Candy and the Broken Biscuits

To Graeme, Fergus and Dot, who put the song in my heart

I’m on the Pyramid Stage at the festival. In eight bars (thirteen and-a-bit seconds) my band is going to smash into our biggest, loudest, most stupidly catchy single yet. The crowd will jump so high, so fast, the field below us will shake. Lights will flash like the sky is on fire. People will spring out of the throng – sea spray crashing against rocks in a storm. I turn to Hol, she’s on bass and coming in first. She starts playing…the wrong notes. DUN DUN DUN DUGGA DUN-DUN! What the hell is that?

ICE, ICE BABY…

Vanilla Ice. Mum singing along. The dribble-dribble of the shower. Experimentally, I raise one eyelid. Pale, cold sunshine pours in like vinegar eye drops. As I suspected: I’m alive. It’s today. Unfortunately I’m still me.

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1 Their Bloody Valentine (the Morning After)

2 Gladly

3 Operation Awesome

4 The Beast and the Godbrother

5 Squashed Bananas and Stew

6 The Magic Bus (Stop)

7 Bravery, Cunning and Feats of Daring Do

8 Operation Who’s the Daddy?

9 Bus Girl, the Dream Boat and Pants Stain

10 5-4-3-2-1…Blast Off!

11 Wrecked

12 Queen Candy and the Court of the Insane

13 The Broken Biscuits Come Together

14 This Just In

15 Finding the Wow

16 G-Day

17 Inge Rhabarbermarmalade

18 Like No Business I Know

19 R41N N8N

20 Jugs and Melons

21 Found, Still Lost

22 The Wierdest Family Reunion Ever

23 Living Your Dreams, Enjoying Your Nightmares and L-O-V-E

Copyright

About the Publisher

Hello. I’m Candy Caine (I know. I know. Didn’t name myself, did I?) Bit of an odd moment to meet, but since my life isn’t about to get any awesomer (and it isn’t, It’s Monday) I suppose it’s as good as any.

Here I am in bed, seven-eighths obscured by my ancient Forever Friends duvet cover, hair exploding from the top of my head like a firework. A brown firework. My eyes are screwed up, as if I can somehow stop the day from starting by not being able to see it. The duvet cover of shame matches the too-short curtains on the window above my bed. One of Mum’s exes put them up when I was seven. That’s nearly half my life ago, people. Dave I think he was called. Or maybe Clive? There was a -VE somewhere in there. Anyway he’s long gone, but his rubbish DIY is still here, in my bedroom, although his teddy-bear curtains are now framed by hundreds of pictures of my favourite bands. I also have a clear view through the gap, out of the window and up into the freezing blue sky. Gulls scream and circle overhead, delighted by the prospect of another day scavenging old chips and bits of kebab off the seafront.

I’m not slagging my home town off. Bishopspool is pretty much your average seaside settlement: small, cold and (I think) beautiful, tucked in beside the unfathomable depths of the sea. We only really ended up here because Mum “stuck a pin in a map” when she left London. So here we are. And it’s…fine.

Reluctantly, I roll myself up to a sitting position before staggering over to the wardrobe, pins still wobbly and sleep-drunk. My extremely un-fetching maroon school uniform is hanging up, all scratchy and angry-looking. The thought of putting it on is about as inviting as swapping clothes with my maths teacher (and I’m including underwear in that).

It’s not just the uniform, though. For me, school is like being forced to play a really complicated contact sport where nobody’s told you the rules and everybody else is on the other team. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t get totally jazzed about it. All the same, I am basically a Good Girl (check my report, it says “bright, tends to daydream”) so after drizzling myself clean under our no-power shower, I slip into my uniform’s polyester embrace, ready for another six-point-five-hours of academic excellence and hearty banter with my classmates. Can’t wait.

If it weren’t for my best mate Holly (and Mum I suppose) I’d probably have stopped going to school by now. She’s the only other sane person in Bishopspool. Holly, I mean, not Mum. Mum’s as mad as a frog in a sock.

Speaking of which, I’m leaving my attic room at the top of our rickety seafront-house, the bottom floor of which is Mum’s business – a beauty salon called The Cutie Parlour (you see what she’s done there?) – when I hear her giggling and, is that…singing?

“Ice ice BABY! Ice ice BABY!!!” Insane laughter (told you). A man’s voice joins in.

Oh no – Ray. That’s put me off my cornflakes already. He must have stayed over last night (after their special Valentine’s Day dinner. Ick).

Ray Hoppings is Mum’s latest boyfriend. Ray is a life coach. What this involves, I couldn’t tell you, although I have a mental image of him following people around the supermarket while they do their weekly shop yelling, “GO FOR IT! WAY TO SELECT CARROTS!” like a football coach at the side of the pitch.