A Sea of Stars (9 page)

M
um and me are just about to say goodbye to the police when Cat suddenly skips up to the house – like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Cat!” cries Mum, running towards her, scooping her up into her arms and covering her with kisses. “Wherever have you been, sweetheart? We've been worried sick about you!”

“Talking about stuff is boring,” says Cat, her green eyes shining like it's the most exciting day of her life. “You started to go on and on and I was bored, so I decided to go out instead.”

Her eyes are full of twinkles, the most I've ever seen.

“But you can't just go out like that, sweetheart,” says Mum. “We've told you before. It's dangerous; anything could've happened to you.”

Cat shrugs and a huge smile spreads over her face. One of the police officers stoops down to her height and tells her she needs to listen to Mum and stay indoors and be safe like a good girl. Cat pokes her tongue out at him.

He pats her on the head. “Kids, eh?” He smiles.

Once we've said goodbye to the police, who reassured Mum that she was right in calling them, and that it's been their pleasure to help and no bother at all, a dark blue car pulls into the drive. Cat starts jumping up and down, hanging on to Mum's hand, jiggling it back and forth, over the moon with excitement. My heart is burning with rage. We've been so worried about her, so scared something bad had happened, and she doesn't even seem to care.

“I met a friend,” Cat squeals, “and here she is! Isn't it exciting?”

A lady and a girl get out of the dark blue car.

“This is Chloe,” she says, skipping, “and this is Chloe's mum!”

Then she starts gabbling on and on about Chloe's baby rabbits.

“Can I have one?” she says. “Dad said I could have a pet.”

She starts squealing about how brilliant would it be if Chloe could stay for tea, how amazing it is that Chloe's going to be in her new class at school. I kick the ground and glare at her.

“You can't just keep running off,” I say. “We were so worried about you. We called Dad. We called the police. We had the whole of Cornwall looking for you!”

Mum pulls Cat in close and stoops down to meet her eyes.

“Cat, sweetie,” says Mum, “it all sounds really, really exciting and it's lovely to see you so happy, but I need you to know that running off like that just isn't OK. I need you to listen to me and understand. I was so worried about you.”

“I'm fine!” says Cat. “Nothing bad happened.”

Chloe's mum blushes pink, the same as Alfie's beautiful rose.

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, stepping forward and holding out her hand for Mum to shake. “I'm Jules. I'm so sorry if we've created a problem.”

Jules goes on and on about how she didn't even know Cat was with them. They've only just moved into the house up the lane and Jules was so busy unpacking things, Cat must've slipped in. She found her and Chloe in the garden, going bananas with excitement over the rabbits. And then Cat couldn't remember our phone number and Jules thought she should bring her back home. But then there was the worry about putting her in the car, what with ‘stranger danger' and all that. So in the end Jules decided to drive along behind Cat, just to make sure she was safe.

I glare at Cat again. I could've had a proper surf if it hadn't been for her. It's not fair. Everything's always about Cat. If I'd just gone off like that, Mum would've gone crazy, stupid, mad. She'd have been all shouty and cross. Definitely not talking about
getting a baby rabbit!

Mum invites everyone in for a cup of tea and that's when I notice the metal things on Chloe's legs – like the dentist put braces on them instead of on her teeth. I know it's rude to keep looking, but I can't take my eyes off them. I want to know what they are. Cat doesn't even seem to notice; she's just jabbering on and on about rabbits and maybe getting one and choosing names and stuff. I'm wondering how Chloe can actually walk with the braces on her legs. I'm wondering how she'll get down the cliff and skip about in the sand. How she'll run. Or surf.

“Do you want to know about my legs?” Chloe asks.

Blood races to my cheeks and burns. I can't believe she noticed me looking.

“Errrr,” I stutter, “I was just… you know… wondering how, erm…”

“You can ask as many questions as you like,” she smiles. “Sometimes people talk to me in a baby voice like my legs stop me from hearing properly or
make me stupid or something. But they don't – not one bit!”

I keep my eyes on the floor. I nibble on a nail.

“I was just… I was just wondering how you'll manage the shortcut down the cliff,” I say, “and running and stuff. What happened to you? Did you have an accident?”

