‘Really?’ She grins and hugs her knees. ‘Me too! And we can go to Solsken together. Can you do the Little Frog dance? I can teach you how to do it!’
‘My mum’s Swedish,’ I say. ‘I can do the Little Frog dance. How long does it take to swim out to that rock?’
‘About ten minutes. There are no currents. It’s totally safe.’
‘Ten minutes …’ I’m not a bad swimmer. Along with playing the guitar, it’s one of the few things I can do better than Britta.
‘This summer is going to be so cool,’ says Nanna, wriggling a bit closer to me. ‘I’ve met you and Leo is coming for Solsken.’
‘Leo?’ I say, as if it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the name.
‘Wait until you meet him. He’s really kind and, you know, into stuff. Kayaking, swimming, camping. The summer is always better when he’s around.’ She starts to throw little stones into the sea. ‘Plus, he’s skön.’
‘You mean, he’s sweet?’
‘Yeah. He’s yummy.’ She grins at me. ‘You know, hot.’
Save the important information until last, Nanna!
That evening, over spaghetti and soya meatballs, Frida tells me about Solsken Fest. We’re sitting opposite each other at the table with the checked tablecloth. For the third time this evening, the paraffin lamp has gone out, so the room is lit with candles. ‘The island gets busy for a couple of days,’ says Frida, her wavy hair making crazy shadows on the wall. ‘Every bed is taken, and tents are pitched all over the place. It’s an excuse for another Midsummer, really.’
Midsummer is a big deal in Sweden, almost as big as Christmas. On the longest day of the year, everyone heads to the countryside to dress up in floaty clothes, drink loads of vodka and dance around a maypole. In the evening, they drink even more vodka and keep dancing. When I was little, I loved it. Especially the Little Frog dance.
‘Will there be flower garlands?’ I slap a mosquito that’s landed on my foot.
‘Sure, some people will make them. You and Britta used to look so cute making yours together.’ Frida takes a sip of wine and her eyes glitter over the edge of her glass.
Nice. I’ll work a garland into my outfit. I’m willing to do hippy chic for the right occasion. ‘Pickled herrings? Bonfires? Barbecue?’ I ask.
‘Probably,’ she says. ‘Last year it was just magic. The sun didn’t set until eleven o’clock at night and the party went on till morning. So romantic …’
But I’ve stopped listening. Instead, I’m visualising everything in my suitcase, trying to decide what to wear. I need to lay some clothes out on my bed. ‘I think I might have a shower and turn in,’ I say, taking my plate over to the sink.
‘Really? I was thinking you could play the guitar. Or how about a sauna?’
‘This place has a sauna?’
‘In the shed by the jetty. It’s heated by a wood burner, so I’ll need to get it going.’
‘Maybe another night.’ Will I be too hot in jeans? I could wear my skinny jeans with a really loose shirt. ‘Frida, is there any hot water here?’ I’ve got the tap turned on full to wash up, but the water is still icy.
‘Sometimes.’
‘But not tonight.’
‘No. Hey, jump in the sea if you want a wash. That’s what I’m going to do.’
I try to scrub at the greasy marks on my plate. Another mosquito buzzes around my ear. ‘No thanks.’ I leave my kind-of clean plate on the draining board and go to the ladder. ‘Godnatt måne,’ I say, but I don’t think Frida hears me. She’s collecting logs from a basket under the sink and singing a song about elves.
I’ve decided what I’m going to wear to Solsken. I look at the short flowery dress, thin white belt and cropped cotton jumper that I’ve laid over my bed and I know it looks good. The only problem, of course, is shoes. I’ve brought five pairs with me, but none of them look right. I decide to sort it out in the morning.
Before I turn out the light, I get out my hedgehog paper and write two letters: one for Betty and Bea, and one for Pearl.
Dear Beatty
Sorry you have to share a letter, but I can’t be bothered to write two. I am so sad. I’m on Stråla and it’s TINY. There is nothing here except rocks and trees. Seriously, there isn’t even any sand on the beaches. As far as I can tell, there are two teenagers on the island and they are both freaks. Well, the girl is. I don’t think I’ve laughed since I last saw you two. Tomorrow there is going to be a festival with a band and a disco and even though I know it’s going to be the most tragic event in the world (even more tragic than Hattie’s party when her dad flicked the light switch on and off to make strobe lights) I am actually excited about it.
