I can see what she means. Planks of golden yellow pine and random coils of thick rope have invaded our living room. Boxes of nails and screws swarm across the carpet, and a vast roll of unbleached canvas lies slumped in a corner, like a beached whale.
It’s like living in a shipyard.
‘Next year then?’ Pixie pleads.
But by next year, we could be aboard the Haddock, adrift in the Pacific Ocean or lurching through a tropical storm. We could be anywhere at all. Mermaid parties will not be an option.
Pixie’s shoulders slump. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Never mind.’
Later, when my little sister has gone to bed, Mum says she thinks that Pixie should have her party, no matter how awkward it might be.
‘She never complains,’ Mum reminds us. ‘She always looks on the bright side. I don’t suppose she wants to leave her friends any more than the rest of us do, but does she moan? No. She deserves her mermaid party!’
‘Totally,’ I nod. ‘We can make her a cake – mermaid-shaped! And maybe I can make her a mermaid’s tail, so she can dress up and look the part… it could be her present!’
‘Fantastic idea, Daizy,’ Mum says. ‘Mike, what do you think?’
‘OK,’ Dad agrees. ‘We’ll give Pixie her party. I suppose I can tidy the boat-building stuff away, just for one afternoon.’
‘We don’t even have to have the party here,’ Mum points out. ‘That would make it all much simpler. After all, she wants a mermaid party, doesn’t she? And she’s a real water-baby, obviously. What better place…’
I stop listening then, because I can see where this is going. A girl who loves to swim? A mermaid-themed party? There is only one sensible place to hold a party like that.
Why do these things always happen to me? Why?
Mum rings the leisure centre and arranges to hire part of the swimming pool for Pixie’s seventh birthday party.
Whoop-de-doo.
I wish I was a million miles away… but not on a flat-pack boat, sailing around the world, obviously. It’s just that I don’t want to be right here, right now. The smell of chlorine is sharp in my nostrils as I pull on my swimsuit and wriggle into orange armbands and two rubber rings. It may look a bit odd, but I am not taking any chances.
I am stuffing my clothes into a locker when a small boy in polka dot swim shorts pokes me on the arm. He is not the cutest kid I have ever seen – he looks like a frog, with bulging eyes and wet lips and a slimy kind of look about him.
‘What are you wearing all those for?’ he asks.
‘I’m learning to swim,’ I say politely. ‘With the Baby Dolphins.’
‘Armbands and rubber rings aren’t allowed,’ he sneers. ‘How come you’re in the Baby Dolphin class, anyway? How old are you?’
‘Much older than you,’ I huff. ‘I’m practically a teenager!’
‘No, you’re not,’ Frog Boy smirks. ‘My sister is a teenager, and she wears a bra!’
I should slam the locker door and walk away, I know. When you meet the lowlifes of this world, the slimy green creatures who have just crawled out from under a stone, the best thing to do is blank them. That way, they might just crawl back to where they came from, and leave you alone.
Sadly, I do not walk away. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at the slimy little creep.
‘I wear a bra!’ I tell him.
OK, it is actually a crop-top, and I only wear it on special occasions because it’s kind of uncomfortable and too tight around my arms, but he’s not to know that, is he?
‘Yeah, right,’ he says, giving me a pitying look. ‘I don’t think you’re a teenager at all. I think you’re about seven.’
He turns away and hops towards the pool.
I am speechless. It’s not fair that a slimy little kid can make me feel so small, so babyish. I take a sneaky look in the changing-room mirror. I don’t look like a seven-year-old, do I? I am tall, skinny… and pancake-flat.
I remember Beth and Willow telling me I’ll understand about them crushing on Ethan when I’m more grown up, and that hurts too.
On impulse, I grab my stripy over-the-knee socks from the locker, slam the door and sneak into the ladies’ loo. A bra would be better, obviously, but socks can be quite useful in an emergency. I roll them up and stuff them into the top of my swimsuit, adjusting them until I’m sure they look natural.
I can feel myself standing a little taller already. If Beth and Willow could see me now, they’d never say I was too young to know about crushes and true love. I look grown up – well, apart from the armbands and the two rubber rings. I’ll show Frog Boy.
