Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (9 page)

Miss Moon looks doubtful. ‘I see,’ she says, but I’m not sure she can really see at all, and that makes me sad.

‘Daizy …’ Miss Moon says, as I turn to go. ‘Don’t be too disappointed if you don’t win the Battle of the Bands. I know you have been practising hard, and I know how much it means to you, but … well, some bands try for years and years before they manage to break through to the big time. I don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.’

I won’t be disappointed, of course, because losing is not an option. The Honey Badgers are going to win … and my dad will come home safely and remember that he loves me, Becca, Pixie and Mum far too much to be separated from us ever again. He will not be tempted to run off with anybody from the chip shop, or get huffy because the shop has run out of milk and demand an instant divorce.

No way.

The forms have been filled in and sent away. The songs have been polished, the set has been practised until it is just about perfect. Mr Bleecher has taken to wearing earmuffs for the whole of the lunch hour, and muttering darkly whenever he sees us.

Ted Tingley, my guitar guru, says I am a remarkable student. He says I am breaking down walls and barriers, taking thrash-metal-punk guitar to frightening new heights. Or maybe it was depths, I can’t remember.

‘I have never had a pupil quite like you, Daizy Star,’ he says. He says it every week, and he shakes his head sadly. I expect he is remembering his own youth and wishing he’d had the ability to turn ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ into a thrash-metal-punk classic.

‘Are you sure about this, Daizy?’ he asked, when I told him I’d posted off The Honey Badgers’ entry for the Battle of the Bands. ‘Are you sure the world is ready for your … um …
unique
guitar style?’

I am not sure, but I hope the world is ready. They have to be, really, because I have something to say and let’s face it, the world needs to hear it. And if they don’t hear that message when Willow is yelling it out at 3,000 decibels over the sound of mangled guitar bass and drums, then they will never, ever hear it.

We are going to turn our amps up to the max. We are going to put our hearts and souls into the performance, and also our blood, our sweat and our tears.

We are going to win the Battle of the Bands, and the £500, and if we are lucky, one of Miss Moon’s Star of the Week awards each as well.

Why not?

After all, this week Andy Hines got a Star of the Week award for having his tonsils out. And he got ice cream and jelly after the operation too.

Spike brought us some posters for the Battle of the Bands, and we have pinned them up at school. Beth has used her special calligraphy skills to write out invites for our parents and friends. There is an invite for Miss Moon and, unfortunately, one for Ethan Miller too.

‘Why?’ I huff. ‘Why ask him? He is just not a thrash-metal-punk kind of boy. He wouldn’t come, anyway.’

‘He might,’ Beth shrugs. ‘And besides, I am not really a thrash-metal-punk kind of girl. I think Ethan would come and see us. He’s really sensitive.’

I choke on my strawberry smoothie. Trust me, Ethan Miller is about as sensitive as a herd of rhinos, only not quite as good looking.

‘He did give you that football for Malawi,’ Willow chips in. ‘He’s very caring.’

‘Very annoying, more like,’ I frown. ‘Still, I suppose it won’t hurt to give him an invite. It’s not like he’ll actually turn up.’

‘He might,’ Beth says dreamily. ‘To see me play the drums!’

‘To hear me sing,’ Willow corrects her. ‘To see me in the spotlight, lead singer of a thrash-metal-punk band!’

I narrow my eyes. It occurs to me that Beth and Willow may not be taking The Honey Badgers as seriously as I’d like. For them, the band may not be a matter of life or death, more a matter of getting Ethan’s attention.

Still, if it keeps my friends keen, I suppose it is OK.

They give Ethan an invite, and he grins and says he will definitely be there. Miss Moon promises to come along, and Ted Tingley says he wouldn’t miss my debut for the world, and besides, as an internationally famous guitar guru, he is on the panel of judges.

‘You’re a judge?’ I ask him, wide-eyed.

‘Well … yes!’ he admits. ‘Like I just said!’

It has to be a sign. My very own guitar guru will be helping to choose the winners. I already know how much Ted Tingley loves my music. He has taught me everything I know. The Honey Badgers may still be a little rough around the edges, but surely, with Ted on our side, we cannot fail?

‘You must be fair about it,’ I tell him. ‘Give the other bands a chance.’

Ted Tingley gives me a funny look. ‘Er … right,’ he says, looking shifty. I expect he won’t be able to help himself.

And now the costumes are almost done.

I have fabric paint in my hair, fabric paint on my nose and chin, fabric paint on my shoes and all over my art shirt. Luckily, some of it actually made it on to the T-shirts too. They look seriously cool.

Murphy decided that flicking the paint on instead of using a brush was the best idea to get a totally random and chaotic effect. It’s a good job we covered the kitchen table with newspaper first, and covered up our clothes with our school art shirts. You can get kind of carried away designing thrash-metal-punk T-shirts.

Willow has been making black fur-fabric ears attached to headbands, to give us that edgy honey-badger look, and Becca has tested out a few weird Goth hairdos and make-up looks on us. We are cool, we are sussed, we are ready to win the Battle of the Bands.

At least, I hope we are.

We hang the finished T-shirts over the clothes rack to dry, clear up the newspaper and wash the brushes.

‘Feeling OK?’ Murphy checks.

‘Feeling great!’ I tell him. ‘One more practice at school tomorrow, then it’s really happening. At last! The Battle of the Bands! Fame and fortune are at our feet. And all our troubles will be over!’

Murphy frowns. ‘I hope so,’ he says.

‘I
know
so,’ I grin. ‘Dad will be back from Malawi tomorrow. We still haven’t heard from him, but Mum rang the charity a few days ago, and they said everything is fine. He just can’t call from where he is now, that’s all. He will be on the plane home tomorrow morning, as planned … Mum’s taking the day off work to meet him at the airport. Boy, will he be surprised when he finds out about The Honey Badgers!’

‘Yeah …’ Murphy says.

‘And then, when we win …’

Murphy rakes a hand through his long fringe and fixes me with a serious look. ‘Daizy,’ he says carefully, ‘have you thought about what might happen if we
don’t
win?’

I blink. Not win? But we
have
to win, Murphy knows that. Without that prize money, we are lost. This is not just about mosquito nets and medicine and school books. It’s about stopping my family from falling apart.

‘Of course we’ll win,’ I shrug. ‘Obviously. We have worked so hard! We’ve practised every day! We have original material, a unique style and a sound that could turn the rock world upside down, everybody says so!’

‘Daizy …’ Murphy looks troubled. ‘Not everybody says so. What about Mr Bleecher and his earmuffs?’

‘Mr Bleecher is ancient!’ I argue. ‘What would he know about music? He probably listens to Cliff Richard! We are breaking down barriers, pushing the boundaries –’

‘But … those other bands might be doing that too!’ Murphy protests. ‘They might be brilliant! And all of them will be older than us. What about Spike’s band, The Smashed Bananas? They play gigs and everything. They even got a CD played on Radio Basingstoke last week. They might be quite hard to beat!’

Radio Basingstoke? Becca must have kept pretty quiet about that. Still, that doesn’t mean anything, surely?

‘Forget Radio Basingstoke, we’ll be on MTV this time next week!’ I bluff. ‘The youngest thrash-metal-punk band to go straight into the charts at number one!’

Murphy just sighs.

‘We have to believe,’ I tell him. ‘We have to be confident!’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I am. It’s just … well, I don’t want to be too confident. And, Daizy … I just don’t want you to be too disappointed if things don’t work out.’

I just laugh.

‘I won’t be disappointed,’ I promise, as Murphy slopes off across the street. ‘And trust me – we can’t lose!’