If Dad tries to stop me now, could I go anyway?
I paint a boy next to her, wearing the same cap.
How would I pay for it?
The cap is yellow and purple. It’s Akash’s cap. It’s my cap now, but it’s still Akash’s, always will be. My chest goes tight. Dad can’t take my art away from me. He just can’t.
I should do breathing exercises to calm myself down. Count to ten. Or picture a nice, peaceful place or something. But instead, as I look down at the red paint, wisps of panic catch in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. What if that guy was wearing Akash’s cap? Could he have taken it and attached the red lion logo himself?
I rush over to my dressing table. I have to check. I have to make sure it’s in my drawer. I breathe a little more freely. The cap is still there. I laugh. Of course it’s here! What is wrong with me? Why would I think that guy had stolen it? Why would he anyway? It doesn’t make sense. Nothing I’m thinking right now makes sense.
I press my face into Akash’s cap. I breathe him in, my brother. It stinks of cigarette smoke, even now, almost a year later. It’s the most disgusting, beautiful smell, and it makes my throat hurt.
Akash wanted to go to art college too, but Dad never let him. And now Dad wants to stop me. But I have to go. For me – and Akash.
I put on the cap. Be happy. That’s what Akash said to me. I need to find a way to keep Dad happy, and make myself happy too.
‘To be, or not to be, THAT is the question …’ Miss Taylor’s head of frizzy brown hair appears from behind her copy of Hamlet. She peers around at the class dramatically. We’re silent. Still. The way she demands her lessons are. But then her eyes meet mine and I see that flicker of pity I’m so used to getting from the teachers. I fidget in my seat and she quickly lowers her eyes, carries on reading. ‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune …’ She glances up at me again and this time she gives me this pathetic little sympathy smile.
Urgh. I wish she’d stop.
I don’t want to think about being or not being, or how much I’ve got in common with Hamlet, and she’s not exactly helping. I sneak my phone out of my bag to check if I’ve got any messages from Josh. I have! It was sent ten minutes ago and it says:
Thinking of you x
My heart beats far too fast. He’s thinking of me in lessons. Then my stomach does a nervous dip as I think about Dad and his threat. But how would Dad find out about this? I have to reply.
What exactly are you thinking?
I imagine kissing him again and the thought quickly escalates: we are in my bedroom, on my bed, lying down and kissing and …
What’s wrong with me?
I force myself to look back up at Miss Taylor. Push the image out of my head. As if Josh would ever be in my bedroom anyway! That would be far too risky.
Talking about risks … I push my phone back into my bag before Miss Taylor catches me. She once caught Sophia messaging her mum in the middle of a lesson and took her phone from her to read the messages out to the class. Sophia had been asking her mum to pick up sanitary towels and her mum had wanted to know if she needed ‘normal’ or ‘heavy’ flow. Miss Taylor looked so smug as Sophia groaned and hid behind her hands. Teachers, huh?
And now Miss Taylor is going on and on, explaining what Hamlet meant when he said this, and that, and … yawn.
I glance across the classroom at Raheela. Her mouth is slightly open with concentration as her hand glides across the page, making notes. Her hijab frames her round face neatly, and her cheeks glow, as if under her smooth brown skin there’s another layer of sunshine yellow. She’s so neat and perfect. Still, I do kind of wish she was sitting next to me right now. And I wish I could tell her about Dad threatening to take art college away from me. But then she’d probably be on his side, tell me that I shouldn’t be drinking, or sneaking out, that I’m not acting like myself, which isn’t exactly the point. She would write me a funny note about Miss Taylor’s hair though, which has a life of its own, and we’d giggle silently behind our textbooks.
I guess we were pretty childish together really. I miss that.
Her hand stops moving and she looks at me. She gives me a cold, hard stare. I roll my eyes and look away. I feel kind of bad, for everything, for stopping hanging out with her and for all the horrible things I said. But then she’s the one who stopped talking to me altogether. She moved seats. She stopped coming to the house with her mum. She stopped messaging me. So I guess it’ll just take time to get used to. We’ve been – sorry, we were – friends for, like, ever. Our mums met when we started nursery and Raheela’s mum began looking after me while Mum worked. We were like sisters really. Called each other’s mums ‘Aunty’. But whatever.
