Seriously Sassy: Crazy Days

by Maggi Gibson

  They were sleeping, they were dreaming

  That the world would always be the same.

  They were sleeping, they were dreaming

  When the storms and the earthquakes came …

  But I don’t get any further, cos just then my mobile starts ringing. I grab it from the bedside table and check the caller ID.

  The mobile continues to ring in my hand while my brain turns into a boxing ring with two separate bits of me slugging it out.

  IMPETUOUS ME – in the red corner, complete with boxing gloves and helmet and a scarlet dress – wants me to answer right away! Cos it’s Phoenix and it loves the thrill it gets when it hears his voice.

  But LOYAL ME – in the white corner, complete with soft white flowing dress, glittery angel wings and luminescent halo – says No! You are officially Twig’s girlfriend, Sassy. You shouldn’t be having phone conversations with any other chico.

  The mobile’s still ringing. And before LOYAL ME can stop her, IMPETUOUS ME whips off her boxing glove and presses Answer.

  ‘Hey, Sassy!’ Phoenix’s voice mainlines into my ear. (IMPETUOUS ME punches the air triumphantly. LOYAL ME sulks.) ‘Got you at last! I thought you were never going to answer. So how are things?’

  ‘G-great,’ I stammer as I try not to let my increased heart rate make me sound like Brewster after he’s chased next-door’s cat. Then my brain disconnects from my tongue and I’m off! ‘Actually-I’m-going-to-be-singing-next-Saturday. Me-and-some-friends-are-getting-a-band-together. Just-a-teensy-gig-in-the-town-hall –’

  ‘That’s great news!’ Phoenix interrupts, which is just as well cos I’m at serious risk of hyperventilation! ‘You know, I was worried you wouldn’t sing again after that recording deal knock-back. But you have to, Sassy. Singing’s like breathing for people like us. We can’t live without it.’

  The way Phoenix says ‘people like us’ makes my heart stop in its tracks. So much so that suddenly I can’t speak at all. And neither does Phoenix. And in that silence something invisible, something magical seems to happen between us.

  ‘I wish I could make your concert,’ he says at last and IMPETUOUS ME swoons. ‘I’m going to New York for my first ever US tour Sunday week. But listen, I was thinking, when I get back … maybe we could meet up?’

  IMPETUOUS ME wants to shout YES! into the phone, but LOYAL ME clamps her hand over IMPETUOUS ME’S mouth.

  ‘Sassy, are you still there?’ Phoenix asks.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ I stammer. ‘Meet up? Yeah, that would be great.’ IMPETUOUS ME does a victory lap of my brain while LOYAL ME slumps off miserably into the corner, her halo drooping.

  Then we chat about what fun it was at the Wiccaman festival and how awful it must be for Taslima in the earthquake zone.

  ‘OK,’ he says after a while. ‘I’ll have to go now. Have a good one next Saturday.’

  I say ‘I’ll try’, I say ‘Thanks for phoning’, I say ‘Bye’.

  Then I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, my brain churning round and round, all my thoughts in a tangle like tights in a washing machine. Thoughts about Twig and Phoenix and whether I should have told Phoenix I couldn’t meet up with him ever. Or whether I should tell Twig I don’t think the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing is really working for me.

  But as I get ready for bed I realize it’s not just Twig and Phoenix I’m confused about. It’s me … Cos sometimes it feels like I’m not just one person – but two, or even three different people, all at the same time. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, as if I might be able to see who I really am.

  I wonder if Tas would say that being confused about yourself is all part of growing up. All part of being thirteen. All part of changing from the little girl I was to the woman26 I’m going to be.

  Or maybe she’d say that feeling like I’m three different people all at once is a sure sign of insanity!

  I wander back through to The Pig Pen, get into bed and pull the duvet up round my ears. And with thoughts of Phoenix and Twig and Tas and IMPETUOUS ME and LOYAL ME and even MIXED-UP ME all swirling round and round in my brain, I drift into a hot and troubled sleep …

  … and into the weirdest dream.

  I’m in Fossil Grove Old Folks’ Home. I mean IN it, LIVING in it. I’m very old and very sad and the nurse has ordered me to go to see the resident psychologist.

