Free Daizy Star and the Pink Guitar by Cathy Cassidy Page B

it yet, not until things were definite, but …’
    Beth, Willow and Murphy look at Dad brightly, waiting for the explanation. But me? Seriously, I do not want to know. There’s a cold, sour swirl of fear in my tummy that tells me I’m not going to like this.
    I’m not going to like it at all.

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L uckily, I am eleven years old now. I am very nearly grown-up, and quite wise and mature compared to when I was ten and three-quarters.
    When a disaster unfolds right in the middle of my living room, which seems to happen quite a lot these days, I am not about to run for cover, screaming. I am not about to pretend it isn’t happening or try to keep it secret or lie awake for long hours all through the night, tossing and turning and having stomach-churning nightmares, like I did with Dad’s last big plan.
    No, those days are gone.
    Slamming gates and hanging upside down on tyre-swings will not cut it, either.
    I am eleven now, and I am going to deal with this problem in a mature and sensible way. I will stay calm at all times, and listen, and gather information. The more I know, the more I can do to stop this whole thing from happening.
      
    I even have a notebook, so I can jot down important points and then use them to come up with a plan later.
    While I was out at the park, Dad made some cabbage and kidney-bean soup for tea, with the misguided idea that this will cheer us up and win us over to his cause. Yeah, right. Anyway, now he is happily stirring it, filling us in on the little details of his big African dream.
    Becca is yelling that Dad is a deranged lunatic whose only dream is to rip our lives into tiny shreds and scatter them to the four winds, and Pixie is still trying to decide whether she would rather have a zebra or an anteater as a pet.
    Mum is sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, shoulders shaking. I worried at first that she was crying, but no, she is laughing. In a slightly alarming kind of way. I am starting to think that I am the only sane one in my whole family, when thankfully Mum says something distinctly un-crazy.
    ‘Africa?’ Mum says, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You want us to abandon everything and go to live in Africa so you can build a school and dig a well and keep a herd of goats?’
    School , I write. Well. Herd of goats .
    ‘Mike,’ Mum smirks. ‘Have you gone mad?’
    ‘What’s mad about it?’ Dad asks, puzzled, and Mum just rolls her eyes.
    ‘We have a nice home here. I have a job – a job that is keeping us afloat, by the way, now that you have decided you don’t want to be a teacher any more,’ Mum says patiently. ‘The girls have school, and good friends. And none of us – NONE of us, Mike – except you … want to go and live in Africa. Not right now. OK?’
    ‘We cannot put our lives on hold, waiting for the right time!’ Dad says. ‘We have to do this NOW. Malawi needs us. Think of what we could do! We have skills, Livvi, skills that could really help an African village. I can teach … teach kids who truly want to learn. You can nurse and save lives, help children to grow up strong and healthy. Can’t you see what a difference you could make?’
    Mum frowns. ‘I know, but that’s not the point …’
    ‘What is the point, Livvi?’ Dad demands.
    ‘What do you really want from life? Money?
    Status? A flat-screen TV? Or would you like to know that you had saved lives, made a difference to the world?’
    ‘A new TV would be quite nice,’ Pixie muses. ‘We could watch my Little Mermaid DVD on it.’
    ‘There won’t be any TV in rural Malawi,’ Becca snaps, and Pixie’s lower lip quivers a little.
    ‘Livvi?’ Dad repeats. ‘Voluntary work was always a dream of yours, before the kids came along. You cared. You wanted to make a difference.’
    ‘I know,’ Mum says. ‘I still do. I mean, I’d like to, of course, but –’
    ‘No buts, Livvi,’ Dad says. ‘Just consider it, that’s all I’m asking. All of you. I am