The Moonlight Dreamers

by Siobhan Curham

  “That would be great,” Amber said now with a grin.

  Her stomach gave an appreciative rumble as Daniel brought over a plate of pancakes. Thin ribbons of steam curled off the edges and a pool of melted butter had formed in the centre.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” Daniel asked, sitting down at the other side of the table. “About Gerald – you know…” His green eyes filled with concern. Daniel’s eyes were another piece of evidence, as she had green eyes too. They’d said they’d never tell her which of them was her biological dad; they said she didn’t need to know because they both loved her as their own. But it didn’t matter – the evidence was undeniable.

  “I’m fine,” Amber said breezily, and she almost meant it. She still felt a faint dull ache when she thought of Gerald missing her moment of glory, but it was nothing she hadn’t dealt with before, and anyway, today was a work day and it was the day she would put her plan into action. Amber smiled as she thought of the cards in her bag. It had taken her all week to get the wording right, but finally she was happy with it.

  “That’s good,” Daniel said with a relieved grin, and they both dug into their pancakes.

  Outside it was one of those golden autumn days, when the world looked as if it had been painted in oils. As Amber walked along Hanbury Street, the bright sunshine perfectly matched her mood. Ever since she’d had the idea for the Moonlight Dreamers she’d felt a weight lifting. The tension of feeling that she was stuck in the wrong place eased just knowing that she might finally have found an escape. But who would she ask to join her? Determined to be selective, she’d printed only a handful of cards. As Amber turned on to Brick Lane, a road sweeper trundled past with his cart. Every week, Friday night swept in, bringing with it a wave of clubbers and party-goers, and swept out leaving a flotsam and jetsam of beer bottles, chip wrappers and cigarette butts. “Flotsam and jetsam” was one of Amber’s favourite phrases – it sounded like the name of a comedy duo. She was wondering where the words had originally come from, when the door to the flat above the Indian sweet shop burst open and a girl came rushing out. She was wearing a silky kaftan over silky trousers covered in beautiful swirls of deep green and blue. It reminded Amber of a peacock’s feathers. Was the girl going to the mosque? Were Muslim girls allowed in a mosque? She’d only ever seen men and boys coming out of the one on Brick Lane. A flurry of questions about life as a Muslim girl started crowding Amber’s mind.

  Then, suddenly, the girl stopped and crouched down by the kerb. Amber slowed her pace to watch. The girl took a phone from her pocket and took a picture of whatever was on the ground in front of her. Amber drew level and had to bite her lip to stop herself gasping in surprise. The girl was taking a picture of a dead pigeon. Thankfully, its pale grey body was intact. In fact, it looked as if it was just sleeping.

  “Oh – I—” the girl stammered as she noticed Amber. “I was just – it just looked so…”

  “Peaceful,” Amber murmured, gazing down at the bird.

  “Yes.” The girl stuffed her phone into her pocket and got to her feet. She had pale brown skin and huge dark eyes, as shiny as conkers.

  “Here, take this,” Amber said, holding out one of the cards.

  The girl stared at her for a moment before taking it. “What is it?” she asked.

  “You’ll see,” Amber called over her shoulder as she strode off down the street.

  Chapter Six

  Embarrassment rooted Maali to the spot. What must she have looked like? Like a weirdo who went around taking pictures of dead things, that’s what. Her face began to burn. Sometimes she wished she didn’t get such strong urges to take photos. But it was a reflex, and the thought of being able to capture a picture of death, and death looking so, well, so peaceful, had been too tempting. What must the girl have thought of her? Maali sighed. The girl had looked really cool, with her quiffed black hair and her bright green eyes. It wasn’t the kind of cool that made Maali feel intimidated; it was the kind she admired. She loved what she’d been wearing too: a pinstriped suit, complete with a silver pocket watch on a chain and polished brogues. Maali imagined taking a photo of her leaning against a brick wall, looking at the pocket watch. Huh, some chance of that happening. Why, oh why, did the girl have to find her hunched over taking pictures of a dead pigeon? But she’d said she thought the pigeon looked peaceful too, and had given her a card. Maali snapped out of her embarrassed trance and looked down at it.

  ARE YOU A MOONLIGHT DREAMER?

  • Are you a girl aged between 14 and 16?

  • Are you sick of being told how to look, what to do and where to go?

  • Do you feel trapped in a world full of imbeciles and fakes?

  • Do you dream of freedom and adventure?

  • When you read the quote below, what does it mean to you?

  “Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

  Send your answer to: wildeatheart@googlepost.com to find out if you are a Moonlight Dreamer.

  Maali reread the card to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Usually when girls gave out cards on Brick Lane they were for clothes sales. She had never seen anything like this before. What did it mean? And what did the quote mean? Was she a Moonlight Dreamer?

  She was sick of being told how to look, or at least she was sick of people judging her for how she looked. And she definitely got fed up with being told what to do all the time. She wasn’t sure what an “imbecile” was, but she definitely had moments when she felt as if her class was full of fakes. Did she dream of freedom and adventure, though? She certainly loved to daydream. In fact, if it weren’t for her daydreams, she would probably find the endless routine of school, working in the shop and helping take care of Namir pretty dull. But was she a Moonlight Dreamer?

