by Sarah Webb
“Gracie looks just like you when you were this age, Amy,” Mum says, her eyes misting up a little. “She’s good-natured like you were too. And she has hair like her step-aunt Clover’s. It’s a killer combination.” She pauses. “Amy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. About Clover. Now’s as good a time as any.”
“What?” I ask, curious.
“Clover’s been offered an internship over the summer. At Vogue.”
“She hasn’t said anything to me about it,” I say, miffed that Mum knows something about Clover that I don’t. “Vogue? Wow, that’s really impressive.” Clover worships the Vogue team and has always dreamed of working on their magazine in London. “Is she going to take it?”
“She’s not sure yet. She has to talk it over with Gramps and Brains.”
“You mean she might actually go?” I ask. “To London, I mean.”
“New York, in fact,” Mum says.
I can hardly get the words out. “New York? Hang on, you’re talking about American Vogue?” So that’s what Clover was telling those editors at the wedding fair. I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it yet. I probably wouldn’t be having this conversation with Mum if I had.
Mum nods. “Isn’t it incredible?”
“Yes, amazing.” But if it’s so amazing, why am I feeling all flat inside, like Coke that’s lost its fizz? “When was she going to break it to me?” I ask. “At the airport?”
“Don’t be like that, Amy. Nothing’s definite yet. She’s going to tell you when it’s all decided one way or the other. She asked me not to say anything, but I wanted to give you a bit of time to get your head around the idea. I know how much she means to you. And she adores you too, Amy. She thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”
Really? My awesome, supersmart, and Arctic-cool aunt thinks I’m the bee’s knees? I’m overwhelmed and incredibly touched. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it back. The truth is, I don’t want her to go. I know it’s selfish — but how will I cope without her? She’s my aunt and my best friend all rolled into one. No one can replace Clover. No one!
“Promise me you won’t say anything to Clover,” Mum says. “And if she does decide to go, try to be happy for her. I know you’ll miss her, pet — I will too — but you can’t tie someone like Clover down. She’s destined for fabulous things.”
“I know. And I won’t say anything, I promise.” I hold Gracie against me and give her a little squeeze. “Guess it might be just you and me soon, kiddo,” I whisper into her hair. I’m really sad. And the one person who always cheers me up when I’m feeling low is Clover.
“Right, you lot, quiet!” Mr. Olen yells once we’ve all stepped off the bus outside a big old building near Saint Stephen’s Green at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. We’re on a second-year school trip to a big international modern art exhibition called Emotion in Motion. As our year is large, we’ve been split into four groups, each with a different teacher in charge. We’ve got the grumpiest teacher of them all, of course — Mr. Olen. Typical!
I’m actually quite excited about the trip, but obviously I’m trying to look as bored and fed up as everyone else. It’s not cool to like school trips at Saint John’s.
“And try not to get run down, any of you,” Mr. Olen adds. “Getting off the road might help in that regard, Stone.”
“Sorry, sir.” Seth steps onto the footpath.
Annabelle and Nina giggle loudly. Oh, yes. We’ve also had the misfortune of being landed with the pair of them. Mills and Bailey are in another group, but hopefully we’ll catch up with them later. I was looking forward to spending some time with Seth on my own, but he’s in a funny mood today. He’s barely said a word since we left school. I’ve asked him if he is OK, but he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, fine. Just a bit tired.”
“I want you all back in this exact spot at twelve thirty on the dot, get it?” Mr. Olen continues. “And don’t think you can just bunk off and sit in the coffee shop for the next two hours. I want you to team up in twos, and I’ll give each pair a work sheet to fill in. Anyone who does not hand it in later will automatically get detention, understand?”
Everyone groans.
“But, sir, what if we’re, like, not interested in modern art?” Annabelle says, tossing her hair back. “I don’t think we should be forced to look at, like, broken bits of toilets and stuff if we don’t even do art. It’s really unfair. And my parents agree, you know. They think modern art is, like, rubbish.”