One interesting thing has happened, or might happen. Everyone keeps talking about this boy called Leo who is turning up tomorrow. He’s obviously some massive big deal on Stråla. The word ‘hot’ has been used to describe him. I will be ready!
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write to me.
Love Kat xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
P.S. Forgot to mention the most important thing: I might be able to text or ring you if I can swim out to a rock. There is the small possibility that I will drown doing it, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
Hey Pearl
This is a letter … bet you never thought I’d write you one of these!?! Anyways, this island I’m staying on is smaller than Bluewater … also, it has 299 fewer shops than Bluewater. Let me make this clear: it has ONE shop. But this one shop does sell loads of liquorice products (chocolate, chewing gum, cakes) and I remembered that you like Liquorice Allsorts, so I thought you might like to know that I have access to liquorice everything.
I hope your summer is significantly less crappy than mine.
Love Kat
P.S. If you write back to me, I will bring you back some liquorice babies. That is a promise.
I turn on my phone for a nanosecond to get their addresses, then put the letters by the attic hatch. I’ll post them in the morning.
After I’ve turned off the light, I open my window as wide as it will go and lean out, trying to find some cool air. The sea is inky blue and so still it could be a painting. Small waves must be breaking somewhere because I can hear them. Next to the jetty is a shed. Smoke twists from its chimney and the window glows orange. I can see Frida’s pink shape moving around inside.
I look up at the sky and try to imagine Bea, Betty and Pearl back at home, in our town, and what they will have done today. Maybe Bea and Betty met up and got milkshakes. Pearl would have got up late and spent ages online. She has all these different names she uses. Some I know about – like Peargirl and Peawitch – but she has loads of others she keeps secret. Sometimes, she spends entire lessons telling lies to random people online.
I can’t believe yesterday morning I was at home. Right now, I feel like I’m on another planet. The moon is low in the sky, round and yellow, like it’s cut out of paper. I lie back on my mattress, the wrong way round, so I can stare through the window at the stars.
Bea, Betty and Pearl can see those stars, so can my mum and dad all the way round the world in America. This doesn’t make me feel better. My heart races. I feel tiny, like I’ve disappeared. I force myself to think about all the pairs of shoes I’ve left at home. Blue Converse … ballet flats … silver flats … spotty wellies … Nikes … suede ankle boots (brown) … suede ankle boots (black) … I work through every pair I own and then I start again at the beginning.
My eyes start to close. Shoes work so much better than sheep.
SIX
As I walk back from the shop, I pass a line of passengers who’ve just got off the boat. Some are carrying rucksacks and others are pulling trolleys loaded with bags and tents. Children run in and out of people’s legs, screaming at each other, and I have to step off the track to let a group of singing men go past.
I find Frida sitting cross-legged on the jetty, making us flower garlands. ‘One for you,’ she says, putting it on my head. ‘So cute!
’
I take it off to check she’s not put anything mad in it, but it’s just a band of daisies, ivy and a couple of blue ribbons. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Cinnamon bun?’ I pass her the bag. I couldn’t resist getting some when I went to post my letters. After ABBA, cinnamon buns are Sweden’s best invention. ‘The island’s getting busy. I saw Otto building a stage on the mötesplats with some other ancient trolls.’
‘He may be ancient, but he’s probably fitter than you. All summer he rents kayaks and most days he swims to Fejan’ – she points to the island in the distance – ‘and then comes back on one of his kayaks. The next day he does the journey the other way round, paddling out and swimming back.’
‘What’s the other island called?’ There are two little islands just off the coast of Stråla.
‘Vilda. It means “wild”. It’s very beautiful. We’ll have to go out there one day.’
‘Sounds tiring.’ I stretch my legs out in front of me and wriggle my toes. I’ve painted them a lush colour: minty green.
‘Hej!’ bellows a voice from somewhere in the woods. We turn round and watch as a bearded man leaps out from the pines. ‘Frida, it’s me!’ he cries in Swedish. ‘I came back!’
