A Sea of Stars (12 page)

T
oday Mum pulls this stupid, pathetic tiger puppet out of a bag, then starts talking to Cat and me in this baby tiger voice, asking us questions about how we're feeling and stuff. It's so embarrassing! So cringy! I'd like to bite the tiger's head off and eat it – and Mum's. I'd like to stuff her mouth full of strawberries so she stops talking for one minute.

“I hate those books,” I say. “They're so stupid. You've gone weird since you got them.”

Mum smiles. She prances round the kitchen with the puppet.

“Hello, Cat,” she says, nuzzling the puppet in
Cat's face. “Hello, Maya. Tell me, how are you feeling today? How's the little bear feeling?”

Cat cringes and laughs. She punches the stupid tiger on the nose.

“Muuuuuuum,” I say, “don't! It's embarrassing!”

“I think he's lovely,” says Mum, nuzzling the tiger to her nose. Then she turns the puppet to face us. “Hey! Why don't you both play a lovely game together? That would be fun!”

Cat and I quickly get Connect Four out because anything is better than Mum doing the embarrassing puppet thing. Then Cat shocks me bigger than a bumcake. She grabs my hand. She actually touches me.

“Let's take it up to my room,” she says.

No one's ever allowed in Cat's room. Not when she's awake, anyway – only when she's sleeping and screaming. It's weird being in there in the day. Everything's all neat like her colouring in, all perfect, like she's not actually living there yet; like it's a cool, quiet church not a bedroom.

Once we start playing board games it gets a
bit like Christmas when you play and play and you can't stop unless you have to eat or sleep or something. We move from room to room and in and out of the garden playing and playing and playing. We play Connect Four and Operation and Scrabble and Monopoly and Pictionary. Mum and the tiger puppet thing can't stop smiling and if her book on adoption had a mouth, I think that would be smiling as well.

After four days of non-stop board games and about a trillion texts from Anna, saying how zabaloosh surfing is with Luca and how the bus was amazing, another weird thing happens. Cat pulls me up on to her window seat to look down at the beach. The bunting for the surf competition is flapping in the breeze and the whole wide world is down there having fun.

“You don't have to,” she whispers.

“Don't have to what?” I say.

“Stay home,” she says. “If I were your mum, I'd let you do anything you liked. Anything at all.”

I'm about to say that, if she were my mum, she'd
be much, much older than ten. But Cat's emerald eyes are twinkling so bright I bite back the words. The whole room is full of this little seed sprouting in Cat's mind. I can feel it growing and growing, stretching its stem until it's tall and opening wide.

“I mean,” says Cat, twiddling her hair round her finger, “you could just…”

She nods at the bay.

“Go down there and see Anna or something,” she says. “Or go to the café. No one would even notice. They'd think we were stuffed up in here playing games. It's not like you'd go surfing or anything, is it? That would be far too risky. But you could just go and see your friends.”

A million police people jump up and down in my head and scream, “Don't do this, Maya; your mum will go crazy. You'll only make things worse – then you'll be grounded forever!” But I push them far away. I nibble on a nail and spit the thin grey sliver on the floor. A balloon of worry blows up in my chest, so big it's hard to breathe. I really want to go down there, even for just a few minutes. But
how can I trust that Cat won't tell?

Like she can read my mind she says, “It's OK; you didn't tell about the cake. I won't tell about this.”

“But that night,” I say, “when I was out and you had that dream and woke Mum up…”

Cat swallows. “I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. I was half asleep and I had all these scary thoughts about you. I got really worried.”

I twiddle my hair round my finger. I can't go. It's too risky.

Cat narrows her eyes to slits, her voice is pure ice. “I'm going to Chloe's, anyway,” she says, “even if you're to scared to go out. I'm not hanging round here any longer. Games are OK, but I'm bored now.”

Cat's words from before dance on my tongue like silver.

I do what I want. No one tells me.

And my heart starts thudding. I feel really, really hot inside, like my head might actually boil over. My throat feels burny; my eyes are swimmy and strange.

“You're so scared of them,” she says. “It's written all over you.”

“Am not!”

“Are!”

I grab the screaming police people, stuff them in a box and nail the lid shut. I'm not going to listen to them. I'm not. They start pounding and pounding to get out, bashing my skull with a thousand metal hammers, squeezing the back of my neck so tight.

“Come on,” says Cat, jumping up and grabbing my hand.

We go downstairs and make this huge big tray of food. But I'm not hungry, just the look of it makes me feel really, really sick. Cat pops crisps in her mouth. She scoffs a cheese string. She tries to tempt me with a strawberry. Then we find Dad in the pottery. He's up to his neck glazing loads of mugs and stuff. It's his new collection, all painted with pictures of a girl with beetle-black hair.

