Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar by Cathy Cassidy Page A

friends for ages. He is not all annoying like some boys I could mention. He is into cool clothes and funny haircuts and bands that nobody else has heard of, and he’s kind and funny and has never, ever put a worm down the back of my sweatshirt, the way Ethan Miller did back in Year Three. He also has a serious addiction to custard doughnuts, which is obviously very useful at moments like these.
    ‘So …’ Murphy asks, licking the sugar off his lips. ‘How was the girly sleepover?’
    ‘Great,’ I say. ‘We stayed up till midnight watching Disney DVDs. We painted our toenails every colour of the rainbow and dressed up in tiaras and fairy wings, eating pizza and choc chip muffins. And this morning, Willow chucked my alarm clock in the pond. The usual, really.’
    ‘Er … cool,’ Murphy says. ‘I think.’
    ‘It was. Have you seen what Mum and Dad got me?’ I pick up the pink guitar and strum a long rock solo, shaking my head about so that my hair whirls around like a whole bunch of snakes doing the hula. Luckily, the amp is not plugged in this time, so Murphy doesn’t have to cover his ears.
    ‘Looks amazing,’ Murphy says, biting into his fourth custard doughnut. ‘You should start a band!’
    ‘Oh, I will!’ I tell him, grinning. ‘As soon as I’ve learnt to play!’
    Willow looks at her watch. ‘Mum will be here to pick me up soon,’ she says. ‘Shall I shut this laptop down?’
    I flop down on to the floor beside her.
    ‘I’ll do it.’ I click a couple of times, then frown as I spot a file I’ve never seen before on Dad’s laptop. It says Africa Project . A little niggle of worry unravels inside me.
    Of course, an ex-geography teacher has every right to have a file on his laptop called Africa Project . It is probably crammed with dusty old graphs on the rainfall of the Kalahari Desert and essays on farming in the Congo – nothing but yawn-making facts. Probably.
    But then again, nothing Dad does is normal any more. I can’t help remembering his last crazy plan.
    Before I can help myself, I click the file open. Inside are lots of documents about a place called Malawi. It looks a lot like a geography teacher’s research project. When I open one of the documents, the screen fills with photos. A vast blue lake, a scorching savannah, smiling villagers in bright print wraps, and image after image of lions, elephants, leopards, rhinos …
    Beth, Willow, Murphy, Pixie and Becca crowd round the screen.
    ‘Wow,’ Beth says. ‘Is your dad planning a holiday? A safari?’
    ‘Doubt it,’ Becca huffs. ‘We just don’t do holidays like that. We had a day trip to Eastbourne this summer, remember?’
    ‘But he’s changed lately,’ Willow reminds us. ‘He’s got all adventurous, hasn’t he?’
    ‘Kind of,’ I admit uneasily.
    ‘He wants to travel and see the world,’ Pixie chips in.
    That’s definitely true. Dad talks a lot about getting out of the rat race and following his dreams. A long-haul holiday to Africa might be exactly the kind of thing he would plan, now he is in the grip of the mid-life crisis. Mightn’t it?
      
    Before we have time to discuss any more, Dad comes in from his run, wobbly and purple-faced. ‘Hello, kids!’ he gasps. ‘Anyone for a nice wheatgrass and celery smoothie?’
    ‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. I’ve tried Dad’s wheatgrass and celery smoothies before. They taste like something you might use to clean the sink.
    ‘Dad …’ Pixie says. My little sister is bursting with excitement. In her shining eyes I can see visions of giraffes and wildebeest, lions and leopards. ‘Dad … are we really going on a safari holiday to Africa?’
    The smile freezes on Dad’s face as he sees the open laptop, the photos and files. He is looking shifty now, as well as purple-faced.
    ‘Um … not exactly a safari holiday …’ he admits.
    Pixie’s shoulders slump, and Becca folds her arms, her face stern.
    ‘I can explain,’ Dad says. ‘I wasn’t going to mention