  I take my little-old-lady walking frame and totter through to a room with PSYCHOLOGIST on the door. Inside there’s a desk, a couch and a big weeping fig plant. A woman in a white coat stands by the window, her back to me.

  I gasp as she turns.

  ‘Maybe you remember me?’ she says. ‘Taslima Ankhar – Dr Taslima Ankhar. We were at school together. I’ve been told you’re having a problem with your depression. Would you like me to help you up on to the couch?’

  Tas helps me up and I lie back. She goes to her computer and presses a few buttons. ‘Just getting your files.’ She stares at the screen as it clicks and whirrs. ‘OK, so here’s your life so far. You met your husband, Twig, when you were thirteen,’ she reads. ‘You lived with him for the next fifty years, then he disappeared in the Amazonian Rainforest, trying to stop them killing the last Hairy-legged Slime Toad in the world. You’ve been in Fossil Grove Old Folks’ Home for the past two years, and you have suspected depression. Is that right?’

  I stare at Taslima. MARRIED TO TWIG FOR FIFTY YEARS!

  ‘I d-don’t know, Doctor,’ I stammer. ‘I- I can’t remember.’

  Taslima smiles. ‘It’s all here on your file, so it must be true. You must have loved him very much.’

  ‘But no,’ I gasp. ‘That is … I’m not sure.’

  Taslima’s eyes shoot up under her fringe. ‘So, you’re not sure? Well, let me ask you this – if you could turn time back, if you could have your life again, would you do anything different?’ She whips out a notebook and pen, just like she used to when we were best buds at school.

  I close my eyes and try to think. ‘That’s the thing,’ I say at last. ‘I really don’t know..’

  When Tas doesn’t say anything I open my eyes. Butshe’s gone. The weeping fig has gone. And I’m not on the psychologist’s couch, I’m in my bed and the alarm is ringing.

  Ringing, ringing, ringing.

  Holy Guacamole! I must have drifted back to sleep after my scary dream, and when I wake again it’s half nine, which means it’s gonna be a mad rush to get to Megan’s garage for our very first rehearsal at ten.

  I leap from my bed, pull on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, sling my guitar over my shoulder, grab a glass of fruit juice and a banana, and dash out. When I get to Megan’s she’s already at the back of the garage, dusting down her dad’s drum kit. Twig’s unravelling an extension cable and setting up a mike and some amplifiers. (Thank goodness he’s busy, cos I still feel a bit confused about the phone call from Phoenix last night, not to mention the dream.) Cordelia’s relaxing on a sun lounger, looking all witchy in a little black dress, her hair for once not tied up at all. Sindi-Sue’s perched on a stool and Beano’s not turned up yet.

  ‘I’ll be a fan, OK?’ Sindi-Sue grins with a flick of her long blonde hair. ‘I like being a fan!’

  ‘And I’ll be an impartial observer,’ Cordelia says, playing with a spider she’s found on the floor of the garage.

  ‘Oh, and Magnus phoned to say he’s already emailed the poster for the gig to us all,’ Megan announces – as if it is the most natural thing in the world for Magnus to call her!

  ‘I thought you had a problem with Magnus!’ Cordelia shouts above the din of Megan fixing the cymbals on her drum kit.

  �
��Yeah, after my party that time, I did.’ She silences them with her hand. ‘But he’s changed quite a lot since then. He walked all the way home with me and Twig last night. He’s really much more mature now.’

  ‘OK,’ says Twig, plugging a lead into his fiddle and pushing his flop of hair back. ‘We can’t wait forever for Beano. Maybe we should get started. If we can’t make it work with the three of us, Beano’s not gonna make a huge difference.’

  So I get my guitar out and tune it up and minutes later I’m singing ‘Why can’t people be more like dolphins?’ Tentatively, Megan adds in some drums at the back. Then Twig joins in. But even though it’s obvious that Twig’s a whizz on the fiddle, we find it hard to keep together and have to stop and start lots.

  ‘I know, like, I’m not the most musical person on the planet,’ Sindi-Sue says as we straggle to a halt. ‘But maybe it would help if you all just played really LOUD!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Megan batters her drums. ‘Isn’t that what the first punk bands did? My dad said half of them didn’t even know how to play their instruments. They just belted the songs out any old way!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sigh. ‘If people are paying to come and see us, we’ll have to be a bit better than that. I think we need a lead guitarist to keep us all together.’

