Daizy Star, Ooh La La! Read online

  ‘It runs on recycled vegetable oil,’ Dad explains cheerily. ‘Genius, huh? It’s going well now, and I’ll need something to drive myself to interviews in, won’t I?’

  ‘If you actually get any interviews,’ Becca says harshly.

  I am not holding my breath. My forms for the Paris trip are still clipped to the kitchen pinboard, unsigned.

  By the time our second French Friday rolls around, everyone else has returned their permission slips, and when Miss Moon asks about mine I have to pretend I’ve forgotten them.

  I don’t want to tell Beth, Willow and Murphy that I might not be going. I don’t want to admit that, not even to myself.

  ‘It might be our last time all together as a group,’ Beth sighs. ‘At secondary school, we will be divided up into classes with kids from other schools. We might forget about each other –’

  ‘We won’t!’ I argue, alarmed. ‘We will be friends forever!’

  ‘I hope so,’ Beth says. ‘But things change, don’t they?’

  I bite my lip. I do not want things to change, especially not like that. It is bad enough that Beth and Willow seem to be growing up faster than me, getting all mushy over boys and interested in short skirts and lipgloss. I can just about handle that, but being in different classes too? What if we just drift apart until we are practically like strangers? That would break my heart.

  ‘I don’t want that to happen,’ I whisper.

  ‘Well, nor do I, obviously,’ Beth shrugs. ‘I’m just saying … it could. We should make the most of the Paris trip!’

  ‘I plan to,’ Willow smirks, with a sidelong glance at Ethan Miller.

  ‘Me too,’ Beth grins. ‘Don’t worry, Daizy! Whatever happens, we’ll always have Paris!’

  Except that maybe I won’t.

  I try to visualize me, Beth, Willow and Murphy posing for that photo at the top of the Eiffel Tower, but I just can’t do it. What if I’m not in the picture at all? Not even on the trip? Things could change fast once we get to secondary school, as Beth pointed out. The Paris trip really could be our last chance to be together, and I might not even have those memories to look back on.

  I secretly look up the French word for ‘sad’ in the class English–French dictionary. It turns out that I am feeling très, très triste.

  When I get home on Tuesday after taking Pixie to her swimming lesson, there are balloons tied to the gatepost.

  My heart leaps. Has Dad managed to land himself an interview – or a job?

  Inside, Becca is smiling as she sets the table.

  ‘I like the balloons,’ Pixie pipes up. ‘Are we celebrating?’

  ‘We certainly are,’ Mum grins. ‘Your dad had an interview today …’

  ‘I’m proud to announce that I have a new job!’ he announces. ‘I am the new Executive Assistant at the Squirrel & Lentil Wholefood Café! You, Daizy Star, are going to Paris!’

  He takes the form for the trip from the kitchen pinboard and signs the permission slips with a flourish, handing them back to me along with a cheque for £50.

  My lips twitch into a smile, then widen into a grin, until my whole face is beaming.

  ‘Ooh la la!’ I say, laughing. ‘That’s brilliant, Dad!’

  Later, as we sit round the table trying to eat watercress and wild garlic stew with mashed parsnip, I can’t help thinking that four days away from Dad’s evil-smelling, sludge-coloured inventions will be very welcome indeed. Becca chucks down her spoon.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she declares. ‘I’m not eating it.’

  ‘Mike,’ Mum says gently. ‘This might be a little exotic for the girls. How about we just fix ourselves some bread and cheese?’

  Dad frowns. ‘No cheese,’ he says.

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s funny, I bought a big block of Cheddar just yesterday! I suppose I could make an omelette …’

  ‘No eggs,’ Dad says.

  ‘No eggs?’ Mum echoes. ‘We had a dozen free-range ones in the fridge!’

  Dad looks shifty. ‘I gave the eggs and cheese away,’ he mutters. ‘They weren’t suitable.’

  ‘Suitable?’ Mum repeats. ‘SUITABLE? Mike, are you telling me you gave fresh food away when we are scrimping and saving every last penny? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dad promises. ‘It’s because of my new job. The Squirrel & Lentil is a vegan café – I thought we should all eat vegan too, as a show of solidarity.’