  She studied the quote and, as she tried to picture herself “finding her way by moonlight”, thought back to the night earlier that week when there’d been the huge full moon, which had cast everything in its magical glow. Then she thought of the “unicorn” and twinkly eyed Ash, and she got that tingly feeling again. She looked along Brick Lane. In the pale morning light it looked so drab and tired, as if the street itself were suffering from a hangover. Was she a Moonlight Dreamer? Even though she still didn’t quite know what the quote meant, she had the sneaking suspicion that she was.

  Sky raised the axe above her head and brought it crashing down onto the log. The wood fractured into splintery lumps. Normally it took a few attempts to get a log to split, but this morning, raw fury seemed to have given her a Goliath-like strength. Her dad wanted to move in with that woman. He wanted to rent out their boat – their home – and move into her soulless show-house in Hampstead. How could he? Sky brought the axe down again and pieces of wood went flying all over the grassy canal bank.

  “Jesus, has someone been putting steroids in your porridge?”

  Sky refused to turn round at the sound of Liam’s voice. How could he joke at a time like this?

  “I bet you won’t miss all the wood-chopping once we’ve moved,” he carried on, clearly completely oblivious to her pain.

  “How do you know what I’m not going to miss?” She turned on him, eyes blazing with anger. “For your information, I’m not going to miss anything because I’m not going to leave. If you want to live with that brain-dead idiot, go ahead, but I’m staying here.”

  They stood on the bank of the canal staring at each other. Sky had never spoken to her father like this before. He was so mellow and easy-going, it had been impossible to get mad at him – until he met that woman. Since he’d become Savannah Ferndale’s personal yoga trainer he’d lost the ability to think straight. OK, she was incredibly beautiful, but he’d had incredibly beautiful and well-known clients before. What made Savannah so special? It was like she’d cast a spell on him.

  “I’m not leaving you here,” Liam said, finally breaking the silen
ce.

  Sky looked at him hopefully. Was he starting to see how crazy his plan was?

  “It’ll be good for you, being part of a family again.”

  “What?” Sky stared at him. Was he out of his mind? “They aren’t my family. You’re my family. You and Mum.”

  Her dad flinched. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his wild blond hair. “Your mam’s dead, Sky,” he said quietly. “She’s been dead five years – we need to move on.”

  Sky was engulfed by a sudden wave of sorrow. She’d learned long ago that when you lost a person, you didn’t just lose them on the day they died, you lost them every day all over again in moments like this.

  “I don’t want to move on,” she stammered. “Not if it means moving in with them.”

  Liam took a step towards her. His eyes were glassy with tears. “I want you to have a proper home,” he whispered.

  “I do have a proper home.” She pointed to the boat. “This is my proper home – our proper home.”

  “It’s a boat,” he said. “A boat that’s about to get feckin’ freezing all through the winter. I don’t want you living somewhere like this. I want you living somewhere you don’t have to chop wood or clean out the toilet. I want you to live somewhere with – with…” he looked all around, as if searching for the right word … “radiators.”

  “Somewhere with radiators?” Sky echoed incredulously.

  “Oh, jeez, you know I’m no good with words.” He looked at her hopefully. “I want you to be safe and warm.”

  “And what about my happiness?” Sky muttered sullenly.

  He stared at her for a moment. “What about my happiness?” he finally replied.

  Sky frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He took a deep breath. “I mean, it’s been five years since your mam died and all that time my whole focus has been on you. Keeping you fed and schooled. Taking you all around the world. Teaching you about life. And you know what, I was happy to carry on like that. I didn’t plan on falling in love, I—”

  “You love her?”

  “Sure, of course I do! I wouldn’t be moving us in with her if I didn’t.”

  “But…” For once, Sky couldn’t think of anything to say. He loved that woman. A little voice inside her cried, what about me? Don’t you love me? But she smothered it. It was true – he hadn’t had any serious girlfriends since her mum died. He’d thrown himself into being a dedicated dad – into being her mum and dad. If she said anything now it would look as if she didn’t want him to be happy, and she did. Just not with that woman. “OK,” she whispered, looking down.

  He stepped closer. “OK?”

  “OK – but can we keep the boat too?” Sky looked at him imploringly.

  Her dad was grinning from ear to ear. He grabbed her hands and pulled her into a hug. “Yes, we can keep the boat,” he said. “Thank you. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Sky replied. But for the first time in her life, that love felt tinged with something else. Something sour and dangerously close to resentment.

  THE MOON

  BY SKY CASSIDY

  Sometimes, I think the moon is a goddess,

  watching us with her wise silver face,

  sighing when we cry,

  smiling when we sleep.

  Sometimes, I think the moon is a giant glitter ball

  spinning and glimmering

  so we can dance

  and sing.

  Sometimes, I think the moon is a spotlight,

  painting the earth silver

  so we can find beauty

  and avoid pain.

