A Sea of Stars (5 page)

O
ur house is perched on the cliff and, from a distance, is a grey-white seagull ready to open its wings and fly. Our garden is this amazing tangle of flowers. Dad's colourful pots are everywhere, bursting like crazy with blooms, and there are Alfie's shrubs and the big red hammock that's good for reading in. Mum's best silvery mermaid stretches across the lawn like a beautiful sea queen, shimmering and blinking in the sun.

“Look,” I say, grabbing Cat's arm when we're out of the car. I try to pull her round to the side of the house.

She shrinks back, clutching her ‘Life Story Book' thingy to her chest.

“Don't touch me!” she shouts.

We freeze and stare at one another. A little pulse starts throbbing in my cheek. Cat fixes her eyes on Alfie's shrub number two, a glossy-leafed rhododendron. She starts nibble-nibble-nibbling on her nail. Her eyes are glued to the ground.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I just… I'm so excited to have you home, I just wanted… to show you… this.”

I point at the bright ‘Welcome Home' banner that Dad and I strung across the porch this morning. It's flapping and fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Cat's eyes burn through the banner and I feel stupid and small again, like I'm five or something. And the banner looks stupid now too – really babyish. The letters are all wonky and the colouring in is all wrong – nowhere near as neat as Cat's. And it wasn't even my idea. It was Mum's.

“I don't like being touched by strangers,” Cat says, nibbling and nibbling, “that's all. And stop saying ‘sorry'.”

I glare at her. My heart's on fire. Her words cut through me like broken glass.

“I'm not a stranger, Cat,” I shout. “I'm your sister! And I'm trying really, really hard to welcome you and be friendly and nice, which is more than I can say for you!”

“I don't need a sister!” Cat shouts. “I've got a brother of my own, I've got my own real family. And I don't need you to be my friend. You don't mean it, anyway. No one ever does. You're just pretending.”

Her eyes twitch around the garden. My mouth is dry.

“I don't even care about the stupid banner,” I snap. “It doesn't even matter. I was just trying to be kind.” I kick a stone across the patio. “I don't understand you,” I say. “You're up and down and all over the place. You're really, really weird!”

“I know I am!” snaps Cat. “Everyone tells me, even my own mum! But I can't help it, can I? You don't know what it's like being me.” She spins round and faces Mum. “Why don't you just call my social
worker now, before it's too late? Why don't you just send me back to Tania's? I don't care what happens to me and I don't care about you. Not any of you.”

She looks at Dad, then she starts running. She bashes Alfie's shrub number five out of her way, leaving a trail of bright red petals, like big blobs of blood, on the path. Her legs move faster than the wind, through the gate, along the track, heading straight for the lane.

A storm brews across Mum's face. “I can't believe you just said that, Maya,” she says. “We haven't even got her indoors yet.”

And then we start running after her, calling, “Cat! Cat! Cat!” Her name chinks on our tongues like silver. “Cat! Cat! Cat! Come back!”

My cheeks are burning with shame. I didn't mean to call her weird. I didn't mean it! The words just popped out. I didn't mean to upset her.

“I'm sorry, Cat!” I shout, “I didn't mean it! I just…”

Cat turns to look at me, scalding my face with her sharp emerald eyes, her strange red dress flapping
in the wind.

“Can't you say anything else but ‘sorry'?” she shouts, “It's boring, Maya. You're boring. Boring! Boring! Boring! All of you are. I don't even care what you think. I don't care about anything.”

“Calm down, Cat,” says Dad, “and come here! You can't just run off like that.”

But Cat runs on and on and on.

“I do what I want!” she screams. “No one tells me.”

She looks so little, her beetle-black hair straggly and tangly in the wind. She doesn't even know where she's running to; she doesn't even know where anything is. Fear flicks through my chest, a moth with razor sharp wings. I'm scared something bad will happen to her. I'm scared it'll be my fault. She might get run over by a car. She might run and run and run and get lost and then the adoption agency and the social workers will be really cross with me. It'll all be my fault! Cat'll probably tell everyone that she hates us and never wants to come back. Then they won't let us adopt again because
we're really bad people. And then Mum'll be so sad and she'll go to bed for a month, like she did after Alfie. She might even move us back to London and away from the sea.

