Under the Moon

by Deborah Kerbel

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people for their help with this book:

  First and foremost, mille mercis to my editor and publisher, Barry Jowett, for his unflagging confidence in my writing, and to Cormorant Books president Marc Côté for his strong support. And to the rest of the incredible team at Dancing Cat Books — Meryl Howsam, Bryan Ibeas, Angel Guerra, Tannice Goddard, and Jennifer Gallant — thank you for helping me bring Under the Moon into the world.

  Huge thanks to my brave crew of “first-draft readers” — Helaine Becker, Sharon Jones, Kim Pape-Green, and Suri Rosen — for cheering me on to the finish line. Heartfelt thanks to Simone Spiegel for being such a wonderful sounding board and eagle-eyed proofreader.

  Special thanks to the formidable band of “Torkidlit” writers for keeping me up past my bedtime and lighting the spark that would become this book.

  Many thanks to the Ontario Arts Council for supporting this project through the Writers’ Reserve Program. Much love and gratitude to Gordon and Shirley Pape for … well, everything. Hugs to my sweet Jonah and Dahlia for so generously sharing me with their character “siblings” and for inspiring me with their brilliant joie-de-vivre.

  And finally, a universe of thanks to Jordy for being my best friend and putting up with my cranky writing moods all these years. If people were fonts, you’d be bolded, underlined and italicized on every millimetre of my heart. Always.

  Preview a chapter from Deborah Kerbel's new middle grade novel, BYE-BYE, EVIL EYE, available now in ebook format.

  When we walk out of the airport, the first thing I notice is the air. It smells salty — like a bag of potato chips in my face. And hot like sauce. The sun is so strong, it crackles on my skin. I reach into my bag for a bottle of water. I’ve only been here a few minutes, but I’m thirsty already. I wait in the shade with Kat while Mrs. P gets us a taxi. A few minutes later, we’re in the back seat of a dirty blue cab that’s puttering away up a long pitted road. The road bends and curves around the base of a mountain. Actually, from what I can tell, there are mountains everywhere. Their craggy peaks rise up in every direction, surrounding us like an army of giants. Silver olive trees line the road for most of the ride. We bump along past boxy houses, bleached white like seashells; dry, rocky fields where herds of goats stand with bored, droopy eyes; and still more olive trees. At one point, we pass through a small village. I drink in the sights, trying to remember all the details for my journal. Wrinkled old grandpas sipping coffee and playing backgammon outside the cafés. Stray cats dozing in the sunshine on every street corner. Crowded laundry lines stringing all the pretty white houses together like pearls on a necklace. And, in between the houses and buildings, quick flashes of the ocean. Bright silver water against tall blue sky. I can’t wait to see it up close!

  We get to the resort just after six o’clock in the evening. Even though it’s been a long day of travelling, I feel a burst of excited energy at the sight of it. Sitting at the very end of a long dirt road, the Olympic Palace is a whitewashed building with turquoise painted doors and matching shutters framing every window. Bright bougainvillea bushes in pink and purple grow from the rooftops and tumble down the white walls in a waterfall of colour.

  A full-figured woman wearing a flower-printed summer dress and flip-flops is standing on the porch with one hand on her round hip and the other raised to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. Beside her stands a short, fat man with a salt-and-pepper moustache. I giggle as we get closer and see that he’s only wearing a bathing suit and a Blue Jays baseball cap. His round belly balloons out from his waist like a hairy, overgrown watermelon. Kat rolls down the window and waves.

  “Thea Sophia! Theo John! We’re here!”

  With arms outstretched, the pair hurries towards our taxi as it bounds up the gravel driveway. They pull Kat and her mother from the car and hug them so hard, I worry they might suffocate. I creep out of the cab and stand off to the side, watching the reunion from a distance. The heat’s so thick, I can feel it in my throat. When they’re done hugging, the aunt and uncle spot me and run over as quickly as their round bodies will allow. The woman catches my face between her hands and kisses my cheeks three times.

  “Ti kanis, Dani. How are you? Any friend of Katerina is welcome here — like family!”

  I smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Karras.”

  “No. Please, call me Sophia. And he’s John,” she adds, gesturing towards her husband with an outstretched thumb. “Ella — come! We’re planning a big dinner tonight in your honour. But first you’ll need to rest. Let me show you to your room.”

