by Maggi Gibson
He’s clicking away, and I’m turning my head this way and that, when Pip appears beside me in a long pink dress that makes her look like a walking wedding cake.
‘I’d like some shots now on that old swing at the bottom of the garden,’ the photographer says.
‘Pip’s been chosen to be the Sleeping Beauty in her school play,’ I explain quietly as I follow him. ‘She doesn’t always dress like that.’
Then I perch on the swing and strum my guitar. As the photographer clicks, Pip floats across in front of me like she’s chasing an invisible butterfly.
‘OK,’ the photographer sighs. ‘That’ll be fine. I’ll take some of your mum and dad inside now.’ And he goes off towards the house, Pip dancing in his wake.
Twig sits cross-legged on the grass and gazes up at me, a strange look on his face.
‘What?’ I ask, my colour rising.
He hesitates, as if weighing up whether or not to say what’s on his mind.
‘I was just wondering…’ he begins.
‘Wondering what?’
‘If it’ll change you.’
‘If what’ll change me?’
‘Getting famous. Being a star.’ He squints at me through his fall of hair.
‘It’s just a clip on the Internet!’ I laugh, clipping a capo on to the neck of my guitar. ‘It’s great (strum) and obviously there’s going to be a bit in the paper now (strum), which is fantastic (strum), but it’s not like I’ve got a recording contract or anything (strumstrumstrum).’
Twig’s still gazing at me. His eyes are a soft golden brown, and for a split second I imagine him coming over to me, lifting the guitar from my lap…
‘Anyway,’ I continue, snapping myself back to reality with a noisy twang. ‘I don’t see why I have to change.’
‘Success always changes people,’ Twig says. ‘Look what happened to Arizona Kelly. She got her first hit at fourteen, and now she’s a complete mess, all mixed up in drugs and stuff.’
Arizona Kelly’s latest video flashes into my head. Half-naked in a leopard-skin bikini, writhing on the floor with a python, pouting at the camera. Sad enough, but the song was awful too.
‘No way will that happen to me!’ I exclaim. ‘I sing cos I care about things. Like the planet, and animals, and what we’re doing to the world. I sing cos I’ve got something to say. I’m not gonna change just to be famous!’
‘So what if they asked you to do a world tour and it was going to cause tons of pollution, and they said if you didn’t do it they wouldn’t put your albums out?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Twig! As if I’m going to do a world tour!’
‘But isn’t that what you want?’
‘I suppose so,’ I say slowly. ‘But it’s not going to happen… And even if it did, I know what I will and won’t do. I really, honestly, absolutely am not going to change.’
‘Really?’ Twig asks.
‘Really,’ I answer. And I mean it.
Totally.
Sunday night.
Earlier, when everyone else was out, I watched this documentary on TV, all about little kids working in sweatshops in Third World countries, making clothes to be sold in the UK. It was really shocking. So now I’m in my room, trying to write a song about how I feel, but I must have some sort of block on my creativity cos I can’t make anything come at all.
Finally I give in and practise some chords instead. Then I get ready for bed and tuck up under the covers with Little Ted. But I can’t get to sleep. Cos my head starts to spin with all these things to worry about. Little kids slaving in sweat-shops; bottle-nosed dolphins and hammerhead turtles and red-ruffed lemurs facing extinction. And famines; and earthquakes; and floods; and Agnes my Adopted Donkey in the Dorset Donkey Sanctuary. I mean, just where am I going to get the fiver a month I’ve pledged to keep her in Donkey Luxury until she goes to the Big Donkey Retreat in the sky?
My brain spins and whirrs like a frisbee in a whirlwind. Finally I sit up and click the bedside lamp on. When I was teensy and having a bad dream Mum used to make me get out of bed and go to the loo and brush my teeth, then she’d tuck me back under the covers like I was going to bed for the first time. So that’s what I do. I get up and brush my teeth, then climb back into bed again and put the lamp off. This time, as I close my eyes, I make myself think of all the good things in the world. All the lovely things…
Dad says the piece the journalist and photo grapher did yesterday will be in Tuesday’s paper. I’m so excited. I mean, that’s how you get a break-through, isn’t it? You have a clip on the Internet, then a piece in the paper, and before you know it there’s someone offering you a recording contract, and hey presto! You have everything you ever wished for.