Frida jumps to her feet, dropping her garland and scattering flowers all over the deck. ‘Nils!’ she says, putting out her arms. He runs to her and wraps her up in a huge hug. Nils has wild blond hair and an even wilder beard. He’s wearing an open shirt and tattoos cover his arms. Also, he has on way too many beads: round his neck, his wrists, his ankles, even in his beard.
They stare into each other’s eyes, lost for words. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ whispers Frida, lifting a bead out of the way so she can give him a kiss.
Well. This is awkward.
I stand up and the creaking jetty makes them turn round.
‘Oh, Nils,’ says Frida, stepping back, ‘this is my niece from England, Kat.’
‘Hej,’ says Nils, blushing. He reaches forward and shakes my hand. ‘Welcome.’ Like Otto, he has a strong accent. ‘Very pretty flowers,’ he says seriously, nodding at my garland.
Why didn’t Frida tell me about Nils? Is he her boyfriend? She must have been gutted when Mum asked if I could stay with her this summer. She’d probably been imagining a summer of saunas and skinny dipping with Beardy-beady Nils, but here I am, ruining it all. ‘I might go and see if there’s water for a shower,’ I say.
‘Stay and chat,’ Frida says. ‘Nils is a friend I met last year. I didn’t know he was coming back … Well, I hoped he was.’ Once again, I’m forgotten as they lock eyes.
‘I think I’ll get ready for the festival.’
But they haven’t heard me. ‘Cinnamon bun?’ Frida asks as they walk hand in hand to the end of the jetty.
Standing under the ‘shower’ – a trickle of cold water dribbling from a rusty shower head – I realise two things: I’m not going to see much of Frida this summer, and I am never going to rinse my hair.
‘Are you sure I look alright?’ I ask Frida, again.
‘Yes!’ she says, but she doesn’t even glance at me. ‘Come on.’ She pulls me along the track towards the music and laughter. ‘No one cares what you look like at Solsken.’
That’s exactly why I keep asking if I look OK. I don’t want to be the only person who’s made an effort. I want to look just right, then I can relax and maybe enjoy myself. There are no mirrors in the cabin and I had to do my make-up using the mirror on my blusher. Worst of all, I couldn’t use my hairdryer or straighteners. Frida’s told me that my hair looks ‘really funky’, which is worrying. Frida got ready for the festival in eight seconds: five to take off her shorts and vest and pull on a dress, and three to put her flower garland on.
She looks just right. Ypperlig.
The mötesplats is transformed. Bunting flutters between trees and Swedish flags are flying everywhere: in hair, cakes, ice creams and on the stage. Otto’s band is in full swing. He’s playing the accordion and his expression is serious, like he’s performing at a funeral. Right now, his band are rocking out with ‘It’s Raining Men’. The area in front of the stage is packed with dancers.
A welly shoots past my head. ‘Okej!’ yells the man who’s thrown it, jumping into his friend’s arms and giving him a big hug.
‘Welly throwing,’ says Frida.
‘Kat!’ Nanna runs up to me and grins, bouncing up and down on her feet. At least one person wants me around. ‘Wow. You look so … funky,’ she says, admiring my skater dress and wavy hair. Funky. I want to go back to the cabin, curl up on the deck and read Grazia (again).
‘I really like your –’ I scan her outfit, trying to find something to compliment – ‘T-shirt. It’s funny.’ She’s wearing her high-tops again, but this time with a neon skirt and T-shirt. The T-shirt has a cartoon troll on it wearing a tracksuit. The troll appears to have an explosion coming from its bottom and he’s saying, ‘I just did a fartlek!’
‘Very funny,’ she says. ‘Because fartlek is when you train fast then slow, and fart is when –’
‘I get it,’ I say.
‘Come on.’ She puts her arm through mine. ‘Let’s enter the three-legged race.’
I’m about to say that I should probably stay with Frida, but I realise Frida has disappeared. I spot her by the beer tent doing some intense gazing with Beardy-beady. ‘I’ll watch,’ I tell Nanna, slipping my arm out of hers, but she just grabs hold of me again and drags me across the mötesplats.
Over the next few hours, I follow Nanna round the festival and watch her throw horseshoes, bob for apples, eat pickled herring and take part in a pass-the-potato race using spoons in mouths. Virtually everyone except me competes in the potato race. As I watch the potato move from person to person, and listen to the crowd roar with laughter as a huge man passes the potato to a toddler, I get this ache inside me. Even though I’m in a crowd of people, I feel on the edge and alone. Plus, Leo hasn’t come. I’d have noticed if a skön boy turned up.
