"That's when it hits me. This is what thirteen means: danger, change, the world turned upside-down. And it's scary, because I'm not a butterfly yet. I'm still a caterpillar girl, not big enough to ride the roller coaster. Not ready to be thirteen at all."
"Why would you wish yourself out of your own life, back to here?"
"I's Penkerry! Who wouldn't want to be here?" Red beams, flinging out an arm across the bay.
This is awkward. I see a dishwater sea, wafting the smell of decaying seaweed up my nose. Far-off pebbles dotted with tiny people pretending to sunbathe while rocks poke their backs and the sun fails to shine. The rusty pier. The fairground. The Red Dragon, a dark twist of iron against the sky. She sees heaven.
"Haha, don't you love it!" Red picks up her shoulders and does a little run on the spot, like she just can't keep still. Then she catches my eye. "Well, OK, you don't love it yet. But you will. I guarantee it. And I'd know, right."
"Maybe I'm here to rescue you from yourself. You don't always need a carefully planned itinerary, Blue. That's what really needs to change. Life's no fun without surprises.
Ignore all the maps and timetables and Top Ten lists. Your future will find you. Trust me. If you relax, sit back - it might just walk right up and introduce itself."
"This is what I really want. Not to be thirteen. To bea tiny nuggety peanutty baby kept safe by my mummy and daddy, for ever."
"But that's why I didn't tell you! If you'd known, you wouldn't have gone off on the boat, you'd have stayed behind worrying and fretting - about something you couldn't do anything about. Apparently." She swallows, flipping her hair over her eyes again and staring moodily at the floor. "Knowing the future doesn't mean you can change it, Blue. I thought, maybe... maybe I could drive us down a different road. But there are fixed points: big, unchangeable moments that even a wish can't take back.
Some things are going to happen, whether you want them to or not. Things you're better off not knowing."
"I just hate that. It's all anyone does round here, walk through the day going click dick click, as if life means nothing unless you can show someone else later. It's not real memory. What do they remember, all those tourists? Here's where I took a photograph; here's where I took a photograph; here's where I took a photograph."
His voice is hard and bitter, and I clutch Diana tightly in my hands.
"I do know what you mean," I say, hesitating. I want to agree with him, to make him feel better. "But photographs can be more than memories. They can be art; something beautiful. They can show you the things you didn't see."
"And what's in a picture, it's not only one thing. It depends who's looking."
I'm taking pictures, not memories. But the pictures will remind me, for ever, of how huge and strange and tragic this moment is. I can remember it. I didn't know how important that was.
They'll be sad pictures too, because they're the end of things. But they're going to radiate happy all across my new bedroom wall.