Seriously Sassy: Crazy Days

by Maggi Gibson

‘I’ve found this great website where you can sign up to petitions protesting against cruelty to animals,’ Twig says as we wander along the path at the edge of Bluebell Wood.

  ‘Sounds cool.’ I edge closer to him so we’re almost bumping shoulders. My free hand accidentally brushes his and I’m thinking I’ll maybe just GRAB his hand – when suddenly he breaks into a sprint! Seconds later he’s on top of the high stone wall that edges the pavement.

  ‘Yeah,’ he shouts down, like it’s the most natural thing in the world that his feet are now level with my eyes. ‘I’ll send you the link. Animals can’t speak for themselves, so it’s important we speak up for them.’

  Then he leaps from the wall, cartwheels twice and lands, his arms wide like an Olympic gymnast, in front of me.

  ‘Very good. Twelve out of ten,’ I smile. Cos hey, maybe Twig doesn’t quite get the hand-holding thing, but he does know how to surprise me!

  When we get to my house Brewster’s dozing on the front door step. As soon as Twig sees him he drops to his knees and fusses over him. Happily, Brewster rolls over on to his back to get his tummy tickled. Hmmphh, old Brewster’s getting more attention than me6, I think ruefully as I chuck my ruckie towards the coat stand, and I’m about to go into the kitchen to ask Mum if there’s been any message yet from Y-Generation when Dad comes rushing out of his office.

  ‘Sassy! At last!’ he says, all excited.

  I hold my breath – and wait for him to say that Y-Generation has called. Instead he holds up a banana-coloured waistcoat thing studded with reflectors, and a fluorescent bike helmet with a flashing light like a radioactive lemon stuck on top. It’s totally ridiculous.

  I look at my dad in horror. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s new safety gear – part of a government drive to improve the safety of teen cyclists,’ he prattles.

  ‘And we would like you,’ Digby, Dad’s assistant, chips in, his face shiny with enthusiasm, ‘to cycle to school every day next week wearing it –’

  ‘To make it seem cool and trendy,’ Dad adds eagerly.

  I cast a horrified eye over the waistcoat. Not only is it shapeless, it’s made from some atrocious shiny nylon stuff.

  ‘Go on, Sassy. Try it on. Let’s see what it looks like,’ Dad urges.

  ‘Count me out on this one, Dad. No one could make that stuff look trendy.’

  ‘I can make it worth your while.’ Dad follows me into the kitchen. Honestly! He used to be quite straightforward, but now he’s a politician he thinks nothing of using bribery and corruption to get his way.

  ‘Dad,’ I say patiently as I chop a kiwi and pop it in the smoothie-maker with some ice, ‘you can’t buy me off. I don’t need your help in getting a demo disc any more.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pip dances through the kitchen with a tiny hamster clinging for dear life to her shoulder. ‘Sassy’s got her own recording deal now.’

  ‘Well, not quite yet. Did Y-Generation call today?’ I toss in a handful of frozen berries and a dollop of ice cream. ‘I mean, if they don’t hurry up I’m probably going to have a nervous breakdown from all the stress of waiting –’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not …’ Dad looks sympathetic for a moment, then brightens. ‘So that means I can still bribe you!’ He dangles the cycle waistcoat in front of me.

  ‘No way! I have my image to look after.’ I press the button and the blender pulverizes the fruit. ‘I mean, what if the paparazzi caught me in that hideous outfit?’ I shout above the din.

  He doesn’t get the chance to answer, cos guess what? The doorbell rings. I dash through to the living room and peer out the window. A Y-Generation car’s parked outside – exactly as Cordelia predicted!

  ‘HOLY GUACAMOLE!’ I shout. ‘It’s Ben and Zing!’

  Just then the old grandfather clock in the hall chimes, Brewster starts barking and Mum shouts from the living room, ‘I’m on the phone can someone get the door please!’

  I’m already there, Twig on my heels, my whole future flashing in front of me, my heart thumping. This is it. At last, Sassy Wilde, aged thirteen and a bit, is about to get her big break!

  5

  As I open the door for Ben and Zing I swear I am just one ginormous quivering lump of jelly.

