‘What!’ Fi grabs hold of my arm. ‘No! I saw you two on Saturday night. You were soooo happy! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that happy, Neens.’
I look at Fi and I hear Akash’s voice: Be happy. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got no other choice.’
‘You always have a choice,’ Fi says. ‘Isn’t that what Akash would say?’
I stare at her, and I don’t know what to say. Because she’s right. It’s exactly what he’d say. But I’m just not feeling too brave right now.
‘Maybe I can help …’ Fi continues, and she taps her chin with one of her perfectly manicured nails, thinking up a plan. Her red hair glistens in the sun.
I’m suddenly too hot. Too worried. Too full of all the things Akash said and the things I want to do and the things I can’t. My eyes are frantically scanning the bottom of the field again. There’s only one thing I know with absolute certainty: I want to study art. I need to. Akash would want that for me too.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I tell Fi, standing up. ‘I’ll … text you later?’
Fi stares up at me. She looks taken aback.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, turning away. ‘I just … I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait.’
I turn back round.
‘I … I might have a lead,’ Fi says.
‘What?’ I sink down beside her. At the party on Saturday, she told me she had nothing. So is this a new development since the weekend? Or was she hiding it from me? ‘Tell me everything,’ I say.
‘It’s a real long shot. Nothing concrete yet. But … I just thought you should know …’
‘Right. Long shot. I get it.’ My stomach’s bubbling. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but it happens every time, no matter how much I try to stop the excitement, or nerves, or whatever it is. ‘Can you tell me anything?’ I ask, my voice now small.
Fi shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to jinx it. But the moment I know anything, you’ll know … I promise.’
I nod. ‘Right. Yes. Don’t jinx it. That makes sense.’
Fi looks away. ‘Anyway, you better go before you get caught, right?’ she says, an edge to her voice. ‘The teachers will be out on the prowl soon. Go on. Fuck off. Abandon me, why don’t you!’
‘I’m not abandoning you!’ I say, looking towards the school. The dread is taking over again.
She pulls down her glasses. Shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is upset Fi. She’s practically the only friend I’ve got now. But Ms Jones is watching me – that’s what she said this morning – so I can’t risk being caught up here. I give Fi a quick hug and, although my stomach tenses when she doesn’t respond, I make my way back towards the school.
That afternoon, in lessons, I block out all thoughts about clues and possibilities and I stop myself replaying the night it all happened in my head. I also ban daydreams about Josh. Art college, art college, art college: that is my mantra to help me focus. I make so many notes that my fingers ache from gripping the pen so tightly. I stick my hand up to answer question after question. I’m extra polite to the teachers. It actually feels good. ‘You can do this, Neena,’ Ms Jones said to me earlier. And, for the first time since everything happened, I actually believe it. I’ll work hard and get good marks and Dad will let me study art. I’ll have my own life away from Mum and Dad. Away from everything. A fresh start.
Towards the end of last lesson, Josh messages to ask when he can see me. I tell him I’ll see him when the bell goes and we plan to meet round the corner from school, where there’s a small park set away from the houses and the street. I need to get it over and done with. I have to tell him nothing more can happen between us. I feel a surge of anger towards Dad and Mum as I send the message, for all that has happened, and for all the things they won’t let me do. But I block the feelings before they swamp my plan. Art college, I remind myself. Art college.
But, when I see Josh, art college slips out of my head. The plan is not so easy to stick to.
We stand huddled in the shade of an oak tree, far away from the street so that no one can see us together. We are in our own world. Nothing else matters.
‘How was your day?’ he asks. And I can’t remember the last time anyone ever asked me that. But Akash used to. Every day, when we walked home from school.
I don’t know what to say to Josh – there are too many things that I want to tell him. So instead I just nod. ‘And you?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Could’ve been better,’ he says, and then a cheeky smile spreads across his face. His neck and ears go red.
He touches my hand, curls his fingers round mine, and I let him. I can’t help it. And all I want is to kiss him.
Art college, I say to myself.