  ‘Looks like we’ve got one,’ Twig says as a car drives up and Beano gets out. ‘Let’s hope he can actually play the thing.’

  We watch as Beano pulls a guitar and an amplifier from the boot, then waves as his mum drives off.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asks as he sets his stuff up.

  ‘Emmm … The truth? Not brilliantly, mate,’ Twig adjusts his bow. ‘We’ve just tried one song all the way through.’

  ‘And it was awful,’ Megan says dismally.

  ‘Aw, come on!’ Sindi-Sue protests. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  Suddenly, the whole futility of what we’re trying to do hits me. ‘Actually, it was. I guess it was a mad idea. I don’t think we can do it.’

  ‘Hey!’ Beano protests as he looks around for a socket to plug his amp in. ‘You’re not even prepared to give me a chance? See what I can do?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologize. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘Let Beano set up,’ Twig says encouragingly, ‘then we’ll try the dolphin song again. I think if we work at it we can make a half-decent sound.’

  So Beano gets tuned up. I strum a few times to take us into the song. Twig comes in on his fiddle and Megan adds the drums. We struggle all the way to the end of the second verse, better than before – but Beano hasn’t played at all. Besides, he looks way too relaxed.

  As we do the lead into the third verse, Twig and Megan exchange a look, and I guess they’re thinking what I’m thinking. That Beano can’t actually play. It would be typical. So many boys get a fancy lead guitar and then they pose in front of their bedroom mirrors, play a couple of chords and think that’s all there is to it.

  Then suddenly he’s playing along, his long brown fingers quick and nimble. And the sound he’s producing isn’t just OK, it’s fantastic!

  When at last we reach the end, Sindi-Sue and Cordelia whoop and clap.

  ‘Wow, man. You really know how to play that thing,’ Twig says, impressed.

  ‘Been playing since I was six,’ Beano smiles his quiet smile.

  ‘Yeah, and we’ve been in the same class since we were five, so how come I never knew?’ I ask, curious as to how he’d never said, when he knew I was so into singing.

  ‘I guess I just never thought to mention it.’ Beano smiles shyly and flexes his fingers.

  ‘OK, you guys!’ Cordelia interrupts. ‘Back to work. You’ve got a gig on Saturday and an hour’s worth of songs to get together. You don’t have time to relax.’

  ‘Who wants to relax?’ I strum my guitar. STRUM STRUM STRUM. ‘This is rock ’n’ roll, baby. Let’s do it!’

  28

  Saturday. The day of the gig! And I am SO wound up. Last weekend we each emailed everyone on our contact lists. Magnus calls it grandly his ‘viral marketing campaign’. He’s right into all that kind of stuff. Actually, on impulse, I emailed everyone on Dad’s list too, so who knows, maybe the Prime Minister got one! All week folk have emailed or texted back or said at school they’ll be there.

  On Monday, while the rest of us were at school, Twig took posters round the health centre and the library and the local shops and sweet-talked them into putting them up right away.

  And when we told Miss Peabody about the benefit gig she let Megan and Magnus out to stick posters up all round the school. Magnus even persuaded Smollett to make an announcement over the school tannoy system!

  ‘I think old Smollett’s going senile,’ Sindi-Sue giggled. ‘His judgement’s obviously impaired.’

  ‘More like he didn’t want to say no to Magnus,’ Megan said, all dreamy-eyed. ‘After all, he is a star pupil.’

  Cordelia looked like she was gonna vomit on the spot!

  At lunchtime on Tuesday, a rumour went round that there was someone balanced on a ledge right at the top of the school clock tower. The whole school rushed out to the playing fields, thinking it was a suicidal teacher or something, and – guess what? – it was Mad Midge Murphy!

  ‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’ Smollett roared up at him.

  ‘Putting up a poster for the charity gig, Sir,’ Midge shouted back with a cheeky grin. ‘For the benefit of low-flying aircraft.’

  On Wednesday, Magnus checked out the hall while the rest of us were rehearsing.