“We're going to have a games tournament,” says Cat, smiling at him. She hands him a sandwich from our tray. “We'll probably be playing for hours.”

“Lovely idea,” Dad says. He puts his hand on my forehead. “You OK, poppet? You look a bit tired, a bit flushed.”

“I'm fine,” I lie, pulling away.

My head's feeling really odd now, like it's much bigger than it actually is. And my neck's really achy and stiff. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I'm just nervous, that's all, because – Cat's right – I am really scared.

We hunt Mum out in her studio. She's busy with this unexpected mermaid order for a wedding that she couldn't turn down. Cat sits really close to her and smiles. She hands her a sandwich – tuna and salad, Mum's favourite.

“Maya and I are really good friends now,” she says, swinging her legs backwards and forwards. “It's nice. Like proper sisters. Those books of yours must be good.”

Cat's words are like Christmas and summer holidays and birthdays all rolled into one for Mum. And her smile could light up the whole of Cornwall. My hands feel clammy. Sticky sweat's creeping up
my back and sprinkles of ice-cold shivers trickle down my spine. I wish we could stop this plan so I could go up to my room and lay my head down on a cool white pillow for a moment. But Cat would laugh at me for being scared and then I'd look like a total dork.

The police are still hammering on the box lid with their fists and this huge flush of heat rises through me like a wave. I wish they'd just stop and leave me alone. I wish Cat would stop. I wish we could just go upstairs and have the tournament. It might even be lots of fun. I've never told lies like this to Mum and Dad before and I don't like it. It feels wrong. Cat makes it look so easy. She looks cuter and sweeter than ever, but her words cut through the air like a knife.

“We're going to have a massive games tournament,” Cat says, “and we've got plenty of snacks, so don't worry about us. You get on with the mermaids. We'll be fine,” – she looks at me – “won't we, Maya?”

Mum sits back and sighs.

“Awwww, girls, that's lovely! So lovely you're playing together.”

Then she looks at me.

“Maya, sweetie, are you OK? You look a bit odd.”

“She's fine,” says Cat, dragging me out of the room. “It's a hot day, that's all. I'll get her some water. See you later!”

The police have turned into an army. They're marching inside my head, stomping their big hard boots on my brain. And God and Krishna and the Prime Minister and the Queen and the American President are screaming, “No, No! No! No! No! Don't do it!”

But Cat's words are still louder, ringing in my head like beautiful bells: I do what I want. No one tells me.

“You need to learn how to be a bit cooler,” says Cat, when we're back outside. “Your face goes all twitchy and panicked. It gives everything away.”

We scuttle up the path, treading on Alfie's blood red petals, and then Cat turns left for Chloe's and I turn right for the beach. I really, really hope Mum
and Dad don't notice we're gone.

“I can trust you, can't I?” says Cat.

“I'm not going to tell, am I?”

“I don't mean about telling,” she says. “I mean about surfing. Go and see your friends, but don't surf. Promise me?”

“I won't go surfing alone,” I say. “I promise. But I will go in for a minute if Anna and Luca are out there. You can't tell me not to, Cat. You're not my mum.”

My tummy clenches up tight with worry as I jog along the track and slip and slide down the cliff. I graze my elbow on gravel, but I don't care. The gnarly waves are racing and rolling below me like beautiful white horses to the shore and just being near them will be enough. Just seeing Anna and Luca will be zabaloosh. And then I'll go back home and no one will ever have to know.

Down on the beach the sun's so bright it hurts my eyes. I squint them up really small, shield my face with my hand and peer through the crowd. There are millions of people here, like limpets clinging
to the last few days of the sunshine and summer holidays. I'm glad they'll all be going back home soon – back to the city. And then the beach will be mine again. No kooks dropping in and getting in the way, no picnic litter and dog poo spoiling everything. The sunlight's making me dizzy; I really need some water. I wander along, searching the beach and the surf for Anna and Luca, but I can't find them anywhere. I can't see Gus either, or Rachel, or Luca's dad. Loads of bodyboarders are swishing about in the froth and there are literally hundreds of people lolling in the shallows like beached whales, trying to cool down.

And I search and search, but can't see anyone I know.

The damselflies start fluttering inside, filling me up from my toes to the top of my head, whirring my legs like mad. I'm so, so dizzy. This is a stupid idea of Cat's. We'll only be grounded for a little while longer and then we'll be allowed out again. But if Mum and Dad find out we've disobeyed them, we'll be dead for sure.

