Читать книгу A Sea of Stars - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 8

We 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.”

“What about you, Cat?” says Dad. “What will you have?”

Cat’s eyes slide over the menu. She shuffles in her seat. She nibbles on her nails.

“Am I allowed a whole one?” she asks. “All to myself?”

“Yes, Cat,” Mum laughs. “Of course.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” snaps Cat, turning into a shark. “I didn’t know.”

Mum zips her laugh away and turns redder than her hair. She coughs and the air between us tugs tight. “No,” she says, “of course not. I’m sorry, Cat. What would you like, sweetheart?”

“Meat feast, two lots of cheesy bread and a Coke.”

“Mmmmm, I think I’ll have the meat feast too,” says Dad, stretching back in his chair and rubbing his hands together. “And, go on, I’ll push the boat out and have a Coke as well.”

“Same as me, Daaaaaad,” says Cat.

Her words creep under my skin. It’s weirder than weird hearing her calling him ‘Dad’ already. It makes my whole body whir and my heart feel empty and small. I know I have to share him now, we’ve talked about it loads, but I didn’t think it would feel like this. He’s my dad.

Cat looks in Dad’s eyes and smiles. She turns her head a little bit to one side like she’s unexpectedly shy, then she nibble-nibble-nibbles on a nail. Dad smiles back and winks. And the little knife in my tummy twists and bites as a spark of love flies from Dad’s eye to Cat’s heart. I pinch the back of my hand. I should have ordered Coke and a meat feast as well, then I would’ve been in Dad’s team too.

The waitress comes over and puts a pot of felt-tip pens in the space between Cat and me. She smiles and gives us each a poster for colouring in, even though we’re a bit too old for it.

“Someone’s birthday, is it?” she asks, tying purple balloons on the back of our chairs. “I love birthdays.”

We look up, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, no…” says Dad, hunting for words and sending another wink to Cat. “But it is a very special day for our family. A very, very special day indeed.”

Colouring isn’t my favourite thing in the world, but it’s better than watching Dad and Cat together, and it’s better than looking at Mum’s anxious glares. I’m busy doing an OK job of colouring in a stupid girl on a pony, when Cat’s custardy hair wafts up my nose again, the beetle-black gleam of it shimmering in the light. She’s leaning right over to look.

“I’m rubbish at colouring in,” I say, quickly covering the picture with my arm. “I’m rubbish at arty things. I like surfing best and camping and outdoorsy things – adventuring and stuff.”

“Let me see, though,” she says.

I slide my arm away and feel my cheeks burn.

Cat sniggers.

“It’s lovely, Maya,” Mum lies, picking up my poster. “It’s really beautiful!”

We look over at Cat’s. She’s only done the pony’s face so far, but it’s amazing. I never knew anyone could make such a brilliant picture with such rubbish felt-tip pens. The pony looks almost real, like its eyes are actually glinting in the sun. And I’m so amazed by Cat’s neatness that my body stops whirring. She hasn’t gone over the black line once and the colours are so smooth and even, not scratchy and bumpy like mine.

“That’s absolutely brilliant, Cat,” says Mum, tugging the picture round to get a better view. “How do you do it so neatly?”

“Dunno,” says Cat. “It’s easy.”

“An artist in the making,” smiles Dad, sending her another wink.

“Sshhhhh,” she says holding her finger to her lips. “Stop interrupting.”

She takes a deep lungful of air and holds her breath for ages while she colour-colour-colours. We stare transfixed at her concentration. I quietly scrunch up my page. I’m not an artist in the making. But if we were surfing I’d be better than her – or swimming, or making fires, or putting up tents.

This is the weirdest day of my life so far. Much weirder than when we started looking at adoption websites and all those faces loomed out at us, waiting for homes. Much weirder than Alfie dying or the time I was so excited about my new bodyboard that I kept it in bed with me all night.

When the waitress brings over our food the meat feasts look the best. They smell really yummy and the cheese is all gooey on top of big juicy chunks of salami and ham. Mum’s salad is so colourful even that looks delicious, and suddenly my margarita seems boring and normal, flat and dull. I always have a margarita. Why didn’t I have the meat feast as well? I’m really thirsty now too. The chocolate milkshake is nice but it feels cluggy in my mouth and the Coke looks so refreshing.

Dad stands up and chinks his glass with a spoon. The forgotten rope in my tummy tugs tight.

“I’d like to raise a toast,” he smiles. The lump starts wobbling in his throat again and Mum’s eyes well up with tears. “To Cat and Maya and Mum and me; to all of us and our new life together. Cat, welcome to our family. We’re a little bit crazy sometimes, and you’ll have to forgive us for that, but we do have lots of fun and we’re very excited to have you join us.”

“Errr… thanks,” Cat mumbles. Her face flushes red and her eyes dart around the restaurant, checking no one’s looking. And with all the toasting and welcoming and eyes full of tears and throats full of lumps, Dad doesn’t notice, and neither does Mum, that, quietly like the shadow of a robber on a dark, dark night, Cat slips a whole portion of cheesy bread into the bottom of her bag.

As we’re leaving the restaurant, I slide up close to her.

I long to say to her, “Cat, I’ve waited my whole life for you to arrive. I’ve dreamt about us being together for years. And I know things feel a bit confusing right now, but they will get better – they have to. I have so many ideas for us, so many plans.”

But the words get twisted up with my feelings and somehow come out all wrong, so what I whisper into her ear is, “I saw you.”