Seriously Sassy: Crazy Days

by Maggi Gibson

  Then, when I go into The Pig Pen20 to pick my clean school shirt off the floor – where I have EVERY right to leave it overnight if I want to – Mrs Houdini is asleep on it. Which would be fine if it was just a bit warm, hairy and hamster-smelly – but she’s PEED on it!

  Of course, I run downstairs screaming to Mum, who is sitting writing out a cake recipe from Cakes in Two Shakes – only to discover she put ALL my other shirts in the wash last night and they are still sodden wet in the machine.

  ‘Put on a T-shirt,’ Mum says calmly. ‘Look, I’ll write you a note.’ She tears another sheet from her writing pad. ‘Then if anyone says anything about you not wearing a proper school shirt, they’ll know it’s not your fault. OK? Crisis over?’

  But the crisis isn’t over. Cos my dad, instead of putting on his frilly apron and serving up coffee and smoothies and toast like a NORMAL dad would, is running around crazily looking for some important papers he’s lost. Honestly. It’s one thing me not being able to find things in the morning, like a missing sock or shoe or a science workbook, but you’d think a fully-grown parental could be a bit better organized.

  In the end I pull on my SAVE THE PLANET – IT’S THE ONLY ONE WE’VE GOT T-shirt, gulp down a glass of milk, grab the note Mum wrote, and rocket out the door.

  So much for hoping to get in early before registration, I think as I sprint towards the school. With all the panic over my shirt, I am now not only NOT early, I am HORRENDOUSLY late.

  As soon as I enter the playground Lanky Lovelace – who absolutely hates me – swoops, his tiny red shorts glowing in the early morning sunshine.

  ‘OK, OK, no sweat,’ I say as he directs me to join the other latecomers waiting at the school office. ‘I was wanting to see Mr Smollett anyway, thank you.’ He glowers at me and I feel a little rush of delight that I’ve annoyed him by being polite.

  At the glass window of the school office I tag on at the end of a straggle of latecomers, all yawning and scratching themselves. Most of them look like they could do with a dose of Pip’s skin-freshening regime. The girl in front of me glances sleepily at my T-shirt and smiles.

  One by one they sign the late register, take a slip and disappear to their registration classes. But when I get to the front of the queue, I ring the bell. Miss Crump frowns at me over her morning cuppa, then slowly comes over and even more slowly slides the glass window open.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Smollett, please,’ I say with my best smile. ‘It’s important. And urgent.’

  Miss Crump narrows her dead-fish eyes. ‘Take a seat and I’ll see if he’s free,’ she says snippily. Then she disappears.

  Twenty minutes later I’m still waiting and getting a horrible feeling of déjà vu. I wiggle my toes to stave off premature deep vein thrombosis.

  Twenty-two minutes later Miss Crump at last informs me I can go through to the Head’s office. I stand up carefully and am secretly pleased that this time the chair doesn’t make a disgusting noise. For the first time today things are starting to work in my favour.

  Smollett looks up from his desk as I enter, and I’m about to launch into my spiel about the concert and how we need the hall, when his scowl stops me.

  ‘What is THAT you’re wearing?’ he says in a low growl.

  I glance down at my T-shirt. ‘Oh, there was a problem with my school shirt, Sir. The hamster … errr … peed … on the last clean one and Mum had only gone and put all the rest in the wash last night so they were totally sodden wet.’ Suddenly I remember the note. I dig it from my pocket and hand it over with a flourish.

  As Smollett opens it and smoothes it out his frown deepens. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he says. ‘Or is it some kind of dare?’

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice faltering. ‘It’s a note from my mum. About my shirt.’

  ‘Really?’ he says, placing the open note in front of me. Quickly I scan the first few words.