I head towards the café and, while I'm walking, I make a pact with myself. If I can't find Anna and Luca, I'll go straight back home, run upstairs and wait for Cat to get back. And I can't help it, but I have to keep on checking over my shoulder in case anyone's watching. I have this crazy idea that I might bump into Mr Firmstone and he'll ask what I'm doing and get really angry and take me back home. If my mum knew that we'd lied to her this badly, she'd go so mad, her migraine would need the emergency services and blue lights flashing and intensive care. My dad would be so sad and disappointed and somehow that would be even worse. Just thinking about them makes my heart flip with panic and my throat feel really dry. But I'm only walking on the beach. I'm only looking for Anna and Luca.

I wouldn't be stupid enough to go in the sea on my own.

I have to really push my way through the crowds to get into the café and, once I'm inside, this hot wall of coffee smell slaps me in the face. I squeeze
past a really fat man, who's asking about a hundred children what they'd like to drink, and through a crowd of laughing teenagers, who make me feel really small and embarrassed, and finally I reach the bar. But I can't see Luca anywhere. I peer through the gap to the kitchen to see if he's washing up or chopping salad and then I hunt around the café.

“Hi, love,” says one of the waitresses, balancing plates in her hands, “you OK?”

“Errrrr, yes,” I say. “I was just looking for Luca.”

“Awwwww, sorry, love,” she says. “His dad dragged him off to Wiltshire today to see another one of them crop circle thingies. Luca took his little girlfriend with him too. So sweeeeet! But can you believe they've left me in charge on a day like this? Gotta go! Stuff to do!”

I
need to go home, but I can't because my legs won't listen to my mind. They're taking me behind the Surf Shack Café to where the stack of boards live that Luca and I used when we went out surfing that night. No one will notice. I'll have the board back before they get home from the crop circles. And I know I'm mad. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I really, really need to feel the sea. I check around, hoping someone I know is about, someone from surf school, or Issy or Scarlett back from their holidays. I don't mind who it is, but I need to find someone. The sun keeps bouncing off the sea,
flashing bright white light in my eyes, making them feel hard and big like golf balls. And the colours everywhere are too bright. I need some sunglasses. I need to lie down and get a drink. I need the cool, cool water on my skin.

I walk right along the beach, away from the crowd, further round the bay to the quiet bit because my head is spinning. A paddle won't hurt, just to cool down, to stop my head throbbing and my legs whirring and the damselflies fluttering. Then I'll go back home. I tiptoe into the water, checking behind me to make sure Mum's not following, or Dad, or Mr Firmstone, or a policeman, or a judge with a white powdered wig. I look around for God or Buddha or the Virgin Mary because it does feel like someone's big beady eyes are on me, burning a hole in my back. Then the army in my head start shouting again. “Go home, Maya! Go home!”

I want to shout back, “I will go home! In a minute – if you just leave me alone!”

I'm a really good surfer. I'll be OK. I'll just go in quickly to cool down and maybe just practise a few
pop-ups for the competition. I promise. I paddle a little further in. The water sparkles over me, cooling my skin, soothing my hurty head, quietening the hammers and the big black boots inside. It feels delicious. I paddle out a little bit further – not far – and it's really safe, and really quiet. I'm twelve now; I'm OK. I practise a few pop-ups and some bottom turns and then this perfect wave calls me. I know I should leave it, but I can't. I have to catch it. I just can't let it go, not now. And then I'm up with my arms stretched wide like a bird, with me and the salt and the sun and my hurty head cooling down, with me and the damselflies swooping like the seagulls through the sky.

It feels so good to be back in the sea, I can't resist it any more. And suddenly I don't care about Mum and all her stupid worries. I don't care about anything – not even my hurty head or my golf ball eyes. I catch wave after wave, making up for lost time and, at this rate, I could still win the competition. I paddle further and further out and all the silver fishes are below me trying to nibble-nibble-nibble
my toes. And I'm just thinking about going back home when this other zabaloosh wave, even better than the one before, starts coming towards me. Anna and Luca would've died for this one – anyone would. But it's just me here, and it's mine, and I'm up on my board and the whole world and all my worries disappear.

I shout, “Woooooooohooooooooo! Bumcake, zabaloosh, big-wave surfer girl! Hawaii here I come!”