But I can’t pull away. As much as I want to study art, I want Josh too. When we kissed on Saturday night, something inside me shifted. Everything else, all the crappy stuff that’s happened over the past ten months, went away for a while. We were all that mattered. And I feel that again now.
But no – I can’t sneak out of my window and kiss boys and drink wine any more. Not if I want to study art. Not if I’m ever going to get away from Mum and Dad. Not if I want to have my own life.
Josh leans forward and kisses me, and my body tingles all over. I kiss him back.
Could I maybe, somehow, do this? Could I carry on climbing out of my bedroom window when I’m sure Mum and Dad are asleep? We could meet up here at lunchtimes. I could say I’m studying at the library after school and see Josh instead. Maybe, just maybe, we can make it work.
I lean into Josh, and we kiss again, and I want to stay like this forever.
But then I remember Dad sitting on my bed, and staring up at Akash’s cap. His clenched jaw. That horrible silence.
You’re a mess.
I pull away, breathless from the kiss. Every bit of me wanting to kiss Josh again.
‘My parents …’ I say. ‘I’m sorry but …’
Josh’s face falls. He brushes his hand through his hair and steps back. ‘I thought you said …’
‘I know, I know. I …’ How can I explain how different things were on Saturday? Where do I begin? He crosses his arms. Looks at the ground. Panic swirls in my throat. I’m losing him already.
I can’t. I can’t lose him.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I don’t know … I can’t think straight.’ I step towards him again. Close enough to smell his breath – coffee and apple and minty gum. I feel a bit calmer, but my mind is whirring, trying to figure out what to do.
I don’t want to lose Josh.
Maybe, once Dad trusts me again, I can be with him.
Maybe we just need some time.
‘I really like you,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve just got some things to sort out. Can we maybe … sort of press pause? Can you … wait for me?’ I hold my breath.
‘Wait?’ he says. ‘For … for how long?’
I swallow. ‘I don’t know. A few weeks?’ I say, hopefully. I can’t believe how nervous I am.
His shoulders loosen. He smiles. He takes my hand again. ‘I’ll wait,’ he says. ‘For sure.’
Relief washes over me and we grin at each other. We have one more kiss. OK, more like five. Then I do actually leave. I make my way home, smiling, and with a plan. I’m going to work hard. And I’m going to do some major sucking up to Dad when he gets home from work.
I like the brand-new me. She has more energy than I’ve had in a long time. She’s organized. Crisp. Lighter somehow. I once saw a sticker on the back of a car that said WARRIOR NOT WORRIER, and that is how I feel.
I shut old me out of my bedroom and I sit at my desk. I don’t move until I’ve done all my homework. Then I draw up a revision timetable, highlighting each subject in a different colour until the piece of paper is a luminous rainbow of times and topics. There are just eight weeks until the exams. Eight weeks! Why haven’t I started revising? I bet Raheela’s been revising for months. I reckon everyone in the yea
r except me has started their revision. I don’t quite understand it. I knew I needed to, but it’s like I, well, forgot. Flutters of nerves burst in my chest. But no, I won’t let them overwhelm me. I must focus now.
I stick the timetable to the wall above my desk, take deep breaths and open up my history book. Yes. Look at me! I am a warrior.
I’ll prove myself to everyone: I’ll get good grades; I’ll get on to my art course; and I’ll be able to see Josh again.
The front door opens and closes, and I hear the click-clack of Dad’s work shoes against the wooden floorboards in the hallway. It’s only five o’clock: he’s home early, which hardly ever happens. I have the urge to see him straight away. I want to show him I’m taking his threat seriously. But no. I keep my bum on my seat and read through my history book, highlighting as I go. One whole hour of the Treaty of Versailles and Hitler’s rise to power.
When I finally finish, I stretch my arms and then relax them into a warrior pose. I laugh. I’m pleased with myself. But, even better than that, I feel neater inside.
