Artichoke Hearts (14 page)

‘Nana, some people at school think I shouldn’t see you so much, when you’re dying,’ I say to avoid her piercing look.

‘That’s the wrong kind of protection, Mira. This is a necessary heartbreak.’

‘What do you mean?’

When you’ve loved someone and you have to say goodbye, there’s no avoiding it, but about Miss Fallow . . . tell me, when you do something like that now, a poem or a painting, would
you show it to her again?’

‘I would know the kind of person to show it to. I’d let Pat Print see it . . . I would trust her. It wouldn’t bother me now if Miss Fallow liked it or not.’

‘Aha! You see. You’ve wrapped a little protective layer round your heart, like the leaves of the artichoke charm. Who’s this Pat Print anyway?’

‘A writer. She’s doing these workshops at in my school . . .’

But Nana’s not listening to me any more. Looking at her as she drifts off to sleep, I realize that she thinks I’m so much younger than I am. What she doesn’t realize is that
Miss Fallow and the poem . . . that is so in the past. The truth is right now I don’t know if I want to see my nana slowly fading away like this. Is this . . . a necessary heartbreak?

Still no call from Jidé Jackson.

I am starting to lose faith in Notsurewho Notsurewhat.

Just as I arrived at the hospice today, Nana’s eyes were growing heavy. She told me yesterday that when she nods off it feels like she’s stepping off a mountain and
falling, but it’s not a horrible feeling; she says it’s a bit like floating. I thought of the reed beds and the swaying golden grasses as her head rocked back on to her pillow. I have
been sitting here for nearly an hour just watching Nana sleep.

She’s wearing my favourite orange cheesecloth top. It has sequins round the neck and little ties with bells. Her body is the size of a skinny child. Nana’s arms are more like
Laila’s when she was a newborn, as if they need stuffing with something, to fill the loose skin. I am bigger than my nana now, taller and more solid.

Mum and Krish wander along the corridor to the Family Room to make some tea. I don’t like it in there because you always see someone crying, and when they see you they pretend
they’re making a cup of tea, or getting something out of the fridge, which is always empty, except for Nana’s health food. But there is a television in there, which Krish loves, and
some toys and books, which Laila loves, so you can sort of use it like your own living room. You can even sleep there if you want. People do.

I look at Nana and find myself wondering for the first time in my life what I will have to say to her when she wakes up. I suppose I could ask her about Rwanda and she would definitely know, and
she would definitely have an opinion, and if I told her about him she would want to know everything that I know about Jidé Jackson. I walk over to the window and look out on to the
street.

‘What’s going on in the outside world?’ asks Nana, jolting me back to her. ‘Be my eyes, Mira.’

‘Nothing much . . . There’s a woman walking her dog.’

As she gets closer, I recognize her. It’s Pat Print and Moses. This is starting to freak me out.

‘What’s so interesting?’ asks Nana, propping herself up on her pillow, to get a better view of the street.

‘It’s that writer woman I was telling you about, from school.’

As she walks further down the street, Nana props herself up to get a closer look.

‘That’s Mo.’ Nana points to Moses. ‘Piper and Mo are great pals.’

‘Do you know her then, Nana?’

Nana studies Pat Print’s back for a while as she makes her way up the road.

‘I suppose I might have seen her about the place -she looks vaguely familiar – but it’s a young girl with two or three dogs, who walks Mo.’

So, instead of asking Nana about Rwanda I tell her about Pat Print’s writing class and seeing her in Suffolk, on the beach . . . and what Millie found out about her ancestor actually
having Robert the Something’s heart locked up in a box . . . and Millie’s ancestor being the only one with a key.

‘The guardian of the heart . . . she’s a good friend to have,’ smiles Nana as Pat Print disappears round the corner at the end of the road.

‘It’s a bit weird, don’t you think, Nana? That I keep seeing her, the writer woman?’

‘Perhaps she’s your guardian angel. Or, more likely, me and her, we just walk the same paths!’ Nana says, winking at me.

I wake up to the smell of burning toast and the screech of the smoke alarm. Feeling more tired than I did when I went to bed, I wander downstairs in my pyjamas checking my
phone for . . . nothing.

‘Come on, Mira, stop messing around with that now, you’ll be late for school.’ Mum hurries me along on her morning conveyor belt of making sandwiches, breakfasts and attempting
to get us all out of the door on time. There is no room in this well-rehearsed schedule for me to arrive downstairs in my pyjamas at 8.30 a.m.

‘I don’t feel well, Mum.’

‘Neither do I,’ moans Krish.

‘You’re fine, Krish. You’ve just eaten three rounds of toast. Do you want anything to eat, Mira?’

I hold my belly as if it’s hurting and shake my head, even though my stomach is rumbling loud enough for everyone to hear.

‘Go on then. You’d better go back up to bed. I’ll

Monday 9 May

come and take your temperature when I’ve got Krish off to school.’

‘Why don’t you take it now? Then you’ll see she’s faking.’