But what if Twig’s right? What if I sign a recording contract, then they want me to do things I don’t want to do?
I click the bedside lamp back on and pull my TOTALLY SECRET NOTEBOOK from my bedside drawer. I flick it open and write at the top of a clean page.
THINGS I WILL NEVER DO JUST TO BE A STAR I, Sassy Wilde, aged 13, do formally swear that I will never do any of the following:
1. Wear fur or do anything involving cruelty to animals.
2. Travel in non-environmentally friendly ways.
3. Kiss anyone on video (unless it’s T**G).
4. Wear stupid clothes that make me look cheap and nasty.
5. Strip off. My body is private property and it’s gonna stay that way!
6. Let any of my albums be made by poor people in Third World countries who aren’t getting paid properly.
7. Take drugs of any kind. Ever.
8. Do adverts for anything ’cept things like Friends of the Forest, Friends of the Fowl, Friends of the Earth, Save the Planet, Save the Children, Save the Stick Insects, and Greenpeace.
9. Change anything in my songs because someone else wants me to.
10. Most of all I will never, ever forget that Cordelia and Taslima are my soul sisters and best buds forever.
There. I think I’ve just about covered everything. I feel much happier now.
I can’t control the whole world. But I can control the little bit of it that’s Sassy Wilde. I’ve struck a bargain with myself. I should be able to keep it, shouldn’t I?
I switch the lamp off once more. And at last fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
School this morning’s a bit weird!
In IT, Megan – that’s Twig’s stepsis and my ex-bezzie – tells Midge Murphy about the video clip of me on the Internet.
And Midge Murphy tells our IT teacher, Mrs Smith, and Mrs Smith insists on downloading it so the whole class can watch.
‘So who filmed it?’ Mrs Smith asks, once we’ve played it for the third time and Midge has had great fun starting and stopping and running it backwards so I look and sound like a halfwit.
‘Maybe it was that new kid, Twig!’ Sindi-Sue says excitedly. ‘You know, the weird guy.’
‘Hey!’ Megan exclaims fiercely. ‘That’s my stepbro you’re talking about.’
‘It couldn’t have been him, stupid!’ Magnus Menzies points at the screen. ‘See! He’s up in the tree beside Sassy!’
I fire Magnus a filthy look, but he totally misunderstands and smiles back, all friendly-like. Honestly, Magnus may be swim-champ, he may have a brain the size of Belgium, but he’s got the emotional intelligence of a shrivelled peanut. What’s more, Magnus and me have history. Bad history.
‘I’ve got a hunch.’ Cordelia spreads her black-nailed fingers wide. ‘Of course, I don’t have any evidence. But my gut feeling is…’ She pauses for dramatic effect. ‘It was Miss Cassidy.’
‘Miss Cassidy?’ Magnus scoffs. ‘Our art teacher?’
‘Well, she was in a tree just opposite Sassy,’ Midge Murphy says. ‘So if she’s got one of them mobiles with a video-thingie on it, she could’ve done it well-easy.’
‘But listen to the sound quality.’ Mrs Smith turns the volume up. ‘You wouldn’t get that kind of recording on a mobile.
No, this has been done on a camcorder. And a good one at that.’
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ I shrug. ‘Though I would like to know who did it – so I could thank them.’
‘Well, whoever it is must really like you,’ Mrs Smith says, and Magnus grins at me. ‘Because if you want to make it as a singer, Sassy, you need publicity. This is a great start.’
‘And that’s not all that’s happening, Miss!’ Megan blurts excitedly. ‘Twig says Sassy’s photo’s gonna be in the paper tomorrow.’
‘They might not put it in, Megan!’ I gasp. ‘I really didn’t want anyone to know!’
‘Sorreee!’ Megan trills and her colour rises. ‘Twig should’ve said if I wasn’t to tell anyone!’
‘A piece in the paper! That’s so exciting,’ Mrs Smith beams, ignoring the prickly vibes. ‘You’ll soon not want to know any of us, you’ll be so rich and famous!’
‘But I don’t want to be rich and famous! I just want people to hear my songs. I’ll always be the same old Sassy. I’ll still have the same friends.’ I smile at Taslima and Cordelia.
‘Yeah,’ says Megan, putting her arm round my shoulder. ‘And we’ll always be there for you, Sass.’
