A Sea of Stars (2 page)

“H
uuurrrrrry up, Mayyyyya!” sings Mum, like an opera singer the next morning. “We don't want to be late for Caaaaat.”

I don't remember Mum ever being this cheerful. It's as if someone has filled her up with flowers and sunshine and light and they're bursting out of her. I'm hurrying as fast as I can, which isn't very fast because the damselflies have multiplied since breakfast. They're whirring and fluttering so much it's impossible to calm down.

I can't decide what to wear. I've tried ten things on already, but nothing looks right and my hair's
gone stupid too. Every time I try to brush it straight it flies everywhere like it has an entire life of its own. I wish it was as shiny as Cat's, or hung down all chunky like hers. I wish it was a better colour, either black or blonde or red, not just wispy rabbit brown.

Mum's been going on all morning. She keeps saying Cat this and Cat that and I wish she'd just shut up. The thought of meeting Cat is making my palms feel sticky. It's different from when we went to pick up Peaches Paradise. She was just a tiny kitten and that was exciting; I was over the moon. And it's different from starting school or learning to surf for the first time on my own. It's different from anything I've ever done before. Eventually I have to give up worrying about clothes because Mum keeps on telling me it's time to go. So I throw on my new jeans, a white top and my flowery Converse. I look OK, but I'm so nervous my fingers keep slipping on my laces. I'm scared I'm going to sick my breakfast all over the floor.

Dad's already waiting in the car. He starts
honking the horn like crazy. He's singing along, really loudly, to some old Bob Dylan song on the radio and he's so smiley, if you were passing our house you'd think he was about to go on holiday for a year.

My insides are juddering.

“Remember, Maya,” says Mum, when we're doing up our seat belts, “we mustn't overwhelm Cat with too much information. She's nervous and a bit shy, which means we need to give her lots of time and space. This is a big day for her, having all of us together – a massive step. We need to be gentle.”

“Let's keep it simple,” says Dad, turning Bob Dylan down, “then build up slowly to when we bring her home in a few days time.”

“I do know that!” I snap, feeling really annoyed. “You've told me a million times before, you don't have to keep saying it. I'm not stupid!”

My heart is blazing and the damselflies are whirring sick burps up to my throat. I swallow hard to push them down and wish my mum and dad wouldn't talk to me like I was a stupid five-year-old.

I wanted to feel happy today. I wanted to be excited about getting a sister and now it's all gone wrong. I turn the little parcel I got her in my hands. It's wrapped up in silver paper with pink ribbons. It's hard choosing a present for someone you've never met before and I'm scared Cat won't like it. I glare at Mum and kick the back of her car seat – not hard, but hard enough for her to glare back at me and sigh.

“Maya, sweetheart,” she says, “this is supposed to be an exciting day. Let's not spoil it with bad tempers.”

She looks at her watch then tells Dad to pull over at the Surf Shack Café.

“We've got plenty of time,” she says. “Let's stop for a quick coffee so we can all calm down.”

I'd like to tell Mum that I'm only all calmed up because she's treating me like I'm five! I know this is a big deal for Cat, but it's a big deal for me too. My mum should know that, she's read enough leaflets on adoption and she's been to enough meetings and support groups. She's even got all these friends on
Facebook who've adopted children too. And I've got no one. All my worries just buzz around my brain searching for somewhere to rest. I've never met my new sister before, either!

Dad pulls over and parks next to a pale blue and white VW campervan with a stack of surfboards piled on top. I wish I could just grab one from the roof and go surfing. I leave the present in the car and follow Mum and Dad into the Surf Shack Café. When they see us, Rachel and Gus, the owners, give us a huge round of applause. Then everyone else joins in and we're the centre of attention, which makes the sick in my throat start to burn.

“Big day today, huh?” says Gus. “I think it's a totally awesome thing you guys are doing.”

“It just feels right,” says Mum, smiling and finding my hand. “Let's hope we do well by Cat. It's lovely that she'll have so many people from the village welcoming her too.”

Then Gus looks at me.

