Читать книгу A Sea of Stars - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 7

“Huuurrrrrry 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.