Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar by Cathy Cassidy Read Free Book Online

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!’
    Last-minute nerves, that’s all it is, I decide, watching Murphy slouch along the street beneath the streetlights. Everybody has those … right?

W hen the phone rings a few minutes later, I assume it is Murphy, still worried about the gig tomorrow. Becca takes the call … and it is definitely not Murphy.
    ‘Who did you say you were?’ my big sister asks carelessly. ‘Dad? I don’t think so. We don’t have a dad any more. He ran away to Africa and never bothered to call. We think he may have been eaten by a lion, or crushed by a herd of elephants, and that means you are an imposter!’
    Becca hands the phone to Pixie, smirking.
    ‘Have you got me a honey badger?’ my little sister demands. ‘I’ve been building a hutch for one in the back garden. Do you think that I could feed it on hamster mix? Or would dog food be better?’
    I grab the phone.
    ‘Dad!’ I squeal. ‘You’re alive!’
    ‘Definitely,’ Dad says, but his voice sounds very crackly and far away. ‘I am at Lilongwe Airport, ready to catch my flight home!’
    ‘Oh, Dad!’ I tell him. ‘We’ve been so worried! We thought you’d fallen down a well or died of malaria! Why didn’t you ring?’
    ‘My mobile ran out of battery and I’d forgotten to bring spares,’ he explains. ‘There was no electricity in the village to use a charger.’
    ‘That’s what Mum said,’ I tell him.
    She also said he was an irresponsible idiot living in a fantasy world, but I decide not to mention that bit.
    ‘I have a lot to tell you,’ I say brightly. ‘I am a thrash-metal-punk guitarist now, and also a honey badger, but not the African kind, obviously. A different kind. You can come and see me tomorrow night at the Battle of the Bands and you’ll see. I really think I have found my star quality this time, Dad!’
    ‘That’s my girl,’ he laughs. ‘You know what? I have missed you, Daizy Star!’
      
    I feel a little catch in my throat. ‘I’ve missed you too, Dad!’ I say, but my voice comes out all snuffly and one perfect