  Fortunately, Mum finishes her phone call and takes control, ushering everyone into the kitchen. We sit at the big pine table in exactly the same seats we sat on when Ben and Zing came to offer me the chance of making a demo disc a few weeks back. I can hardly believe that so much has happened in such a short space of time! Twig stands quietly by the window. Dad and Digby come through. And Pip, her hamster now cradled carefully in her hand, perches on a bar stool.

  Then there’s a silence. A big, heavy, awkward silence.

  Ben clears his throat, but even before he says anything I know I’m not going to like what I hear. It’s like he’s got a banner hanging above his head with BAD NEWS written in big bold letters.

  ‘I might as well get straight to the point,’ Ben says. ‘I’m sorry, Sassy. Y-Generation have decided not to sign you.’

  For a minute I think he’s actually said, ‘Y-Generation are delighted to sign you.’ But I know that’s just my stupid brain clutching at straws. Then it’s like I’m falling under water, sinking, sinking, bubbles rushing up past my ears.

  ‘We really, really are sorry.’ Zing’s voice echoes as if from far away. ‘We did our best to convince the Board of Directors. We told them how brilliant you were at the Wiccaman festival, how you electrified the crowd.’

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop the tears coming.

  ‘We did our best,’ Ben repeats softly. ‘We really did, Sass.’

  Mum stops making coffee and comes over and puts an arm round me. Digby slips quietly from the room. Twig looks shocked.

  ‘So what happened? I mean … why not? I don’t understand …’ I stammer, the tears brimming over and streaming down my cheeks. Silently Pip passes her hamster to Twig and comes over and wraps her arms round me too.

  Ben sighs heavily. ‘It was Paradiso’s. They blocked it.’

  ‘Paradiso’s?’ Mum gasps. ‘What have Paradiso’s got to do with who you sign?’

  ‘They’re one of Y-Generation’s biggest outlets,’ Zing explains. ‘If Paradiso’s won’t stock our CDs, then we go under.’

  ‘And they were so furious with Sassy’s attack on them at the Wiccaman festival,’ Ben continues, ‘that’s what they were threatening to do. Sassy accused Paradiso’s of using child labour, on national TV. It was seen by millions.’

  ‘Yeah, even Taslima’s mum saw it,’ Twig mutters quietly.

  ‘So that’s it, Sassy. I’m sorry, but Y-Generation simply can’t afford to sign you. We’d be risking the whole company if we did.’ Zing’s voice is businesslike. ‘We didn’t want to let you know by phone. We felt we should at least come in person. We know it must be a huge disappointment.’

  Ben stands and takes his car keys from his pocket. ‘I’d like you to know, Mr and Mrs Wilde, that I think your daughter has a huge talent. What’s more I think she’s a great kid. If there was any way I could help get her music out there, believe you me – I’d do it. But I can’t see what can be done. I’m sorry.’

  Ben squeezes my shoulder as he leaves.

  ‘Never mind, love,’ Dad says supportively. ‘I’m sure there are other recording companies –’

  ‘Look, I hope you don’t think it’s cruel of me to say this, Mr Wilde,’ Zing says quietly as she goes to follow Ben out, ‘but it’s probably best you don’t hold out false hopes. If a huge organization like Paradiso’s has blacklisted Sassy, then no other company’s going to come near. I’m sorry, Sassy. Realistically there’s nowh
ere you can go from here.’

  I feel Mum stiffening. ‘I’ll show you out,’ she says coldly.

  The phone rings and Dad goes to answer it. Twig looks at me.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ he says, his face pale.

  I open my mouth to speak. I want to be brave, say it doesn’t matter, it was just a recording deal, that I’m glad I made my stand against people who use child labour, that I know I did the right thing, I can hold my head high – but the words won’t come. Instead a big sob surges up and out of my mouth. Distraught, I turn on my heel, stumble up to my room and slam the door.

  As I throw myself on to my bed and shove my face into the pillow, all my disappointment floods out, unstoppable, like an angry river that’s burst its banks. My whole body shakes and sobs and hurts.

  This is so unfair! All I ever try to do is the right thing!

  So why, oh why, oh why does everyone think I’m trouble?