I shrink away from Megan’s arm. The thing is, we had this big fall-out at the end of P7 – cos she stole something from me and lied about it and got me into BIG trouble. Even though it was a long time ago and she kinda made up with me recently, I’m still not sure I can trust her. And I’m not sure I want her as one of my buds.
Well, not one of my close buds anyway.
The following morning when I go yawning down for breakfast, Mum’s bouncing about the kitchen like a kid high on E-numbers. Which is not normal. Mum is not a morning person. Usually Dad has to do everything while Mum bumbles about in her dressing gown, bumping into furniture and making low groaning noises like a hippo with indigestion.
I’m just getting some kiwi and banana together for a smoothie when Pip breezes in and pops Houdini on the table. He immediately scampers over to the breakfast toast and starts nibbling.
‘Mu-u-um!’ I squeal. ‘Are you going to let her do that? It’s s-o-o-o unhygienic.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Pip pipes up primly. ‘Houdini keeps himself very clean. In fact, he washes first thing every morning. Anyway he’s hungry. And he’s part of the family. Just as much as you are.’
I roll my eyes heavenward. Until a couple of weeks ago Pip looked – and acted – like a crazy Lolitaz Doll. Now she’s gone all nature-friendly, and OK, it’s a big improvement, but no way am I sharing my breakfast with a Dwarf Hairy-Footed Hamster!
Houdini gives me a filthy look, then scutters across the table – leaving a trail of hamster poo.
‘Mu-u-u-u-u-m!’ I wail, horrified.
‘OK! OK!’ Mum intervenes. ‘Houdini can go in here, Pip.’ And she plops a glass baking bowl on the table and scoops Houdini into it. ‘There,’ she says, sticking a lettuce leaf in with him. ‘He can stay at table with us. OK, Sassy? And you, Pip, can disinfect the table!’
Just then there’s a thud in the hall as the morning paper drops through the door. Brewster starts barking. (He lies right under the letter box even though the paper lands on him every morning.) Pip squeals excitedly and runs to get it.
Seconds later she reappears, trying to find the page with the bit about Dad. But the whole thing comes apart in her hands. Brewster, still over-excited, comes storming in, barking wildly, and tramples all over the fallen paper. Pip bursts into tears of frustration. Mum and I scramble on the floor, trying to salvage the page with Dad’s feature.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Dad splutters as he comes into the kitchen and finds Mum and me on our knees and Pip sniffling. ‘What on earth’s going on here?’
Mum blinks up at him. ‘Paper’s arrived, darling,’ she smiles, just as I grab the page, The New MP at Home, and smooth it out on the floor, a trillion nervous bats twitching in my tummy.
‘What a brilliant photo!’ Mum exclaims, taking it from me and putting it on the table where all of us can see.
And it is. A really brilliant photo. Of Mum and Dad and Pip in her big pink dress.
But there’s no photo of me. Not even a tiny one.
‘Oh, Sass, I’m so sorry,’ Dad says, ruffling my hair. ‘That’s the thing with newspapers. You’re never sure what they’ll put in and what they’ll leave out.’
‘No sweat, Dad. It wasn’t meant to be about me anyway,’ I smile bravely, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘Anyway, you look gorgeous,’ I say to Pip as she squeezes between me and Mum to see the photo.
‘Aaawwwww, Pip,’ Mum coos. ‘You are so photogenic.’
‘Which is why I’d like to be a model.’ Pip flashes Mum a smile. ‘But an environmentally aware one.’
‘Are you OK, Sass?’ Mum asks as I quietly head for the door. ‘You’re not too upset about not being in the paper?’
And that’s when I see it. Staring back at me from a crumpled page on the floor.
I tug it from under Brewster’s paws and smooth it out.
‘Wowww!’ Pip squeals as she sees the headline. ‘That is so-o-o-o cool, Sassy! You got a whole piece to yourself!’
I stare in bewilderment.
SALLY WILDE SINGS TO SAVE THE PLANET
Hamster-mad Sally, aged 9, has always wanted to be a supermodel. But this sweet little songbird’s got more than one talent.
With a clip on the Internet fast getting hits, who knows how far she might go. ‘My big dream’s to be the next Arizona Kelly,’ Sally told our reporter in her childish lisp.
And with looks like that, we tip this youngster for the top!