“How's it for you, Maya?” he says. “You must be so excited to have a sister at last.”

I nod and fake a smile, but I pull my hand away from Mum's. Gus makes me a hot chocolate with whippy cream and coffees for Mum and Dad. Rachel hands us three big slices of coffee-and-walnut cake.

“On the house,” she says, “Celebration time!”

The Surf Shack is hot and steamy and filled with sunshine. Everyone's crushed together on long wooden tables, and laughter and chatter spiral up to the ceiling with the smell of coffee and cake and cheesy garlic bread. Dad grabs some high stools and we huddle together at the bar. I sip my chocolate and try to nibble at my slice of cake because it's my favourite, but it sits in my throat like a stone. I can't get the idea of Mum and Dad liking Cat more than me out of my brain. It keeps whirring around and around and I know it's stupid and it's spoiling things, but I can't help it.

I go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. I go really close to the mirror and stare. I trace my finger over my reflection, around my hazel eyes and my lips and nose. I look horrible
today. My face is all tight and twitchy and pale. I'm supposed to look happy; I'm supposed to be excited. But what if Cat doesn't like me? What if Mum and Dad do like her more? What happens to me then? I practise making a cheerful face. I take a big deep breath, fold up all my worries and tuck them deep inside my heart.

“Can we hold hands?” says Mum, when I'm back from the bathroom. “Just for a moment?”

“Muuuuuum,” I say, checking no one's looking at me. “I'll look like a total dork!”

“You won't look like a dork,” says Dad. “You only ever look gorgeous. Listen to your mum, Maya; this is important.”

I know it's important. This is the last time it's going to be just the three of us. It's going to be so different being four. So weird. And a part of me wishes I could just turn the clocks back. Maybe if I tried hard enough I could turn them right back to Alfie and find a way to keep him alive.

We hold hands and I try really, really hard to
block everything else out. I try to push away the sick burning in my throat, and the stupid thoughts and the whirring damselflies and tight skipping-rope knot in my tummy. I try to focus. I cross my toes and hope that Anna and Luca or Izzy and Scarlett won't walk in, because they'll think I'm a total freak if they see me like this – and a freak is much, much worse than a dork.

“I just want to say thank you,” Mum says, looking at me and then at Dad. “You know… for being my family. For loving me even when I'm all anxious and panicked. For being patient when I'm shut up in my studio making mermaid sculptures for hours.”

Dad doesn't say anything, but a lump the size of a frog keeps bobbing up and down in his throat. He gazes at us one at a time and gently squeezes our hands. Then his voice croaks open. “I love you, my special girls.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I can't help it. I forget about Anna and Luca and looking like a dork and I forget about all the crazy thoughts
spinning through my brain because I know deep down that none of that really matters. I know that my mum and dad love me.

“Thank you too,” I say. My voice goes squeaky and fat silver tears spill over and leave snail trails on my cheeks. A huge wave of love pulls through me. “You're the bestest parents in the world, even though you worry about me way too much. I love you. And I'm glad that when I was a tiny star I chose you to be my mum and dad.”

Mum's cheeks flush pink and Dad can't stop smiling through his tears. And I want to smile and cry too because I mean what I say. But there's this earthquake rumbling beneath me, this empty place growing bigger inside.

“Dad,” I say, “do you think adopted children pick out their birth family and their new family when they're just tiny stars in the sky? Do you think they know deep down what's going to happen to them?” And I can't help adding, “Do you think Alfie knew he was going to die?”

“I'd like to believe that's the case, sweetheart,”
he says, “but no one really knows, not absolutely for sure.”

We drift like clouds into our own private thoughts and I stare at my slab of coffee-and-walnut cake. I hope Dad is right. Because then somehow dying or getting adopted wouldn't seem so bad. Somehow, whatever's going to happen to me wouldn't worry me so much because it was all meant to be.

I just wish someone would tell me if it actually is true or not, or that I could zoom up to the stars and ask them, or up to heaven and ask Alfie.

