“It’s rude to text at the table, Maya,” says Mum. “You should know that. Especially with Cat here, so switch it off right now! OK?”
“It’s not rude,” I say, looking at Cat. “I mean, she’s my sister. It’s not like she’s a guest or anything. Anna does texting in front of Evie.”
Dad glares.
“Not at the table, Maya,” he says. “Now, be a good girl and put it away.”
“I don’t care,” says Cat, twiddling her hair round her finger. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Well, it bothers me,” says Mum, pulling my phone from my hand and slipping into her bag.
“Come on, my girls,” says Dad, smiling. “What are you going to have? Go for anything you like; we’re celebrating, remember?”
I pick up the menu and stare at it. All the words are swimming about and the damselflies are whirring again. A million silvery wings whirring in nervous spirals. It’s weird because I’ve ordered food in a restaurant a thousand million times before, but never with my sister here, never with Cat’s custardy hair wafting up my nose. And my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Margarita for me, please, Dad,” I say, trying to sound normal. “And some garlic bread and a chocolate milkshake.”
“What about you, Cat?” says Dad. “What will you have?”
Cat’s eyes slide over the menu. She shuffles in her seat. She nibbles on her nails.
“Am I allowed a whole one?” she asks. “All to myself?”
“Yes, Cat,” Mum laughs. “Of course.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” snaps Cat, turning into a shark. “I didn’t know.”
Mum zips her laugh away and turns redder than her hair. She coughs and the air between us tugs tight. “No,” she says, “of course not. I’m sorry, Cat. What would you like, sweetheart?”
“Meat feast, two lots of cheesy bread and a Coke.”
“Mmmmm, I think I’ll have the meat feast too,” says Dad, stretching back in his chair and rubbing his hands together. “And, go on, I’ll push the boat out and have a Coke as well.”
“Same as me, Daaaaaad,” says Cat.
Her words creep under my skin. It’s weirder than weird hearing her calling him ‘Dad’ already. It makes my whole body whir and my heart feel empty and small. I know I have to share him now, we’ve talked about it loads, but I didn’t think it would feel like this. He’s my dad.
Cat looks in Dad’s eyes and smiles. She turns her head a little bit to one side like she’s unexpectedly shy, then she nibble-nibble-nibbles on a nail. Dad smiles back and winks. And the little knife in my tummy twists and bites as a spark of love flies from Dad’s eye to Cat’s heart. I pinch the back of my hand. I should have ordered Coke and a meat feast as well, then I would’ve been in Dad’s team too.
The waitress comes over and puts a pot of felt-tip pens in the space between Cat and me. She smiles and gives us each a poster for colouring in, even though we’re a bit too old for it.
“Someone’s birthday, is it?” she asks, tying purple balloons on the back of our chairs. “I love birthdays.”
We look up, trying to think of what to say.
“Well, no…” says Dad, hunting for words and sending another wink to Cat. “But it is a very special day for our family. A very, very special day indeed.”
Colouring isn’t my favourite thing in the world, but it’s better than watching Dad and Cat together, and it’s better than looking at Mum’s anxious glares. I’m busy doing an OK job of colouring in a stupid girl on a pony, when Cat’s custardy hair wafts up my nose again, the beetle-black gleam of it shimmering in the light. She’s leaning right over to look.
“I’m rubbish at colouring in,” I say, quickly covering the picture with my arm. “I’m rubbish at arty things. I like surfing best and camping and outdoorsy things – adventuring and stuff.”
“Let me see, though,” she says.
I slide my arm away and feel my cheeks burn.
Cat sniggers.
“It’s lovely, Maya,” Mum lies, picking up my poster. “It’s really beautiful!”
We look over at Cat’s. She’s only done the pony’s face so far, but it’s amazing. I never knew anyone could make such a brilliant picture with such rubbish felt-tip pens. The pony looks almost real, like its eyes are actually glinting in the sun. And I’m so amazed by Cat’s neatness that my body stops whirring. She hasn’t gone over the black line once and the colours are so smooth and even, not scratchy and bumpy like mine.
“That’s absolutely brilliant, Cat,” says Mum, tugging the picture round to get a better view. “How do you do it so neatly?”
“Dunno,” says Cat. “It’s easy.”
“An artist in the making,” smiles Dad, sending her another wink.
“Sshhhhh,” she says holding her finger to her lips. “Stop interrupting.”
She takes a deep lungful of air and holds her breath for ages while she colour-colour-colours. We stare transfixed at her concentration. I quietly scrunch up my page. I’m not an artist in the making. But if we were surfing I’d be better than her – or swimming, or making fires, or putting up tents.
This is the weirdest day of my life so far. Much weirder than when we started looking at adoption websites and all those faces loomed out at us, waiting for homes. Much weirder than Alfie dying or the time I was so excited about my new bodyboard that I kept it in bed with me all night.
When the waitress brings over our food the meat feasts look the best. They smell really yummy and the cheese is all gooey on top of big juicy chunks of salami and ham. Mum’s salad is so colourful even that looks delicious, and suddenly my margarita seems boring and normal, flat and dull. I always have a margarita. Why didn’t I have the meat feast as well? I’m really thirsty now too. The chocolate milkshake is nice but it feels cluggy in my mouth and the Coke looks so refreshing.
Dad stands up and chinks his glass with a spoon. The forgotten rope in my tummy tugs tight.
“I’d like to raise a toast,” he smiles. The lump starts wobbling in his throat again and Mum’s eyes well up with tears. “To Cat and Maya and Mum and me; to all of us and our new life together. Cat, welcome to our family. We’re a little bit crazy sometimes, and you’ll have to forgive us for that, but we do have lots of fun and we’re very excited to have you join us.”
“Errr… thanks,” Cat mumbles. Her face flushes red and her eyes dart around the restaurant, checking no one’s looking. And with all the toasting and welcoming and eyes full of tears and throats full of lumps, Dad doesn’t notice, and neither does Mum, that, quietly like the shadow of a robber on a dark, dark night, Cat slips a whole portion of cheesy bread into the bottom of her bag.
As we’re leaving the restaurant, I slide up close to her.
I long to say to her, “Cat, I’ve waited my whole life for you to arrive. I’ve dreamt about us being together for years. And I know things feel a bit confusing right now, but they will get better – they have to. I have so many ideas for us, so many plans.”
But the words get twisted up with my feelings and somehow come out all wrong, so what I whisper into her ear is, “I saw you.”
The next day, we pick Cat up from foster care and go for a walk along the cliff path. I love walking the cliff path – it’s