Check her out on www.seeme.com/sassywildesings
‘Oh dear,’ Mum says, reading over my shoulder.
‘I would NEVER say I want to be like Arizona Kelly!’ I splutter.
‘That’s the thing with journalists. They can’t be trusted,’ Dad sighs. ‘They make up things you never said.’
‘But ARIZONA KELLY!!!’
‘What’s wrong with Arizona Kelly?’ Pip pipes up. ‘I like Arizona Kelly!’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I fume. ‘And I’m not hamster-mad. And I’m not nine. And my name’s not Sally! And I don’t lisp! They have got me totally muddled up with you, Pip!’
‘But apart from that, it’s fine, isn’t it?’’ Mum says hopefully. ‘And it is a lovely photo.’
‘And look, they’ve got the weblink right,’ Dad adds brightly. ‘Must have been the spellchecker changed Sassy to Sally in the main piece.’
Trailing my heart behind me like a dead fish, I plod upstairs to get my ruckie. The newspaper’s portrayed me as a nine-year-old empty airhead3.
If anyone at school gets hold of it I will be relentlessly teased.
In my room I text Cordelia and Taslima.
SOS!!! EMRGNCY!!!! MT @ FD ASAP! Sx
Just then the grandfather clock in the hall chimes nine. Which it isn’t. Mum sets it half an hour fast so we’ll never be late for anything. I take a deep breath, thunder downstairs, whizz out of the house and make for the Fire Door round the back of the school to wait for my bezzies to come and save me from disaster.
‘Calm down!’ Taslima soothes as I explain the tragic turn of events. ‘No one reads that awful paper anyway.’
‘She’s right,’ says Cordelia, yawning sleepily. ‘Just keep quiet about it. There’s really no need for anyone to know.’
‘Yeah, but Megan only went and told everyone there would be a bit in the paper,’ I groan.
‘But Megan didn’t say WHICH paper,’ Taslima reasons. ‘There’s tons of different ones. Nobody’s going to look through them just to find a bit about you, are they?’
Just then the second bell rings. It’s nine o’clock. We should be in class by now.
‘You’re worrying about the wrong thing, Sass,’ Taslima says as she swings her ruckie on to her shoulder. ‘What you should be worrying about is whether or not we can get from here to Registration without Mr Smolle
tt spotting us and giving us detention.’
I think I am the luckiest girl on earth to have two bezzies like Cordelia and Taslima. I fly into such a panic sometimes, but Taslima can always calm me down and make me see things aren’t so bad. A problem, Taslima says, is just a challenge waiting for a solution. Cordelia, on the other hand, is the person you want on your side if you need protection. A quick flash from her green eyes sees off most pests.
We arrive breathlessly at Miss Peabody’s Registration class, but the door is closed. Not a good sign.
‘Let me do the talking,’ Cordelia whispers. Taslima and I nod our agreement. Because she writes the most amazingly imaginative stories,4 Miss Peabody thinks Cordelia is wonderful.
Cordelia opens the door and we follow her in. She’s just about to charm the handknitted socks off Miss Peabody when Midge Murphy shouts, ‘Give us a smile, Arizona Sally!’ Then he dives about making a camera shape with his hands and clicking furiously. Everyone’s laughing and the boys are whistling and my face is burning.
‘OK, girls,’ Miss Peabody sighs. ‘Just go to your seats. It’s really too early in the morning for all this celebrity stuff.’
Can you believe it? In history, last period this afternoon, Magnus Menzies passed me a note – asking me out! Apparently he thinks the piece in the paper is great. Any publicity is good publicity, he says. And as he was voted Most Desirable Boy in S1,5 he thinks we’d make a ‘hot couple’. But I have already been out with Magnus Menzies. I was young and naive and it all ended badly. My deep emotional scars are still healing and I have no desire to re-open them. The boy must be a raving lunatic if he thinks I would ever go out with him again!
In fact I was scribbling all that down, describing in detail why he is the person I am least likely to go out with EVER – coming last after:
1. Smelly Smollett
2. Osama Bin Laden
3. Mr Bean
when, tragically, the bell rang and I didn’t get the chance to pass it to him.
Cordelia, Taslima and me link arms as we spill out of school, and guess what? Everyone seems to have completely forgotten about the piece in the paper!