Then, while the mums are chatting, Chloe tells me and Cat about her Cerebral Palsy, which she's had forever. It means her limbs don't work so well. She points to the brace things on her legs and tells us they're called splints. She tells us about the frame she uses for walking, and about her amazing neon orange wheelchair.

“The worst thing,” she says, “is people thinking that because I have a disability I'm like I'm a three-headed alien from the planet Zog or something. Just because I get around in a different way, doesn't mean I'm any different from anyone else. The cliff might be hard, and the sand. But I'm used to things being hard and my family are really good at helping. We'll work out a way.”

Cat slides so close to Chloe that their arms are actually touching. So close I know that Chloe will be able to smell her custardy hair. So close the little knife in my tummy twists and tugs and turns.

“Most of us have something to get used to,” says Cat. Her eyes slide over me and silently stab my skin. “We're not all perfect!”

My insides start flapping about like a pigeon. My mouth goes really dry. I know I haven't had to pack my whole life up in a bag and go and live with a new family, or get used to my legs not working very well, but some stuff has been hard for me. I've had Alfie die. I've watched Mum being eaten up by fear.

“Some people's lives are just easy-peasy,” Cat says, silently stabbing and stabbing. She snakes her arm around Chloe and whispers into her ear, “Some girls are just really, really spoilt.”

“I'm not spoilt,” I say. “I have hard stuff too. There's things you don't know about, Cat.”

Cat pokes her tongue out at me and sends a twinkle to Chloe. I gather Peaches Paradise in my arms and run upstairs to my room. I need some
peace, some quiet time to think. I look down at the bay; Luca's still out there catching wave after wave after wave. It's not fair; I should still be surfing too! Peaches Paradise stretches out on my bed and purrs. She paws me until I stroke her tummy and she loves it so much that a little trail of dribble starts running down her chin. I don't want to cry. Not over Cat, anyway. But why doesn't she like me? Why will she let everyone else touch her but me? What have I done wrong?

S
ince Cat's disappearance over a week ago, we haven't tried getting her down on the beach even once.

“She needs to settle,” says Mum, flicking through the pages of one of the trauma books. “We need to expose her to new things gently, take things slowly. We need to help her to feel relaxed.”

And, even though the surf competition is only a few weeks away, I decide to be a kind big sister and teach Cat how to make paper cranes. We make hundreds of them together and I love the feeling of her next to me, nibbling and watching and carefully,
carefully, neatly, neatly folding the paper squares. Mum makes us chocolate brownies to munch on. Dad helps us string the colourful cranes on to these bits of wood and make a giant mobile, which we hang from the top landing ceiling. He fixes up this special spotlight so it shines on our mobile like it's a real piece of art in a gallery. I feel all warm and proud and special standing next to Cat watching our cranes fly about in the breeze.

Downstairs, Mum asks us how the little bear feels. I think he feels very proud of himself. Dad says he's feeling like an extra creative bear today. Mum says he's feeling very relieved and would like to sit in the sunshine with a nice cup of tea for an hour. When it's Cat's turn I hold my breath. Mum fiddles with her hair; she nibbles her lip. Dad taps his foot.

“I think the little bear feels more like a big bear today,” she smiles. “He's maybe even a little bit taller.”

Mum claps, she's so excited and Dad smiles. Then Cat and me set to work on this brilliant silver
and gold mermaid. Mum shows us how to cut all the soft metal stuff into little fins. We have to make holes in them and fix them all on to the tail so they jingle and shimmer in the light. While we're working, we listen to a Jacqueline Wilson story CD together and everything feels perfect. I don't even mind that it's non-stop sunshine outside and I'm stuck indoors. Because, suddenly, having Cat as a sister feels so perfect, just like in my imagination, just like we're living in a Disney film or something. And I even think Cat is enjoying herself too because she's smiling and sitting closer and closer to me. Then, just as we're finishing laying our beautiful mermaid on the lawn next to Mum's and standing back to admire it, Cat turns into a snake.

“Can I go to Chloe's now?” she says, firing her sharp little dagger tongue at me. “She's much more fun to play with than you, Maya.”