Miss Taylor claps her hands, snapping me out of my thoughts. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘enough of me talking – we’re going to do a timed essay question.’ There are a couple of groans around the class, but she quickly silences them with a glare before turning to write on the whiteboard.
I’m copying down the essay question when Miss Taylor comes and sits next to me. She leans in close enough that I can smell the vanilla perfume on her cream silk blouse and see the tiny lines around her eyes. She has a small brown mole on her right cheek, which has a couple of hairs coming out of it.
‘Ms Jones would like to see you this morning, Neena,’ she says. ‘Now’s a good time; you can finish this at home.’ She smiles, but it’s a tight smile, and my stomach goes hard. I want to ask her what it’s about, but she stands and walks away before I get a chance. You only have to see Ms Jones if you’re in trouble. The last time I was in her office, I was in Year Seven and we all got called in for doing the Mexican wave every time our maths supply teacher turned his back.
I force myself to get up. A feeling of dread swishes around in my stomach. As I walk past Raheela’s desk, she glances up at me. I ignore her. The last thing I need is another disapproving stare from her. Why is everyone always so judgemental?
Ms Jones’s office is down a narrow corridor with a rough red carpet. I have a worrying thought as I walk towards her room: Has Dad told her about me drinking alcohol? Am I now in trouble for being underage? I feel a bit sick as I stare at the gold plaque that says: MS E. L. JONES, ASSISTANT HEAD TEACHER. But then I push the thought away. No, no, he wouldn’t do that. I’m being paranoid. Aren’t I?
Either way, standing here worrying about it isn’t exactly helping. I breathe in deeply and knock on the door. It’s quiet and for a moment I think I’ve managed to escape, for now at least, but then there’s an irritated: ‘Yes? Come in.’
The tiny office smells of strong coffee and toast and there are books absolutely everywhere, not just packed on the bookshelves, but towering up from the floor and piled on the desk that Ms Jones is sitting at by the window. She’s deep in concentration, staring at a textbook. She looks like she forgot to brush her hair this morning and her thick eyebrows are furrowed so that they join in the centre like a long, furry caterpillar.
‘Just a minute,’ she says without looking up.
‘Yes, miss,’ I say quietly.
I seem to be standing there forever. To distract myself from worrying, I imagine plucking her eyebrows. One, two, three – who am I kidding? – one hundred plucks, until we can see more of her eyes and forehead. It’s a satisfying thought, her wincing the way she makes kids wince if they’re even slightly disruptive in assembly. But also the idea that afterwards she might actually look human, instead of like an angry owl.
She finally raises her head and stares at me blankly.
‘You wanted to see me?’ I say, and I try a smile that I hope is totally charming and doesn’t look like I’m sucking up.
‘Oh! Neena.’ She slams her book shut. ‘Yes, yes, please sit.’
I perch on the edge of the cracked leather chair opposite her. She leans back and takes off her glasses. Her eyes are grey, matching her shirt, and she looks kinder without glasses, even with
her humongous monobrow.
Pluck, pluck, pluck.
‘How have you been, Neena?’ she asks. ‘I just wanted to … check in.’
Oh! I relax a bit. It’s one of those talks. They seem to come every couple of months, though usually my art teacher, Mr Butler, does them. He sort of took me under his wing when everything happened and he really seems to care. Fi’s super cynical about him though and says it’s just so they can tick off some criteria to continue being considered a good school.
‘Oh yes, I’m …’ I pause. I never really know what to say when people ask me how I am. Some days I’d like to say: Pretty shit. I mean, my brother disappeared – how do you think I am? But I’m sure that would get me into all sorts of trouble. Or, worse, they’ll look at me like Miss Taylor did earlier: Poor girl. But I also need to be careful not to go overboard and say I’m ‘great’ or ‘good’: they won’t believe that.