I can't let Cat go. She has to like us. She has to want to stay.

“Cat!” I call. “Please! Please come back! I do want you! I chose you when I was just a tiny star; I've wanted you forever. Everything will be all right, I promise!”

I run harder than ever, my mixed-up feelings flapping around inside me like Mum's flip-flops, which are slapping the ground hard with fear of losing Cat, fear of her soft, sad heart breaking in two again. Mum catches me up and grabs hold of my hand. She clings on tight, as if we might fall off the planet if we slip. Tears are running down her cheeks and I'm sure she's not doing it on purpose, but her nails keep digging into my skin.

“I can't believe what you said to her, Maya!” she says, yanking my arm up and down. “She's traumatised enough already without you adding to it!”

I wriggle free from her clutch. I need to get to Cat.

“I'm sorry!” I say. Sharp silver tears pinch the back of my eyes. “I'm really, really sorry! I didn't mean it!”

I have to stop Cat running. I have to make her believe it will be OK.

Dad's eyes stay focused on the road.

“Cat!” he keeps calling, in a strong deep voice. “Cat, please stop this! We're not going to send you back. We want you! You're part of this family now!”

When we finally catch up with Cat, she's all snot and tears on her cheeks. She's standing on the grass verge by the edge of the big main road where the caravans and campervans come thundering down. She's rubbing her bloodshot eyes on her sleeve as if the summer hedgerows are making her itch. And she's standing there so sad and lost – more lonely than the last girl left on earth.

“You don't have to keep me,” she cries, blinking her big emerald eyes. “I can go back, if you think I'm too weird.”

“We don't want you to go back, Cat,” I say. “I was just upset about the banner. I was trying to welcome you home and… I want you to stay. We all want you to stay. I won't touch you again without asking. I promise.”

Cat crumples up like a sticky sweet wrapper. She clutches her ‘Life Story Book' tight and sobs back her choking tears. A sharp stick jabs my throat, prodding me deeper and deeper into a huge dark puddle of shame. Mum opens her arms wide and I really wish they were for me because I need a hug so badly. I'm so shaky my teeth are clattering in my head. But Mum's arms are for Cat.

“I am sorry,” I whisper. “I wish you'd believe me.”

Cat sighs. She shrugs her shoulders as if she doesn't care about anything.

“Please don't keep saying ‘sorry',” she sighs. “I've heard the word too many times before and it doesn't mean anything. No one really means ‘sorry'. If they did, they wouldn't keep doing bad stuff.”

I wish I could help Cat, but I don't know what's
happened to her. I don't know who's said ‘sorry' and not meant it. I don't know what bad stuff they did. I start imagining her locked away in a dark cellar for years and years without any food. I imagine people hitting her and tearing at her hair. I imagine her feeling cold and lost and alone.

“Come on, poppet,” says Mum, stretching out her hand to Cat. “Let's go home, shall we?”

Cat takes hold of Mum's hand and Dad stretches his out for mine. I grab it quicker than the wind. He squeezes it tight and love zooms up our arms and wraps up our hearts and ties bows around us like shiny birthday presents. All the tight knots inside me slip free and, although I've held my dad's hand more than a million times before, this time it's more precious than diamonds.

Later, when we're having juice together, Dad attempts another ‘Welcome Home'.

“Welcome, Cat,” he says. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to your new home. Please make yourself at home. Relax. Don't stand on parade.”

Then he sits us all down and gets serious. He
puts on his lecture voice. I yawn. I can't concentrate properly on what he's saying because Cat's custardy hair smell keeps wafting up my nose. I wish I could reach out and touch it. But touching isn't allowed.

“The thing is,” Dad says, looking at Cat, “we understand adopting you is very different from adopting a baby. You're a big girl and we totally respect you have another family. You're welcome to talk about them as much as you like. We're going to support you with the letterbox contact and meeting up with your mum and your brother, as planned. But we also want to make it clear that we're here to protect you, Cat. We're here to care for you and love you until you're a grown-up. It's our job to guide you, just like we guide Maya, so the world makes sense. And that means it's not OK to run off like that. It's not safe.”

Cat stares through him with dull, empty eyes.