I storm into the kitchen and pour myself some juice. I blink back the stupid tears that are swimming in my eyes. I don't care what she thinks of me! I don't! I just wish Anna would come back
from camping, then at least I'd have somewhere fun to go too. Cat skips in behind me and stares at the little teddy. Mum and Dad tumble in behind us; he scratches away at his beard, she hugs one of the trauma books.

“The little bear wishes he didn't have to live on this stupid table any more,” Cat says, picking him up and stuffing him in her pocket. “He wishes he could go and live with Chloe!”

 

That night, when Cat's tucked up in bed, Mum, Dad and I have this big long talk.

“You've been amazing with Cat over the past few days,” says Mum. “Really patient and kind. But we've been thinking… it's not really fair that you have to miss out on things because of her. And, as much as it worries me – you going out on your own, we think you're old enough to have a bit more freedom, more responsibility.”

After what Mum said the other day about me never surfing alone again and never being allowed out of her sight, I can't believe my ears. I hold my
breath while they're talking, in case I break the magic spell.

“We've decided,” says Dad, “that so long as Luca or Anna are around and Gus and Rachel don't mind keeping an eye out for you, we're going to let you go down to surf on your own.”

Mum nibbles her lip. She twists her hands in her lap. She sends me this big brave smile. “But you have to promise that you'll never go in alone, Maya,” she says, “because that would be dangerous. I'd never forgive myself.”

I never thought this would happen, not in a million years. And you'd think I'd be squealing all over the place and leaping up and down for joy. But I don't squeal. I don't leap. I suddenly feel quiet and serious, like the hush of a cathedral or a temple is moving inside me. I twist my fingers round and round. I hunt in my brain for a wonderful word to thank them, a beautiful one, like a yellow butterfly. But my throat is full of lumps that I can't swallow down. My eyes are full of tears.

I hold my arms out wide and we have this great
big family hug and a feeling of relief flows through me like a waterfall.

“It's the best thing ever,” I eventually whisper. “Thank you.”

 

The next morning I get up really, really early, scoff some breakfast and get ready to go and meet Luca. I'm still in shock. I can't believe my mum is allowing this.

“Don't go,” says Cat, pulling Peaches Paradise up on her lap when I head for the door. “Stay at home with me. We could make a merman or another mobile or watch a film.”

“I thought I wasn't any fun to play with,” I say. “I thought Chloe was much better than me.”

“Well… she is…” she says. “It's just I don't like you going in the sea.”

“I've told you before, Cat,” I snap, “you can't control me. I'm allowed out.”

 

The surf is zabaloosh and I rip. Luca's watching me, clapping and whistling, and I feel freer and wilder
than the freest girl alive. And even when this kook drops in on me and wipes me out I really don't care. There's the sun and the surf and I'm allowed out alone and Mum and Dad and Cat and her spiteful words have disappeared. I'm so stoked, nothing else matters. It's just me with my arms stretched wide, ripping up the gnarly waves. And it's weird because I know I'm only down on the bay and stuff, and Mum and Dad and Cat can still see me with Dad's binoculars from the house, but somehow I feel a little bit older, even a little bit bigger than twelve.

 

Cat's getting her rabbit today so she and Chloe will be stuck together with invisible glue. I like Chloe and it's nice that she and Cat are friends and they both have someone to start school with, but I kind of wish I could go back to St Cuthbert's Primary with them. I wish I still had a red jumper and a grey book bag and could sing all the hymns and stuff in assembly. I do like my school, but St Cuthbert's was cosy. The other day, Cat and Chloe were all friendly in the hammock, touching arms.
I saw them looking at books and laughing. I saw Cat's ‘Life Story Book' glinting in the sun and the pages were turning and Cat was telling Chloe about everything inside. I went up a bit closer and kind of pretended I was picking flowers for Mum, but then Cat saw me and slammed the book shut and stuffed it to the bottom of the pile.

“It's not for anyone's eyes,” she said. “Only special people.”

 

“Do you think you'd like surfing, Chloe?” I ask, when I'm home from the beach and we're sitting on the grass next to the rabbit run. I feel kind of weird, like I'm much, much older than Cat and Chloe, like I'm a teenager already.

“Probably,” smiles Chloe, holding out a lettuce leaf for Cat's rabbit. “It might be a bit tricky and I'd need lots of help getting out there, balancing and stuff. And I couldn't stand up or anything; I'd just have to bodyboard. But I love trying new things. Maybe one day I'll even manage to surf.”