W
e drive into the city and when we arrive at Cat's foster home, 14 Navy Way, my legs turn to jelly. Dad knocks at the door and a kind-looking lady with a very big bottom, soft green eyes and three little kids clinging to her legs appears.

“Hello,” she smiles. She looks at me. “I'm Tania and you must be Maya. Lovely to meet you.” She bustles us all down the sunny hallway. “Come on, come on in.”

Then we get to this other door. It's painted white and has little black chip marks and sticky grey fingerprints all over it. Tania stops at the door then
looks at me and smiles.

“Ready?” she says.

My tummy starts flipping and twisting and knotting because I know that Cat is on the other side of the door. I cling to Mum's hand. My knees are virtually knocking against each other and I wish Alfie were here too. Tania opens the door and a girl on the sofa with beetle-black hair and cherry red lips half stands up then sits back down. She makes a little wave at Mum and Dad and then starts twiddling her fingers, keeping her eyes stuck fast to the floor.

“Here she is,” says Tania. “Come in and say hello.”

We shuffle in and sit down. My heart is drumming in my ears so loud all the other sounds disappear.

“Hello, Cat,” says Mum. “This is Maya.” Her eyes start brimming over with tears. “And, Maya, this is Cat.”

Cat flicks her eyes up to me then sticks them back on the carpet, like the pattern is suddenly
the most interesting thing in the world. She keeps twiddling and twiddling. Mum sits down next to her on the faded green sofa and gently shuffles a little bit closer.

“Hi,” mumbles Cat.

“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking open.

And then my legs wobble and I stare at the carpet too. I'm feeling so dizzy that the pattern starts swirling around, making me feel sick again. I don't know what to do. I should say something friendly or serious because this is a really serious moment in my life. This is my sister. My sister!

I've waited for her forever and here she is in front of me and I'm just standing here like a dummy. I take a breath and try to say something, but my mouth's gone dry and my tongue keeps sticking to my teeth. The words in my head start fluttering around like snow in a snow-dome, whirling in the wind and I can't sweep them up together to make any sense. They keep bundling and sticking in my throat like damp litter. I'd like to hold on to Mum's hand, or Dad's, but I'm frozen to the spot. I'm
scared, if I move, the coffee-and-walnut cake will come back up and make big mess on Tania's carpet.

Meeting your new sister for the first time isn't something you can prepare yourself for. It's not something you can read about in a book or have a lesson on at school. I thought today would feel really special, like when people bring a new baby home from the hospital, bundled up in a blanket.

Tania coughs. “How about some tea?” she says.

Cat glares at her.

“There's no reason to wait around,” she says. “I've been in this dump long enough.”

Tania sighs and wipes a smile across her face. Then the silence looms again and all we can hear are breathing noises and Mum dabbing a tissue at her stupid quiet tears of joy.

“OK,” says Tania. “Yes, well…”

Then Dad coughs too and I wonder if we've all caught some kind of cough infection.

“Come on, girls,” he says. “Let's go and get some lunch.”

Back in the car we head out of the city towards
the pizza place on the beach. Pizza is Cat's favourite, but she doesn't look excited or anything, she's just lolling her head on the window and staring off into space. She's clutching on to a big book that says, ‘My Life Story Book', on the front. She keeps twisting it around in her arms as if it's a baby she's trying to settle down. I wish I could peep inside and find out more about Cat's life. I twiddle her present in my hands and roll her name silently around my mouth. It chinks on my teeth like silver. Cat, Cat, Cat. My sister, Cat. My sister. Cat. I dare myself to say it out loud. I really want to.

My sister, Cat.

I want to touch her beetle-black hair because it's the shiniest I've seen and smells vanillery, like custard, not flowery like mine. I want to know what she's thinking about because I'm scared she's thinking about us, about Mum and Dad and me, and if she likes us or not. If I could see her eyes properly I might be able to tell, but she's too busy staring out the window. I wonder what it's like for her being in the car with us. What it's like moving
to somewhere totally new, to a place where you don't know anyone.

What is it like being with strangers who are your new family, who are taking you to live in their house where you don't know stuff, like where the Sellotape lives or what they have for breakfast? What is it like packing up your bag and leaving your old life behind?

