Tell It to the Moon

by Siobhan Curham

  “Wow.” Rose felt stunned. Her whole life Savannah had seemed like the brightest star in the sky. A trailblazer. An icon. Now here she was saying she wanted to be more like Rose.

  “When I was with Liam I had a glimpse of how life could be if I stopped being scared, but I blew it. I don’t want to blow it with you.”

  “You really liked him, didn’t you?”

  Savannah nodded.

  “Oh, Mom.” Rose went around the breakfast bar and put her arm round her.

  But Savannah shook it off. “No. I should be the one being strong for you. I’m the parent here. So I’ve made some decisions.”

  “What decisions?” Rose waited anxiously.

  “I’ve started going to meetings again.”

  “AA?”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t like what drink does to me. I don’t like how it clouds my judgement and makes me so … so…”

  “Irrational?”

  “Well, I was going to say impetuous, but OK, irrational. And I’m going to go on a retreat Margot’s running.”

  “Margot? The Vagina lady?”

  “Right. She’s such a great woman, Rose. She’s really helping me to see how I’ve given away my power.”

  “OK.” Rose wasn’t sure what to make of this. Her mom had a tendency to pick up new fads the same way she picked up new outfits. She cast them off just as quickly too. But her giving up the booze had to be a good thing.

  “It’s only for a few days and Liam’s said he’ll take care of you while I’m away.”

  Rose’s heart sank. “What, on the houseboat?”

  “Yes. So you’ll be able to hang out with Sky loads.” Savannah looked at her hopefully. “Is that OK?”

  How could she tell Savannah she’d fallen out with Sky when she was making so much effort to change? It took everything Rose had to fake a smile. “Of course.”

  “I really want to be a better mom for you, Rose.”

  “I know.” Rose looked down at the pie. “Shall we try some?”

  “If you’re feeling brave enough.”

  “Of course I’m feeling brave enough. I’m the poster child for feeling the fear and eating it anyway.” Rose got a couple of forks and they dug through the burnt crust. The apple mixture inside was as brown as mud. They both took a mouthful. The taste of cinnamon was overpowering but Rose somehow managed to swallow it. Savannah, on the other hand, looked as if she was chewing on a wasp.

  “Eeeew!” she spluttered, spitting her pie into the ashtray. “Can we please just accept that you are the baker in the family?” She grabbed her coffee and downed half of it. “I’ll just focus on the other parts of being a mom. Like – like talking to you about feelings and tucking you in at night.”

  “Mom, I’m sixteen! OK, it’s a deal … apart from the tucking-in bit.” Rose high-fived her over the counter. As she watched Savannah light another cigarette she felt something dangerously close to happy. Savannah might not be the most conventional mom in the world, but she was her dysfunctional mom and, right now, she wouldn’t trade her for anyone.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Sky followed Leon under one of the huge archways next to Vauxhall station. A homeless man sat hunched against the wall, holding out an old coffee cup. His face and hands were streaked with dirt.

  “Spare change,” he muttered without even looking up as Leon and Sky approached.

  Leon fumbled in his pocket and put some money in the cup. “Stay safe, man.”

  The man nodded. “Thanks. God bless.”

  Sky felt a pang in her chest as she searched in her pocket for some change. There was so much suffering going on in the world. Why didn’t people do more to try to change it? Why did most people choose to look the other way?

  “Did you bring something to read?” Leon asked as they reached the end of the archway.

  “I brought something but I’m not sure I’ll read it. I only wrote it this afternoon – it might be too raw.”

  “No such thing as too raw when it comes to poetry.” Leon smiled. “In my opinion, anyway.”

  “Maybe.” Sky’s stomach churned as she thought of what had happened the last time she’d read in front of a room full of strangers.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It’s a really friendly crowd at this gig. You’re gonna be great.”

  “Thank you.”

  They crossed a busy intersection and Leon led her into some communal gardens. She felt the back of his hand brush against hers. Then, suddenly, as if of their own accord, their fingers linked, causing Sky’s skin to tingle.

  “You OK, Sky-Blue?” he said with a grin.

  Sky nodded. Right now, she felt OK to infinity.

  Amber took a bite of her warm baguette and stared up at Notre-Dame. If Sacré-Coeur was like a palace from a fairy tale, then Notre-Dame was more like something from a gothic horror story, especially now darkness had fallen. Amber loved it, though. She loved imagining the grim-faced gargoyles carved into the stone turrets coming to life at the stroke of midnight, cackling loudly as they scampered about the Parisian streets. She felt certain that Oscar Wilde would have loved Notre-Dame too. Once again, she imagined him standing in exactly the same spot as her, gazing up at the huge cathedral for inspiration. She looked at the time on her pocket-watch. There was just under an hour before she’d need to get back to the station. Time for one more wander.