Then Mum joins in and Cat must feel like she's in the school office with the worst, most boring teachers in the world. She stares at the wall and nibble-nibble-nibbles on a nail; she licks away the
blood from a scab. Mum's words are grey-white seagulls circling round Cat's head, searching for somewhere to land. And I know Cat's not listening because of what she told me in the teashop. I know she's shut down her brain and is blocking Mum and Dad out. I do what I want. No one tells me.

I wish I could do what I wanted too. But I am a dog that's been very well trained and Cat is a fox running wild. I slide closer to Mum. Her mouth is opening and closing, as boring as the vicar at school, and she's saying stuff about it being our responsibility to keep Cat safe and out of danger.

I put my fingers up behind Mum's head to make bunny ears and, for a minuscule second, I manage to make Cat's eyes twinkle. And I can't quite believe it when she blinks the twinkle to me and it lands like a soft warm promise in my heart. Better than her colouring in. Better than if she'd liked the banner. Better than if I could stroke her hair. Like a golden rope of hope between us, with each of us holding an end.

“We know it'll take time for you to trust us, Cat,”
Mum's saying, “and adjust to all the new things around you, but we hope you will. We have your best interests at heart. When we met your mum, we assured her we'd care for you well. We know it's as hard for her as it is for you. It's hard for you both to be apart, and away from your brother. And we'll never try to take their place, Cat. See us, if you like, not as a replacement family, but as an extra one – extra love, extra support.”

Cat slurps the last bit of juice, her teeth chink-chink-chink on her glass. She nibble-nibble-nibbles her nail. She casts her emerald eyes around the room.

“Can we stop now?” she says. “I'm bored. I don't want to talk about my family. They're private.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” says Dad, getting up and brushing invisible pottery dust from his jeans. “Sorry, Cat; we didn't mean to go on and on… We just… wanted… You know… Oh, dear, we're making a total hash of this,” he says. “Look, Cat, welcome. Make yourself at home. Relax. Explore.”

C
at travels slowly around the downstairs like a bus. She moves from place to place, stopping, waiting, looking, touching things, lifting them up to her nose to smell. I wonder if now's the right time to tell her about Alfie. I stand near to his shelf, hoping she'll be curious, but she just glares at me and passes without stopping to look. She tests out the big soft sofas instead, shuffling the colourful silk cushions until she's comfy.

“I like these” she says, hugging a bright pink cushion, “they're extra squishy.”

I gaze down at the bay, at the glassy waves
glinting and shimmering in the sun, at the kooks making fools of themselves. I wish Cat would hurry up making herself at home so we can go down and surf. I'm sure she's going to love it when she gets in, especially when she sees the bodyboard and wetsuit we bought her as a surprise.

“Why don't we have a picnic on the beach?” I say.

“Good idea, Maya,” Dad says. “Then you can have that surf you were hoping for this morning. The weather's still great. I'll sort the food while you and Mum give Cat the guided tour.”

“We're up in the attic,” I say, “you and me.”

“Yes,” she says, in a cold voice, “with the seagulls and the stars.”

A tight band squeezes my heart. I try to catch her eye again, to catch the twinkle she blinked at me. But her eyes are flat and cold and dull. She stares straight through me, as if I were a ghost, as if I were Alfie.

We climb the white painted staircase to our rooms and my palms start sweating. Cat touches the
stripy lighthouse on the wall and pings the seagull hanging from a spring so it bounces through the air. She stops and looks at the thousands of photos of me, pressing her thumb on my two-year-old face, wiping bright pink birthday cake from my cheeky grin.

“I've never had a birthday cake of my own,” she says, swallowing hard, “or a party. At Tania's I had to share my birthday with a baby. I made cakes for my brother, though. Once I made one out of a potato.”

Mum squeezes my shoulder. She takes Cat's hand and a silver teardrop plops on her cheek. My tummy ties up in knots. I want to know more about what happened to Cat. Why did she never have a birthday cake? I start imagining the kind of cake Mum and I can make her on her birthday. It'll be the best cake ever. And she'll have this amazing birthday party with loads of friends and presents and her eyes will twinkle from the beginning to the end of the day.

We worked so hard to make Cat's room nice
for her, just like the banner. But I'm walking on eggshells now, scared she's going to hate it, scared she might start screaming again or run away. Mum swings the door open wide and ushers Cat in with a wave. Cat stops in the doorway. She peers around and sniffs the fresh smell of paint and brand new carpet. She takes a sharp breath in. I cross my fingers and hope to heaven and back, for Mum's sake at least, that she lalalalalurves what we've done.