“What's it like?” I whisper.

I didn't mean to say it. The words just popped out before I could stop them.

Cat glares at me. Her dark eyes burn holes in my skin.

“What's what like?”

“Nothing,” I say, biting my lip. “It doesn't matter; I was just being stupid. It was nothing.”

But Cat won't let it go.

“What's what like?” she says through gritted teeth.

A balloon-sized lump swells up in my throat.

“You know,” I say, swishing my hand through the air, “all this! Meeting us and everything.”

Cat turns her back on me; she stares out of the window and nibbles on a nail.

“What's it like for you?” she asks, still facing the window. “Do you even want me?”

Mum turns and glares at me. I scuff my foot on the back of her seat. Her words of warning ring loud in my head.

Don't overwhelm her, keep it simple.

My mouth goes all dry again.

“I want you,” I say, “but it feels a bit weird. Um… it's really hard to explain.”

“Dunno neither then,” she says, lolling her head against the window and staring out at the trees.

 

I don't remember much about Alfie. I remember the doctor shaking his head and all Mum's friends coming over with candles and crystals and special remedies to try and make him better. I wandered about in the middle of them wearing my sparkly stripy tights, waving my magic wand, trying to help. But I wasn't very good at magic and he died. And I don't even have a wand now, but sometimes I wish I did.

 

I turn my back on Cat and stare out of the window thinking about the photo of me when I was a toddler, wrapped up in a sling. We were trekking in the mountains in Nepal and I was riding high on Mum's back with a big dribbly grin on my face. Dad was writing a magazine article called ‘The A-Z Of Travelling With Toddlers' and we all looked really happy. We didn't need anyone except us. But that was before the worry of keeping me safe started eating huge chunks out of Mum's heart and carving deep lines in her face. That was before she disappeared into her misty haze of fear.

When we knew about Cat coming to live with us, Susannah told us to make this special book about our family to send to her. I'd wanted to put that trekking photo in so Cat could see that we used to have adventures. But Mum said we needed to put in photos of what we're like now, of our house and Peaches Paradise and Nana and Pops and normal stuff like that. She thought the mountains in Nepal would confuse Cat. I thought they might give her hope.

Mum swivels round in her seat again, her bright rabbit eyes squinting.

“It's so lovely to have you both together at last,” she cries. “We've been so excited about today, Cat. And nervous – we're a bit nervous too. And that's normal. It's OK. It's a big day for us all.”

Cat looks up.

“I've been thinking,” she says. “Do I have to call you ‘Mum'?”

Mum coughs, like Tania, with the hint of a song.

“I really don't mind, sweetheart,” says Mum. “Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

But I know that's a lie, I know Mum does mind, because her hand flies up to her cheek as if it's been slapped.

“What would you like to call me?” she says.

“Dunno,” says Cat. “Not ‘Mum', though. I've got one of them already and I know you're gonna be my new mum and everything, but…” her eyes slide over to Dad. Her hand touches his shoulder. “I wanna call you ‘Dad', though,” she whispers. “I've never had one of them.”

I see Dad smiling in the rear-view mirror and a tiny – almost-like-you'd-not-even-notice-it, it's so teeny – dagger tugs and twists in my heart.

“You could just call her ‘Jane',” I say, sitting up straight, “because that's her name. Or something like ‘Mama-bear' or ‘Marmalade', or ‘Marjums', or even ‘Mama-Jane'.”

Cat looks at me like I'm five or something, like I'm a bit of dog poo on the bottom of her shoe. My cheeks burn. I'm so stupid. So pathetic. So babyish. This isn't fair! I'm supposed to be the big sister! I don't understand how Mum and Dad thought she was so perfect for our family. She's not cute or sweet at all. I stuff her present under Mum's seat, shrivel up inside and stare out the window so Cat can't see my eyes. They've gone blurry and stingy with fat salty tears and I hate it.

“Maya, why don't you give Cat the present you bought for her?” says Dad.