I hold my head high and walk out to the poolside. Frog Boy is in the pool with a bunch of other little kids, splashing around a plump, pink-cheeked instructor. The glinty water, the echoey sound of the pool… it makes my heart race and my stomach lurch.
This is not good.
I turn around, ready to make a quick exit, and walk right into a pool attendant with a clipboard and a whistle around his neck. He gives me a funny look, and I tuck the tail end of one stripy sock safely out of sight.
‘Daizy Star?’ he asks, scanning his clipboard. ‘We’ve been waiting for you! I’m Steve and this is Sue…’ He points towards the pink-cheeked woman in the pool.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. ‘This is not a good idea.’
‘Come on,’ Steve says, laughing. ‘We’ll have you swimming in no time! Take off the armbands and the rubber rings, though, you won’t need them!’
I think of Dad, shelling out for the lessons so we can all sail around the world in a flat-pack boat that may or may not capsize. I’m still having nightmares about it, where I dream it’s stormy and dark and I am on watch, wearing my orange waterproof trousers. I see an iceberg looming in the distance, and a wave the size of a house crashes down over me and suddenly I am in the sea. Then a giant octopus grabs my ankles and drags me under, and my bones turn to ice as the water closes above my head…
That’s when I wake up, of course, shivering and gasping, my heart pounding.
Maybe the nightmares would ease up if I could swim? It could be worth a try. There’s Pixie’s mermaid party too, which I’m dreading, and school swimming lessons, and the shame of being left out whenever Beth and Willow want to meet up at the pool on a Saturday… I need to do this.
I don’t want to learn to swim, but I have to try. I take off the armbands, shimmy out of the rubber rings and climb down the steps into the water. I line up with the others, holding on to the handrail. Steve blows his whistle and the lesson begins.
‘Kick those legs!’ he yells, and an explosion of splashing erupts around me. ‘Point those toes and kick…’
I adjust the socks, grip the rail and make a few feeble kicks. Sue is moving along the line behind me, helping kids with their technique, but I must be OK because she leaves me alone. I may not be quite as bad as I thought. I am in a new class, where nobody knows me and none of us can swim. Maybe I can do this after all?
‘Now,’ Steve announces. ‘This time, kick your legs as if you are a frog. Feet together, bend your knees, lift your feet up to your bottom… then kick out and finish with your legs straight and your knees touching! And repeat!’
There is a frenzy of kicking all around me.
Suddenly, something grabs my ankles, and I’m back in the nightmare. A storm. An iceberg. A giant octopus…
I panic, kicking out as hard as I can. There’s an endless, ear-splitting scream that even Steve’s whistle can’t cut through, and after a while I realize that I’m the one who’s screaming. I take a deep breath in and open my eyes. Everyone is quiet. Nine Baby Dolphins are staring at me, faintly horrified.
‘What do you think you are doing, Daizy?’ Steve demands.
‘Something grabbed me!’ I yelp.
Steve grits his teeth. ‘It was Sue, trying to help you with your leg technique. I think you’ve given her a black eye.’
I turn around slowly. Sue cradles her face in her
hands. Blood seeps from one nostril, and from what I can see her eye doesn’t look so much black as a mottled crimson/purple mixture.
There was no storm, no iceberg, no giant octopus, just a pink-cheeked teacher, trying to be helpful. And I kicked her in the face.
‘Sorry!’ I whisper.
Sue climbs out of the pool and stalks across to the lifeguard’s office for some first aid. I spend the rest of the lesson clinging to the edge of the pool in shame and despair while the Baby Dolphins take floats and start swimming widths. When Steve blows his whistle to signal the end of the lesson, I am out of there.
‘Daizy!’ he hisses, as I haul myself up the steps, dripping. ‘Your… erm… scarf, is it?’
That’s when I realize. One stripy sock has edged out of the top of my swimsuit to wrap itself around my neck like a seaweed scarf. The other has slipped right down and around, and is trailing like a tail from the back of my right swimsuit leg.
My face turns beetroot.
‘Why has she got a sock around her neck?’ one small girl asks.