  “Where to next, Oscar?” she whispered as she stuffed her baguette into her bag. She wandered over to some stone steps leading away from the cathedral. The steps took her down to a quaint little side street. Amber stared in amazement. There in front of her was the most magical-looking bookshop she had ever seen. A yellow and black sign saying SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY hung over the sea-green shop-front. Golden light shone out into the darkness, illuminating the walls crammed with books inside. There were shelves full of books on the pavement outside, too, as if the shop was literally bursting at the seams. Amber seriously began to wonder if she might be dreaming. As she stepped inside she thought she might actually pass out from excitement. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with wooden shelves bursting with books and the floor was filled with tables stacked with books. An old-fashioned chandelier hung from the ceiling and the handwritten signs for the different sections were stuck skew-whiff on the shelves. The signs were in English too, Amber realized.

  As she wandered further into the shop she fell deeper and deeper in love. She loved the wooden ladders leaning against the walls, reaching up to the highest shelves. She loved the quotes painted on what little space was left on the walls. Especially the one that read: “Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.” She loved the antique armchairs tucked away in darkened corners. She loved the fact that even the stairs leading to the second floor had bookshelves built into them. And as for the books… As Amber began scanning the shelves she felt like crying for joy. She was standing inside a treasure trove of antique books and first editions. And they were all in English!

  The next half an hour passed in a blur of words. Then, when it was time to leave, she took a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis over to pay.

  “Bonsoir,” she said to the pale, thin young man behind the counter.

  “Good evening,” he replied in a crisp British accent.

  “Oh, you’re English,” she said.

  “I certainly am.” He took the book from her. “And you are too. I could tell from your French accent. Or lack of. Excellent choice, by the way.” He gestured to the book.

  Amber smiled. “Thank you.” She looked around the shop and sighed. “You’re so lucky to be working here.”

  “I don’t just work here. I live here, too,” the young man replied, putting the book into a brown paper bag.

  “What do you mean?”

  “While I write my first novel.”

  “But…” Amber broke off, speechless, certain she had to be dreaming again.

  “They let young aspiring writers s
tay here for free in exchange for helping in the shop,” the man explained. “There are beds tucked away behind the shelves and upstairs.”

  “But – but that sounds perfect!” Amber exclaimed.

  The guy grinned. “I know, right?”

  Amber pictured herself one day standing behind the counter serving people in this magical shop. Sleeping in a little bed tucked away in a corner, surrounded by books. Breathing in inspiration from all the writers who’d gone before her as she slept and wrote. She wanted to cry with joy. She paid for her book and took one last look around the shop. Instead of feeling sad that she was leaving, she felt joyful in the certainty that one day she’d return – to work and write and stay here too. She had a new dream and it was one she was determined to make come true.

  “Thank you, Oscar,” she whispered as she walked out into the cool night air.

  Sky had always liked the name Eloise. She’d liked the way it rolled off the tongue in fat, round syllables. She’d liked the way it sounded like melody and all the harmonious connotations that conjured. But not any more. As she watched a performance poet called Eloise Ebony giggling flirtatiously with Leon she didn’t care if she never heard the name again.

  The event was halfway through and most of the audience were milling around a table of refreshments at the back of the hall. But not Eloise. She’d come over to Leon as soon as the first half was over and started gushing about how much she “loved his work” and how he was “like, so inspirational”. To be fair, Leon had read a stunning piece right before the break, all about what it had been like growing up without a dad. Even though his story was very different from hers because Leon’s dad had chosen to leave him and his family, parts of the poem struck Sky to the core: they were so reminiscent of how she’d felt after her mum died. But she hadn’t been able to tell Leon any of this because Eloise had got there first, gushing all over him. Tired of feeling like a spare part, Sky had made her excuses and gone to get a drink. As she stood in line for the refreshments table she checked her phone, hoping there might be a text from Rose. But there was nothing. Sky wondered if Rose and Amber had gone to see Maali again and not bothered to invite her this time. She pictured them talking about her the way Rose had done the other night; about how much she’d changed since meeting Leon. She looked over at him. Eloise was now sitting in Sky’s chair, leaning close, whispering in Leon’s ear. Sky prickled with anger. She hated girls like this, who saw guys as being there for the taking, regardless of who they might already be with. She picked up a plastic cup of lukewarm apple juice and marched back to her seat.

  “It would be so awesome to write something together,” she heard Eloise saying.

  What the hell? Had Leon asked Eloise to write a poem with him, just like he’d done with her? Maybe she’d been right after all when she was drunk the other night. Maybe he did do this kind of thing with all the girls. It’s not as if he’s your boyfriend, though, her inner voice chided. Yes, but we have kissed, she thought. And we did hold hands. Tonight, we held hands tonight.

  “Sky!” Leon said, finally noticing she was back. “Oh, you got a drink.”

  “Yes,” Sky replied bluntly.

  “I can get you one,” Eloise said, jumping to her feet. She was wearing a leopard-print top, tight jeans and high-heeled boots. Her skin was slightly darker than Leon’s and her well-toned arms glistened in the spotlights. She towered over Sky like an Amazonian goddess.

  “Thank you. I’ll just have water, please,” Leon replied.

  Sky sat back down. Anger knotted inside her.

  “So, what do you think?” Leon asked. “Are you enjoying it?”