“Do they now?” Mr. Olen says. “So visual literacy means nothing in your household, then, no?”
Annabelle looks at him blankly.
He just sighs. “It’s good for you, Annabelle. Think of it as cultural broccoli, OK? And for your information, I’ve seen the exhibition already and there are no broken toilets. But it’s probably best to keep well away from the barbed-wire installation, and don’t jump off the giant bed. I don’t want any accidents.”
“Sounds thrilling.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. For certain teachers she turns on the charm, but Mr. Olen is not one of them. He’s not important enough to bother with, in her opinion.
“Back here at twelve thirty, people, or else,” he says, ignoring her. “And for God’s sake, behave. You’re representing the school, remember? No high jinks and no sneaking off for any reason, either alone or in couples. And that includes you, Annabelle and Hugo.”
Annabelle goes bright red, then scowls at Hugo. “As if I’d go near him.”
“You’d be lucky, babes,” Hugo says. “So over you.”
“No, so over you,” Annabelle snaps back.
“Annabelle, enough, OK?” Mr. Olen says. “We’ve only just arrived and you’re already giving me a headache. Right, everyone, collect your work sheets, please, and follow me.”
Once we’re inside the building, Seth grabs a map. We quickly peel away from the rest of the group and head for the huge white-marble staircase.
“Where first?” I ask him. “Creatures, Fear Factor, or Emotion in Motion?”
“Creatures,” he says firmly. “Thataway.” He starts powering up the stairs and I follow him. His legs are much longer than mine and I struggle to keep up.
“Seth! Slow down.”
“Sorry.” He waits for me on a small landing halfway up to the first floor and sticks out his hand. “Come on, slowpoke.”
I take his hand and he pulls me up the rest of the stairs. At the top we stop to catch our breath. He drops my hand, which is a shame, but then, holding hands on a school trip is probably a bit sad.
The air up here is different. It makes my teeth feel funny, like when you accidentally bite down on tinfoil. It also stinks. “What is that smell?”
“Plaster dust?” Seth suggests.
“No, it’s like chemicals or something.”
Seth shrugs. “No idea. But this building was a hospital, I guess. Could be anything — bleach, antiseptic, formaldehyde . . .”
“Isn’t that what they use to pickle dead bodies? I saw it on the telly once.”
“Yeah, something like that. OK, we’d better start filling this in.” He reads from the first page of the work sheet. “‘Creatures. Question one: How does the Song Room make you feel?’”
“What’s the Song Room?” I ask.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” He glances at the map, then points down a long white corridor. We start walking. To our right is a row of large windows, and to the left, a string of open doorways. You can walk right through some of them into the rooms beyond, but others have a red rope tied across the opening. Inside each room is a different artist’s work — from colorful photos of mad-looking exotic fish to my favorite, a Ferris wheel the size of a bicycle wheel made out of Coke cans, with tiny models of endangered animals sitting in the swinging chairs. We walk into another room and the chemical smell hits us at full blast.
“I guess we’ve got our stink answer.” Seth wrinkles up his nose. “Gross.”
I look around. The back wall of
the room is covered in shelves, and on each shelf are large old-fashioned glass jars topped with glass stoppers with brown rubber seals. I peer into some of the jars and then jump back when I realize what the dark-brown and purplish lumps inside are — hearts of all different shapes and sizes. Some are as tiny as an apple seed, while others are as big as a soccer ball. Below every jar is a sign telling you which animal the heart is from: bird, ape, human, cow, horse, zebra, tiger. After a few seconds the smell starts to make me feel queasy, and I go back out into the corridor. There’s a bench against one of the walls, so I sit on it to wait for Seth, who’s still studying the hearts. They’re interesting, but also quite gruesome.