  ‘It’s great,’ he reported back. ‘There’s a lighting rig and a state-of-the-art sound system. Plus I got talking to the techie guy, Stefan. Seeing as it’s a charity gig, Stefan says he’ll do the sound and lights for us for nothing.’

  On Thursday after school, Cordelia got a phone call from Taslima. She rushed round to let me know before I went out for band practice. Aisya is out of hospital now and Tas and her mum are making plans to come home. I was so relieved I almost burst into tears.

  Of course, seeing Twig every day and not knowing exactly how I feel about him has been weird … Most of the time I tried to ignore it cos there was a crowd of us there anyway, but each night, when it got close to the end of the practice, I felt pretty mixed up. A bit of me wanted him to walk me home, hoped that he’d take my hand, that he’d say sweet and lovely things to me, make me feel like what we have together is something really special, something more than just being buds. The other bit of me wasn’t so sure.

  There was also the fact that Magnus walked home with us cos he has to go past the end of my street, so it’s not like a romantic walk home was really possible with him hanging around. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that Twig wasn’t in the least bothered. Magnus and him just nattered about the set-up for the stage on Saturday, like I wasn’t even there.

  At least the rehearsals have gone better than we expected. This morning we worked out a playlist of about an hour’s worth of songs. We’re gonna start with ‘My Imaginary Friend’s Not Sweet’, then keep the tempo up with songs like ‘Why Can’t People Be More Like Dolphins’, ‘I Don’t Want to be a Juliet to Your Romeo’ and ‘Sweatshop Kid’. In the middle set I’ll do ‘Jelly Baby Blues’ and ‘Bungee-jumping Heart’ on my own with acoustic guitar. Then we’ll do ‘Pinch Me, I Think I Must Be Dreaming’, ‘If You Were a Panda’, ‘When the Little Birds Stopped Singing’ and ‘Don’t Put That Axe To My Throat’ together. We’ll finish on ‘They Were Sleeping, They Were Dreaming’, the song I wrote about the earthquake.

  As we pack up our stuff at the end of our last rehearsal early on Saturday afternoon, Magnus gives us a pep talk like he’s a football manager
and we’re his team! ‘Don’t worry tonight if it doesn’t all sound polished,’ he says. ‘Everyone thinks it’s great you’re doing this to raise money for the earthquake. Nobody’s expecting you to sound perfect.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Megan says, and everyone bursts out laughing.

  I laugh too, but despite myself a little worry worm has burrowed its way into my consciousness. I mean, no one except me has ever been up on stage before. It’s one thing playing to your mates in a garage; it’s totally different getting up in front of a crowd – and we all need to come through to make it work. I just hope no one bottles it.

  As soon as I get in Mum nabs me and absolutely insists I lie down in my room for a while. ‘If you don’t calm down, you’ll end up too exhausted to climb up on to the stage tonight, never mind sing.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ll burn out like Arizona Kelly and have to go off to a rehab clinic and get therapy and stuff,’ Pip says solemnly as she feeds a strip of carrot peel to Mrs Houdini. ‘Then I’ll make a fortune selling my story to the papers. “MY LIFE OF HELL WITH MY PSYCHO BIG SIS”.’

  ‘Well, work out another way to make your fortune, little sis,’ I say, grabbing a wooden spoon and singing into it like it’s a mike. ‘Cos Miss Sassy Wilde is on top of her game and she ain’t gonna burn out.’

  ‘Sassy!’ Mum interrupts. ‘Go to your room NOW, or I’m going to take you to Great-Gran’s to calm you down.’

  ‘No way!’ I squeal, waving a pair of Pip’s pants27 as a surrender flag and retreating upstairs. (Thing is, I love my great-gran, but she is SO strict. She still believes that little girls should be seen and not heard. Visiting her has been known to induce a state similar to catatonia. ZZZzzzZZZzzzZZZZ!)

  It’s five o’clock – and I may have been in my room for a while but I can’t say I’ve calmed down. I mean, there are so many things to worry about.

  The Wilde Bunch is scheduled to meet at the hall at 18.30 hours. Magnus has copied out a precise timetable for us all, planning it like a military operation. Megan thinks he has wonderful organizational skills, but I suspect he’s a control freak.