  “Yeah, it’s good,” Sky said flatly. But all of her excitement had gone. She didn’t want to be here, having to deal with self-obsessed girls like Eloise. She wanted to be with her real friends. She wanted to be with the Moonlight Dreamers.

  “Here you go!” Eloise said in a sing-song voice, returning with a bottle of water for Leon.

  “Thanks.” Leon took the water and looked at Sky. “Did you guys meet? Eloise, this is Sky. Sky, Eloise.”

  Sky looked at Eloise and forced herself to smile. Eloise’s smile seemed equally forced as she sat down in a seat directly across the aisle from them.

  As soon as the MC came back on stage Sky’s anger started transforming into determination. She was sick of feeling like a victim; sick of not speaking her truth – about school; about Maali’s dad and how frightened his illness had made her feel; how terrified she was that Maali would lose him the same way she’d lost her mum; and now about Eloise. When the MC asked who’d like to read next, her arm shot up, arrow-straight.

  FREE TO BE

  BY SKY CASSIDY

  When your day is divided by lessons and bells,

  when your head wants to burst from the sounds and the smells,

  when you long to be heard but you’re not even seen,

  when you know you’re unique but you’re labelled “a teen”,

  when your bag is weighed down with homework and books,

  when you’re sick of the digs and the jibes and the looks,

  when you start skipping meals ’cos you’re told to be thin,

  when the anger you feel forms scars on your skin,

  when you pray someone hears your desperate plea:

  When will I ever be free to be me?

  When your fears lie in wait at the foot of your bed,

  when the things that they say won’t get out of your head,

  when you can’t give them voice so you silently scream,

  when you’re too scared to act and you can’t even dream,

  when you’re told that you’re anxious and given a pill,

  but no one considers that society’s ill,

  when they dumb you and numb you and give you no voice,

  so that apathy seems like your only choice,

  and nobody hears your desperate plea:

  When will I ever be free to be me?

  Then you finally decide that enough is enough,

  that you just haven’t got what it takes to be “tough”.

  But that doesn’t matter because “tough” is for fools,

  “tough” makes you sheep, makes you obey the rules.

  And you want to question and challenge and thrive,

  you want to feel grateful for being alive,

  so you open your eyes to a new way to see,

  A way that will help you to be free to be.

  You look to the others who’ve blazed this same trail,

  you search for examples inside of their tales,

  you learn that they all had their own doubts and fears,

  you read how pain caused them to cry bitter tears.

  But you also find hope in their stories of strife,

  and you see how they grabbed this gift of a life,

  and they took it and shook it and made it their own,

  and they found deep inside them a place to call home.

  You cry as you see how they turned fear to gain

  but this time the tears that you cry aren’t of pain.

  This time the tears are of sweet clarity,

  Because this time they help you to be free to be.

  wildeatheart.tumblr.com

  DEFIANTLY DIFFERENT

  My whole teenage life, I’ve been made to feel wrong for being me.

  Wrong for having two dads.

  Wrong for dressing the way I do … in vintage men’s clothes.

  Wrong for not being attracted to boys … and not being attracted to girls either.

  Wrong for simply existing half the time.

  A lot of you have been emailing me asking why I haven’t blogged much lately.

  The truth is, I’ve been feeling really blocked.

  And I’ve been feeling really blocked because I’ve been feeling really bad about myself for being so different and unsure of who I’m supposed to be.

  Then, last week, someone started posting hateful comments on this blog.


  My first reaction was to run away and hide. To stop blogging for good.

  But that would mean the hater had won. And I’m not going to let her win.

  Because now I see that being different is something to be proud of and something that can lead to a sensational life.

  I’m writing this blog post in Paris. And I’m in Paris because I realized that I had a choice. I could either let the haters win or I could choose to wear my difference with pride.

  So I’m wearing it with pride outside a café in Montmartre, along with a plum-coloured pinstripe suit and fedora, and thinking of my hero, Oscar Wilde.

  Oscar Wilde came to Paris because he felt shunned by his home country, England. The tragedy was, he ended up being shunned here, too. But times are changing. If Oscar was living in the UK now, he’d be totally free to be his true self; to write whatever he liked and to love whoever he liked.

  Oscar died in Paris, unloved and alone, because it was so difficult to be different back then.

  But it isn’t so difficult to be different any more – at least, not where I live. So I feel like I owe it to Oscar to look on the bright side. To see how lucky I am. And to be defiantly different in honour of all the people in the past – and all the people in other parts of the world today – who don’t have that luxury. Who get locked up or even killed for being different.

  Yes, I might be different, but I’m DEFIANTLY DIFFERENT – and I’m not going to hide away. I’m going to write what I like and dress how I like and love, or not love, who I like. And I’m going to dream sensational dreams. And let them lead me to live sensational adventures.

  I’m going to leave you with this quote from my beloved Oscar, who, even when he was dying alone in a dingy hotel in Paris, had the humour to write:

  “This wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. Either it goes or I do.”

  I’m really sorry you lost that duel, Oscar, but I’m going to make sure you didn’t die in vain, by making my life as sensational as possible and embracing my differences.