  SWEET LOVE CAKES

  4 eggs

  8 oz flour

  8 oz butter

  vanilla essence …

  ‘Ooops!’ All the blood in my body rushes up to my face as, embarrassed, I snatch the note back. ‘Looks like I brought the wrong note, Sir. But the thing is, the real reason I’m here is, well, you know how there’s been that earthquake in Pakistan? Well, my friend Taslima, she’s in my class, she’s gone out there with her mum and we – that is Eco Club – we want to do our bit to help so we’re gonna do this fundraising concert thing and I’m gonna sing, so we wanted to know if we could have the school hall some lunchtime –’

  ‘Stop right there!’ Smollett booms, getting up out of his seat. ‘You want to know if you can have the school hall one lunchtime?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it,’ I confirm with a hopeful smile. ‘Preferably in the next week.’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ he says, pacing back and forth behind his desk. ‘You, Sassy Wilde, a girl who led a walk-out from this school not two months ago, a girl who came in late this morning – oh yes, I saw you from my window! A girl who constantly flouts the school uniform rules, who almost caused a riot in assembly, who lied to me about having a note from her mother … You want me to let you use the school hall so you can get up on stage and sing your atrocious pop songs?’

  For a brief second I think about putting him right on the ‘pop’ songs bit. But his baldy head’s glowing like a radioactive radish. I’m no nurse, but I suspect he has high blood pressure and his cranium is about to explode.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ I nod. ‘That’s about it. But it is for a good cause.’

  It’s after lunch before I get out of the sin bin.

  It was not a pleasant experience. A horrible little First Year boy pinged paper bullets at me every time the teacher wasn’t looking. And a Fourth Year with a shaved head sent me a note saying he’d like me to be his girlfriend and would I meet him at lunchtime behind the PE block.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, all I had to look forward to on my release was the prospect of explaining to my friends that I’d completely blown our chances of ever getting the school hall.

  As soon as I appear in class everyone flocks round me to find out how on earth I ended up in such BIG trouble. They listen in silence as I detail the trials and tribulations of my day so far.

  ‘What sort of idiot are you?’ Magnus explodes. ‘We were all supposed to be doing this concert thing together. The whole Eco Club. You should’ve waited and spoken to the rest of us. I could’ve asked Smollett for the school hall, then we would’ve got it, no problem.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair,’ Cordelia counters him with a flash of her eyes. ‘Sassy did what she did for the right reasons.’

  ‘Yeah, but let’s face it, Magnus has a point,’ I mumble, biting my lip to stop it quivering. ‘Look at him. Everything about him’s perfect. He gets straight As. Always has a perfect uniform. Never gets into trouble. A star pupil. He’s right. If he’d asked, Smollett would’ve said yes. I’m sorry. I guess I just got over-enthusiastic. I’ve blown it.’

  Sindi-Sue puts a comforting arm round me and fires Magnus a look. ‘I don’t think you should be so mean to Sassy,’ she says quietly. ‘She was trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘OK, OK!’ Magnus takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Sass. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Like, am I totally missin’ somefin’ here?’ Midge pops up from under his desk. ‘Like, is the school hall the only hall in town?’

  Cordelia looks at Midge, her green eyes wide with amazement. ‘You’re a genius, Midge!’ she exclaims. ‘Of course there’s another hall. The TOWN hall! Maybe we could get the town hall!’

  ‘Yeah, that would be awesome,’ Sindi-Sue sa
ys, suddenly excited. ‘Then we could do it in the evening, like on a Friday or Saturday, and get tons more peeps. It could be like a REAL concert. We could all get dressed up and everything.’

  ‘Errr … I don’t want to be the one to put a downer on things,’ Magnus butts in. ‘But you really think they’re going to let a bunch of kids hire the town hall?’

  Everyone’s silent for a moment. Then Megan pipes up, ‘Yes! I bet they will – if Sassy’s dad asks! I mean, he’s our MP, isn’t he? That’s got to be worth something.’

  ‘So will your dad do it, Sassy?’ Magnus says and everyone turns to stare at me.

  ‘Course he will.’ I try to sound more confident than I feel. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t he?’

  Twig’s not at the school gate today, which is just as well, cos I’m a Girl on a Mission. And a G on an M does not have time for a love life, especially one that’s turned a bit complicated. I desperately need to prove to my friends that I can do something right. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can get Dad to phone the town hall.

  But when I get home, Dad’s ‘office’ door is firmly shut, and on it in huge black letters it says,

  MP AT WORK – DO NOT DISTURB!

