Dizzy Read online

  It’s Finn’s birthday soon.

  I haven’t any money to buy a present, but Tess lets me root through her bag of scrap fabrics and I cut up a length of old blue blanket to make him a new guitar strap. In the mornings, while Finn is practising his piano or playing the guitar up in the tree house, I work on it. I fold the thick blue wool into a long, skinny rectangle. I snip a tiny hole at one end and sew a bright red shoelace to the other. Tess digs out her embroidery threads and shows me how to make stars and spirals out of satin stitch and chain stitch and little French knots.

  We’ve built a bonfire on the lawn, and Mouse asks me if he can juggle firesticks in the evening, especially for Finn. ‘Juggle, sure,’ I tell him. ‘Finn will love that, and you’re getting really good. But not firesticks, Mouse. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Zak did it,’ Mouse protests. ‘He had those batons that were on fire, and he juggled with them. I want to do that for Finn.’

  ‘No way, Mouse. Zak is much older than you. He’s been juggling for years and years, and he knows that you have to treat fire with respect. It’s a grown-up thing, Mouse, honestly.’

  ‘I treat fire with respect,’ Mouse argues.

  I remember the way he is around bonfires, the way he strikes matches and lets the flames lick around his fingertips. Respect isn’t the word that springs to mind.

  ‘I like fire,’ says Mouse.

  Exactly.

  ‘No firesticks,’ I say firmly.

  Mouse twists his face into a scowl, jumps on Finn’s BMX and ploughs off through the flower beds.

  Niall is planning a barbie for the evening, and Tess is going to make sponge cake and home-made ice cream and lemonade with real lemons.

  ‘D’you want anyone over, on Friday?’ she asks Finn. ‘Kids from school?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Jon’s in France all summer and Danny’s staying with his dad in Chester. I’m not bothered about the others.’

  ‘OK,’ Tess says easily. ‘Anything special you want to do in the day? We could drive down to Lancaster to the pictures, whatever. Your call!’

  ‘I’ll think about it, OK?’ Finn says.

  That night, in the tree house, he asks if I’d like to take a picnic to the beach on Friday. Just us. My eyes widen. Is that ‘just us’, as in me and Finn? Or ‘just us’, as in me, Finn, Mouse and Leggit?

  ‘The beach? I didn’t know we were that near the sea. You kept that quiet!’

  ‘It’s a bus ride,’ Finn shrugs. ‘And it’s not a touristy beach like the one at Ayr. But it’d be cool, all the same.’

  ‘No, seriously, I’d love that.’

  There’s a rustling sound from Mouse’s sleeping bag, and he peers out, sleepy-eyed, over the top.

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ he says, yawning.

  Finn looks embarrassed. ‘Hey, thought you were asleep, little mate,’ he says. ‘Thing is, Mouse, I was thinking that maybe just Dizz and me would go to the beach. Take some time out, do teenage stuff, y’know?’

  Mouse frowns. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I don’t know.’

  Finn rakes a hand through his felted hair. ‘Well, it’s not really your kind of beach, Mouse,’ he sighs. ‘No ice cream, no tourists, nothing flashy. It’s just dunes and mud and gullies and rocks. Pretty boring.’

  ‘No, it sounds great,’ Mouse argues.

  Finn rolls his eyes. He’s wavering. He doesn’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings, and he definitely doesn’t want to hurt Mouse. ‘Look, Mouse, little mate…’ he begins.

  ‘I think Tess needs you here, Mouse,’ I say gently. ‘Aren’t you in charge of the bonfire? You have to make sure it’s finished, show Niall how to edge it with rocks, get it started. Tess’ll be relying on you.’

  Mouse stares at me, his eyes huge. Then he looks at Finn. He’s sitting up now, his hair sticking up in tufts. His lower lip trembles.

  ‘You don’t want me, do you?’ he says.

  ‘It’s not that we don’t want you…’

  ‘You don’t’ Mouse says. ‘You think I’ll get in the way. You think I’ll spoil things. People always think that.’

  Finn looks angry. ‘No, Mouse, seriously. I just want to spend some time alone with Dizzy, OK? On my birthday,’ he says. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Don’t want to go, anyway. Sounds rubbish.’

  Mouse struggles out of his sleeping bag and dives for the rope-ladder. He drops down into the bushes and crashes off into the dark. Leggit crouches on the platform, whining, then leaps down to follow.