‘Why has she got a stripy tail?’ another puzzles.
My eyes prickle with tears. I have never been so embarrassed in my whole, entire life. Kids are laughing now, and whispering, and even Steve stifles a smile. I am a stupid, stupid idiot, and everyone here knows it.
I edge towards the changing rooms, my sock-tail dropping to the ground as I go.
‘Hey!’ a slimy, familiar voice yells, and a scrunched-up, sopping-wet sock hits me on the back of the neck. ‘Don’t forget this!’ From the corner of my eye I can see Frog Boy laughing, open-mouthed. Or maybe he’s just catching flies?
One thing’s for sure, my Baby Dolphin days are over – I am never doing this again. Not as long as I live.
I hide in my cubicle for a long time, until my tears have dried and the yells and giggles of the Baby Dolphins have faded. I dress quickly, shivering. My stripy socks are clammy and stink of chlorine, but I pull them on anyway. And, yes, this time I am wearing them on my feet.
My shoes make a squelching noise as I walk, but I hold my head high. I make it through the changing rooms and across the lobby. I’m through the double doors and halfway down the steps before I hear it… an ear-splitting wolf whistle.
Nothing to do with me, obviously. I hope. ‘Daizy! Daizy, wait up! I’ve come to walk you home!’
I turn around and there is Becca, picking her way down the steps in her biker boots, school bag swinging. Her lips are blood red and her hair glints purple in the afternoon sun, and that is not the colour it was this morning, I swear.
‘Right.’ I take a deep breath in. ‘What happened to your hair? And did you… were you… watching the lesson?’
Becca laughs. ‘It’s just a spray-in colour. And no, we weren’t watching – I’m sure you were very good, but we got here a bit late… thought we’d missed you!’
We?
For the first time, I notice a boy lurking on the steps behind her. He is tall and gruff and faintly menacing, in a long black coat and fingerless gloves. His black hair is streaked with green and hangs down over his face so that it almost hides the metal stud that sticks out beneath his bottom lip. Almost, but not quite.
It might just be the shock of the worst-ever swimming lesson catching up with me, but he makes me feel slightly queasy.
‘This is Spike,’ Becca says.
‘Er… hello, Spike,’ I squeak out.
‘All right,’ he growls.
My sister is hanging out with a scary goth gorilla with mouldering hair and a pierced lip. Why am I not surprised?
‘So,’ Becca asks, steering me up towards the high street, with Spike trailing along behind. ‘Good lesson?’
‘Not really. I made a complete fool of myself.’
Becca raises an eyebrow. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Not now. Not later. Not in a million years. And I am never, ever, EVER going back.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Becca says. ‘We all make mistakes. It’s never as bad as you think.’
‘It’s worse,’ I tell her. ‘I promise.’
‘Well, even if it was, you can still get over it,’ she insists. ‘For my sake.’
I blink. ‘What d’you mean?’
Becca rolls her eyes. ‘Dad is being so strict and stressy,’ she tells me. ‘It’s probably part of the mid-life-crisis thing. He says I can’t go out on school nights, which is just totally unfair.’
‘You never used to go out,’ I remind her. ‘It didn’t bother you.’
‘Well, it does now,’ Becca sniffs. ‘I have to see Spike – I just HAVE to. We might not have long together, what with this crazy sailing-round-the-world idea. As soon as Dad finishes that stupid boat, my life is over… so right now, I can’t afford to waste a minute.’
‘I suppose.’
Becca lowers her voice. ‘Besides… Dad’s not exactly going to approve of Spike, is he?’
I take a quick look over my shoulder. Beneath the green, floppy fringe I’m sure I can see smudges of eyeliner. Yikes.
‘Probably not,’ I say. ‘Definitely, absolutely, totally not. In fact, no way.’
‘It’s a problem,’ Becca agrees. ‘But you can help, Daizy! If you keep going swimming, I can hang out with Spike and walk you home at the same time, twice a week! Dad won’t suspect a thing!’
‘But…’
‘For me, Daizy?’ Becca begs. ‘Just keep going to this Little Whales class…’
‘Baby Dolphins,’ I huff.