‘I’m … well, you know, I’m OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you for asking.’
I expect her to go on, asking how everything is at home, and if there’s anything I want to talk about (there never is) and if they can do anything to help me (they never can). But instead she says: ‘Your dad called me this morning.’
I hold my breath. Oh God. She knows about the drinking. Are they going to tell the police? Can I get into serious trouble? Surely not. I mean, practically every teenager I know has drunk alcohol by now. Maybe not Raheela, but most other people, I reckon. I focus on Ms Jones’s eyebrows as a lump swells in my throat.
‘He wants to know how you’re doing in your lessons,’ she continues. ‘I told him I’d check – and that’s why I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Oh!’ I breathe again. ‘I see.’ Of course. This is typical of Dad. He’s checked up on me in the past, in the days before I started taking my antidepressants and wasn’t keeping on top of schoolwork. I really should have guessed.
She nods. ‘Yes. Hmm. So I followed up and spoke to some of your teachers this morning …’ She looks down at her desk and frowns, searching for something. Her face relaxes as she reaches for a piece of paper and her eyes glide over it before she looks back up at me. ‘Are you having difficulty concentrating in lessons, Neena?’
I fidget in my seat. ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Sometimes.’ Then I shrug. It’s hardly surprising, given everything, is it?
The furry caterpillar on her forehead wiggles up and down. ‘It’s been a hard year,’ she says.
‘Ten months,’ I say.
‘Hmm?’
‘It’s been ten months.’ Not that I’m counting or anything.
‘Yes. Right. Well …’ She pushes the piece of paper towards me across the desk, dodging a pile of books that look like they’ll tumble down if they’re touched. There’s a column listing the subjects I’m studying for GCSE on the left, and then loads of marks and months beside them with arrows pointing up and down. There are so many numbers that it’s hard to focus and I zone out. I look back up at her face.
‘So,’ she says, ‘what I’ve noticed is that after the initial dip in your marks when you came back to school last June – absolutely understandable – you improved in September and kept more or less steady until January. But over the past few months your marks have dipped again. Is there anything we should know about?’
I stare at her and try not to roll my eyes. OK, so I might not be the most focused person in the world right now, but I try. I definitely try. It’s just that everything feels a bit pointless most of the time. But that’s got to be normal, right?
‘Mr Butler is especially concerned too …’ she continues. ‘About your art projects?’
I frown. Mr Butler knows how hard I’ve worked in art to improve my marks. It’s OK to have an off day, isn’t it? Mostly, I’m doing so much better in art.
‘So is there anything you’d like to share, Neena?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll … I’ll try harder.’
She seems deep in thought. ‘Hmm. OK. So what I’ve decided is that we’re going to watch you from now until the exams. Nothing formal, but with the exams so close we don’t want … I mean, we want to support you the best we can.’
Great. More watching. It’s like Neighbourhood Watch but Neena-Watch instead. The whole world might as well join in. ‘Yes, miss.’
She smiles at me. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Neena. You’re a top-grade student! And so I’m sure – certain – you’ll do brilliantly in the exams. But, if you can report back to me at the end of every week, that’d be great. And I’ll call your dad and fill him in on the … the hiccup … that we’re going to fix.’ She smiles again. A fake smile. All lips and no eyes.
‘Wait. What? No.’ I’m shaking my head like crazy. She can’t tell Dad about the marks. Especially not after everything that happened over the weekend. He’ll go ballistic. There’s no way he’ll let me go to art college – it’s like he’s just looking for one more reason.
Ms Jones’s head tilts so that she’s practically resting her head on her own shoulder. Like a proper owl. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she says.
‘About the … the dips in my marks. Do you have to tell my dad?’
She straightens her head. ‘I can’t lie to him, Neena.’
‘No, no, of course not. I’m just …’ I know I need to say something that will convince her and I desperately search for the right phrase. ‘I’m not asking you to lie,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just … it’s Dad … He’s not doing so great himself lately.’