  As the sound of Ben and Zing’s car fades into the distance, my dreams and hopes fade with them.

  After a few minutes Mum taps gently on my room door. ‘Sassy, can I come in?’

  I make a snuffly noise into the pillow. It means Go away and leave me alone to die, please, but obviously Mum doesn’t understand sob-language, cos next minute she’s sitting on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair.

  ‘Are you OK, honey?’ Mum’s voice is soft.

  I shake my head without looking up. With a heave Mum hoists dear old Brewster up on to the bed beside me. Still sobbing into my pillow, I stretch out an arm and pull him close.

  Then Mum shuts the bedroom curtains, picks my favourite fleecy blanket up from the floor and tucks it over me.

  ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me,’ Mum whispers into my hair. ‘I know it’s a big disappointment, but there’s sure to be a way round it. There always is.’

  As she leaves she quietly closes the door. Brewster snuggles into me like he really understands, and licks the tears from my face with his rough tongue.

  That night I don’t go down for dinner. I can’t.

  Eventually Dad brings up a big mug of tea and a salad sandwich. But I’m way too distraught to eat, so I leave them sitting on the bedside table till the tea grows a milky film on top and the bread curls at the edges.

  After a while I hear a tapping on my window. I guess Twig’s climbed up into the branches outside.

  ‘Sassy,’ says Twig’s voice. ‘It’s me… can I come in?’

  ‘I don’t want to see anyone.’ With all the sobbing my voice kinda croaks and I’m not sure whether or not he hears.

  A few minutes pass and I’m wondering if he’s still there, when he starts playing a tune on his tin whistle – a melancholy tune that matches exactly the way I feel – and as I listen, one final little tear seeps out of the corner of my eye and trickles down my cheek.

  Then he plays a silly lively tune where he keeps hitting the wrong notes. I’ve never heard Twig hit wrong notes before and my brain knows he’s doing it to try to make me smile. But I can’t. My heart is frozen solid.

  ‘I’m going to stay out here till you open your curtains,’ Twig’s voice calls after a while. Then he starts playing again and before I know it, I drift off to sleep …

  When I wake, the room’s full of shadows. I glance at the clock – 9.15. For a wonderful moment I think it’s morning! That Ben and Zing’s visit has been no more than a bad dream. Then I realize it’s 9.15 IN THE EVENING. There was no bad dream. The visit was real … and I feel worse than ever.

  I drag myself over to the window, open the curtains a chink and stare into the green leaves outside. But Twig’s gone. And I can’t say I blame him. As I pad back across my room I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A wreck of a girl, with greasy hair, a blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes. Unhappily I throw myself on to the bed. It was a mistake ever to think I could be anyone’s girlfriend. I should call Twig right now. Tell him he doesn’t have to be my boyfriend any more. That he’s free to find himself someone else. Someone who’s fun to be around. Someone with a future.

  And I’m just thinking I might become a recluse and take a vow of silence and never leave my room again, when somewhere in the rumple of my duvet my mobile starts ringing. Of course, when I eventually detect it, it stops. Then almost immediately a text message pings in: Ben told me. Y-Gen r FOOLS! So so sorry, Sassy. Spk soon. Phoenix :o( xxx

  As I read, my heart – which I honestly thought was dead – flutters.

  Then another text pings in: Anything I can do – just ask. P x

  My little bird of a heart lifts its head and opens one eye … as another text pings in: It would be good to see you soon …x

  My heart staggers to its feet, and despite myself I feel a smile twitch at the corners of my mouth.

  Troubled, I flump back on my pillows. How come a text message from Phoenix Macleod is the only thing that makes me feel alive again?!

  Just then the phone in the hall rings and – can you believe it? – for a split second my treacherous heart hopes it will be Phoenix calling on the landline. There’s a clatter as Pip skips through from the living room, then her phone-answering voice chirps, ‘This is the Wilde residence. Philippa Wilde, model, actress and all-round-highly-talented person speaking. How can I help you?’

  Next minute she thunders upstairs and bursts into my room. ‘It’s Cordelia,’ she says breathlessly as she pushes the cordless phone into my hand. ‘She knows everything.’ And before I can protest that I’m not taking any calls, Pip disappears.