And that's when I wobble and slip. I wipe out. I get tossed round and round underwater like a tiny little bit of driftwood. Round and round and round in a washing machine of surf that's filling my ears and pressing into my mouth. I stretch my arms out in front of me and grapple in the dark as my chest squeezes tighter. I need to find a way up for air. But I can't tell which way is up and which way is down. My heart is thumping in my ears. I have to get out of here! I have to get some air because my lungs are starting to burn! The sand's all churned up and lashing me, stinging my skin like crazy. I
want to scream, “Help!” but I can't even open my mouth because the sea will rush in. I want my mum so much.

My lungs are bursting from lack of oxygen. My eyes are bulging with blood. My head is splitting in two and I'm thrashing around with panic. My leash is twisted; it's tugging at my ankle and I try to pull it off – and that's when my surfboard crashes into my head. That's when the world turns black and a beautiful mermaid with silvery blue lips and long yellow hair swims up to me and sings, “A sailor went to sea, sea, to see what he could see, see, see, and all that he could see, see, see was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.” I wave, sluggishly. She waves back at me and beckons me to follow her. I can't wait to tell Mum; I can't wait to tell Anna and Cat. It's a real live mermaid and her hair is amazing! Slowly, I follow her further and further down, drifting deeper and deeper into the blackness.

And then these bright lights start dazzling my eyes. They're so white, like the whitest ever headlights piercing through a dark night with no
stars and no moon – so white they kind of shimmer me to nothing, like I'm just space and pure freedom and nothing stopping me. And all my panic fades away. It's as if I'm at home on the cosiest of nights, snuggled under a blanket with my mum and my dad, in the safest place in the world. And suddenly Alfie is standing in front of me! What's he doing here? Well, at least I think it's Alfie, only he's not three weeks old any more – he's seven and he's wearing a school uniform with a red jumper and he has a dark grey book bag in his hand. He hands me a towel to dry my hair, and a fish-finger sandwich with a hot chocolate and marshmallows and whippy cream. Zabaloosh perfect – just how I like it.

And then we start lifting up and up and up, flying through the sky and I can see my body still tumbling away below me in the washing machine. But I don't mind one bit. It's much better here, being free; it's really, really fun. I swoop through the sky like a seagull, circling round and round and round, going higher and higher. I'm as light as a feather, as wispy as air, and nothing hurts any more,
nothing's bothering me.

“Hello,” says Alfie, smiling and wisping along with me like a cloud. “Granddad's here too; he's just made me a tree house – it's like a seagull that's ready to fly. Come on, come and see, it's brilliant!”

And I'm just about to step across this amazing bridge with Alfie when something hard and strong grabs me. It starts pulling me down and down and down and it's all black again. And I'm clambering up this hill that's even harder than the cliff. And I'm bashing my knees and I'm so tired and my head is so hurty again and my skin is so sore and shivery. Then my face is pushed into the air and I'm thrown down somewhere and it hurts so much and something rolls me over and then I'm sick all down my front.

And I breathe in the biggest gulp of air.

“Maya!” A voice calls me. A cool hand slaps my face. “Maya, wake up!”

I try to make out the face. Is it Alfie? It's blurry and my eyes are so heavy and tired. Then someone starts sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, like all the
sad people in the world are sitting in their eyes and sobbing together like a choir.

“Please, Maya!” the voice is saying. “Please! Please, wake up!”

Then the blackness covers my eyes with velvet and swallows me again.

 

When I wake up, I'm in a strange room that's the same soft pale green as Tania's faded sofas. A strange sharp smell stings my nose and the army and police are hammering so loud, they're totally smashing my skull. I wish someone would stop them. My eyes are as heavy as pumpkins the size of the moon, like I've been awake since Christmas a thousand years ago. And I think it must be Christmas because I keep feeling boiling hot, like when I sit really, really close to the fire, and then icy, icy cold, like an icicle is dripping on me.

“Maya?” says a voice.

I force my eyelids open, but the light's too bright. It's screaming at my eyes, slashing them with knives.

Cat's face is really close to mine, crowding in so
much it's hard to breathe. “Please, Maya,” she sobs. “Please, wake up!”

Then Mum's face and Dad's face swim in front of me too. They look tired and grey and old. Cat's clinging on to my hand, her little palm sweaty in mine. I try to talk, but opening my mouth is so hard because I think a city is resting on my face.

“What happened?” I whisper. “Where am I?”

“Shhhhhh,” soothes Mum. “Rest now, my kitten.”

I scratch at the needle thing in my arm. It's digging into my flesh, oozing ice-cold liquid into my veins.

“Am I in hospital?” I ask.

“You're poorly, but you'll get better, sweetheart,” soothes Dad. “You had an accident in the water and somehow… Cat rescued you.”

“But,” I slur, closing my eyes and sliding back into the black velvet place behind them, “Cat can't swim.”