  ‘OK,’ sighs Finn. ‘That went kind of wrong, didn’t it?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Shall I go after him?’

  ‘Better let him calm down.’

  Finn is silent, staring out into the dark.

  ‘I guess he’ll get over it,’ he says.

  Mouse sulks all week.

  On Friday morning, he tucks a king-size Mars bar under Finn’s pillow and sneaks away.

  ‘Think I’m forgiven?’ Finn asks, showing me.

  ‘Hope so.’

  I give him the guitar strap, wrapped in tissue paper.

  ‘Wow!’ he says, stroking the embroidered patterns. ‘Dizzy, it’s amazing! I love it!’ He unclips the old guitar strap and ties the new one on. He tries it for size, strums a few notes, does a little dance.

  ‘Look, no hands! Oh, Dizz, this is cool.’

  He puts down the guitar and for a minute I think he’s going to hug me, but Mouse appears, and he gets hugged instead. ‘Thanks for the choccy, little mate,’ Finn says. ‘My favourite.’

  We pack towels and swimsuits and apples and peanut-butter sandwiches. Tess drives us to the bus stop and waves us off.

  ‘Don’t get into any trouble,’ she says.

  ‘Mu-um!’ says Finn. ‘As if!’

  It feels weird without Mouse and Leggit. We sit side by side on the bus, fiddling with bus tickets, looking out of the window. Finn unwraps the birthday Mars bar, breaking it in half.

  ‘Breakfast, Mouse-style,’ he grins.

  I laugh, and take a bite.

  We get off at a road-end in the middle of nowhere, and walk down a steep, skinny lane. The sun warms our backs. I wish this summer would never end, but it’s almost the end of August. It can’t go on forever.

  ‘Back to school, soon,’ I say gloomily.

  ‘Don’t! I’m fourteen now,’ Finn sulks. ‘School gets serious. Revision, exams, acres of coursework.’

  I think of green stripy ties in the grey Birmingham drizzle, the boiled cabbage and disinfectant smell of school corridors.

  ‘I don’t want to go back.’

  To my old school, my old life, my old self.

  ‘I know. Wish you didn’t have to. You could come to my school, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I shrug, but both of us know it’s not going to happen. Tess is already pretty stressy about being left with Mouse and me. The day before yesterday she wrote to Dad, and she’s been in touch with the social services in London, too, trying to find out about Mouse’s mum.

  ‘D’you like school?’ I ask Finn.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he shrugs. ‘It’s just one of those things you have to get through. You just find a way of making it work for you.’

  ‘Did you ever get picked on?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure, in Year Seven,’ Finn admits. ‘I had long hair – it wasn’t dreaded, then – and Niall’s old hand-me-down uniform. I was always getting hauled up to play piano in assembly. So embarrassing. There was this group of older lads – they couldn’t work out if I was a wuss or a weirdo. They used to knock into me in the dinner queue, hack me at football, push me on the stairwells. Call me names and stuff.’

  Finn frowns, remembering.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I got into a scrap in the middle of a footy match, gave one kid a black eye. I got suspended for a week. They never touched me after that.’

  ‘You were suspended!’ I cry, outraged. ‘Didn’t you explain? Didn’t you tell them about the bull
ying?’

  ‘Didn’t see the point,’ Finn shrugs.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I scold him. ‘What did Tess say?’

  ‘She wasn’t exactly overjoyed.’

  We climb a farm gate and trail up across a steeply sloping field. The farmer has just cut the grass for hay and rolled it into bales. It smells like heaven.

  ‘It’s not so bad now,’ Finn says. ‘My music teacher introduced me to this kid Jon, who’s really into drumming. We worked out that we liked the same music, so we started jamming together. My mate Danny joined in on bass guitar, and we had a band. Spider Pie. We get to play at end-of-term concerts, that sort of thing. We’re kind of louder and janglier than the teachers like, but it’s better than hammering out the tune for ‘Go Tell it on the Mountain’ in assembly every week, y’know?’

  ‘I know. I’ll watch out for you on the Kerrang! channel.’

  ‘Do that!’

  Finn stops to pick a thorn out of his foot.

  ‘D’you wear shoes to school?’ I ask.

  Finn raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course I do. What d’you take me for, a rebel or something?’

  ‘Something,’ I laugh. ‘I just can’t imagine you in Nike trainers and a stripy tie.’

