Strike a Pose, Daizy Star Read online

  Hi …

  I’m Daizy Star and I’m trying to find my Star Quality … the thing that makes me special, that makes me stand out from the crowd. I’m not exactly sure what that will be, but our class are putting on a fashion show at school. I can’t help thinking that might be a sign.

  Maybe I am cut out for a life in the spotlight? I am pretty sure I have what it takes.

  Sadly, I also have a goat, three chickens, a crazy dad, a heartbroken sister and a whole raftful of worries … not what you need when you are chasing dreams of catwalk stardom, trust me.

  I’m in trouble – big trouble. And wriggling out of this one might be tricky …

  Hugs, happiness and custard doughnuts …

  Books for younger readers

  SHINE ON, DAIZY STAR

  DAIZY STAR AND THE PINK GUITAR

  STRIKE A POSE, DAIZY STAR

  Books for older readers

  DIZZY

  DRIFTWOOD

  INDIGO BLUE

  SCARLETT

  SUNDAE GIRL

  LUCKY STAR

  GINGERSNAPS

  ANGEL CAKE

  THE CHOCOLATE BOX GIRLS: CHERRY CRUSH

  DREAMS AND DOODLES DAYBOK

  LETTERS TO Cathy

  PUFFIN

  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

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  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 2011

  Text and illustrations copyright © Cathy Cassidy, 2011

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author/illustrator 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: 978-0-14-133735-7

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  We are lolling about on the sofa, watching my little sister Pixie’s DVD of The Little Mermaid for the 379th time and sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. Pixie is spellbound. She knows every scene, every word, off by heart. It is her favourite DVD of all time.

  For me, The Little Mermaid is more background noise. I am busy making a list of possible Star Qualities. My teacher, Miss Moon, is very keen on everyone finding their Star Quality, which is fine if you are great at singing like my friend Willow or brilliant at dance like my friend Beth, or even really arty like my best boy-mate Murphy Malone. It is not so good if you are me.

  I cannot decide what my Star Quality should be.

  I change my mind about every five minutes, and unless I can settle on one thing the chances of me getting Miss Moon’s ultra-cool Star of the Week prize are not looking good.

  So far, today’s list says:

  I am not sure if I am brave enough to be an actress, and there aren’t very many mountains in Brightford, but I have had some practice at ice-cream tasting and I think I could be good at that. As for running the country, how hard can it be?

  If I was Prime Minister, the first thing I would do is supply unlimited custard doughnuts for all schoolchildren, and then ban homework. Although some people actually like it – my big sister Becca, for example.

  Becca is a kind of geek-Goth, with backcombed hair and black eyeliner and a green-fringed boyfriend called Spike who is not nearly as scary as he looks. Right now, Becca is curled up in an armchair, ploughing through endless pages of advanced algebra while listening to clashy-trashy music on her iPod.

  She is very weird indeed, but not as weird as my dad, of course.

  He is having some kind of a mid-life crisis and keeps on getting these terrible ideas that threaten to turn life as we know it upside down. Dad packed his job in a few months back to follow his dreams – which are actually like other people’s nightmares – so he is usually around when we get home from school. If we are really unlucky, he will even have a special treat for us, like prune flapjacks or beetroot stew.

  Tonight we should be safe, though, because it is Wednesday and that is the night Mum brings home fish and chips once she finishes her shift at the hospital. It is the best night of the week.

  Today, when we got in from school, there was no Dad at all. There was just a note saying he would be back soon, which is why Pixie made straight for the DVDs and I made straight for the hot chocolate, and Becca … well, Becca made straight for her iPod and her homework, but there is no accounting for taste.

  The DVD is just finishing when Mum comes in, shrugging off her coat and scarf. She sets down the fish and chips.

  ‘Hello, Daizy, hello, Pixie, hello, Becca …’ she says, and then her eyes narrow and her voice starts to rise. ‘GET THAT WRETCHED GOAT OFF THE SOFA!’ she yells. ‘I’ve told you a million times!’

  Hmmm. I forgot to mention Buttercup. She is my pet goat, and a very annoying boy at school called Ethan Miller gave her to me for Christmas. Sort of.

  It’s a long story.

  Anyhow, it seemed all wrong to make a baby goat sleep in the shed, especially in the middle of winter, so Buttercup sleeps in a dog basket under the kitchen table and sometimes, when Mum and Dad are not about, she sneaks into the living room and snuggles up on the sofa.

  I push her off and she skitters across the carpet, one of the fluffy cushions clamped between her jaws. Little bits of fluff and chewed-up cushion trail after her, evidence of another domestic disaster.

  ‘Daizy!’ Mum wails. ‘Another cushion ruined! That goat has got to go!’

  ‘Nooooo!’ Pixie, Becca and I protest. ‘Please Mum … no!’

  ‘Well, she can stay in the shed then,’ Mum relents. ‘She’s a goat, not a cat or a dog! Goats chew things! Your dad’s running shorts, Pixie’s slippers, Becca’s school tie …’

  ‘I like it better like this,’ Becca shrugs, flicking out the tail end of her tie and examining the frayed bits.