My mobile beeps as I’m waiting and I click into my text messages, glad for the distraction. AMY ARE YOU AROUND ON SAT AFTERNOON? I CAN GET A BABYSITTER IN IF YOU HAVE PLANS. X MUM
I know she needs a bit of notice to find a babysitter, so I text back immediately: SORRY, MUM, I’M BUSY ON SAT, AMY X
It’s not exactly true, but I hope it will be. Seth and I haven’t hung out on the weekend for ages. OK, it’s probably been only a few weeks, but it seems like forever. He’s just been so busy helping Polly with her photography business. I try not to be jealous — she’s his mum after all — but it’s hard sometimes. And it doesn’t help that Mills is always blathering on about Bailey and how much they do together on the weekends.
“You OK?” Seth asks when he comes out of the room. He sits down so close that our thighs are almost touching.
I nod. “Fine. It was just the smell.”
“It’s pretty bad, all right. But did you check out the gecko heart? It was minuscule.”
“Seth,” I say before I get a chance to chicken out. “What are you doing on Saturday? Maybe we could catch a movie or something?”
“Maybe. I might have to work with Polly, though. I’ll ask her later and get back to you.”
“I could help too. Carry her equipment and stuff.”
“There’s a bit more to it than that. It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think she’ll need two assistants.”
“I could just watch, then, or tag along anyway.” I’m starting to sound desperate. I know I should shut up, but of course I don’t. “I feel like I never see you on the weekends, Seth. You’re always so busy with Polly. And Mills is never around these days, what with Bailey and the cheerleading and everything.”
Seth gives a laugh. “Ah, yes, the cheerleading. Won’t you be busy cheering on Bailey and the other hunky rugby stars on Saturday?”
“Stop teasing me. And, no, there’s no match this weekend, smarty-pants. If you’re busy Saturday, what about Sunday?”
“I said I’ll get back to you, all right? Stop nagging me, Amy.” His voice is sharp.
I wasn’t nagging him. I just want to spend some time with him — what’s so bad about that? It’s not like Seth to be so mean. There’s definitely something up.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “That came out wrong. I’ve just got a lot of stuff on at the moment, yeah? Things will be better in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks is a long time,” I say, knowing as soon as the words are out of my mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say. It’s not all about you, Amy Green. Just stop talking! “It’s fine, honestly,” I add quickly. “I just miss hanging out with you, that’s all.”
He brushes some strands of hair off my face, his fingers cool against my skin. “It won’t always be like this, I promise. Now’s just not a good time.”
I nod. “I know.”
We sit there for a few seconds, staring at each other. His sky-blue eyes are soft, but there’s something hidden behind them. Sadness? Worry? I’m not quite sure.
“Seth, I know there’s something up. Talk to me.”
He just shakes his head. “We should get on with this work sheet.” After studying the map, he starts walking down the corridor. All I can do is follow him.
We end up in the Song Room. It’s larger than the other rooms, at least triple the size, and you enter it through black curtains. Inside, the darkened space is circular like a drum, with a round seating area in the middle. According to the instructions on the wall outside, you’re supposed to sit down, close your eyes, and open them only when the “song” starts.
So that’s exactly what we do. For ages nothing happens — there’s no noise at all and certainly no singing — and I begin to feel a bit silly. Finally, I hear a squeaking noise. I open my eyes.
“Sorry,” Seth whispers, “just my shoes.”
I shut my eyes again. And at last the audio track kicks in. But it’s not like any music I’ve ever heard before. A high-pitched wail fills the room, followed by another. It’s spooky, like something out of a horror film, and yet at the same time strangely familiar.
“Please open your eyes now,” a voice says over the sound system.
When I do, boy, do I get a surprise. The room is filled with flickering blue light and two huge black shapes are moving toward us. It’s just a video projected onto the wall in front of us, but it looks so real. The shapes are almost 3-D. I’m about to squeeze my eyes shut again in fright (I’m a real chicken when it comes to anything scary), when I realize what they are. Two whales. One is smaller than the other, so perhaps it’s a mum with her baby. They’re humpback whales, judging from their long fins and knobbly heads.