  Chapter Seven

  All the way to the model casting Rose had wanted to run away. On the tube she’d wanted to take the wrong line deliberately and now, walking down Long Acre, she felt the overwhelming urge to dart into one of the brightly lit clothes shops and not come out. But the prospect of her mom throwing one of her diva meltdowns forced her to continue, counting down the store numbers as she went, until she arrived at number 223. Rose was about to press the buzzer when the door flew open and a tall, thin girl came flying out. She was clutching a portfolio and she looked upset. A middle-aged woman followed, looking even more upset. Rose guessed that she was the girl’s mom. There was no way she would have let her mom come with her today, no matter how much she begged. For a start, it was painfully embarrassing to go any place with her mom, but going to a casting with her would be the pits. Everyone in the modelling world treated her mom like she was the Queen, Mother Teresa and the Virgin Mary all rolled into one. The constant butt-kissing and grovelling made Rose want to vomit. And besides, if they knew whose daughter she was they’d probably give her the job on the spot. There was no way she wanted to get cast for a job just because of her mom; she wanted to get work on her own merits or not at all.

  Rose took a deep breath and stepped inside. The door opened on to a steep flight of stairs. She climbed them two at a time up to a reception area. About ten other girls were sitting on chairs around the edge of the room, all glossy hair and gleaming teeth. It was the most glamorous waiting room ever. A prissy-looking woman with half-moon glasses was sitting behind the reception desk. She eyed Rose up and down.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m here for the casting,” Rose muttered.

  The woman looked down at a clipboard on the desk in front of her. “Name?”

  “Rose Levine.”

  “Right.” The woman ticked something and handed a form to Rose. “Fill this out while you’re waiting, please.”

  Rose took the form and sat down. She could feel the eyes of the other models burning into her, checking to see if she was serious competition for the job. Like she cared about the stupid job! Rose stared at the form. The first section was pretty straightforward: name and agency. Her agency was Panache – her mom’s. Rose felt sticky with embarrassment – would they want to represent her if she wasn’t Savannah Ferndale’s daughter?

  A large, glamorous woman in five-inch heels came striding into the room. “Rainbow Jones?” she called, looking around. The girl sitting opposite Rose got to her feet. She was so thin her collarbones were protruding like a coat hanger. Rose watched her follow the plump woman into the casting room. There was something about the difference in their physiques that made her prickle with anger. Rose put her form down and rummaged in her bag for her secret chocolate stash. Her mom banned any kind of candy from the house, so buying chocolate had become Rose’s private act of rebellion. She ripped open the wrapper. The girl sitting next to her gasped and actually shifted away in her seat, as if just watching Rose eat it would make her gain weight. Rose sighed and looked back at her form. The next section was for her personal statistics. Rose squirmed as she thought of her mom measuring her that morning and the way she’d sighed with disappointment when she’d measured her waist. Rose had left the scrap of paper with the figures on her bedside cabinet. Why should it matter anyway? Her mom had made her wear a ridiculously tight black dress. “So they can see your body shape as soon as you walk into the room,” she’d explained. “The whole idea is to make their job as easy as possible.” Surely they’d be able to know whether she was thin enough from looking at her?

  Rose broke off another piece of chocolate and popped it into her mouth. It was orange-flavoured, her current favourite. She closed her eyes and let the blend of sweet citrus and bitter cocoa melt on her tongue. The door to the casting room opened and Rainbow came out. Her shoulders were hunched over and she looked dangerously close to tears. The large woman followed her, looking down at her clipboard.

  “Rose Levine,” she called. As Rose got to her feet, the woman looked at the chocolate and scowled. “Come on through,” she said curtly. As Rose walked past Rainbow, she offered her the rest of the chocolate. “Enjoy,” she whispered, with a wink. Rainbow stared at her for a moment, then grabbed the bar. “Thank you,” she muttered with a weak smile.

  The casting room was small. Rose had imagined it would be a hug
e studio, but it was no bigger than the kitchen at home. Four people were sitting behind a desk, two men and two women.

  “This is Rose Levine,” the clipboard woman said.

  Rose hovered by the door.

  “Well, come and stand on the mark then,” one of the men said.

  Rose looked at him blankly for a moment, then spotted a cross made from tape in the centre of the floor. She went and stood on it.

  “Your form?” the woman said, reaching out her hand.

  “Oh, you haven’t completed it,” a pointy-faced woman said.

  Rose shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know what to write,” Rose muttered.

  “You didn’t know what to write?” one of the men echoed in hushed tones, as if she’d just told them there was a bomb planted beneath the table.

  “No.”

  Pointy-face woman leaned forward and stared hard at Rose. “You don’t know your own statistics?”

  “No.” Rose bit on her lower lip to stop herself from adding, “I have better things to do with my brain.”

  The casting panel exchanged glances, then Pointy-Face looked back at the form. “And you’re represented by Panache?” The disbelief in her voice was palpable.

  “Yes.”

  “She does have very good bone structure,” one of the men said, looking Rose up and down.

  “Yes, and I like her neckline,” the other man said, “but the attitude…” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “Yes, the attitude is all wrong,” Pointy-Face said smugly.

  “What’s up with my attitude?” Rose stared at her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Pointy-Face frowned.

  “This is a casting,” one of the men said sternly.