I’m so open-mouthed I could hold a giant spaghetti hoop between my lips. “You just stick with the slack-jawed idiot impersonation while I carry on talking,” Grace says, putting a finger to my lips. She takes a breath. “Dad is in the audience.”

There is this strange silence just before my bowels start doing funny things. Most days you don’t notice bowels, but on the odd occasion, like now, they fizz away to remind you that they can easily destroy you. Grace grasps my shoulders and asks me if I heard what she said.

“Yeah,” I say, letting my eyes grow wide like flying saucers.

“Yeah? Is that all you can say? Our dad is here in the audience. Right here, right now. It is mental. I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to snub him if he looks at me. So far he hasn’t clocked us, but when he does he’s getting a dirty look direct from me.” Ninja Grace starts going on about how he is thinner in the flesh and how TV puts ten pounds on you. I’m not listening, to be honest. I’m too busy thinking there’s an astronaut in my stomach and he’s bobbing about in zero gravity.

Dad is definitely here. It is confirmed. It is S-U-P-E-R-M-A-S-S-I-V-E in capital letters.

“Snap out of it,” hisses Grace, looking around to see if anyone has noticed her. “I’ve got to go now but I’m warning you not to make a scene. Mum’s pregnant, remember.” She leaves me in a minty fog as she sneaks back out into the ballroom.

When she’s gone, I edge back to the curtain and look out again. Grace is taking her seat and mouthing rude words at me and just as I’m mouthing something back, Old Elephant Knuckles drags me away from the curtain.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you…” I’m thinking twice, when Mrs Parfitt says “a million times”. Sadly, teachers aren’t what they used to be, because they cannot tell the difference between two and one million. I think about reminding Mrs Parfitt about hyperbole, but instead I bite my lip a million times (twice) and promise not to go near the curtain again. She tells me that she’s within her rights to stop me taking a bow, but when she hears Kevin shout that his underpants are so wet that they’re going to trip him up she rushes off, muttering about health and safety.

Less than fifteen minutes later the backstage area is completely deserted, except for Christopher and me and our two guitars. “I like the rain,” I say, my fingers plucking the strings to make them sound like raindrops.

“Me too,” says Christopher, playing his guitar. “You were right about bringing these.” Music zaps from our fingers like an awesome superpower. Accompanying us, raindrops drum a rhythm against the window and the rumble of thunder acts as a huge crescendo. Angry flashes turn the room negative and another massive rip of thunder tears the night sky apart.

Then the world goes black.

Silence drapes over us until a small voice squeaks, “Dan, my eyes have gone funny. I can’t see a thing. Help me!”

“It’s a power cut,” I say, blinking through black.

“What’s that?”

“I dunno, but I think we wait until the lights come back on.”

Only they don’t. Not immediately anyway and we stand in blackness so dense that it’s like midnight. To my left I hear a door open and a blade of torchlight swings up towards my face. “Boys, it’s a power cut, that’s all,” says Mrs Parfitt. “Mind you, the audience weren’t sure at first. They saw the Virgin Mary glide down the catwalk and then everything went black. Someone shouted it was the Second Coming and I had to shout back that it was a power cut. Anyway, the lights will come back but we’re not sure when. Unfortunately, the audience are getting fidgety.” I hear a long sigh and a sniff.

“Dan could make it better.” The torchlight swings towards Christopher, then back to me.

“How?” I hear myself ask the question.

Christopher says his idea relies on none other than the talents of good Daniel Hope. This turn of events horrifies me. Christopher has gone mad. In his mind he’s omitted an O from his statement. Clearly, he doesn’t think I’m good, he thinks I’m GOD. What can I do about a thunderstorm?

Mrs Parfitt clears her throat. “And how, might I ask, is Daniel going to entertain a whole audience sitting in total darkness?” Yes, Christopher, I think, how am I going to do that?

Christopher begins to play “Over the Rainbow”, stumbling over some of the notes. “This is what he’s going to do. He’s brilliant at playing this tune. Put him out onstage and let him play, Miss. The audience might have lost their sense of sight but they can still hear.”

Before I know what’s happening, I’m standing at the side of the stage and Mrs Parfitt is introducing me to a clapping audience.

There is a chair centre stage and Mrs Parfitt has passed the torch to Yeti Man Kevin, who is going to highlight me for the duration of the performance.

I shuffle out onto the stage and take my seat in a thin circle of light. Once, a while back, Mrs Parfitt told us if we ever had to give a speech or a performance we should imagine communicating with one person only. In my mind this one is for Dad, who at this moment is sitting in the darkness, and I am in the light at last.