I scoop up my books to show Dad. I find him in the garden, dressed like he’s at the beach: long beige shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and one of Mum’s straw sunhats. Hilarious. And the barbeque is out, which is totally typical. The slightest hint of sun and out it comes. Mum’s wearing a similar hat, which is also pretty funny on top of her usual tent-like salwar kameez. She’s standing in front of the patio table, staring at all the food: she must have been cooking all day because there’s enough to feed ten families. I guess the whole gang’s coming over today. Or she’s hungrier than usual, but even Mum couldn’t eat all that, I don’t think.
She waddles towards the table, snatches a samosa from a plate and bites into it. She chews fast, as if someone might steal it from her if she breathes, making appreciative noises as if it’s the best thing she’s eaten. Ever. Honestly, Mum and her food. She used to be so fussy, super slim, always eating healthily, but now I reckon she’d eat anything anyone offered her. I can’t help rolling my eyes.
Clutching my books to my chest, I step out into the garden. The air smells of barbeque smoke and flowers, and it’s actually really hot out here. Mum glances at me, smiling, as she reaches for another samosa.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, heading over to Dad. I hover next to the barbeque, waiting for him to look at me, but he keeps poking at the coal with the skewer he usually cooks kebabs on. He’s probably still angry with me, but that’s OK because I’m going to prove myself to him.
I give a little cough to let him know I’m there. ‘I’ve done all my homework already,’ I tell him. ‘Started this evening’s revision too.’ I offer him my books. ‘Want to see?’
I feel a bit weird. Sure, I’m proud of myself for doing all that work, but I also feel like I’m ten years old again, waiting for Dad to tell me I’m a ‘good girl’. I’ve spent the last ten months not worrying about pleasing Mum or Dad, and that was actually much easier. There’s a knot in my stomach that’s getting tighter and tighter as I wait for Dad to acknowledge me.
He finally looks up from the barbeque. His forehead creases into thick folds. Still angry.
‘Not right now,’ he says, showing me his hands, which are black from the coal.
I press the books against my chest again. ‘Maybe later?’ I say hopefully.
He looks at me hard. ‘How was school?’
Oh God. Did Ms Jones call him after all? Did she tell him about my grades dropping? And that I asked her not to tell him? ‘It was good,’ I say, watching Dad’s face carefully. ‘Lots of revision for the exams, but it’s going … well.’
I hold my breath.
Dad nods. ‘Good, good,’ he says.
I breathe again.
‘Leave your books on the dining table. I’ll check them later.’
OK. This is better. This is good. He’ll see how hard I’m working, and he’ll think I’m sorry and trust me again.
‘Do you … need any help?’ I ask.
‘You can help Mum.’
I glance over at Mum, who’s munching on yet another samosa, and I smile at Dad. Should I help her EAT all the samosas?
Dad frowns again. ‘We need plates. Glasses. A couple of jugs of water. Ice.’
As I turn back towards the kitchen, Mum keels over. She grabs on to the edge of the patio table to steady herself and for a second I think she’s going to pull the whole thing down.
We rush over to her. ‘Mum!’
She pushes me out of the way and heads towards the patio door as fast as she can. But it’s not quick enough; she grabs a plant pot from near the door, crouches down and pukes into it. I put my arm round her, even though I absolutely hate sick. I get a waft of it and heave too. I look up at Dad for help.
‘She’s OK,’ he says, bending down to hold her hair back as she’s sick again. ‘She must have eaten too fast.’
I glance at the patio table of food. ‘How many of those samosas did you actually have?’ I ask Mum, laughing.
But, as I look at her, my stomach does this horrible dip thing, a bit like when you’re going down on a roller coaster, but with this sick feeling that I’ve come to know as dread. Mum’s pale. Puffy. Much puffier than usual. It’s in her face, her hands, her feet. And this isn’t the first time this has happened.
‘You were sick last week too, weren’t you?’ I say. ‘How long have you been feeling like this?’
Mum tries to smile. Her hat’s fallen off and I notice how grey her hair is, silver streaking through the black. She must have stopped dyeing it. ‘Just tired,’ she says. And she really does look tired. But I also know that this is more than that. They’re keeping something from me.