No wonder I recognized the noise. I used to have a thing about whales when I was about eight. I made Mum take whale books out of the library for me and watched endless nature programs about them. Whales are really smart animals. There was this humpback whale caught in a fishing net in San Francisco a few years ago. Divers went down to help him. It took hours because they had to cut away all the fibers caught around his fins. When he was free, the whale swam up to each diver in turn, like he was saying thank you.
I watch the screen, transfixed, as the whales swim toward me, making their loud cries. They stop, and each one seems to be looking right at us (well, at the camera, I guess). Their gaze is surprisingly soft and gentle. Then they turn and swim slowly away again. The camera follows them as they power through the water. They don’t breach — flip their bodies out of the water — and nothing dramatic happens, but it’s still spellbinding to watch. I’m disappointed when the film stops playing and all is quiet again. The lights come up and Seth grins at me.
“Whoa, what was all that about? Freaky.”
“I loved it.” I put on my best posh art-critic voice. “The art spoke to me, darling.”
Seth laughs. “Really? What did it say exactly? No, hang on, how did it make you feel?” He takes a pen out of his pocket and holds it over the work sheet. “That’s what Olen wants to know.”
I think for a second. “At first it felt like the whales were watching us, then it was like they were inviting us to join in — to follow them . . . play with them. I suppose I felt like I was a whale. Swimming along with my mum, shooting the breeze. I guess ‘content’ would sum it up, ‘happy,’ even. Why aren’t you writing any of this top-class art analysis down, Stone? Get with the program.” I tap the work sheet.
“You seriously think that horrible noise was happy wailing?”
“Yes,” I say. “Why? What did it sound like to you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Your answer’s better. Care to add anything else, Miss Art Critic?”
“It makes the viewer feel connected to the natural world?”
“Excellent. You’re really good at this stuff.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling rather pleased.
“Even if it is complete rubbish. Whales can’t be happy. They’re stupid sea creatures, not humans.”
“Whales are not stupid, Seth. They have enormous brains. In fact, scientists think that whales and dolphins feel all kinds of emotions, like love and empathy.” I tell him about the whale in San Francisco. “And I didn’t say the whales in the video were happy,” I add finally. “I said watching them and listening to them made me feel happy.”
“Well, bully
for you.”
“Seth! What on earth is wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He rubs the toe of his shoe over the floor, making that irritating noise again.
“Seth, I’m not stupid. I know there’s something up. And I’m not leaving this weird room until you tell me.”
Then I remember. He’s been like this with me before.
“Polly,” I say in a low voice. “She’s sick again, isn’t she?”
Polly had breast cancer last year. She had an operation and lots of treatment, and recently she’s been on a new drugs trial at Dave’s hospital. I thought the cancer had gone away; I thought she was better. But if she isn’t, it’s so unfair. She’s really cool and smart, and she and Seth are mega-close. I mean, I love Mum and everything, but we’re not friends like Seth and Polly are. I guess she’s all the family he’s got, so no wonder they’re close.
“Seth?” I say again, this time in a whisper. I put my hand over his, half expecting him to pull away, but he doesn’t. So I hold it, tight.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Does she need another operation?”
“I don’t know. She got the test results back only last week. They’ve found more bad cells in the glands under her right arm.”
“What does that mean? What are the doctors planning to do?”
“I’m not sure. That’s all she’s said about it.” He gives an unhappy shrug. “Maybe she knows more about what’s going on and isn’t telling me because she’s trying to protect me or something. I just feel so stupid and clueless. I want to help her, but there’s nothing I can do. Polly says Dr. Shine is working on a new treatment plan — she’s got an appointment with her on Friday. But what if . . . ?” He stops, his voice catching.
I squeeze his hand tighter. “Seth, you can’t think that way. Your mum’s really strong, but she’s probably finding all of this just as difficult as you are. I’m sure she’s not keeping things from you. Polly wouldn’t do that. And I think you’d know if she was lying to you.”