As my fingers find the strings, the circle of torchlight zooms up to the ceiling then skates back across the floor before it finds me again. There is an audible sigh of relief from the audience and then a wave of laughter as Kevin shouts, “Oops, my fault, butterfingers. I’m sweating like a gorilla in a sauna in this fur.”

I find the first chord and begin to play “Over the Rainbow”. And for a while it goes pretty well. And then my mind wanders off to the last time Dad was in Paradise Parade. A memory comes back to me and it is one I’ve tried to squash for four years. I saw Dad leave that night. I remember it clearly now. I was sitting at the top of the stairs as he stormed into the hallway. I called to him and he looked up at me, a small shivering figure in asteroid pyjamas. Dad came up the stairs and whispered “Goodbye” into my ear. I gripped his jacket but he pulled away until my fingers lost their hold. Then Dad walked back down the stairs, and even though I called him once more, he didn’t turn around. He left, slamming the front door, and I rested my head among the frilly daffodils.

My finger hits a wrong chord and then another. Kevin shakes the light as if it will somehow wake me out of a trance. It does, but not in a good way. I hit more wrong notes and can’t find my way back to the tune. My hands fly off the guitar and a snooker ball pots itself into the back of my throat. Despite wanting to say sorry, I can’t. My throat won’t let me.

Soft footsteps echo behind me and I know, without turning, that Mrs Parfitt has come to whisk me off the stage. If she had a giant hook, she’d probably flick it round my neck and whip me off so fast my feet wouldn’t touch the ground. The footsteps grow louder. With a forced grin and tears in my eyes, I prepare to get up and slink away. A firm hand clasps my shoulder and forces me back into these at. What is Mrs Parfitt doing? The music of “Over the Rainbow” wraps around me like a warm duvet and as I turn, Christopher gives me a sympathetic nod.

He leads me along the pathway of the tune as I begin to play the chords again. Together we are strong and the liquid music pours through the audience and I can feel them urging us on. Dad can’t think I’m a failure now. Perhaps he’ll think it was all part of the act: me pretending not to be able to play, then suddenly I’m amazing. It’s no different to those reality shows where the person is nervous and everyone thinks they’ll be rubbish but then they open their mouths and they’re phenomenal and everyone gives them a standing ovation.

We get our standing ovation too. Row upon row of chairs scrape as the audience jump to their feet and shout for more. Rather than disappoint, we do it again. In fact, we play it twice more and the final time the audience begin to sing and we both feel confident enough to walk around the stage (much to Kevin’s displeasure, because it’s hard to get one torch on two people at different ends of the stage).

When it’s over, Mrs Parfitt pads onto the Project Eco Everywhere catwalk and thanks us for our impromptu concert and the audience for not leaving after the Second Coming. She laughs and Kevin angles the torch so the light is under Mrs Parfitt’s chin. The shadows make her look like a scary beast. Mrs Parfitt, suddenly aware that the audience are shrinking back in horror, frowns and signals Kevin to switch off the torch. Once again the stage is plunged into night and Christopher and I have to crawl off on our knees because we’re afraid of tripping and falling off the catwalk.

At last, when the electricity comes back, we’re backstage and the whole class is buzzing around us with excitement. “You were all kinds of awesome,” says Jo. “It was like the real Virgin Mary was in the audience and saw everything go wrong and made a miracle happen.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” I say, moving away from her because her head smells like roast chicken.

“Seriously,” says Yeti Man Kevin. He wipes some sweat from his upper lip. “That was the best. Do you need an agent, or even a torch technician? For a small fee…” Before I can say anything, Mrs Parfitt approaches and the whole class parts like string cheese.

“Daniel, you are a credit to this school.” She stops in front of me and grins. Further back, someone clears their throat and Mrs Parfitt flips around and says, “And, Christopher, I haven’t forgotten how you helped a friend in need. I am proud of you too. Now I want everyone to take a bow. The lights are back on, so it’s your moment.”

This is it!

We walk, arms connected, onto the Project Eco Everywhere stage, as the audience holler and whistle. One by one we take a bow. I’m sure we’re there for at least five minutes and all the while I’m staring at every single face in the audience. Mum is waving a wet hankie and shouting, “That’s my boy. He’s the guitar player.” When someone behind tells her to shush, she yelps, “You can’t shush me, I’m gestating.” But where is Dad? I’m certain he’s not there. (Neither is the Virgin Mary, but then I wasn’t really expecting her.)

The second I’m off the stage I grab my coat and guitar and race into the ballroom to find Dad before he leaves the building. Malcolm Maynard, TV star – Dad – is going to be standing under the glittering chandelier, waiting for my autograph. We’re going to meet at last.

This is like the movies.