  Which is a pretty daft thing for an MP to put on his door! I mean, surely he’d want to know if, say, Tobermory had been hit by a tsunami, or the Third World War had broken out in Poland or … the Queen had popped her royal clogs?

  So I’m about to burst in and say that I’ve got a bit of an emergency, i.e. I need him to book the town hall for the Earthquake Relief Fund concert right away – when Pip materializes at my side.

  ‘There’s no point,’ she says. ‘He’s not there. I just checked. We have an absent father. And it’s worse!’ She waves a piece of paper under my nose. ‘This note I just found on the kitchen table says Mum won’t be home tonight to make our tea.’ Pip looks at her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘I mean, I used to worry about getting too FAT, but since Mum started helping Cathy at the cake shop I swear I’m getting that malny-trishin thingy.’

  ‘M-A-L-N-U-T-R-I-T-I-O-N,’ I spell for her. ‘And now you come to mention it, Pip, you’re absolutely right. There’s hardly been a cake or cookie in the house this past week. We are seriously at risk of becoming neglected children. But I don’t suppose there’s much we can do. Not till our delinquent parentals come home!’

  While I wait for Dad to get back, I find what grub I can for me and Pip, then up in my room I start getting together a playlist of as many songs as possible. I’ve been writing my own songs for over a year now, so fortunately I’ve got quite a few.

  I’m happily belting out ‘My Imaginary Friend’s Not Sweet’ to see if it’s good enough for the concert, when I hear the front door open. There’s a familiar clatter as Dad chucks his car keys on the hall table. Quickly I lay my guitar on my bed and go thundering downstairs, but not before Pip’s got Dad cornered, holding out an empty bowl, her eyes big and round like an exceptionally pretty Oliver Twist.

  ‘What on earth’s the problem?’ Dad stares at the bowl, bewildered.

  ‘I’m hungry, Dad,’ Pip looks up at him, her lip quivering. ‘Mum’s not coming home till later, so I thought you might like to cook for us? As a special treat?’

  I’m about to put in my much more simple request – one quick phone call to the town hall – when Dad runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘Sorry, Pip, but those important papers I couldn’t find this morning are still missing. NOTHING else can be done till I find them!’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Pip says brightly, as she pops her bowl on the hall table. ‘Me and Sassy will help you find your missing papers, then you make our tea. Deal?’ She reaches her tiny red-nailed fingers out and Dad takes her hand and shakes.

  ‘It’s a deal, princess. And hopefully you won’t die of starvation before they turn up. They really are very important.’

  As we follow Dad and Digby I have a flash of the future: I find Dad’s Very Important Papers, and he’s so overcome with gratitude he immediately calls the town hall and books it for the concert.

  But when I see inside the dining room my jaw drops open in horror. Honestly, it’s like there’s been a whirlwind in a paper factory!

  ‘Errr … I’m afraid we got into a bit of a muddle earlier …’ Digby says apologetically.

  ‘You still don’t have a filing system?’ I gasp.

  ‘We’re waiting for the filing cabinets to be delivered,’ Dad explains. ‘And yes, there is a system. Or at least there was. Before we started to look for the papers. I absolutely need them for a meeting first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, taking charge. (It’s pretty obvious someone has to!) ‘Let’s work out a strategy, a modus operandi.’21 Digby looks impressed, but already Pip’s distracted. She’s found a rather attractive lime green highlighter and is trying it out, doodling a row of smiley faces along the top of a letter. ‘There’s four of us. Right? There are four corners in the room. Right? We can each take a corner and work in towards the centre. That way, if the papers are here, we’re sure to find them.’

  Dad bites his lip and nods. ‘Sounds like a plan,’ he says. ‘I really appreciate this, girls. In fact, find the missing papers and we can get takeaway pizzas for tea if you like.’

  Pip and I whoop with delight. We LOVE takeaway pizzas.

  ‘And there’s a small favour I need too …’ I say quickly as I choose a corner to start from. ‘Me and my friends want to do a fundraising concert for the earthquake disaster. But we need the town hall. So would you call them for us? Tonight?’

  ‘Sassy,’ Dad says, ‘you find my missing papers and I’ll call the Queen Mother for you.’