The pale blue room floods with bright white light from the sea. Mum and I stand back while Cat busies herself around the room. She touches the white wooden bed, smells the pink and blue flowery patchwork quilt. She trails her fingers over the amazing yellow-and-white dolls' house Dad made for her that has tiny red roses painted around the door. She sits on the pink window-seat cushion and squints her eyes down at the bay. Her room looks like a perfect box of sugared almonds – so delicious you could almost stretch your arm out and eat it up.

And when Cat stands in front of our big surprise,
her eyes grow as round and bright as the sun. Right across one wall, Mum painted an underwater sea world full of beautiful mermaids and treasure chests and silvery fish and pink shells and magic. Cat strokes the wall with the palm of her hand. She peers at the glittery mermaid tails, trails her fingers along the seaweed. She smiles. She doesn't scream or stare through me or run away or freeze. And the tight knot inside me is just about slipping loose when she slaps us in the face with her words.

“I've been to places like this before,” she snaps, nibbling her nail. “Some even better.”

 

Down on the beach we try to smile and be friendly – even Cat's trying – but the truth is, everything feels clunky and sharp. Dad gets busy with the French bread and cheese and hard-boiled eggs, and Mum gets all fussy with the towels. She keeps straightening them, trying to make them neat and flat, but ends up getting sand everywhere. Dad makes his favourite cheesy joke about sandwiches, but nobody laughs.

I put my bikini on straight away because I'm itching to get into the sea. I need to practise my bottom turns and my pop-ups – especially my pop-ups – if I'm going to win the surf competition at the end of the summer holidays. Winning last year was easy because I had so much time to practise, but this year's different. And if Georgia Timson enters, she's so zabaloosh, I'll be dead for sure. Cat's staring at the bodyboard we gave her as if it were a monster about to eat her up. I give her some glitter wax and show her how to rub it in, even though bodyboards don't actually need it, and I work alongside her, rubbing some into my Minnie Mouse board as well. Talking about surfing is easy, so I start chatting away.

Cat loves the glitter wax. She does it really, really neatly, just like her colouring in. She gets so engrossed in it a little smile almost spreads across her face and I can't wait until we're in the water together. Maybe she'll blink me a twinkle again and I'll be able to catch it and blink one back. Maybe when it's just us, together in the water, being sisters,
it'll happen. I don't even mind if I don't get any proper surf practice in. Mum starts smiling, Dad starts whistling and it feels like everything's going to be OK. Mum holds up a new pink bikini and purple wetsuit for Cat to choose between and the damselflies start really whirring. But this time they're whirring with excitement instead of fear. I can't believe this is actually happening. I can't believe I'm about to go surfing with my sister.

“Which one would you like to wear, Cat?” asks Mum. “Bikini or wetsuit?”

Cat freezes. She shakes her head, zips her jacket right up to her neck and fiddles with the buckles on her shoes. My heart flips. The damselflies die and land in my tummy with a splat. Cat's face closes in; her eyelashes flutter.

“Come in with me, Cat,” I say. “Please? I can teach you to surf. It's so zabaloosh! You'll love it. It's brilliant!”

Cat shudders, her face fades whiter than flour. She stares at the glittering sea and shakes her head backwards and forwards like she's shaking an evil
devil from her hair. Then her eyes grow dark, she drops her glitter wax on the sand and just sits there, staring and trembling, nibble-nibble-nibbling on her nails.

“I can't…” she whispers. “I…”

“Oh, come on!” I say, “Please?”

“Never mind if you can't swim, Cat,” says Mum. “You could paddle until you're used to it. Or you could come for a wander and collect seashells and driftwood with me. It's just as much fun as surfing. We can make something out of them when we get back home.”

But Cat shakes her head again, as if she were shaking bad, bad pennies from her mind.

“I'm happy here,” she says, drawing a perfect heart in the sand with her finger. “I prefer just watching.”

Then Luca runs up with his surfboard under his arm.

“Hi,” he smiles. “Coming in?”

I'm not sure what to do, if I should stay with Cat or go with Luca.