  Mum rests her head in her hands.

  ‘What does “vegan” actually mean?’ I ask.

  ‘No meat, no fish, no eggs, no cheese, no butter, no cream, no ice cream,’ Dad explains. ‘No animal products at all.’

  ‘No way,’ I say weakly.

  ‘I want to embrace the whole vegan lifestyle,’ he says. ‘They’ve asked me to lead a new campaign to make the Squirrel & Lentil a household name in Brightford!’

  ‘Great,’ Becca snarls, pushing her dinner away.

  Dad sighs. ‘Girls, this is important to me. I believe in my new job and it would mean a lot to me to have your support. Things have been tricky over the last few months. I just want life to get back to normal!’

  I bite my lip. Is Dad’s mid-life crisis over? Maybe he really is ready to shelve the mad plans of the past. No more leaky, half-built boats, no more plans to farm nettles on the Isle of Muck or emigrate to sub-Saharan Africa. He has a job again, and though I am not keen on the vegan plan, surely that can’t last for long? Maybe, finally, Dad is coming to his senses?

  ‘We all want life to get back to normal,’ Mum says.

  ‘And we do support you, Dad,’ I chip in.

  He laughs. ‘Thank you, Daizy! I knew you’d understand. Part of my new job is to help make vegan food cool, and I had a great idea for getting kids to do just that. Shall I show you?’

  ‘Er … sure,’ I shrug. ‘Go for it!’

  He strides from the kitchen and into the hallway. ‘It’s a simple idea, but effective,’ he calls through. ‘Once people see this, they will get the healthy-eating message, loud and clear. The Squirrel & Lentil will be unforgettable!’

  The kitchen door swings open again and a huge, furry, ginger squirrel appears. It has enormous woolly thighs and tufty orange ears, and a gigantic curly tail that must have some kind of metal frame inside because it stands upright all on its own. The squirrel is wearing a checked apron and grinning horribly in a very familiar way.

  ‘Dad?’ I whisper.

  ‘Mike?’ Mum gasps.

  A muffled voice comes from within the ginger fur.

  ‘The café is hoping to attract a new, younger crowd.’ Dad explains. ‘And with my help, soon kids will be choosing a trip to the Squirrel & Lentil instead of McDonald’s!’

  Becca puts her head down on the table, despairingly, and Pixie starts to cry as Dad waddles into the kitchen and dances round the table, his curly tail swaying and his ears twitching. My dad has landed himself a job as a giant red squirrel with a checked apron and a liking for mashed parsnip.

  It is lucky I am going to Paris because, let’s face it, I won’t be able to show my face around here for much longer.

  The more I learn about France, the more convinced I am that it is actually my spiritual home. What if there was some kind of mix-up at the hospital when I was born and I am actually the love-child of a Parisian actress and a starving poet with a beret and a striped T-shirt? I can just imagine the two of them sipping their café au lait at a pavement café on the banks of the River Seine while I eat a chocolate croissant and look sweet. At the moment it feels much more likely than me being the offspring of a nurse and a squirrel.

  I am counting down the days until the trip. It is good to have something cool to think about because it stops me stressing about the taster day for Brightford Academy, which is sneaking up fast – I can’t believe it’s next week. I cannot say I am looking forward to it. I can’t imagine myself at secondary school at all. Whenever I try to imagine it, my mind goes blank, like a computer screen when the whole system
has crashed and died.

  I am not nervous so much as terrified.

  What if I get lost trying to find my way around? What if the work is too hard? What if somebody asks me if my dad is a giant red squirrel? I can think of 101 things that could go wrong.

  My friends, by contrast, are irritatingly chirpy about it. Beth is looking forward to flirting with a whole new crop of cute boys, while Willow, who has an older sister at Brightford Academy, starts telling us horror stories of tough kids who lurk in dark corners ready to scare unwary Year Sevens.

  ‘She’s joking,’ Murphy tells me. ‘Definitely. Maybe. I hope …’

  I am not so sure.

  By contrast, I feel drawn to Paris. I am drawn to it the way an artist is drawn to paints and canvas, the way a musician is drawn towards violins and xylophones, the way Murphy Malone is drawn towards custard doughnuts.