‘Whatever. And don’t tell Dad about Spike, OK? Please?’ Beneath the crimped purple fringe, my big sister’s eyes brim with tears. She looks lost, lonely, a tragic heroine in biker boots and black nail varnish, and my heart melts.
‘Well…’
Becca grins. ‘Thanks, Daizy, I knew you wouldn’t let me down!’
‘I don’t want to lie about it,’ I say anxiously.
‘So don’t lie.’ Becca gives me a little hug. ‘Just keep going to the lessons, and don’t mention Spike. What do you think of him, anyway?’
I give the lanky green-fringed goth a long, hard look. ‘Are you really called Spike?’ I ask him.
‘Sure he is,’ Becca says.
‘Well,’ Spike corrects her. ‘My real name is Sebastian Pyke, but I think Spike suits me better.’
I think he may be right about that.
‘Where did you meet?’
‘School orchestra,’ Spike says. ‘I play the cello.’ His voice is gruff, but very quiet and polite, and although he looks fierce, his eyes are quite twinkly. Besides, he plays the cello. He may not be quite as scary as he looks.
Becca and Spike linger at the corner of Silver Street, kissing goodbye, which is kind of cringey and probably unhygienic too. Think of all those germs. If this is what growing up involves, I’m not interested, seriously.
‘Daizy!’ Dad beams as I skulk into the house. ‘How was Baby Dolphins?’
‘Fine,’ I say. Becca comes in, nodding encouragement. ‘Great, in fact,’ I rush on. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’
I am shocked at how easily the lies slip off my tongue. Baby Dolphins was not fine, not fine at all. I’ll keep on going to the pool… for Becca’s sake. I just won’t go to the lessons. I’ll hide out in the leisure centre cafe and learn my spellings and think about my star quality, but nothing will ever get me back into that pool.
I don’t need to swim, after all, to sail around the world. I just need to hang on tight and make sure I don’t fall in.
Sorted.
Later that week, a lorry draws up outside our house and two men stride up the path and ring the bell. Becca answers the door and gives the delivery men a forbidding glare.
‘Haddock for number fifty-three Silver Street?’ the men ask. Becca huffs and tells them we didn’t order a takeaway, but Dad just elbows his way through and signs the delivery sheet and goes out to help them unload.
The rest of us watch from the window as dozens o
f huge boxes and endless vast, random plywood shapes are taken from the lorry and carried across the front lawn. A gigantic tree trunk follows… the mast, I suppose.
When the lorry trundles away, we go outside and gawp. The carport is stuffed to bursting with boxes and packages, and Dad unfolds a big chart showing how the Haddock is put together.
‘You can all help,’ he tells us, as if this is a special treat.
‘I’ll be busy,’ Becca says. ‘I can’t fall behind with my homework, can I? Not if you’re dragging me out of school to sail around the world in this heap of junk. You don’t want to wreck my future career, as well as my social life, do you?’
‘Becca!’ Dad says warningly.
‘Well, I’m busy,’ she rushes on. ‘On Mondays and Thursdays I have to walk Daizy home from Baby Dolphins. On Tuesday it’s orchestra, on Wednesday it’s advanced maths and on Friday it’s choir practice.’
Maybe Becca does still go to orchestra, but I think that advanced maths has probably been replaced by Kissing for Beginners. As for choir practice, I think it’s more Spike and Becca sharing an iPod and singing along.
‘I’m sure you can fit us in somewhere,’ Dad says. ‘How about Saturday?’
‘On Saturday I’m going out,’ Becca snaps.
I sit down on a cardboard box, head in hands. My family is unravelling, and we haven’t even started on the boat-building yet. How are we going to cope when we’re hundreds of miles out to sea, just the five of us, surviving on instant soup and dried biscuits? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
One large Haddock, coming up.
I can hardly wait.
Mr Smart takes forever to decide about the designs for the adventure playground, but finally he does – and he picks my shipwreck idea. When Miss Moon tells me, I am so shocked and excited that my mouth just opens and closes like a fish. This is not a good look, even if it is in keeping with the watery theme.
Shine On, Daizy Star Page 4
