Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar (11 page)

BOOK: Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar

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Murphy gets a whole crop of pointy dinosaur spikes all over the back of his head while his dipping, multi-coloured fringe is straightened. Becca even threatens him with the black eyeliner, but he wriggles away before she can do any damage.

We are ready. We have through-a-hedge-backwards hair and panda eyes, and clothes that look like Halloween fancy dress.

‘Scary,’ Pixie says, and I agree. If I saw the whole bunch of us walking along Silver Street, I would turn round and leg it in the opposite direction.

We look perfect.

But there is a little ache of sadness in my chest because it’s five thirty now and time to set off for Brightford Playhouse, and there is still no sign of Dad. If he doesn’t hurry up, he’s going to miss our big break.

Becca slips an arm round my shoulder. ‘Stop worrying,’ she whispers. ‘He’ll be there.’

‘I know,’ I say, but I don’t believe it. My confidence has dissolved. A feeling of doom and disaster is hanging over me. There’s the toot of a car horn from outside, and we grab the guitars and load them into Murphy’s mum’s car. We don’t have to stress about drum kits and mikes and amps because Spike’s band are bringing theirs along and all the bands will be sharing them once we get to the theatre.

All that’s left is for us to squeeze into the car and go, and suddenly my tummy is full of butterflies because it’s not every day you get to achieve your thrash-punk-metal potential and change the world as well, all in ten short minutes on stage. It is going to be
awesome.

I just hope Mum and Dad will be there to see it.

Once we get to the theatre, things get a little scary. We have a bit of trouble convincing the sound-check guys we are actually a band and not a bunch of autograph-hunting fans trying to sneak backstage, which is very ageist of them when you think about it. In the end, Spike spots us and vouches for us, and then we are up there with the other bands, who do seem very tall and old and scary-looking.

Beth and Willow have gone totally silent, and Murphy just keeps saying, ‘Right, cool,’ whenever someone asks him a question.

One of the sound-check crew takes a look at Murphy’s bass and my pink guitar, and wires them up to a couple of huge amps on the stage.

‘These are pretty powerful … give them a go,’ he suggests.

‘Right, cool!’ Murphy says.

We play a few chords. The sound-check guy twiddles with the amps and the sound that comes out is pretty ear-splitting. Beth tries the drums and manages to lose a drumstick and pull one of the hi-hat cymbals down on top of her. She is shaking like a leaf and looks like she might cry at any minute.

‘You’ll be OK,’ the sound-check guy tells us. ‘It’s normal to be nervous before a gig. Trust me, once you’re playing, you’ll be buzzed!’

‘Right, cool!’

I dig Murphy in the ribs with a sharp elbow. He is getting seriously annoying.

‘Anyway, let me know if there’s anything else you need,’ the sound-check guy says. ‘You’re tenth in the running order, so you’re actually last on. I’ll call you five minutes before. I’ll take you to the green room to relax. We open in ten minutes …’

He leads us through to the green room, which is a poky, scabby little dressing room that isn’t even green, and tells us to wait in there. It is like a sardine can, only with weirdos instead of fish inside it. There is a boy with a purple Mohican and a girl with tattooed arms that look like lacy blue sleeves and a bloke with a shaved head and an orange beard trained into two pointy plaits.

Spike appears out of the madness, looking fairly harmless compared to the others, even with his pierced lip and green hair.

‘OK, Daizy?’ he grins.

My mouth has gone very dry. I try to answer, but all that comes out is a croak.

We follow Spike into the sardine can and he hands us cans of lemonade from a crate in the corner. ‘Keep your energy levels up,’ he says.

I slurp down some of the lemonade and I start to feel fizzy inside – fizzy and excited. It’s really, really happening … and so much depends on this.

I find myself wondering again if Dad’s plane has landed yet. Will he make it on time?

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar