Stargazing for Beginners Page 8

  I shrug. ‘It’s better than assembly.’ I pick up a piece of white paper and start making a crane.

  Annie watches what I’m doing and can’t resist pointing out the tiny mistakes I make. ‘Fold backwards not forward … That’s a beak, Meg, not a tail!’ When I finish the crane she takes it from me and examines it. ‘Not bad. If you fail in your attempt to become an astronaut, you could make paper animals for a living.’ She takes a piece of brown paper. ‘I suppose I’ll do a bear.’

  ‘I’m doing a penguin,’ I say. I fold a black square in half, and then in half again. ‘I’m not deluded,’ I say. ‘I know the odds of becoming an astronaut aren’t good – I’ve got more chance of being struck by lightning than becoming an astronaut – but every day I’m improving on those odds.’

  She glances up. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If I do some work today that helps me get an A* in maths, then that’s bringing me a tiny bit closer to going to a good university and closer to becoming an astronaut.’

  ‘And making an origami penguin helps how?’

  I press out a miniscule wing. ‘I’m improving my fine motor skills. One day I’ll be on a spacewalk, spinning round the Earth at seventeen thousand miles an hour and trying to tighten a bolt, and I’ll think back to this moment. This penguin –’ I hold the finished model up ‘– is definitely helping me to get to space.’

  She looks critically at her bear. ‘So what’s the big attraction with space?’

  ‘Have you ever been to a zoo and thought the animals looked sad?’

  ‘I suppose so. Once I sat staring at a gorilla, and he sat staring at me, and I think we shared a moment.’

  ‘Well, I know how they feel. Earth is too small. I want to explore as far as I possibly can!’

  I guess this must have burst out of me because Annie draws back and laughs.

  ‘And being weightless would be amazing,’ I add. ‘Doesn’t everyone want to fly?’

  Annie looks right at me. ‘I dream that I’m flying.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Have my bear,’ she says, passing me her squishy model. ‘I know it looks more like a paper poo, but it’s the thought that counts.’

  Soon we’ve made a small zoo of animals and Mr Curtis tells us we can pack up.

  ‘Thanks for the wonderful waste of time, Sir,’ says Annie as she heads for the door.

  ‘Not a waste of time,’ he says. ‘You were learning to break down a task into easy steps. Before you go, Annie …’

  She’s already halfway out of the room. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve all got some homework.’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head, making her wild hair fly. ‘No, we haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’ Mr Curtis says this just as firmly and they stare at each other, eyes narrowed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘One of the main objectives of Student in the Spotlight is to encourage supportive networks that bridge existing friendship groups.’

  ‘What?’ says Jackson.

  ‘He wants to force us to become friends,’ says Annie, visibly sagging over her crutches.

  ‘No, I want this wonderful group that’s forming before my eyes to last. I’d like you to connect out of school, socially, just for twenty minutes or so. I think it would be an extremely powerful experience for you to see each other as individuals, without the barriers of uniform, timetables and social groups.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Annie blinks at Mr Curtis and down on his beanbag, Jackson starts to laugh. ‘It won’t be an extremely powerful experience,’ Annie says, shaking her head. ‘It will be an extremely awkward experience!’

  ‘We could go bowling,’ says Jackson. ‘Or to Laser Quest! Oh my God, Annie in Laser Quest! We’d all be dead in two minutes.’

  ‘It’s not happening,’ says Annie. ‘I want to hang out with my real friends out of school.’

  ‘I think it would be totally cool,’ says Rose. She’s been smiling since Mr Curtis mentioned the idea. ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Obviously I can’t force you to do it,’ says Mr Curtis, ‘but I think you should give it a go, just once …’

  ‘I’m busy tomorrow,’ I say, thinking of the science workshop.

  ‘Sunday?’ says Rose.

  Rose is small and has plump cheeks and round brown eyes. There’s something about her that reminds me a bit of Elsa: her feelings show on her face immediately, and right now her face is showing hope and excitement. I guess no one wants to wipe that look off her face because Jackson says, ‘Three o’clock. McDonald’s?’

  Annie scowls and I know why. McDonald’s is at the top of the hill in town. Possibly the worst place to get to if you’re using crutches or a wheelchair.

  ‘Fusciardi’s,’ I blurt out, thinking of the cafe right on the promenade. ‘It’s by the sea and it has the best ice cream.’ What am I talking about? I’m not even going! ‘And they give you a little biscuit if you get a coffee or hot chocolate.’

  ‘I love Fusciardi’s,’ says Rose. ‘It’s covered in mirrors and you can get hot fudge sauce and wafers with bear faces on them.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, ladies,’ says Jackson, jumping to his feet and throwing a ‘maybe’, over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

  ‘Yeah “maybe” I’ll see you there too!’ says Annie, following him out.

  ‘Thanks for suggesting Fusciardi’s,’ says Rose as we head down the corridor. ‘I love it there, but I’d feel stupid going on my own.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.

  ‘I’m going to get there extra early so I can get us a table facing the sea!’ She grins at me then dashes off towards art.

  I watch her go, her big rucksack bouncing up and down, her bobbed hair flying. I’ve got enough to do this weekend looking after Elsa, Jackson didn’t exactly commit and Annie’s obviously not going. Is Rose going to be sitting in the cafe on her own, nibbling a bear wafer and looking around for us? I try to push the thought away, but I can’t seem to get rid of the image of her wide, hopeful eyes.

  I walk towards the library. This is why I want to go to be an astronaut: life on Earth is way too complicated.

  TWENTY-THREE

  On Saturday, Elsa wakes me up at five, giving me plenty of time to lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, and worry myself sick about the fact that today Grandad and I are doing our Cool Cosmos show.

  I am excited too. We’ve been planning this show for months and the experiments are going to be good. Actually, they’re going to be better than good: they’re going to be messy and funny and possibly even a bit amazing. The children watching are going to love it, and when I focus on this – on their happy faces – I can’t help feeling excited too.

  But this excited feeling is nothing compared to the all-consuming power of the pukey feeling. The thought of all those people – OK, those children – staring up at me makes my heart race and my skin prickle … But I keep reminding myself that Grandad will be doing all the talking and that I’ll just be standing next to him, handing him ice cubes and fruit. Yes, I’ll get some stares, but I can do this. No, I have to do this because it will take me one step closer to standing on the school stage and delivering my speech at the NASA competition.

  ‘Let’s do this thing!’ I say to Elsa, jumping out of bed. ‘Right after I’ve changed your stinky nappy.’

  I keep busy and distracted all morning, getting Elsa ready and then going round to Grandad’s house and helping him to load up Pete’s car. (Grandad doesn’t have a car so he’s roped Pete, one of his Sussex Stargazer friends, into giving us a lift.) When we’re finally packed up and on our way to the science centre, the sickness creeps back in. I wind down the window and take deep breaths. Next to me, Elsa is screaming at the top of her lungs.

  ‘Remind me. Why are you bringing Elsa along?’ asks Pete.

  ‘Alice is away at the moment,’ says Grandad. ‘Elsa won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Right,’ says Pete. He doesn
’t sound convinced. Elsa’s been crying solidly since we left town. Right now we’re driving down a winding county lane with David Bowie blaring out of the speakers and Elsa screaming along to ‘Heroes’.

  ‘Here, Elsa,’ I say, handing her a carrot puff. She stuffs it in her mouth and the screaming stops. I go back to staring queasily out of the window, the wind whipping my hair. Suddenly, I get a glimpse of the turquoise observatory domes rising out of the trees. ‘There they are!’ I say.

  ‘Just like spaceships,’ says Grandad, turning round and smiling at me. When I was little, Grandad told me the telescope domes really were spaceships and that all the staff at the science centre were aliens. Every time we visited, he implied that there was a good chance we could end up in space. I worked out that he was lying years ago, but I still get this thrill when I see the domes. I love this place.

  ‘Maggie was saying she might give you a job soon,’ says Pete.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, glancing at Elsa. ‘If today goes well. Maggie is the manager and she knows how much I want to work here. I’ve got to wait until I’m sixteen, but after that it’s up to her.’

  ‘It’ll go well,’ says Grandad. ‘You wait until you see it, Pete. We’ve got eggs, explosions, costumes … Meg worked it all out.’

  ‘You thought of the costumes,’ I say.

  ‘You do love a good costume,’ Pete says to Grandad. ‘Remember when you dressed up as Halley’s Comet?’

  ‘And it caught fire?’ Grandad laughs. ‘I couldn’t get away with smoking in front of the kids these days.’

  Pete turns off the road and into a bumpy car park. ‘There you are,’ he says, pointing at the noticeboard by the entrance:

  Cool Cosmos, 11.30. Discover just how miraculous our universe is in our hands-on, family-friendly show. Warning: will contain nuts!

  Pete laughs and slams his hand down on the steering wheel.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say, taking an extra deep breath of calming air.

  ‘Do you like the bit about the nuts?’ asks Grandad. ‘That was my idea!’

  All the workshops are run in marquees and while Grandad and I set up, Elsa plays in a cardboard box. Whenever we find something she might like we drop it in the box; a piece of bubble wrap keeps her quiet for ages and she goes crazy when Grandad bats in one of the balloons we’re blowing up.

  Maggie appears just as we’re putting the finishing touches to our flour tower. ‘That’s big,’ she says, eyeing the enormous floury mountain.

  Grandad adds a final spoonful. ‘It’s ten-bags-of-flour big! We’re going to drop a watermelon on it. Poof!’ His hands mime an explosion. ‘We’re recreating the impact of comets striking the moon.’

  ‘We’re dropping a pea on it too,’ I add. I don’t want Maggie thinking we’re about to trash her tent.

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ she says. ‘I’ll be watching the second half.’ And this is when Elsa decides to pop her head up over the side of the box and scream, ‘Da, da!’

  Maggie jumps back, a horrified look on her face. ‘It’s a baby!’

  ‘My other granddaughter,’ says Grandad. ‘We’re dropping her in the flour as well!’

  Maggie laughs weakly and Grandad must realise she needs to be reassured because he adds, ‘You don’t need to worry about Elsa getting in the way. Pete will look after her during the show.’

  Somehow I doubt that. In the car Pete tried to give Elsa his Homer Simpson lighter to play with and when we arrived he offered her a king size Mars bar. I don’t think he’s had much experience with babies.

  Maggie frowns down at Elsa, then her eyes flick to me. ‘Well, just as long as you’ll be supervising both your granddaughters the whole time. Meg’s not old enough to do this on her own yet.’

  ‘I won’t let either of them out of my sight!’ Grandad promises.

  Just then, Maggie’s walkie-talkie buzzes and she backs out of the tent. ‘Make sure you don’t.’

  The moment she’s gone, Grandad turns to me. ‘You watch Elsa. I’m going to buy a sausage roll.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure about this?’ I’m wearing a lab coat, a curly grey wig and black specs. I’m a mad scientist. Grandad’s wearing something similar, only he doesn’t need the wig.

  ‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘Kids love costumes. Now hold still while I do your make-up.’

  He dabs black face paint all over my face. It’s supposed to look like something’s exploded. Grandad’s already done his and it does look quite good, especially with his back-combed hair. ‘You’re so pale it looks extra effective!’ he says, putting a final smudge on my forehead.

  I’m pale with fear: there’s a constant rumble of voices coming from outside the flaps of the tent and every now and then a curious face peeks in.

  Pete wanders by. ‘It’s mad out there. I’m going to have to let them in. Are you ready?’

  ‘Born ready!’ says Grandad, and I swallow and think, Stay down Shreddies, stay down!

  Pete holds back the flap and children start to pour in, shrieking and pushing each other as they race for the positions at the front. They’re followed by their parents – real, live grown-ups. I hadn’t really thought about them … They’re so big!

  ‘Look at the clown, Mummy!’ shouts a boy, pointing at me. ‘He’s scary!’

  ‘It’s a lady clown,’ says his mum, giving me a smile.

  I try to smile back, but it’s a shaky smile, and I decide to go and check on Elsa rather than just stand here being stared at.

  I grab a handful of carrot puffs and pull back the flaps on her box. I peer inside. Everything is quiet and still. ‘Are you hiding?’ I say, pushing the balloons and cuddly toys to one side. ‘Elsa?’

  The box is empty!

  I see that some of the tape has peeled away, leaving a baby-sized gap. ‘Grandad,’ I hiss. ‘Elsa’s gone!’ Then I get down on my hands and knees and start searching under the table and around the various boxes.

  Grandad double-checks the box. ‘Whoops!’

  ‘Whoops?’ I say. ‘Grandad, this site is basically a baby death trap: there are ponds everywhere, not to mention gigantic telescopes, moving floors, lasers, rocks …’

  ‘Don’t forget all the concrete steps,’ he says. ‘Well, she can’t be far away.’ He walks towards the exit. ‘She’s probably crawled under the tent. I’ll find her while you start the show.’

  ‘While I do what?’ I say.

  ‘Start the show!’ he bellows, as he strolls out of the tent.

  Immediately, children are shushed, the audience falls quiet and everyone turns to look at me.

  ‘Yay, it’s starting!’ shouts a girl on the floor, bouncing up and down.

  I stare down at her, my mouth slightly open. Did Grandad plan this? Knowing how nervous I feel, did he actually let Elsa escape so he’d have an excuse to throw me in at the deep end? My theory sounds mad … but Grandad is a bit mad!

  I look up and face the audience. Sweat prickles under my arms and my mouth goes dry. There’s a cough, some more shushes and then the yay-girl says, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ummm …’

  ‘Your face is funny!’ she adds.

  ‘I … ummm …’ I swallow and grab Grandad’s notes, scanning the introduction. A lump has formed in my throat and I know that I can’t talk. I just can’t do it.

  Suddenly, Yay-Girl shouts even louder, ‘WHO ARE YOU?’

  ‘I am the granddaughter of Copernicus,’ I say in a rush, ‘the man who just ran out of the tent. Well, he’s Copernicus and he’s an amazing man and –’

  ‘Why’s he so amazing?’ The boy who’s just interrupted me is sitting by my feet. He’s about six and he’s got a bored expression on his face. I feel a rush of irritation and for a moment I forget how scared I feel. ‘Copernicus is amazing because he’s one of the greatest astronomers who ever lived. Before he came along, everyone thought Earth – our teeny little planet – was the centre of the universe.’

  The boy seems unimpresse
d. ‘I’m Isaac,’ he says, then he narrows his eyes suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’

  I glance at Grandad’s notes again, trying to find the name he thought up for me. ‘My name is Megernicus,’ I say.

  ‘We can’t hear you!’ shouts an adult voice from the back.

  ‘My name is Megernicus!’ This time my voice comes out way too loud, a yell really, and a baby starts to whimper. How has this happened? Grandad promised me that I wouldn’t have to say a word and now I’m shouting at people!

  Yay-Girl’s eyes go wide. ‘You’re called Mega Knickers? Cool!’

  ‘No, Megernicus,’ I say, but I’m wasting my breath because now all children are shouting out ‘Mega Knickers’, although some are just yelling ‘knickers’ and one boy is saying, ‘Willy, willy, willy,’ again and again.

  I look at the entrance to the tent, but there’s no sign of Grandad. Now the children are laughing and pushing each other and a couple have even got to their feet. Their parents are looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and irritation.

  This is a total disaster. I have to do something!

  I force myself to think of the coolest, calmest person I know: Valentina Tereshkova. Not only was she the first woman to go to space, but before that she was a parachutist. She must have felt this fear, when you’re standing on the edge of something and you know you have to jump. I picture her strong, steady gaze. If Valentina could throw herself out of a plane repeatedly, then orbit Earth forty-eight times, then I can open my mouth and tell these kids about space.

  So I take a deep breath, look at the chattering, squirming children, and I open my mouth. ‘That’s right,’ I say, raising my voice so it cuts across the talking. ‘I am Mega Knickers, and it’s actually a very common medieval name. Now, my grandad thinks that the sun is at the centre of the universe so we’re going to prove him wrong.’

  ‘What?’ Grandad walks back in with Elsa’s wriggling in his arms. ‘You’re talking nonsense! I tell you, the sun is smack bang in the middle of things.’