  Pixie ushers Buttercup out into the garden and Becca jumps up and puts the kettle on and starts setting the table and I take the fish and chips and start unwrapping them,
and peace is restored. Almost.

  ‘Where is your dad, anyway?’ Mum huffs, sitting down at the table and squeezing ketchup on to her chips. ‘He promised me faithfully he would keep an eye on that goat!’

  ‘He left a note,’ Becca shrugs. ‘It said he has important business, and he’ll be back soon.’

  There’s a crunching of gravel on the drive outside, and the slamming of a car door. Moments later, Dad walks past the window carrying several planks on his shoulder. Mum drops her fork with a clatter.

  ‘Whatever now?’ she groans.

  We run to the door, Buttercup at our heels. Dad is unloading rolls of chicken wire from the roof rack of the car, whistling happily, and that has to be a bad sign.

  ‘Mike,’ Mum says firmly. ‘What are you doing with all that?’

  ‘Ah,’ Dad says brightly. ‘I’m building an ark!’

  My heart sinks. An ark? We have been here before, back when Dad had his crazy plan to sail round the world. I thought he’d got over all that, I really did.

  ‘An ark?’ Pixie asks. ‘Like Noah?’

  ‘Did someone forecast rain?’ Becca smirks.

  Mum just folds her arms and glares at Dad and he holds his hands up, laughing.

  ‘Relax!’ he laughs. ‘Not that kind of ark! I’m talking about an animal shelter. I’m going to convert the shed, for Buttercup … and build a run round it for the chickens!’

  There is an ominous silence.

  ‘What chickens?’ Mum asks at last.

  Dad opens the car boot and we all crowd round. Inside is a wire crate with three big, golden-brown chickens inside, squawking loudly and fluffing up their feathers.

  ‘Oh, Mike,’ Mum says weakly. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘Fresh eggs,’ Dad says brightly. ‘Think of it, Livvi. Healthy, organic, free-range … fried, boiled, poached, scrambled … our very own eggs!’

  ‘Like on a farm,’ Pixie chips in, and I have a sudden, alarming vision of Dad as a farmer in a flat cap and wellies, chewing on a bit of straw and carrying a pitchfork. It’s not a good image.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go green,’ Dad says.

  I look at him carefully. He doesn’t look green at all … he is the same mixture of pasty white and pink as usual. Then the penny drops. Green …

  We are learning about green issues at school this term. Miss Moon is teaching us about recycling, and saving water, and electricity, and getting energy from windmills. She didn’t mention anything about chickens and goats.

  ‘It’s time we stopped destroying the planet,’ Dad says. ‘I’d like us all to try out a simpler lifestyle, be self-sufficient, be more in tune with nature. We’ve always dreamt of this!’

  ‘Actually,’ Becca says, looking at Mum for support, ‘We haven’t!’

  Mum sighs. ‘Those dreams were a long time ago, Mike,’ she says. ‘Besides, three chickens are not going to save the world! Fresh eggs would be very nice, but I don’t suppose it is as easy as all that.’

  Dad laughs. ‘How hard can it be?’ he shrugs. ‘We could grow our own vegetables, collect our own eggs, have our own livestock –’

  ‘Mike!’ Mum says. ‘No! You promised me you would consult the family before you launch into any more crazy plans. We cannot have livestock! We live in a semi-detached house in the middle of a town!’

  ‘Well,’ Dad says, looking slightly shifty. ‘At the moment, we do …’

  Becca chokes on a chip.

  ‘I am NOT going to live on a farm!’ she says icily.

  Dad laughs. ‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘And don’t worry, I have learnt my lesson. I won’t be doing anything drastic unless you all agree. The chickens are just an experiment. I have been thinking for a while that I’d like to do some gardening, get some veggies on the go …’

  Mum frowns. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I suppose it would keep you out of trouble until you find a new job.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dad grins. ‘It’d be a hobby. Well … for now, at least.’

  ‘What does that mean, for now at least?’ my big sister asks. ‘That maybe, next week, you will change your mind and buy a tractor and a whole, entire dairy herd?’

  ‘Oh, Becca,’ Dad sighs. ‘That’s hardly likely, is it?’

  I bite my lip. I have learnt just lately that anything is possible where Dad is concerned.

  On the way to school I wonder how best to explain Dad’s latest plan to my friends. Will they think that keeping chickens and goats in the back garden is weird?

  It’s not even as though we have an especially big house. If we had one of the big Victorian places in Stella Street, it might be different. Just a few doors along from the school, there’s this huge house set back from the road, all covered in ivy. It’s kind of spooky, with big gardens, knee-deep in weeds – Buttercup and the chickens would have a field day in there.

  ‘My dad brought home three chickens last night,’ I mention casually, as Miss Moon collects our spelling-test books.

  ‘Curried, or Kentucky Fried?’ Willow grins.