  With a sigh I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Listen, you don’t have to explain,’ Cordelia says quickly.7 ‘But if there’s anything I can do, just ask.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘I guess I’ll be fine.’

  ‘So what about school tomorrow? Do you think you’ll make it?’ Cordelia’s voice is full of concern.

  ‘I just want to stay in bed for a while,’ I sniff. ‘Like three thousand years or something. So no, I won’t be at school.’

  ‘What about tomorrow’s sleepover?’ Cordelia asks.

  ‘I’d really rather not. I just want to be on my own for a while.’

  ‘No probs,’ Cordelia says. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. Remember we’re your bezzies. We don’t care about record deals and we’ll never buy any Y-Generation CDs again. Or shop at Paradiso’s. And Sassy –’ she pauses. ‘Don’t ask me how I know this … but things aren’t as bad as you think. They’re gonna work out OK. I’ve got this gut feeling about it, y’know?’

  I say bye to Cordelia, then set the phone on my bedside table and lie and stare at the ceiling. After a while I pick it up again. Cos I figure Cordelia’s right. Bezzies should always be there for you. And right now more than anything I need to talk to Taslima. She always knows how to make me feel better when I’m at my lowest. In any case, as I’m not going to be a ‘pop star’ now, Mrs Ankhar can’t have a problem with me any more, can she?

  Quickly I punch in Taslima’s number.

  ‘Hello?’ says Mrs Ankhar’s voice.

  ‘Can I speak to Taslima, please?’ I say extra-super-politely.

  ‘Who is this?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Sassy.’

  ‘Taslima can’t come to the phone right now,’ Mrs Ankhar says sharply. ‘And I’m waiting for an important call, so please don’t call back.’

  AND THEN SHE HANGS UP!

  I stare at the phone in disbelief. Only last week my life was so GOOD. I was on track for making it as a singer, I had a brand-new boyfriend and two brilliant best buds. And now? Now everything is spoiled. I’ve lost Taslima, I’m all muddled up about Twig and Phoenix, and I’ve blown my one chance at a
record deal.

  Honestly! My life is in TATTERS. And there’s NOTHING I can do to make it any better.

  All night Dad snores like an orang-utan with a bad cold, Houdini spins furiously in his hamster wheel, Brewster whimpers in his sleep like he’s having scary dreams, the owl in Bluebell Wood hoots … and I lie awake.

  As dawn breaks, soft shadows creep slowly across the ceiling, until eventually sunlight filters through the curtains and the room fills with colour.

  At half past eight Mum brings me a smoothie made with all my fave fruits. ‘Your dad made this for you specially,’ she says, her face all worried. She hands me a fancy stemmed glass with half a strawberry decorating the rim. I take a sip. It tastes sour and horrible.

  ‘I can’t get up, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t face anyone. Not yet. And I feel sick. Really sick. I can’t go to school. I don’t want to see anyone. So can I stay in bed? Please?’

  Frowning, Mum puts a hand on my brow. ‘I suppose you do look tired and a bit pale …’

  ‘Just today?’ I plead.

  Mum takes a deep breath. ‘You promise you’ll go back to school on Monday? No nonsense?’

  I nod my head vigorously.

  ‘OK, sweetie.’ She smoothes my hair. ‘Have a quiet day today. I know this has all been a big shock and disappointment. You’ll feel much better tomorrow.’

  ‘Mum,’ I sniff. ‘Last night you said I’d feel better tomorrow. But now today is last night’s tomorrow – and guess what? I don’t feel better at all.’

  I turn over and push my face into the pillow. With some luck I’ll fall asleep and suffocate. And why? Cos not only am I miserable and a loser, but now I’m HORRIBLE too. Mum was being lovely to me, and what did I do? I told her a WHOPPING GREAT BIG LIE.

  I have no intention of going to school on Monday. In fact, if I don’t accidentally wake up dead – which is my preferred option – I might never leave my room again.

  Friday morning drags on forever. But I don’t care. I may as well face up to it. This is what the rest of my life is going to be like. If I can’t sing, there’s no point in me doing anything. It’s the only thing I was ever good at.