“Go on in,” says Mum. “Get some practise for the competition.”

She slides really close to Cat.

“We'll watch you both from here.”

I sprint to the water's edge with Luca; away from Mum and Dad and Cat; unravelling myself like sticky wool from the weirdness of everything; loving the pounding sound of my feet on the sand.

“Be careful,” shouts Mum. “Don't go too far out!”

I throw myself into the waves and paddle out as far as I can go. Cat's words are sparkling on my lips. I do what I want. No one tells me. The surf breaks over my head and the waves drag under me, pulling me further and further out. And then I see my wave, swelling in the distance, coming closer and closer. When I catch it, I pop up on my board with my arms stretched wide like a bird.

 

On my tenth birthday, I thought that God or Buddha or Krishna or the Virgin Mary or someone truly holy must really exist. Because Nana and Pops
arrived with a bright red wetsuit and a real, real surfboard and some glitter wax for me.

I couldn't believe my eyes! My lips were lost for words.

I'd wanted a surfboard for ages, but Mum said there was no chance. Not ever. A bodyboard was one thing, but a real surfboard was stretching her patience just a little too far.

“I don't understand this obsession, Maya,” she snapped, picking up the wetsuit. She glared at Nana and Pops. “And I'm really not happy about this! Surfing is a dangerous sport – really dangerous! You should have called me before spending a fortune on all this stuff; you should have asked me first.”

Pops' eyes flamed.

“It's her passion!” he said. “Maya comes alive out there in the sea, anyone can see that, and I'm not going to stand back and watch you squash it. We supported you in everything you wanted when you were a child, Jane, and we'll support Maya too.”

Dad said if I learned to do it properly then surely I'd be safe. He told Mum we couldn't move
to Cornwall and then ban me from the sea – that really wouldn't be fair. But Mum's worry spread over her like a rash, making her palms sweat and her voice go all shaky and her nerves jangle with fear. Dad won in the end, though. Mum didn't really have a choice, not with Nana and Pops and Dad on my side.

Surf school was amazing, completely zabaloosh, and the first time I stood up and surfed right to the beach without wiping out was totally the best day of my life. The glassy waves sparkled like magic and my heart swelled huge with pride. My surf coach smiled and clapped like mad.

“I'm totally stoked, Maya!” he said. “Girl, you rip!”

Dad was watching from the beach. He clapped and cheered and smiled and waved so much it got kind of embarrassing. He stuck his hand up in the air and stomped up and down on the sand, whistling like he was doing some kind of mad ritual tribal dance. Everyone stared at him as if he was totally bonkers. But, apart from Dad acting
like a total dork, I was the happiest girl alive. Now that I could surf properly and safely and I knew all the rules, Mum's fears would fade away. She'd get back to how she used to be and start bursting with exciting ideas. But then she scuttled across the beach with a picnic basket in her arms, and panic heavy in her eyes.

“I'm still not sure about this,” she said, clutching my arm tight. “I know you're a strong swimmer, love, and a safe surfer now, and I do trust you, but I just don't trust those waves. Every time you're out there, I'm scared to death you'll get sucked out in a rip tide. I need you to promise me, Maya, that you'll never go surfing alone. Not ever! OK?”

 

Later, when Cat's back at foster care, Mum, Dad and I get talking.

“It's very unusual,” says Mum, “for a ten-year-old not to love the beach.”

“Probably can't swim very well,” says Dad, making us a cup of tea. “Maybe no one got round to teaching her. Give her time; it'll work out.”

He hunts in the cupboard for chocolate biscuits.

“Jane, love,” he says to Mum, “any idea where those chocolate biscuits have gone?”

I know exactly where they've gone, but I don't squeak one tiny word.

“What's happening to Cat's little brother?” I say. “To Jordan? Can't we adopt him too?”

Mum runs her hands through her hair.

“No,” she says, “The adoption agency did think about placing them together, but they decided against it. Cat's been like a mum to him for too long and it's not healthy. She still needs to be parented herself; it's not fair for her to feel responsible for a child. And Jordan – well, he needs to be parented by an adult, not Cat.”

Dad takes hold of my hand.

“But we will keep them in contact,” he says, “and the people adopting him are in agreement. She won't lose her brother like you had to, Maya, I promise.”