  ‘LIVE chickens, Willow,’ I say. ‘To give us fresh eggs.’

  ‘Or fresh chicken nuggets,’ Willow teases.

  ‘Don’t, Willow!’ Beth wails. ‘Those poor chickens!’

  ‘They’re free-range,’ I reassure her. ‘And I won’t let Dad turn them into nuggets, I promise!’

  Beth just sighs and shakes her head. It’s not like her to get so gloomy over three small hens, but she hasn’t been herself just lately. I expect she is still pining over Ethan Miller – having a crush on the most annoying boy in the school cannot be much fun. She and Willow have been crazy about him for months.

  ‘Watch it, Daizy,’ Willow grins. ‘Your dad might swap the car for a combine harvester. Soon you will be wearing wellies and dungarees to school.’

  ‘No way!’ I protest. I look down at my red Converses. They are probably not the right sort of footwear for mucking out a goat shed, but dungarees and wellies? No. I am not a country girl. The countryside is full of cowpats and muck spreaders and dung heaps, and raging bulls that might charge at you for no reason at all.

  Miss Moon interrupts my thoughts with a brisk clap of her hands, and the class is silent.

  ‘Today,’ she says, ‘as part of our project on Green Issues, we are going to talk about recycling. Can anyone tell me what recycling is?’

  ‘A load of rubbish,’ Ethan snorts, and his friends fall about laughing.

  Miss Moon sighs. ‘You are right, Ethan,’ she says. ‘Recycling is all about rubbish … and how we can turn it into something new. Well done.’

  Ethan looks startled at getting the right answer, even if it was by mistake. His cheeks glow pink with pride. Seriously, he is a very annoying boy.

  ‘So,’ Miss Moon presses on. ‘What kind of things can be recycled?’

  A forest of hands shoot up into the air.

  ‘Tins and bottles!’ Murphy Malone says.

  ‘Paper!’ Willow adds.

  ‘Cardboard!’

  Miss Moon smiles. ‘You’ve got the idea,’ she says. ‘Almost anything can be recycled.’

  ‘I’ve seen recycled toilet roll in the supermarket,’ Ethan smirks. ‘Does that mean it’s been used once already? Because that is kind of gross.’

  A howl of disgust ripples round the classroom, but Miss Moon nips it in the bud. ‘No, Ethan, it does not,’ she says briskly. ‘Recycled toilet roll is made from old newspaper and exercise books and scrap paper. Not from pre-used toilet paper, as you very well know.’

  Ethan’s shoulders droop a little.

  ‘Glass, tins and paper can all be processed and turned into new, recycled glass or tin or paper,’ Miss Moon is explaining. ‘Even cabbage leaves and potato peelings can be saved and turned into soil to grow fresh vegetables.’

  I groan. Dad has already explained that we will be saving our kitchen scraps from now on to feed to the chickens, and we already take all our tins, bottles and paper to the recycling centre.

  ‘Lots of u
s already recycle,’ Miss Moon is saying. ‘That means less rubbish in our dustbins … but what about the stuff that’s left? Empty packets and bubble wrap and silver foil and plastic bottle tops … is there a way of recycling any of that? Turning it into something useful or beautiful?’

  Murphy Malone puts a hand up uncertainly.

  ‘I expect you could make them into something, if you really tried.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Miss Moon agrees. ‘How about clothes and accessories?’

  Hands start shooting up around me, but my mind remains stubbornly blank. A load of old rubbish is just a load of old rubbish, surely?

  ‘A party dress made from bubble wrap,’ Willow suggests.

  ‘Jewellery!’ Sheena McMaster chips in. ‘You could string the bottle tops together to make bracelets and necklaces and dangly earrings.’

  ‘Skinny jeans made from sweet wrappers,’ Murphy Malone offers. ‘Worn with a binbag T-shirt!’

  I look around. The class are grinning, buzzing, full of ideas. Only Beth looks as doubtful as me. Bubble-wrap party dresses? Bottle-top earrings? Sweet-wrapper jeans? I don’t think so. Who wants to look like they’re wearing the contents of their own rubbish bin?

  ‘Wonderful!’ Miss Moon says. ‘And a perfect starting point for our project! You are going to design and create a whole fashion collection made from recycled materials, and put on a show for Year Five. I want you to see just what can be achieved when you start thinking green!’

  A fashion show? I blink, my imagination sparked at last.

  ‘This is all about turning rubbish into something beautiful, useful, cool,’ Miss Moon says. ‘It will take imagination. It will take creativity and vision!’

  Hmm. Maybe there is something in this. Miss Moon makes it sound kind of cool … perhaps it could be fun.

  Dustbin fashion, here I come!

  Murphy goes on about his ideas for the recycled fashion project all the way home. He has so many ideas there are bound to be some to spare, which is good, because I am not sure that dustbin fashion is going to be my Star Quality. Besides, I am kind of preoccupied with the chickens and whether they have laid enough eggs yet to bake some cupcakes for after tea.