LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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