  No wonder I haven’t been able to find my star quality in life – I’ve been looking in all the wrong places. I was never going to find my talent, my destiny, in a place like Brightford, where giant-sized squirrels roam the streets and deeply annoying boys like Ethan Miller are considered to be cute. No – I have a feeling I will find my star quality in Paris.

  I am destined for treelined boulevards and baguettes and bicycles and berets. I can see myself in an attic apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower, living a bohemian life with poets and artists and fashion designers and large quantities of chocolate croissants.

  I wouldn’t swap my real family for anything in the world, but there is nothing like discovering that your dad likes dressing up as a giant red squirrel to make you think.

  Days slide by and I still haven’t told anyone at school about Dad’s new job. They wouldn’t understand – even I don’t, not really.

  ‘I don’t mind too much about not eating sausages and bacon any more,’ I tell Dad. ‘And I haven’t had chicken since we had hens as pets a little while ago. But I don’t see why we can’t have cheese on toast any more, or boiled eggs, or hot chocolate.’

  ‘Vegans take their nourishment purely from plants and nuts and grains,’ Dad explains. ‘We are living lightly on the earth!’

  It is hard to take this kind of speech seriously when the person delivering it is wearing a fluffy squirrel suit.

  ‘Why don’t you bring some of your friends into the café for a carrot and beansprout smoothie after school?’ he suggests.

  ‘No!’ I say, horrified. ‘We are all too busy learning French and packing.’

  ‘You’re not going for weeks yet,’ Dad frowns.

  I promise to think about it, but the truth is I would rather die than bring my friends to the Squirrel & Lentil Wholefood Café. They’d hate the food and I am pretty sure they would laugh at Dad. I can’t let that happen. Willow’s dad is a doctor and Beth’s dad is a plumber and Murphy’s dad works at B&Q. None of them have to wear a furry squirrel suit to work.

  No, Dad’s job must remain secret.

  ‘You could always pop in by yourself,’ he prompts. ‘Or with your sisters. I can do you a family discount! The Squirrel & Lentil is on Granary Lane …’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ I say politely.

  I will. I will make sure I stay well away from Granary Lane, for the rest of my life, if need be. Paris should be a safe enough distance – it’s a pity I can’t emigrate right now because it would save me the anxiety of keeping a lookout for Dad in his squirrel suit, cycling to and from work every day. Sometimes, he drives the van, and that is slightly better – except that he has stencilled The Squirrel & Lentil Wholefood Café on the side, along with a large picture of a red squirrel eating an acorn.

  ‘It’s good advertising,’ Dad explains. ‘They want me to take the healthy-eating message out on the road. Go into schools and use my teaching skills to give educational talks and workshops. Show kids that dandelion and tofu burgers are cool!’

  ‘But they’re not,’ Pixie says, puzzled. ‘They are disgusting!’

  ‘Healthy eating can be fun,’ Dad insists. ‘You’ll see. I could ring your school and ask if they’d like me to come and do a workshop on making prune and parsley flapjacks –’

  ‘No!’ I cut in. ‘We have very healthy food already at Stella Street Primary. We have lentil stew and … er … kidney-bean custard … all the time. So, there is no need for you to come, is there, Pixie?’

  My little sister shakes her head, wide-eyed. ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘Not ever!’

  ‘No?’ Dad asks, crestfallen. ‘I could make it really fun and funky?’

  Why do the words ‘fun’ and ‘funky’ strike fear into my heart? If Dad actually came into Stella Street Primary wearing his scary squirrel suit, my life would be over.

  I think I will feel much safer when I have put the English Channel between us, for a little while at least.

  It’s Monday and the dreaded taster day has dawned. We set off for Brightford Academy after registration. It is just four streets away, so Miss Moon and the classroom assistants take us there on foot. Beth and Willow are practically hyper, laughing, giggling and winking at Ethan Miller every chance they get.

  ‘I cannot wait to be at secondary school,’ Beth declares. ‘Do you think we’ll be allowed to wear lipgloss and eyeliner?’