  Kat’s uncle John might be fat, but he’s as strong as an ox. He hefts a suitcase up under each arm and then reaches down and pulls up another in each hand. With a grin spreading under his moustache, he leads us to our room. It’s spacious and bright with walls, like the rest of the building, painted a pure, snowy white — a colour, Kat explains, that helps to keep the place cool. There’s a dresser, a couple of chairs, a TV, and two double beds covered with thin blankets of a bright coral pink colour that makes me think of the inside of a conch shell. John places the suitcases on a rack at the foot of each bed and, with a final round of hugs, leaves us to freshen up.

  After twelve hours of travelling, my body’s completely lost track of what time of day it is back home in Toronto. I’m tired and nauseous and grimy and hungry. The small island plane flew at a really low altitude, and the ride was so bumpy I thought I was going to hurl up my airplane-portioned, microwave-reheated moussaka the entire time we were in the air.

  But despite all this, resting is the last thing on my mind. I’m itching to go exploring. Kat, however, is another story. As soon as John’s gone, she kicks off her sandals and bellyflops onto the nearest bed. Mrs. Papadakis immediately begins unpacking her daughter’s bags, clucking under her breath in Greek.

  “Cardia mou, louloudi mou — a nice nap before dinner is exactly what you need.”

  Well, I’m tired too. But as exhausted as I feel, I know I can’t rest until I see the ocean up close. My whole body is buzzing with anticipation. Heading over to the window, I fling open the curtains. The bubble of excitement in my chest deflates a bit when I see the grey, concrete parking lot staring back at me. Suddenly I understand exactly why this room was given to us for free. Undaunted, I march over to Kat’s side, take her by the hand, and yank her up off the mattress.

  “Come on, we can sleep later. Let’s go see the beach.”

  She groans and flops like a skinny, overcooked spaghetti noodle. Mrs. P marches over and shoos me away. “Stop, Daniella. She needs her rest. And you do too.”

  Dodging her flapping hands, I yank on Kat again, harder this time. “Come on, please. Just for a bit before it gets dark.”

  I manage to pull her halfway off the bed before she finally rises to her feet. “All right, all right,” she groans, “but just for a few minutes.”

  Her eyelids droop with exhaustion, but I don’t care. The beach is calling my name. Happy-clapping, I skip out of the room. “We’ll be back soon, Mrs. P!”

  When we reach the end of the hallway, Kat pushes open a rounded door and we step outside into a courtyard bordered with flower beds and life-sized marble statues of ancient toga-clad gods and goddesses. Their bodies and faces have been sculpted so beautifully, they remind me of those perfect-looking models on the covers of the romance novels Kat’s always reading. She’s obsessed with those books, although she told me once that her mother doesn’t approve. Back in Toronto, she has a whole stack hidden away at the back of her closet where Mrs. P can’t find them and confiscate them. And she’s always spending her allowance on more books to add to her collection. One time I asked Kat why a smart girl like her doesn’t read anything but love stories. Her cheeks turned pink and she said, “Guess I’m just a born romantic.” I told her not to be embarrassed and that I like a good love story just as much as the next person. To be honest, it probably made me like her
even more. Like we finally had something in common. But just between you and me, I wonder where’s she going to hide those books now that we’re all sharing a room.

  “Okay, which way to the beach?” I ask, trying to see past the statues. That’s when I hear it — the soft roar of the waves breaking over sand. Kat points to a narrow path leading away from the trees at the far end of the courtyard.

  “That’s the shortcut to the water. There’s a natural stairway built out of the rock.”

  As I soon discover, calling it a “stairway” is generous. “Lawsuit-waiting-to-happen” would be a better description. “Isn’t there an easier way down?” I ask, trying to keep my balance on the slippery pile of stones beneath my feet.

  Kat nods, bounding ahead of me like a mountain goat. “There’s a paved road, but it takes a lot longer.”

  After another minute, we make it down unscathed. Now that I’m not focusing on survival anymore, I can finally take my eyes off the rocks and look around. The instant I see the water, my breath flies out with a sharp gasp. I’ve never seen water that shade of blue in my life. It’s like the sky tipped over and spilled itself at our feet. Under the warmth of the sun, the surface glitters and sparkles like a field of sapphires. And the sand is powdery and white and perfect. The sun’s still high enough to reflect off the surface and heat up my skin. Fanning my sweaty face with my hands, I squint into the light and gaze out towards the water like a thirsty wanderer aching for a drink.

