At least I was really enjoying the band. We practised in Zach’s garage, and sometimes at school. There was Zach and Big Sam on guitar, Dylan on keyboards, Little Sam singing, Henry on drums, and me on the saxophone. (Little Sam isn’t little, by the way – he’s way taller than me – but he is littler than Big Sam, who is the tallest boy in our school and looms over me like a giraffe.)
I thought we sounded pretty good. But Bonnie didn’t agree. She made grumpy remarks about “that horrible racket interrupting my homework”. (Though it couldn’t have, from the garage.) Then she started bringing us snacks – which was great at first, but she’d stick around, yakking and messing about and dropping crisps everywhere and stopping us playing. Until Zach told her to leave us alone and then she flounced off in a strop.
“Sisters!” said Zach. I knew exactly how he felt!
Later on, I was grumbling about Bonnie to Dad. To my surprise, he said, “Why don’t you let her join in?”
“She doesn’t want to join in,” I said. “She thinks we’re rubbish.”
“Are you sure about that?” Dad asked. “Maybe she wants to join in but she won’t admit it.”
I thought about that. At first it seemed a crazy idea. But then I thought about how odd Bonnie had been acting recently. She had been quite off with me at school. And she seemed almost pleased when Wild Thing made all that trouble. If Bonnie were jealous of me joining the band, and feeling left out – well, it explained a lot.
The only thing was, I wasn’t sure I wanted her in the band. A bit of me (maybe a mean, selfish bit) really liked being the only girl. But Bonnie is my best friend, so in the end I suggested to the others that we asked her to join. “She’ll just mess things up,” said Zach grumpily. But eventually, they agreed.
And guess what? She said yes straight away.
Unfortunately, Bonnie can’t play anything, and she’s not a great singer either. But, as Henry pointed out, anyone can play a tambourine. So that’s what she did. It’s a shame her rhythm isn’t great – she kept banging her tambourine at the wrong moments. But at least we were friends again.
The Parents’ Assembly was the following week. We were all really excited! Our first gig! Harris, who is Zach and Bonnie’s big brother, said sarkily that he was going to call Simon Cowell and suggest he come along in case he wanted to sign us to a record deal. But we reckoned he was just jealous. Harris is in a band too, with other kids from the high school, but they’ve never even done a single gig!
“You will be able to come, won’t you?” I said to Dad.
It was Saturday morning. Dad and me like a slow start on weekends, and that’s what we were doing, with orange juice (me), strong coffee (Dad) and chocolate croissants (both of us).The Beatles were playing softly on the radio and sunlight was pouring in from the garden, where the birds were hopping about on the bird feeder. It would have been a perfect start to the weekend…
…If only it weren’t for Wild Thing, roller-skating round the kitchen with chocolate all over her face!
As if that weren’t bad enough, she was singing.
“There is nothing I can’t do
When the sky is blue!
And whatever kind of weather
I am always very clever—”
“Quiet!” I shouted, but Wild Thing paid no attention.
“So will you come?” I said to Dad, trying to ignore her.
“Of course,” said Dad at once. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“It’s at two o’clock on Wednesday,” I said, for probably the twentieth time. “Do you know there’s never been a band playing at the Parents’ Assembly before? Only recorder groups and tame stuff like that. I hope – oh shut up, Wild Thing!”
Wild Thing paid no attention.
“…So very, very clever!” she bawled, and skated – BANG! – into the bin. It fell over with a crash, and all sorts of rubbish went bouncing across the floor.
Wild Thing just sat there amongst the potato peelings and coffee grounds, singing. She had a tea bag on her head.
“Very clever – I don’t think,” said Dad, eyeing the stream of rubbish.
But this time I couldn’t see the funny side.
“I can’t take this any more!” I told her. “Why can you never be quiet?”
“Gran says I’m a wonderful singer,” said Wild Thing. “She says I’ve got a gift.”
“You’ve certainly got a gift for singing loudly,” said Dad. “I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”
I got up. “You don’t sound wonderful – you sound like a cat being strangled,” I told my sister. “Maybe, if you could hear our band play on Wednesday, then you’d know what music should sound like. But – thank goodness – YOU won’t be there!”
“Yes I will,” said Wild Thing.
“No you won’t.”
“Yes, I will. My class are doing Parents’ Assembly too.”
I could feel myself going cold all over. I looked at Dad accusingly. “She isn’t, is she?”
Dad shrugged. “Not so far as I know.”
“Wednesday, at two o’clock,” said Wild Thing. “Miss Randolph said. It’s in that letter.”
“What letter?” I asked, looking at Dad.
Dad shrugged again. But he didn’t meet my eye.
“You’re just talking nonsense,” I told her. Still, just to reassure myself, I got up and found Wild Thing’s school bag. I fished out some crumb-covered play dough, the badge saying I WAS A BRAVE GIRL IN HOSPITAL and … a piece of paper.
It was a letter, saying that all the Little Ones would be performing at the next Parents’ Assembly. “Aargh!” I yelled. “I don’t want our Parents’ Assembly to be the same as her Parents’ Assembly!”
“Why not?” asked Dad, reading the letter. “Actually it will be quite handy. I’ll be able to see you both perform at the same time.”
“Yes, but she’ll do something terrible! You know what she’s like!”
Dad said to Wild Thing, “What are you doing in the Parents’ Assembly?”
“We’re doing a song,” said Wild Thing proudly. “With instruments. I’m playing a triangle.”
“There you are,” said Dad to me. “How bad can it be? She’s playing a triangle. What could go wrong?”
“Loads of things,” I said, waving my arms around. “I mean, most five-year-olds couldn’t do much with a triangle. But Wild Thing – she’ll probably use it as a boomerang – or to gouge out somebody’s eye … or else stick it up somebody’s nose … or something.”
But actually, I felt a bit better. Like Dad said, it was only a triangle. Surely even Wild Thing could bang away on a triangle without starting World War III.
Couldn’t she?