  ‘Trainers? Who said anything about trainers? My school shoes are sixteen-hole Doc Martens with lime-green and black striped bootlaces. And I always wear my tie. Round my wrist – or to tie my hair back.’

  I laugh, trying to imagine.

  We’re almost at the top of the hill now. I’m hot and tired. ‘Where is this beach?’ I ask. ‘Outer Mongolia?’

  ‘Patience,’ Finn says. ‘And remember what I said to Mouse. Don’t expect anything fancy.’

  We climb up over the brow of the hill and there it is, at the foot of the slope. A wide, shimmering curve of turquoise water, a streak of sludge-coloured mud, a jigsaw of gullies and rock pools.

  ‘Wow.’

  It’s not pretty, but it’s a beach – and we have it all to ourselves.

  ‘Race ya!’ Finn shouts, and we’re flying down the hillside, arms spread wide, hair streaming out behind us. We crash into the wall that borders the field and clamber over, breathless. The grass thins out, turns scruffy, then gives way to big rocks and patches of mud.

  I take off my trainers and pick my way over the stones. Finn is way ahead, balancing on slabs of slimy stone and peering into rock pools crusted with barnacles. When I catch up, he has his feet in the water, a pale golden crab edging sideways over his toes.

  ‘Eeew!’ I squeal.

  ‘It tickles!’

  ‘Poor crab,’ I sympathize.

  ‘Cheek!’ Finn nudges me and I slip, one foot landing in the pool next to his. I yelp. The water is freezing, and I pull my foot out. The crab darts away under a rock.

  ‘You scared it,’ Finn says.

  ‘You scared it.’

  Finn pulls a face, and I pull one back, laughing. He goes on looking at me for way too long, and I have to look away before I do anything sad and dorky, like blush.

  We wade out along the gullies and channels, kick our way along the water’s edge.

  ‘It’s cold!’ I screech.

  ‘It’s gorgeous! Don’t be so chicken!’

  We push and shove and splash each other, until at last we’re not fighting so much as holding hands. Finn’s palm feels big and rough and warm, wrapped round mine. We splash through the cool, clean water, feet sinking into soft mud, toes scraping against sharp-ridged shells. Long scarves of seaweed tangle round our ankles like fine, emerald hair.

  ‘D’you ever wish you could just stop time?’ Finn asks. ‘Keep things frozen, the way they are?’

  ‘Sure,’ I whisper. ‘Before real life gets in the way again.’

  He squeezes my fingers, and we break apart. Suddenly, I can breathe again.

  ‘Let’s beachcomb,’ I say. ‘Find something to take back for Mouse.’

  We walk up to the tideline and scour the ribbon of driftwood and rubbish for hidden treasures. We rescue a clutch of long, white feathers, nuggets of dusty, jewel-bright seaglass and the shell of a giant crab, complete with claws.

  ‘He’ll love these,’ Finn says, packing them carefully away inside his rucksack. ‘Y’know, with Mouse, it’s kind of like having a little brother all of a sudden. I like it!’

  ‘I know. Me, too. It’s like we’re a family, somehow, the three of us.’

  Finn frowns, kicking at a tangle of frayed blue rope, an empty plastic pop bottle. ‘I don’t want to be your brother,’ he says darkly. ‘I don’t feel that way. Not like your brother.’

  ‘I know.’

  And I do, suddenly. In the family we’ve invented, Finn and me are not brother and sister. His hand snakes out to capture mine again, and I don’t pull away. We walk on.

  Round the tip of a jutting headland, we find a tiny, sheltered cove of soft golden sand. Beyond, the fields slope upwards, green meadows scattered with wildflowers. It’s a tiny, secret beach, half-hidden between the hills.

  ‘Hey!’ Finn shouts, delighted. ‘I don’t remember this. It’s amazing!’

  ‘It’s a magic birthday beach,’ I tell him. ‘Just here for one day. At midnight it disappears.’

  We drop our backpacks and run out across the hot sand. The grains stick to our muddy feet, spray out behind us. Finn stretches his arms wide, whirls round a couple of times. He spins in the soft sand, arms outstretched, until he keels over and collapses. He looks up at me, grinning.

  ‘D’you remember when we were little?’ he asks, breathless. ‘We used to spin round and round till we fell, and we called it the Dizzy Game. Remember?’