“Don't you hate it,” I say, stroking Peaches
Paradise so she's not too jealous of the rabbit, “you know, not being able to do what you want? Not being able to run around and be totally wild and free?”

“Sometimes,” she sighs, “but it depends. My dad says we're wild and free already, but most people don't know it. They think their body is who they really are. But it's not true; we're much more than just our bodies.”

“Does your dad believe we chose our lives and our parents and everything before we're born?” I say. “When we're just tiny stars in the sky? Mine does.”

Chloe shakes her head and laughs like she's watching a secret memory. She fiddles with the metal splint on her leg. “I don't know. Dad says our minds get us twisted up in knots because we have trouble accepting reality. Like if I just kept going on and on about wanting to run around like you when it's never going to happen. I just have to get used to the body I have.”

 

Chloe's got me thinking and I wish I could be happy with things the way they are, I wish I could be pleased that I'm allowed surfing and not go on and on about wanting more. But it's really hard when Luca's allowed to go wherever he wants. He's only twelve like me and he went to Penzance on the bus on his own.

“Muuuum,” I say, when we're eating dinner in the garden. “Can I go to town on the bus? I need to get a new pencil case for school.”

“The bus?” says Mum. “Why on earth would you want to go on the bus, Maya? Dad or me will whizz you in. It's no trouble. We have to get new school uniforms for you both and bits and bobs before term starts, anyway. We can all go together. I know! We'll go to Falmouth and look at the art exhibition at the same time.”

“But I really want to go on the bus,” I say. “On my own. Luca went to Penzance.”

Mum laughs, as if the idea were impossible. As if I were a toddler, asking if I could drive the car. I cringe up small inside. Cat sniggers and nibbles
and slides closer to Chloe. Mum shakes her head; she grips the edge of the table and glances over and Alfie's shrub number five, a beautiful yellow rose that's nodding in the breeze. She turns her face to the shade and squints her worried eyes. Lemon cakes and screeching buses and scared flip-flops slapping and deep red petals like blobs of blood on the path flash across her face like a film.

“I don't think so, lovely,” she says, her fork trembling as she lifts it to her lips. “Be happy that you're allowed to go down and surf and don't push it. I don't want you going to town alone on a bus just yet. OK?”

“I'll take her for you, if you like,” says Cat, stabbing a tomato. “I've been on the bus a million times before on my own. I used take my brother on too. It's easy.”

“I'll come,” says Chloe. “I've never been on a bus on my own.”

Mum puts her cutlery down and meets Cat and me with steely grey eyes.

“No one is going on the bus,” Mum says, “and
that's the end of it.”

I glare at Cat. I hate her for saying she'd take me. And I should leave it there, I know I should. I should start talking about something else or just zip my lip and eat. But I can't.

“Well, d'you think we'll ever go on holiday again?” I ask.

“I'm sure we will,” Mum says. “Now let's just leave it, shall we?”

She starts clearing the plates, fast, clattering them together, dropping a fork on the ground.

“OK,” I say. “But d'you think we would have stopped travelling if Alfie hadn't died, or if I hadn't had the accident with the bus? I sometimes wonder if we'd actually still be living in England if you hadn't got so scared.” I turn to Dad, “Don't you miss writing about travel stuff, Dad? Don't you miss having adventures?”

Mum slams the plates on the table and holds her head, which means she has a migraine coming on. But I don't care. I need to know.

“Don't you miss it, Dad?” I say. “Being somewhere
different and the people and writing articles and books about it all?”

Dad stares at the evening sun and I wonder if he's remembering the faraway lands we used to visit – places full of foreign smells and interesting faces and hustle and bustle. As if one kiss from the sun's rays will magically fly cameras and notebooks and pens with indigo ink into his hands.

“Cornwall's lovely, Maya,” he says, with a short cough, pouring himself a second glass of wine. “It's a lovely place for you and Cat to grow up. It's good for children to have a home and a sense of belonging, a place to build memories. It's good for us all.”

But I don't believe my dad. He's not telling the truth because his voice is thin and tinny, like it's a thousand miles away from his heart.