Stargazing for Beginners

  A Letter from the Author

  Hello!

  A few years ago, my dad said, ‘Jenny, have you ever thought of writing a book about a girl who wants to be an astrophysicist?’ I snorted – derisively – then pushed his ridiculous idea to the back of my mind. It was ridiculous because:

  a) I wasn’t entirely sure what an astrophysicist did.

  b) Despite Dad having asked me how many miles it was to the sun (every single day of my childhood), I’d somehow grown into an adult who knew nothing about space … except for how many miles it was to the sun (ninety-three million, give or take a few).

  So how could I ever write about a girl who wants to be an astrophysicist? Well, I can’t resist a challenge, particularly one thrown down by my dad, and slowly the idea grew in my mind. The girl became Meg and her dream got bigger: she didn’t just want to be an astrophysicist, she wanted to be an astronaut. She wanted to leave planet Earth and float in space.

  If I was going to understand how Meg’s mind worked, I had to learn about the things she loved. I discovered that when we look at stars we’re gazing into the past, that our sun is just one of over one billion trillion stars in the universe, and that on Mars you can jump three times higher than you can on Earth. I looked into one of the largest refracting telescopes in the world and saw further than I’d ever seen before in my life.

  Thanks to Meg (and Dad!), my world has got bigger. About forty-six billion light years bigger.

  If you want to join Meg as she reaches for the stars, or just need a little space in your life, then turn the page. Her mission is about to begin!

  For my brother and sister, Nick and Julia.

  I love sharing life on planet Earth with you two.

  Also by Jenny McLachlan

  FLIRTY DANCING

  LOVE BOMB

  SUNKISSED

  STAR STRUCK

  CONTENTS

  A Letter from the Author

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Jenny McLachlan

  ONE

  On my seventh birthday, Grandad made me a rocket. He used the cardboard box the washing machine came in, put a cone on the top and painted the whole thing white. Then he stencilled MEGARA 1 on the side with red paint.

  Mum took her hands away from my eyes and I blinked. The rocket nearly touched the ceiling. ‘Is it real?’ I asked.

  ‘Almost,’ she said.

  Grandad handed me my bike helmet. ‘Are you ready for your first mission, Meg?’

  I nodded. ‘I think so.’

  I was already wearing my astronaut pyjamas so all I had to do was put on the helmet and climb inside the rocket. Mum handed me a broken keyboard – my control panel – then shut the door. I ran my hands over the keys. Grandad had stuck labels on the different buttons: fuel boost, disengage, pressure drop. One button was painted green and simply said, LIFT-OFF.

  ‘Megara 1,’ Grandad said, putting on his smoothest American accent, ‘you’re good at one minute.’

  ‘Roger,’ I replied. Grandad and I were always watching NASA documentaries so I knew exactly what to say.

  ‘Megara 1, this is Houston. You are go for staging.’

  ‘Inboard cut off,’ I said, tapping buttons randomly, ‘staging and ignition.’ At that exact moment a deep growl burst out and I realised Mum had turned on the vacuum cleaner. Its roar filled the cardboard rocket. I felt my heart speed up with excitement and I tightened my grip on the keyboard.

  ‘Megara 1, this is Houston!’ Grandad shouted to be heard over the vac. ‘Thrust is GO. All engines. You’re looking good. This is ten seconds and counting.’

  ‘Ten,’ I called out, ‘nine … eight …’

  Grandad and Mum joined in. ‘Seven … six … five …’ Then one of them started shaking the rocket around.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What is it?’ Her face appeared at the cut-out window.

  ‘I’m scared!’

  She reached through the window and took hold of my hand. Her silver rings pressed into my skin. ‘Don’t be scared, Meg. I’m here.’

  ‘Four … three … two … one …’ continued Grandad.

  ‘All engines running,’ I said, then I slammed my finger down on the green button. ‘Launch commit!’

  ‘Lift-off!’ shouted Grandad. ‘We have lift-off!’

  Mum let go of my hand and disappeared.

  The vac roared, the rocket shook wildly from side to side and I was leaving Earth and shooting into deepest space!

  TWO

  Eight years later. Back on planet Earth.

  Before I get my breakfast, I make sure everything in my bedroom is just right.

  I smooth down the duvet, push the chair under the desk and turn my globe so England is facing the sun. Then I get a red pen and cross yesterday off my homework timetable. Good. If I spend a couple of hours working on my speech tonight then I’ll be right on track. I don’t believe in luck or superstition, but before I leave the room I take a moment to glance at my picture of Valentina Tereshkova – the first woman to fly in space. Her steely gaze keeps me focused during the day.

  I grab some Weetabix from the kitchen then follow the thud, thud, thud coming from the front room. Only Mum would play bass anthems at eight in the morning. I find her kneeling on the floor, blowing up a paddling pool. Sitting on the sofa is my sister, Elsa, a jammy crust dangling out of her mouth.