  ‘I think so…’

  I know the Dizzy Game, of course I do, from sunny days on the school field with Sasha and Sara and Jade. I just didn’t realize it came from a time before school, when Finn and I were first friends.

  If Finn isn’t too shy to hurl himself round in circles until he staggers, screaming, and crashes into the sand, then I’m not. I spread my arms and turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster, out of control. The world spins away and my feet lose their hold on the earth and I’m squealing, staggering, stumbling.

  Then the ground shifts and comes up to slap my back, my head. I lie in the soft, golden sand as the world spins round me, and I remember why I used to love this game. It makes everything go away, until there’s just you, your head reeling, your heart thumping. Real life churns on, the earth tilts, the sky dips.

  I grab handfuls of sand to get a hold of myself, but the grains run away through my fingers. The hot sun presses me down. A hand brushes past my outstretched fingers, weaves between them. Finn. We lie still for a few minutes, fingertips touching, waiting for the world to stop.

  Then Finn is struggling upright, dragging me with him. I stumble against him, laughing, and his hands cup my face. He looks at me for a long moment, and then he’s kissing me.

  It’s not like I imagined. His lips taste of salt and sand and happiness. They’re soft, so soft. We break apart and we can’t stop staring at each other, wide-eyed. He brushes sand from my cheek, my hair.

  The world keeps on spinning, with or without the Dizzy Game.

  The bus drops us off at six, and we hear the music as we turn into the lane, see the lanterns twinkling up ahead. There’s a smell of wood smoke and barbecued tofu.

  As we push open the gate, Leggit leaps forwards. Someone’s made her a collar of willow and flowers, and she jumps up at us, trailing ribbons and licking the salt from our skin.

  ‘Finn! Dizz!’ Mouse calls out from the tree house.

  ‘Hey, Mouse! We did some beachcombing for you.’

  Mouse is wriggling down the rope-ladder, bounding towards us through the flowers. He watches as Finn unwraps the parcel of treasure, reaching out to touch the soft white feathers, the seaglass, the crab shell.

  ‘Cool,’ he breathes. ‘Will you take me, next time?’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘Next time.’

  ‘We missed y
ou, little mate,’ Finn says.

  ‘Did you have your Mars bar?’

  ‘Long gone, Mouse. But much appreciated. The best prezzie ever.’

  Mouse flashes us a smile. ‘The best is yet to come,’ he tells us. ‘Just you wait and see!’

  Then Tess is calling us, and Finn’s gran, and Niall, and Mouse melts into the background, eyes bright, smiling his secret smile. The barbie is ready, and we stack our plates high with charred sweetcorn, tofu burgers, veggie kebabs. Someone’s brought the CD player and speakers outside, and Niall removes a Bob Dylan CD, feeding it instead with Finn’s favourite clashy, trashy nu-metal sounds.

  Finn’s opening presents now – a new hoodie, a pair of baggy jeans, a couple of piano music books, a beautiful, handpainted bodhrán drum. It’s like a big, wide tambourine with weird Celtic dragons painted on the skin. Finn holds it flat against his body, flicking the drumstick over it in a fast, furious beat.

  We sit round the bonfire and eat and laugh and talk. It gets dark, and Finn pulls on his hoodie, while Tess hands round sparklers. I dip mine into the bonfire flame and watch it fizz, then write Dizzy + Finn into the darkness, so fast that nobody could ever know. Except Finn, who catches my eye and draws a heart in the air between us.

  Mouse tries juggling the sparklers, but Tess says it’s dangerous and threatens to take them away. Instead, Mouse puts on a juggling show with three velvet beanbags, tossing them higher and higher in the bonfire’s flickering light. He throws them at Niall, who flings them back in a quick volley. Mouse doesn’t drop a single throw.

  ‘Could have done it with fire,’ he says, to prove a point.

  ‘Maybe,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t. Nothing could have been better than this, Mouse.’

  ‘Think so? That was nothing. You’ll see.’

  I pull a face, then turn back to the bonfire. I notice Finn’s BMX ramp pulled up way too close to the edge of it, flames licking the wood. I kick it, managing to knock it a few inches backwards. ‘It’s a bit black around the edges,’ I shout to Finn, who shrugs. It’s only a home-made thing, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

  ‘Mouse again,’ Tess sighs. ‘He was riding the BMX up and over the bonfire, earlier, again and again. Before it was lit, obviously!’