  ‘They are quite strict on uniform,’ Willow informs us. ‘But my sister rolls over the waistband of her skirt a few times, to make it shorter …’

  ‘And there’s a girl in the sixth form with purple hair,’ Murphy chips in.

  ‘Awesome,’ Beth sighs. ‘I am so ready for short skirts and purple hair. Seriously, Stella Street Primary is just so babyish these days …’

  I am silent. Am I the only one who likes things the way they are? I’m not sure that I am ready for secondary school – it sounds way too grown-up. From what I have seen, growing up is nothing but trouble. Look at Beth and Willow, going all mushy over Ethan Miller. Look at my big sister Becca. One minute she is a violin-playing maths geek and the next she is a full-on Goth, complete with a boyfriend called Spike who has green hair and a pierced lip. It seems to me that growing up is all about exams, hormones, hair dye and heartbreak. I drag my feet, dropping behind a little, and Miss Moon falls into step beside me.

  ‘Excited, Daizy?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I’m not sure I am ready for this!’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ my teacher says. ‘You are an amazing girl, and at Brightford Academy you’ll learn to spread your wings and fulfil your true potential!’

  I doubt it, somehow. After months and months of trying, I haven’t managed to win Miss Moon’s special Star of the Week award, so I can’t be all that amazing, can I? And I am still a million miles away from finding my star quality. Miss Moon says everybody has one, but even though I’m pinning my hopes on Paris, sometimes I am not so sure I do. A while ago, I thought I might be the first pre-teen supermodel, but that didn’t work out; before that, I tried my luck at rock stardom by forming a thrash-punk-metal band with my friends, but that went kind of pear-shaped too.

  Perhaps I don’t actually have a star quality? I may be destined to be dull and ordinary and average at everything, for the rest of my life. It’s a very depressing thought.

  ‘Give it a chance, Daizy,’ Miss Moon smiles. ‘The taster day is all about helping you to feel ready. You’ll love it, Daizy, trust me!’

  I don’t love it, though, when we reach Brightford Academy and walk up the big steps and into the entrance hall. Miss Moon goes to the reception desk to let them know we are here, and suddenly a bell rings. Kids appear from every direction, big noisy kids, shoving, laughing, wearing the black and red uniform and carrying giant rucksacks and school bags. They look very grown-up, even though they don’t act it, and they are all in a hurry.

  I am silent now, feeling way out of my depth, as well as very small and very young. My friends seem to be coping better. Beth is giggling and clinging on to Ethan Miller; Murphy is trying to act cool; and Willow has morphed into someone loud and s
how-offy and almost as scary as the big kids. She tells us we’ll have to get used to this kind of thing if we want to survive at Brightford Academy.

  I am not sure I will ever be able to do that.

  The crowd thins and finally vanishes, and Miss Moon returns with Mrs Shine, the head teacher.

  ‘Welcome to Brightford Academy!’ she says. ‘It can be a bit chaotic at lesson change, but don’t worry, you’ll get used to it! We have a busy day planned for you. First of all, some refreshments while I tell you all about your new school!’

  Miss Moon and the classroom assistants wish us luck, and we file into the library, a light, airy room filled with books and computers, with amazing student artwork on the walls. We take chocolate biscuits and paper cups of squash and sit on bright beanbags and cushions while Mrs Shine talks.

  She tells us that we are bound to feel a little nervous about starting secondary school, that everything must be new and strange, but that we will soon get used to it. She tells us about all the new lessons we’ll have, from science and CDT to drama and dance. She makes it sound almost exciting.

  ‘I’m going to take you on a tour of the school,’ Mrs Shine explains. ‘Then you’ll have some taster lessons in French and science. Does anybody have any questions?’

  Beth asks if lipgloss and eyeliner are allowed (they aren’t) and Murphy Malone asks if there are any after-school clubs (there are, dozens, and they sound cool).

  Ethan Miller asks about the football team, and Mrs Shine says that the Brightford Academy team has won lots of cups and plaques and is always looking for talented players, and Ethan looks so happy you’d think he had just been signed for Man United.

  I put my own hand in the air.

  ‘Miss?’ I ask, in a small, shaky voice. ‘How do you decide who goes in which class? Will we be separated from our friends?’