Bad thoughts, scary thoughts, tumble into my head. I try to bat them away. I do not want them. WARRIOR NOT WORRIER. That’s the new me. But, like a boomerang, they keep coming back. Mum’s sick. Very sick. Is that why she’s so overweight? Has she got a massive tumour or something? Oh God. Is she dying?
‘You need to go to the doctor’s. I’ll come with you. Or, if it’s really too much to leave the house, the doctor will come here, won’t she?’ I’m breathless now.
Mum and Dad share a look that I can’t quite figure out.
‘We should tell her,’ Mum says and her voice is shaky. My chest hurts.
‘Tell me what?’ I ask, though a part of me doesn’t want to know whatever terrible thing they’re going to say. I want to run away. Hide.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Dad says, helping Mum up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
We sit round the dining table and no one says anything for what feels like ages, but it’s really probably only about sixty seconds. My palms are sweaty. My heart is racing. The kettle boils too loudly, taking up all the spare space in my head.
Dad puts his arm round Mum’s shoulders. She starts crying and that’s it, I can’t take it any more. I look down at my lap. My ears ring.
‘Just tell me,’ I say in a small voice.
Then, weirdly, Mum starts laughing. ‘I really shouldn’t have eaten all those samosas,’ she says.
I look up. Dad smiles. Hang on. Laughing. Smiling. Maybe nobody’s dying after all.
‘We’ve got some news,’ Mum says. She sighs heavily. ‘We’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.’
‘Good news?’ I ask, because it still doesn’t make sense, doesn’t explain why Mum’s been so sick. Has she just been overdoing the fried stuff every week?
‘Yes,’ she says. And I breathe, and breathe, and breathe. But then Mum starts crying again. It’s all very confusing. ‘You tell her,’ she says to Dad.
Dad strokes Mum’s hair. ‘Neena,’ he says, ‘you’re going to have a brother again!’
I feel dizzy. My brother. I’m going to have my brother again?
How? Is he back?
My breath is stuck in my throat, but I force the words out. ‘Akash is here?’
I’ve dreamed of this moment. In my dreams, Akash would be standing in front of the fridge, stuf
fing his face with a cream cake. Or I’d hear the strumming of his guitar while I was painting in my room. Once, I heard him laughing in the garden in a dream, and when I woke up I quickly pulled back my curtains. But he wasn’t there.
I’d have to remind myself that he wasn’t here, and it would be fresh all over again: that sharp ache in my stomach, the huge, gaping emptiness that I fell into again, and again, and again. But now …
‘Is this really happening?’ I ask, breathless now. ‘Where? Where is he?’
But Mum and Dad aren’t smiling any more. They’re staring at me, wide-eyed.
‘No, no,’ Dad says, shaking his head. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
And then it hits me: the sickness; a brother. I look down at Mum’s stomach.
‘Yes, I’m pregnant,’ Mum says, nodding.
And now I’m the one feeling sick.
Mum reaches across the table and grips my hand. ‘A baby brother!’
My head spins. But what about Akash? My big brother. I want him.
Mum’s still speaking. ‘I’m hoping the sickness will calm soon. It should have stopped by now – I’m just over twenty weeks.’
I feel like I’m floating outside my body. Like everything is very distant.
‘We didn’t want to tell you … until we’d had the scan to check things. With my age and everything … But everything looks good.’
I try to focus on Mum’s words. ‘So Akash isn’t here?’ I ask, just to be sure. I have to be very, very sure. Nothing is making much sense and I need to check if my brother is back.
Dad glances at Mum and she reaches into the drawer behind her, pulls something out of there and pushes a small black-and-white photo towards me. It’s a blurry photo of a baby. I can make out a small head, a round body, tiny hands and feet.
‘No Akash,’ Mum says. ‘But this is good news, Neena.’
‘I want Akash,’ I say, and that makes her cry again. Dad rubs his head like he’s got a bad headache.
The front doorbell rings. But none of us move.
‘No one knows yet,’ Mum says, taking the photo back from me. ‘We … we’ll tell them soon. Just not yet …’ She tucks it back into the drawer.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 5