I can feel Cat sliding in her seat so she's facing me again. Then, when I look at her, her eyes are big and soft like a puppy's and her cherry lips are
fixed in a smile. I don't want to give her the stupid present now.

“That's a lovely idea,” says Mum, smiling and swivelling round to face us both. She claps her hands together. “It's a lovely, lovely idea! Go on, Maya, give it to her.”

I don't have any choice now; I have to give it to her. I wish they'd just leave me alone. You're supposed to want to give a gift to someone, not want to throw it out the window and hide. She'll probably think it's rubbish, anyway. It's all rumpled from being under Mum's seat and the ribbons are crushed. I turn it around in my hands. I'm too annoyed to actually give it to Cat so I just place it on the seat between us and slide it towards her.

“Is it really for me?” she says quietly, tucking her ‘Life Story Book' in her bag and picking it up.

I nod and she rests it carefully on her lap, as if it's as precious as the crown jewels or something crazy, and stares at it and starts stroking it like it's a cat. And I can't be angry any more because the stars come out in her eyes and a stupid sad feeling starts
filling up in my throat again.

“Really, really?” she says, twiddling the crumpled ribbons.

“Really, really,” I say. “I hope you like it. I spent ages choosing it.”

Cat opens the present carefully. I usually just rip the paper off straight away, but she unties the ribbons and then gently pulls off the Sellotape without tearing the paper even one bit.

“It's… it's… beautiful,” she says.

I'd wanted to buy Cat something special, something she could keep forever. And after looking round for hours I'd chosen a musical jewellery box from my favourite shop in town. It's silver and has hearts and flowers embossed on it, and the inside is this soft squishy nest of red crushed velvet. Cat opens the lid and gasps out loud as a little ballerina girl in a perfect white tutu springs up and twirls round and round to the tinkling music. But then she snaps the lid shut and starts nibbling her nails again. She flicks her eyes over to me, hugs the box close to her heart, and mumbles so quietly I almost
miss it: “It's the best thing ever.”

 

At the pizza place, Cat sits next to me. She's a very confusing person. Mostly she's a thunderstorm, brewing and nibbling, but, when the stars come out in her eyes, she shines. I kind of do understand why she doesn't want to call my mum, ‘Mum', but I think she said it in a bit of an evil way. I know I can be mean to Mum too sometimes, but somehow that's different. I know it's wrong and I shouldn't do it, but she can just be so annoying.

I wish I had the guts to say to Cat, “Actually, I'm not going to call you Cat, because I have one of those already and she's much nicer than you.” But I swallow my words back down when I notice her bitten nails. They're all crusty and scabby with blood where she's nibbled and nibbled so hard.

Cat, Cat, Cat. Her name chinks on my teeth like silver, it sits on my tongue like a bomb.

The waitress puts some menus on the table and I'm just about to pick one up when a text pips through to my phone.

What's Cat like
?

It's from Anna and I'm about to text back the word ‘Confusing' when Cat leans over and tries to read the message.

“Texts are private,” I say, gently budging her away with my elbow.

“It's rude to text at the table, Maya,” says Mum. “You should know that. Especially with Cat here, so switch it off right now! OK?”

“It's not rude,” I say, looking at Cat. “I mean, she's my sister. It's not like she's a guest or anything. Anna does texting in front of Evie.”

Dad glares.

“Not at the table, Maya,” he says. “Now, be a good girl and put it away.”

“I don't care,” says Cat, twiddling her hair round her finger. “It doesn't bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me,” says Mum, pulling my phone from my hand and slipping into her bag.

“Come on, my girls,” says Dad, smiling. “What are you going to have? Go for anything you like; we're celebrating, remember?”

I pick up the menu and stare at it. All the words are swimming about and the damselflies are whirring again. A million silvery wings whirring in nervous spirals. It's weird because I've ordered food in a restaurant a thousand million times before, but never with my sister here, never with Cat's custardy hair wafting up my nose. And my hands won't stop shaking.

“Margarita for me, please, Dad,” I say, trying to sound normal. “And some garlic bread and a chocolate milkshake.”