions to stay upstairs and be quiet.
‘Sorry, Pip,’ Cordelia says as we straggle out. ‘I don’t think he’s far away. And I’m sure he’s safe.’
Dad swings the front door wide open with a big welcome-to-the-new-MP’s-house flourish.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ he exclaims rudely, and my heart skips a beat. Cos it’s not the newspaper people after all. It’s Twig!
‘Why didn’t you come in my bedroom window, like you usually do?’ I ask as we all crowd into my room.
‘Because there was no one inside to open it?’ Twig smiles his lopsided smile.
‘We were all downstairs looking for Houdini,’ Pip sniffs, her face still tearstained and blotchy. ‘Dad’s going to kill him if we don’t find him.’
‘Really?’ Twig asks.
Cordelia sinks into my beanbag, exhausted from her psychic efforts, and Pip goes off to search the airing cupboard.
I leap on to the bed and tuck one leg under the other. ‘Dad’s just a bit tense –’
‘Shhh…’ Twig interrupts, dropping to his knees.
Taslima looks at me, her face a question mark. I shrug. I’ve only known Twig a few weeks, and OK, I do wear his friendship bracelet – but why he’s now got his bottom in the air and his head under my bed, I cannot explain.
‘Maybe it’s a courtship ritual kind of thing?’ Taslima whispers.
‘Yeah,’ Cordelia mutters. ‘Or maybe he’s a nut!’ And she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.
Suddenly Twig struggles to his feet. Clutching one of my bras! The really pretty lemon one I haven’t seen in weeks.
Cordelia’s and Taslima’s eyes grow wide as satellite dishes. And I’m about to blurt It’s-not-mine-I’ve-never-seen-it-before-must-be-someone-else’s when I see, snuggled up in one of the cups, sound asleep, something hairy-footed and hamster-shaped!1
‘Pip!’ I yell. ‘Come and see what Twig’s got!’
Seconds later Pip whooshes into the room, takes one glance at the sleeping hamster, throws herself on Twig and covers him in big mwah-mwah kisses.
As Pip detaches herself Twig catches my eye, and we exchange a look that sends shivers all through me. Quietly, Taslima takes out her pen and scribbles something in her notebook.
‘OK, Pip,’ I say, my voice high-pitched as a hairy-footed hamster’s. ‘Put Houdini back in his cage. And make sure it’s properly locked this time. Now, anyone want some juice?’
Seconds later I escape downstairs to get some lemonade and try to regain my composure. I’m just coming out of the kitchen with five glasses on a tray when the front doorbell rings. Digby, Dad’s personal assistant, has returned with the mousetrap.
He’s hardly inside the door when Pip leans over the banister. ‘Too late!’ she screams. ‘Twig found my hamster! You can take your stinky old mousetrap back to the shop. Murderer!’
‘Pip!’ Dad bellows. ‘The mousetrap catches the mouse alive. I am NOT a murderer!’
‘Can I quote you on that?’ says a smart-looking woman who’s just followed Digby through the open door.
Dad turns, spluttering, to greet the journalist.
‘Welcome to the Wilde Household,’ I smile sweetly as I squeeze past. ‘You’ll be quite safe. Honest.’
Taslima and Cordelia have both gone now. Taslima couldn’t wait, apparently, to clean out her goldfish tank, while Cordelia just had to go home and babysit her Mum’s pet bat.
‘Call us later!’ Taslima giggled as she made her way up the front path.
‘Yeah, we’ll get ALL the goss then!’ Cordelia smiled mischievously.
As I pass the mirror at the foot of the stairs I check my teeth for bits of stray spinach2 – or anything else that might make me unkissable. Then I stick my head round Pip’s door and warn her – on pain of a slow and tortuous death – NOT to come anywhere near my room. Finally, I head into my own room and close the door firmly.
Twig’s standing by the window, gazing out into the leaves of the big old tree. When he turns round and smiles, my heart soars like it’s going to fly right up out of the top of my head.
‘Have you got a computer?’ he asks.
My heart falters mid-soar. A computer! I had kinda hoped he would say, why don’t you play guitar while I listen adoringly…
‘There’s only Dad’s.’ I sigh, wondering if I’ve got Twig all wrong. ‘It’s prehistoric. There’s no decent games or anything.’
‘Great,’ Twig says. ‘There’s something I want to show you. Do you have the Internet?’
‘Yeah,’ I nod. My heart flutters helplessly in a downward spiral. I mean, if he’s just going to play computer all afternoon, I’d be as well helping Taslima clean her goldfish bowl!
As we traipse downstairs to Dad’s study – which isn’t really a study at all, just a converted cupboard – there’s a delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. I guess Mum’s baking her extra special homemade gingerbread to prove to the journalist she’s a good mother and we’re a normal family.
Twig grins up at me as we wait for Dad’s computer to whirr into life.
‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ He shifts along the old piano stool we use as a seat. ‘There’s plenty of room.’
‘I’m OK here, honest!’ I insist, standing by the door. ‘You won’t be long, will you?’
‘Got it!’ he says suddenly. ‘How do you put the volume up?’
But I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m staring at the screen. Flabbergasted. Stunned. Because it’s me. At the Bluebell Wood protest. Playing guitar and singing!
‘The volume?’ Twig asks again.
I show him the key and he presses until the volume chirrups into action. My voice croaks out of the tinny little speakers and Twig starts to laugh.
‘Oh no! I don’t really sound like that, do I?’ I gasp.
Twig shakes his head. ‘Nah! It sounds great on my computer. Brilliant, in fact.’
‘But how did it get on the Internet? I mean – who filmed it?’
‘Dunno. But somebody did. And look! It’s had 569 hits and it’s only been up for a few days… Oh, 570!’ Twig says with a grin.
This little smile spreads across my face. Becomes bigger and bigger until it’s not just a smile any longer. It’s a big surge of happiness and it comes whooping out of my mouth and I start dancing around. I am so excited! And Brewster starts barking and Pip leans over the stairs and bellows, ‘Will you keep quiet, you’re going to wake Houdini!’ And Mum appears and she’s going Shush-Shush-Shush and then Dad’s there and the journalist and the photographer and they’re all saying, What is it? What’s going on? And Twig shows them the video clip and the journalist says, WOW! That is so fantastic! Then Twig points out that the number of hits has gone up by another three!
‘Maybe we could take some photos of you with your guitar?’ the photographer suggests, changing the lens on his camera.
‘That would be so good for the piece. Give an added human-interest angle.’ The journalist flicks on her mini-recorder and pushes it into Dad’s face. ‘So how do you feel about your daughter’s ambitions to be a star?’
Poor Dad! I know it’s the last thing he wants. He’s been boring us for days now with all the serious issues he needs to discuss. You know, the Health Service, Fuel Prices, the Plumbing Problems in Strathcarron High School.
While Dad struggles to turn the interview back on track, Twig runs upstairs to get my guitar. The photographer wants to take the shots out in the garden, seeing as I’m so into green issues.
‘Ignore the camera,’ the photographer says as I pose in front of a lilac bush. ‘Yeah, that’s great.’