  I turn down the music then join Elsa. I start eating my cereal, trying to ignore Elsa’s powerful wee smell. Her nappy looks suspiciously bulgy.

  There’s a hiss of air as Mum pushes in a plastic stopper. ‘Looking forward to trying out our new paddling pool?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Mum, we live in a flat. Why do we need a paddling pool?’

  ‘So we can have fun, Meg! I thought we could fill it up and pretend summer’s here.’

  I look around. Toys, clothes and books are spread all over the carpet and Pongo is running round and round the paddling pool, barking at the inflated rings. ‘Mum, there isn’t enough room for it in here.’

  ‘There’s loads of room,’ she says, then she jumps to her feet. ‘I’m going to start filling it up.’

  Elsa take
s the crust out of her mouth and holds it out to me.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, but she keeps jabbing it in my direction.

  ‘Da!’ she says. ‘Da, da!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I take it off her and pretend to eat it. ‘Nom, nom,’ I say. ‘Happy now?’

  Elsa smiles, sticks her thumb in her mouth and flops back on the sofa. Then we watch as Mum runs to and from the kitchen with pans of steaming water. She’s wearing her Tinker Bell nightie and her bleached-blonde dreads are gathered on the top of her head with a scrunchie. Her bracelets jangle as each pan of water splashes into the pool.

  After six trips, the water just about covers the bottom. ‘It’s going to take ages,’ she says sadly, swishing a toe in the water. ‘Can you help me, Meg?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve got to get to school.’ I go to the mirror over the mantelpiece and start brushing my hair back into a ponytail.

  ‘Such beautiful hair,’ says Mum. I can see her in the mirror watching me, her turquoise nose stud gleaming on her pale face. We look so different: me with my dark eyes and hair and Mum, blue-eyed and with hair so blonde it’s almost white. ‘I wish you’d wear it down.’

  ‘It’s easier this way.’ I smooth a strand of hair behind my ear and button up my blazer. I brush some toast crumbs off my shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, Mum?’

  ‘In a minute. I’ll just put a bit more water in.’

  Mum runs the Mencap charity shop in town. That’s her paid job, but she’s got loads of others, like fundraising for Greenpeace and running the community allotment. She wants to make the planet a cleaner, better place. It’s fair to say she doesn’t feel the same way about our flat.

  ‘Meg, can you babysit Elsa after school?’ Mum dumps another pan of water into the paddling pool. ‘You know my friend Sara, the nurse?’ I shake my head. Mum’s got so many friends I can’t keep up with them all. ‘Well, Sara’s going to do some volunteer work abroad and she needs a lift to the airport.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I think about tonight’s jam-packed square on my homework timetable. ‘I’ve got so much work to do … Plus I’ve got to practise my speech.’

  Mum looks at me, eyes wide. ‘I’ll be back around six. You and Elsa can just hang out together until then. It’ll be fun!’

  I look at Elsa, who’s now lying on her back on the sofa, gurgling and trying to get her foot in her mouth. ‘You really need to give Sara a lift?’

  ‘It would help her out a lot,’ Mum says, then she pulls me into a hug, pressing my face into her hair and I smell the sandalwood incense she loves so much.

  I put up with it for a moment then wriggle out of her arms. ‘OK,’ I say.

  Mum’s face lights up. ‘What would I do without you?’

  Over Mum’s shoulder, I see Elsa crawl towards the edge of the sofa, reaching for Pongo’s tail. ‘Mum!’ I say, but already Elsa is losing her balance. She wobbles for a second then tumbles forward, landing on the floor with a thud.

  There’s this moment of silence before the screaming starts. Mum darts across the room and scoops Elsa up. ‘Poor baby!’ she says, showering her with kisses. Pongo jumps up and tries to stick his pointy nose between them.

  ‘I’m going now,’ I say, but they don’t hear me. Now Pongo’s been pulled into the hug too and his excited barks rise over Elsa’s screams. I slip out of the flat and shut the door behind me.

  Immediately, I’m hit by the quiet, the bright cold air and the view.

  Our flat might be small and damp, but it’s got the best view in town. I stand on the balcony and look from the houses of the estate to my school. Beyond school, I see the hotels, the sea and the pier. Then I look up at the sky, higher and higher, until I find the moon. It’s a white smudge that’s disappearing fast.

  I turn and run down the concrete stairway, my feet ringing out with each step.

  I’ve got to get to school. I’ve got so much to do.

  THREE

  School’s good. I get one hundred per cent in a maths test, finally learn how to conjugate German verbs and spend lunchtime in the library researching my favourite star, Alpha Centauri B.

  When I know the canteen will be quiet, I go and get some lunch. It looks like almost everyone’s been chucked out, but some students from my year – Bella Lofthouse and her friends – are still sitting round a table while the lunchtime supervisors clean up. As I walk past, they glance over at me, and I see Bella’s lips curve up in a smile. Quickly, I turn away. Bella is always laughing with her friends and she finds me particularly funny. The longer I hang around the more likely it is that she’ll say something to me and somehow I’ll end up looking stupid. I grab the first sandwich I see – egg mayonnaise – pay for it, then walk straight out of the canteen.