  ‘Ahem,’ Digby interrupts quietly. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’ll call the Queen,’ Dad smiles.

  ‘No need,’ I grin, pushing my sleeves up, ready for some hard graft. ‘Just call the town hall, see if you can book it for as soon as possible. That will be great.’ Whoop! I can’t believe it was so easy to get Dad onside!

  ‘So,’ says Pip, putting the highlighter down and choosing the far corner by the shredding machine. ‘Tell us exactly what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘The papers we’re looking for are quite distinctive. For a start, they’re pink –’

  ‘Quite a pretty shade, actually,’ Digby adds.

  ‘PINK?!’ Pip gasps.

  Dad and Digby stare at Pip. Her face blushes, well, pink. Then deepens to raspberry.

  Dad’s eyes narrow. ‘Oh no, Pip. You’ve done something with the papers, haven’t you?’

  She clamps her mouth tight shut and shakes her head. Dad glances at Pip’s highlighter doodles.

  ‘You haven’t used them to draw on, have you?’ Digby asks, ashen-faced.

  Pip shakes her head. ‘Worse than that,’ she mumbles.

  ‘You’ve cut them up into paper dolls?’ Dad ventures.

  ‘Worse than that,’ Pip says, her voice a tiny whisper. She throws me a look, but I’m stunned into silence. Something that doesn’t happen very often.

  ‘You still have the papers, then?’ Hope flickers in Digby’s eyes.

  Pip nods and smiles. Digby thinks it’s a smile that means everything’s going to be fine. But I recognize it as a smile of pain, a smile that means things are worse than you could ever imagine. A smile that says, Please don’t kill me when I tell you the truth.

  ‘So can we have them back?’ Digby makes for the door. ‘Whatever she’s done, Angus,’ he calls over his shoulder as he bounds upstairs two-at-a-time, ‘I’m sure we can salvage them.’

  We all follow Digby into Pip’s room. Digby looks around The Pi
nk Palace. ‘OK, Pip,’ he smiles encouragingly. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going to be angry. Where are the papers?’

  Pip goes over to her hamster cage. Dad follows, his smile fading. He peers inside. Mrs Houdini peers back. And that’s when Dad realizes the awful truth.

  ‘PIP!’ he gasps. ‘How could you? You’ve used important government papers to line the floor of your hamster cage!’

  Angrily, Dad unclips the cage door, just as a dark pink stain spreads from underneath Mrs Houdini across the last unsoiled few centimetres, turning them as dark a shade of puce as Dad’s face.

  ‘Do you mind!’ Pip snaps, angrily pushing Dad aside. ‘You’ve frightened Mrs Houdini!’ She puts her hand in the open cage door, gently pushes Mrs Houdini to one side and, in a flurry of wood shavings and tiny hamster poo, she tugs out the sodden pink papers and thrusts them at Dad. ‘Here! You can have your stinky papers!’

  Which is when Dad loses it. ‘Pip! You’re grounded!’ he splutters, his voice higher-pitched than a baby Houdini’s. ‘For a week! And there will be no pizza for you tonight, young lady. You can be sure of that!’

  Tears spring up in Pip’s eyes. For a split second I think of sneaking out of the door and disappearing. A kind of tactical withdrawal from the battlefield. Maybe if Pip takes all the blame, Dad might still call the town hall. Maybe …

  But I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair. After all, Pip didn’t use the papers to line the hamster cage. I did.

  ‘It’s not Pip to blame,’ I pipe up as my heart plummets. ‘Pip had nothing to do with it. I used the pink paper. When I was doing one of my good deeds.’ I sigh heavily. There goes any chance of us getting the town hall. Struggling not to burst into tears, I blurt, ‘But it’s not my fault – not totally! The papers were sitting on the pile for shredding. If you had a proper filing system, things like this wouldn’t happen, would they?’

  Dad turns towards me, his face still puce. Digby takes the soiled papers from his hand and disappears downstairs with them. A faint stink of hamster pee lingers. Pip slips silently across the room, stands shoulder to shoulder with me like she’s saying, We’re both in this together. As she slips her hand into mine, I squeeze it gratefully. Then Dad takes a deep breath.