I pinch Krish hard on the arm as I pass him on the stairs.

‘Awwwww!’ he yelps. ‘That really hurt.’

‘He’s just faking it, Mum,’ I say, sneering at him.

‘Off to bed with you then.’ Mum whisks me off, tea towel flapping.

The letterbox clanks. I hear Mum telling Millie I’m not going in and the door closing behind her. Now I feel guilty. I think about getting dressed and running into school
after Millie, but it’s too late.

I am bored and hungry and all Mum has given me to eat is dry toast, bread sticks and water. She says that should settle my stomach. Even though Grandad Bimal’s a doctor, she hates people
being ill. Whenever I’m off sick I always remember, too late, that you don’t get much sympathy when you’re ill with Mum. It’s just not worth it. Some people get to sit in
front of the TV all day, being served up drinks and bits and pieces of delicious food. Not with my mum. You have to stay in your room and read or sleep. You’re much better off being ill when
Dad’s around.

I’m lying in bed trying not to think of food and thinking how embarrassing it’s going to be seeing Jidé tomorrow, because he
still
hasn’t
called, and this is the exact moment that a message jumps into my inbox. Just when I’d given up on Notsurewho Notsurewhat.

That’s only ten words, but it takes me the rest of the afternoon of staring at his text to try to work out exactly what it means. I wonder how long it took him to write,
because it takes me about three hours to write this reply . . .

I spend at least fifteen minutes adding and removing the x before I finally press the send button with the x in place.

Suddenly my belly rumbles, demanding to be fed. As soon as I hear Mum and Laila leave to pick up Krish from school, I sneak downstairs and rummage around for something to eat. Before I can hide,
Mum’s back in the room, heading straight for the cupboard I’ve still got my head stuck inside.

‘Forgot a snack for Krish,’ she says, removing the packet of KitKats from my hand. ‘Hungry?’

I nod.

‘Good, then you can go back to school tomorrow.’

And off she goes, slamming the door behind her and bumping Laila’s pram down our front steps. I think Mum’s got a sickness/wellness radar. I bet she knew I was faking it, all along.
As soon as she’s gone, I sprint upstairs at the sound of another message jumping into my inbox.

Just that one word and those two kisses make me want to laugh out loud. By the time Mum comes in I still haven’t managed to wipe the stupid grin off my face.

‘Well,
you
definitely look better,’ smiles Mum.

‘I knew she was faking it,’ mumbles Krish, pushing past me on the stairs.

Run, Mira, run! Faster! I can feel my legs stretched to snapping point, but all the time they are gaining on me, the usual suspects, Demi, Bo and Orla. Around the trees in what
is supposed to be our ‘oh so safe world’ of the Year Seven courtyard, I trip over the loose wood chippings and, as I stumble, they stampede.

Demi grabs hold of my hair and pulls me roughly to the woodland corner of the courtyard.

‘You can stay right here, creep. Don’t you dare move off this spot, even when the bell goes, or we’ll have you,’ Demi whispers in my ear, and walks away laughing.

The bell rings. If only Millie wasn’t at the dentist’s. If she was here, she wouldn’t let them get away with this. But she’s not here, so I do exactly what I’ve
been ordered to do, like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights, and before I know what’s happening the last person in the world I would want to see me like this is standing right in
front of me.

‘What
are
you doing?’ asks Jidé, staring at me as if I’ve gone completely mad. This is so
not
how it was supposed to be, between me and Jidé
today

‘Demi . . . she told me if . . . well . . . she just told me I wasn’t allowed to move,’ I mumble.

Suddenly, I see myself through Jidé’s eyes. I feel like such an idiot. What
am
I doing? All the things he knows about . . . what must have happened to his family . . . what
could have happened to him . . . He must think I’m pathetic.

‘What’s stopping you leaving? There’s no one here, nothing in your way.’ Jidé strikes his hand up and down through the air.

I bet he wonders why he even bothered texting me now.

‘If you stand up to them,’ says Jidé, ‘they’ll stop.’

I have never felt so humiliated in my whole life and, by the time we get to the classroom, I’m wearing the bright red blush of shame on my face, like a beacon of
embarrassment. I hang my head as Miss Poplar launches into her topic on drugs and alcohol. She says that the only drugs you should take are what the doctor gives you, if you’re ill, to make
you better. As I sit there listening to Miss Poplar talk about a subject that I probably know more about than anyone else in this class, because of what Nana’s going through, it feels as if
my blood is literally starting to boil up in me.

‘They don’t always make you better. My Nana Josie’s got cancer and she has drugs to stop her pain, but they won’t make her better.’

It’s my voice I hear saying these words.

Miss Poplar is staring at me. I know it’s because she never expects me to say anything at all in class and the way that came out was all wrong. I mean, I can just about talk like that in
Pat Print’s class, but what was I thinking of? In front of this lot. I might as well have offered them my head on a plate. Whenever I say anything in class, Demi rolls her eyes up, to make me
nervous. It’s always worked until today.