I’ve definitely got her attention now. She’s looking at me really closely. I used to think that teachers had this built-in bullshit detector until I saw the amount of stuff Fi gets away with. I keep my eyes fixed on Ms Jones’s. I don’t blink and I definitely don’t look away – a sure sign of a liar. Fi taught me that.
‘Please, just give me a week or two,’ I say. ‘Let me prove myself. I’m … not sure he can … you know … take much more.’ The tears come gushing out now. I’m not exactly sure where they come from, if they’re real or fake or what. I’m not usually much of a crier. But they’re genius, even if I do say so myself.
The crying puts her into quite a frenzy. She pushes tissues into my hand and pats my arm across the table. ‘There, there,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Let me see what I can do.’
The tears continue rolling down my cheeks.
Ms Jones looks a bit nervous. She bites the corner of her lip. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she says, ‘let’s give it a week and see how it goes. But then I will need to call your dad with an update – and hopefully it will be a positive one. How does that sound?’
I take a deep breath and nod. ‘Thank you.’ I actually want to hug her, but that would be a step too far, I reckon.
‘You can do this, Neena,’ she says. And that makes me cry a bit more.
‘I won’t let you down,’ I say, and I mean it.
I’m going to work hard. And not just to get Dad off my back, but to get away from home. That’s always been the plan – studying art is all I’ve dreamed of for years. It’s weird, but it’s like a wake-up call, as cheesy as that sounds: I suddenly can’t understand why I haven’t been working harder already. It’s like I’ve been sleeping. Or sleepwalking. Or something.
I wipe my eyes and stand up. ‘Thank you,’ I say again. And then I get out of there, fast, before she changes her mind.
‘Holy shit!’ Fi says, when I fill her in on Dad catching me on Saturday night. ‘Does he know about Josh?’
It’s lunchtime and we’re at the top of the field behind the school, leaning against the bike shed. It’s much hotter than it was this morning and the air smells of freshly mown grass and smoke from Fi’s cigarette. Although I’ve only been up here a few minutes, I’m getting twitchy about being caught. For months, it hasn’t bothered me. Now it’s all I can think about. And the smell of the cigarette is bothering me too. I don’t want to stink of it and get into even more trouble.
‘God, no, can you imagine!’ I r
eply. I keep my eyes focused on the bottom of the field, in case any teachers come checking. No one ever does until the second half of lunchtime, I guess because they’re busy having their lunch and gossiping in the staffroom. By that time, me, Fi and any others up here are usually at the chippy. But today I can’t take any risks. There’s no way I’m going to the chip shop; I’m not even sure what I’m doing up here, but it was either that or face Josh. And, with everything that happened with Ms Jones this morning, I’m really not sure what to do about Josh … I can’t risk being seen with him and Dad finding out, but I’m also not ready to tell Josh that yet.
‘But he knows I was drinking,’ I explain. ‘And now he’s checking up on me and I’m on some sort of informal report with Ms Jones. Apparently, my marks aren’t good enough. I have to check in with her at the end of every week.’
‘Shit,’ Fi says. ‘That sucks.’
‘Yep.’ I glance back at her. I don’t tell her about begging Ms Jones not to tell Dad. I definitely don’t tell her about the crying.
She pushes her designer sunglasses up on to her head. ‘God, Neens. You … want a cigarette?’ She lights another for herself and offers me one. ‘You seem totally stressed.’
I glare at her. ‘This is serious, Fi.’
‘I know, I know … I’m sorry. And seriously, if you ever need a place to stay, to just get away from everything …’
‘Thanks, Fi.’
‘Anyway, I say stick two fingers up at them all.’ She waves two fingers in the air in the direction of the school.
I pull down her arm. ‘Please don’t do that. What if they see you?’
She stares at me, shocked. ‘Are you really going to let them stop you living your life?’
‘I … I don’t know what to do! If I don’t get good marks, Ms Jones will tell my dad and he’s going to stop me going to art college.’ I take a sharp breath in as the reality of everything hits me. ‘No more parties for me,’ I say, deciding this is it: I need to make some changes. ‘And I’ll have to end things with Josh too. It’s just too risky.’
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 4