  “Let’s go, Kat!” I say, flicking off my shoes so I can feel the sand between my toes.

  We weave our way in and around the maze of outstretched bodies. The closer we get, the more eager I am to feel that blue water on my skin. After a minute, I break into a run. With my clothes still on, I splash a few metres into the surf then dive into a breaking wave. The water feels as fantastic as it looks. It’s warm and soft and gentle — like a perfect kiss. Salt tickles my throat and stings the corners of my eyes as I come up for air. I flip around onto my back, stretch my arms out above my head, and stare up at the cloudless sky — so pure and clear and blue, it seems to go on forever. It’s like heaven. And I want to share it with somebody. Standing up, I wave for Kat to come join me. She’s too far away for me to hear her reply, but I see her laughing and shaking her head. Okay, suit yourself.

  After about ten minutes of floating I’m satisfied. I turn around and head back to the shore. My shorts and T-shirt stick to me like a fresh coat of paint as I emerge from the sea. A pair of cute bathing-suit–clad boys stop and smile.

  “Water’s awesome!” I say, waving as I pass them, not knowing or caring if they speak English. Kat runs over to me, her dark brown eyes awake again. The fresh sea air must have revived her.

  “Oh my God! You’re crazy!”

  I twist my hair into a long brown rope and squeeze out a stream of salt water. “You’re the crazy one. That water’s amazing.”

  Kat takes a step back while I shake the water off my hands. “Thanks, but I prefer to use my bathing suit. And besides, we’ve got all month to swim.”

  “Yeah, and I plan on diving in every chance I get. Life’s too short to stand on the sidelines.”

  Kat just stares at me like we’re from completely different planets. And I guess in some ways, we kind of are. To be honest, a part of me is still kind of surprised that we’re on this trip together. I mean, who could ever have imagined that me and my math tutor would become such good friends? When Kat first transferred to our school last September, I guessed from her granny glasses and plain-looking clothes that she was more interested in work than fun. You know the type — one of those snobby, brainiac kids who always know the answer to every teacher’s question. But I obviously didn’t know the real Kat … yet. That changed after the winter report cards came back. Once my parents found out that I was failing math, they hired the smartest kid in school to be my tutor. And that kid was Kat.

  We started spending every afternoon studying together. Once I got to know her, I realized I was totally wrong. She wasn’t a snob at all — just shy and a bit quiet. After a couple of weeks went by, she opened herself up to me like a Christmas present. That’s when I found out she wasn’t just the smartest kid in school, she was also one of the funniest. She could keep me laughing for hours with her impersonations of our teachers. And she never made me feel dumb because I didn’t understand math. In fact, after my lessons with her I’d actually feel kind of smart. Nobody’s ever made me feel like that. Definitely a first for me.

  Sometimes she’ll get this sad look in her eyes. Totally out of the blue. And no matter what I say or do, it won’t go away. When that happens, it makes me a little sad too. And then I start to worry that maybe I’m not being a good enough friend. I wish I knew how to fix that.

  I squeal at the sting of salt water dripping into my eyes. Just then, an older boy wearing a white waiter’s apron jogs over from the hotel’s waterside café and hands me a towel. I take it gratefully. “That’s sweet. Thanks.”

  I don’t know if he understands me or not because he doesn’t reply. He just nods and watches as I wipe off my dripping face. When he steps forward as if to offer his assistance with the rest of me, Kat makes a funny noise under her breath and takes me by the arm — a bit more firmly than necessary.

  “Come on, Dani. We better get back before Mummy comes looking for us. Dinner’s in half an hour.”

  With a smile, I hand the waiter back his towel and follow Kat back up the rock “stairs.” By the time we make it back to our room, the light from the day’s beginning to fade. Mrs. P sucks lemons again the second she sees me. Her coal black eyes slide over my dripping hair and clothes, oozing disapproval. She doesn’t say anything, but her thoughts are as clear as the ocean water puddling around my feet.

  I do my best to ignore her.