As the sun begins to set, the band stop playing and there’s a pause in the festival as Otto starts the disco. Nanna and I sit on a rock by the cafe, sharing some chocolate kringles. The sun is still warm on my face. I throw a bit of my biscuit to a seagull who’s been watching me with his tiny yellow eyes. ‘You should have joined in with the Little Frog dance.’ says Nanna. ‘It’s stupid, but it makes you happy.’
‘I enjoyed watching.’ Nanna is sweet, but hanging out with her is nothing like hanging out with my friends. With Bea and Betty, I laugh all the time, and Pearl is very funny, even if the things she says are sometimes so mean that I feel bad laughing. I look out to sea, right at the horizon, and wonder if, right now, a plane is bringing a letter to me from one of them.
‘I guess Leo couldn’t make it,’ she says, out of nowhere. ‘Hey! Look at Otto. He’s put on his disco waistcoat.’
Otto is standing behind his decks, fiddling with buttons and looking as cross as ever. He’s changed the black waistcoat he was wearing earlier for one covered with smiley rave faces. He leans forward, turns on the microphone and taps it with his finger. A loud crackle of static bursts into the clearing.
‘Every year,’ says Nanna, ‘after Solsken, Otto organises this really fun race, Tuff Troll, for all the young people staying on the nearby islands. It’s an endurance race where you run across Stråla, swim to Fejan and then kayak back to Stråla. You have to be thirteen to take part, so Sören and I can enter this year.’
‘I try to avoid race situations,’ I say. There is nothing Britta likes more than a race. When we were younger, she’d make me have a toast-eating race with her when we got in from school. Britta can pack away a lot of toast. ‘When is Tuff Troll?’
‘On the twenty-fourth of August. It starts late in the afternoon and everyone gets back before the sun sets. Afterwards, there’s a big party and the island is really busy because of all the people who’ve come for the race.’
‘We’re leaving the day after. I can watch you being
a tuff troll.’
‘Cool!’
Otto taps the microphone again. ‘Testing, testing,’ he says, then he waits for everyone to give him their full attention. Gradually, the chatter dies down. In Swedish, he delivers a lecture about litter then, after a dramatic pause, asks, ‘Är du redo att rocka?’ Slowly, a crowd gathers in front of him. ‘I said …’ he sounds genuinely annoyed, ‘Are you ready to rock?’ This time he gets some whoops and cheers. He watches the crowd, eyes narrowed, until he’s satisfied with the level of enthusiasm. ‘OK. Let’s get down to …’ he pauses to pull on a huge pair of headphones, ‘… Sexy Disco!’
He says ‘Sexy Disco’ in English. It’s pretty funny. What he actually says is, ‘Seckseee deescow!’ Electronic music booms across the mötesplats. I was expecting total disco cheese, but this is serious dance music. Almost immediately, people of all ages take to the dance floor and start waving their arms about. Otto growls, ‘Oooo yeahhhh!’ into the mike and starts busting shapes with his hands.
‘Come on,’ says Nanna, trying to pull me up.
‘I’m not really in a dancing mood,’ I say, knowing how annoying I sound. Nanna shrugs and goes off to join everyone else. Soon Otto abandons his Euro disco for big crowd-pleasers and I watch as Nanna jumps around to ‘Super Trouper’ and ‘Guantanamera’. She’s dancing all on her own, but she doesn’t care.
Just as I’m wondering if Frida would mind if I went back to the cottage, something magical happens.
There’s this pause as one track comes to an end and all the dancers freeze on the spot as they wait for the next song. Then, in the trees, fairy lights are switched on and at exactly the same moment the sun dips below the horizon, making everything glow orange. ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ blasts out of the speakers and the dancers spring back into action. My mum loves this song and she does this painful duet of it with Dad, usually when my friends are round.
For the tenth time that evening, Nanna turns to me and mouths, ‘Dance!’ And this time, I do. It turns out there is one other teenager in the world who knows all the words to ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ and she’s wearing a fartlek T-shirt.
SUN KISSED Page 4