  It’s at times like this that I miss Harriet. She was my best friend at school. OK, she was my only friend in or out of school, but that didn’t matter because we were soul mates, and we did everything together – walking to school, eating lunch, talking for hours on the phone, sleepovers … Harriet even went camping with me and Mum every summer. Then, one day, she told me that her mum and dad were talking about moving to New Zealand. Five months later, she was gone.

  When a huge star dies, there is a massive explosion, a supernova, and later, all that’s left is a dark, dense black hole where no light can get in or out. From brilliant lightness to total darkness: that’s what it felt like when Harriet left.

  When I got over the shock of her going and looked around me, there didn’t seem to be a place for me anywhere: everyone else was paired up or in groups. I did try to talk to people, wriggle into their conversations, but Harriet had always done the talking for both of us and I was out of practice. Plus, like I said, I was shocked when she went and feeling a bit like a dark, dense black hole.

  Who wants to be friends with a dark, dense black hole? No one!

  All that darkness has gone now, but the friend-making moment seems to have passed by. Which is why, right now, I’m leaning against the wall by the girls’ toilets eating an egg sandwich all on my own.

  Like I said. Sometimes I miss Harriet.

  FOUR

  I get to physics early and find Ms Edgecombe sticking up a poster on the door.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says. It’s a photo of mission control at NASA and Houston Space Centre Trip – LIFT-OFF 16th July! is printed across the top. Ms Edgecombe taps the photo with a blue fingernail. ‘You could go there, Meg. In four months, you could actually be standing in mission control for the moon landing!’ She laughs. ‘Un-bloody believable!’

  ‘Miss, you’re swearing again.’

  ‘Sorry, Meg, but some situations call for swearing … I mean, mission control!’

  I follow Ms Edgecombe into the classroom. The trip to Houston costs over two thousand pounds and Mum can’t afford that. Grandad offered to sell something to pay for me to go, but then he realised he didn’t own anything worth that much money, not even his telescope.

  ‘It looks amazing,’ I say, ‘but I’m not going, Miss, remember?’

  She grins at me. ‘You might … You just have to win the competition.’

  The competition. Two words that have the power to make sweat break out on the back of my neck and my stomach flip over. It’s called Reach for the Stars and one teenager from our county has the chance of winning a place on the trip; all they have to do is stand up on a stage and explain what space means to them.

  Easy! This should be my competition – I’m obsessed with space and know everything there is to know about black holes, exoplanets and our solar system – but, and it’s a big ‘but’, I have a thing about speaking in public. Some people are scared of spiders, or lifts, or clowns. I’m scared of speech. My particular phobia is inconvenient. Let’s just say that in your typical day, I’m confronted with speech a lot more often than a coulrophobic is confronted by clowns.

  I used to be fine. Back in junior school my hand would be up before the teacher had finished asking the question, b
ut then I started secondary school and I noticed how my hand going up made the other children roll their eyes and snigger. Then, one day in science, Mr Harper said, ‘What do we call it when plants use the sun to make energy?’ By now, I’d learnt to keep my hand down. ‘Anyone?’ he said. ‘It begins with a “p” … “ph” … “photo” …’ Eventually I couldn’t bear it any more so I put my hand up and said, ‘Photosynthesis.’ The word hung in the air for a moment then Mr Harper said, ‘Photosynthesis!’ mimicking my voice perfectly. Everyone collapsed laughing. ‘Only joking, Meg,’ he said, giving me a cheeky wink, but that was it. From that moment on, my mouth was sealed shut.

  One to one I can handle. One to two is bearable. But as soon as I have an audience, my words disappear. Poof! Even if I’m just asked to read in English my mouth goes dry, my heart speeds up and I feel like I’m going to puke. In fact, just thinking about entering the competition is making my egg sandwich creep back up my throat!

  ‘You’re worrying about it right now, aren’t you?’ says Ms Edgecombe.

  I nod.

  ‘I can tell because your hands are shaking.’

  ‘They are?’ I look down at my wobbling hands and groan. ‘How am I going to do it, Miss?’

  She laughs. ‘Meg, you could talk about space for three hours without even glancing at a piece of paper. Just pick a topic, and talk about it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll only be able to walk on to the stage if I know exactly what I’m going to say. I’ve written the whole speech on cards and now I’m going to practise until I’m word perfect.’

  ‘And how have you found writing the speech?’

  ‘Hard,’ I admit, thinking about all the versions I’ve written and how difficult it is to squeeze my favourite facts into three minutes. ‘Space is just too big. I couldn’t explain what neutrinos mean to me in three minutes, and they’re so small sixty-five billion have just passed through my fingernail.’ I hold my finger. ‘And that’s in the last second! I don’t know if what I’ve written is any good.’