Artichoke Hearts (8 page)

It’s swimming today but I’m missing it, because we’re going on this ‘adventure’, as Nana calls it. To be honest I wouldn’t have minded going
swimming today because my period is over. I thought it would go on for longer than this, but when I looked it up in this book called
Questions You Might
Not
Want To Ask Your Parents
that Mum ‘just happens’ to have had lying around the bathroom for ages, it said that it was quite common for your first period to be really light. It hasn’t actually been that
bad, except for the appearance of the period pustule, and even that has shrunk to half its size overnight. You could almost call it a normal-sized spot today. So, if it wasn’t for going away
with Nana Josie, I would have gone swimming today. I like swimming in a pool, but I love swimming in the sea best, when the waves come crashing over you!

We started swimming lessons in Year Six and I remember thinking that it seemed a bit late because the chances are, if any of us were going to drown, we probably would have done it before we were
ten, so I always just assumed that everyone could swim anyway . . . but then there was Orla, who had never once in all her life been taken to a swimming pool. It’s not
that
unusual
according to the not very subtle swimming teacher who shouted across the pool to her: ‘Don’t worry, dear. There’s usually at least one “non-swimmer” in every
class.’ I think she was trying to make Orla feel better.

Now we’re in Year Seven, while the rest of us mess around in the big pool, Orla is still in what she calls the ‘Pee Pool’ with the mums and babies and the beginners. Mostly,
though, she pretends she’s ‘got stomach ache’. The last time we went swimming one of the teachers said, ‘You can’t have tummy ache
every
week,’ and Orla
looked at the woman and said in a really loud voice, ‘Actually, I’ve got my
period,
miss!’

As if you would actually say that!

So, for all the swimming humiliations that Orla has suffered she has come up with a strategy for revenge. Orla and her ‘glamorous assistants’, as she calls Demi and Bo, have devised
a competition about who’s got the best (and worst) body. It works like this. There are three judges, Orla, Demi and Bo. They hand out marks out of ten for each bit of your body. When it comes
to judging, Orla is definitely the most scathing. She will literally dissect you, limb from limb. You could have a score of six for your legs and four for your tummy and three for your arms. If
you’ve got boobs growing, you get a low mark from Orla, because that’s just embarrassing. She grades the boys too. Ben Gbemi always gets ten out of ten because he’s been working
on getting a ‘six-pack’. Jidé usually comes in second place. If you asked me anything, I would switch it the other way round.

Orla never gives any of the girls a ten, because she thinks
she’s
got the best body. Orla is definitely the thinnest girl in our class. You can see her hip bones and ribs sticking
through her swimming costume. If you’ve got any fat on you at all, you get a low grade in Orla’s scoring system. I only get four out of ten because I’m a bit rounded. Millie gets
a really good body score except that Demi always makes a point of saying something horrible like ‘shame about the four eyes’. But Millie doesn’t care what they say; neither do
I.

Nana has a brilliant rant about what a load of rubbish it all is, people worrying so much about how thin they can get. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to worry about? What a bore
to be so weight-obsessed!’ The other day when I was sitting with her and she saw me looking at how thin she is now, she said, ‘To think, some people actually aspire to being a size
nought.’ She kept stroking my cheek over and over.

‘Don’t you ever get into all that dieting crap. It’s the quality of your skin, its plumpness, that makes me want to paint you over and over. You’re a beauty, Mira
Levenson.’

I get really embarrassed when Nana talks like that, but I know she really means it, and the truth is that most of the time I don’t think too much about what I look like and I would hate to
be bony like Orla. I just am how I am.

Yesterday, Mum had a word with Miss Poplar and she’s given permission for me to take the next couple of days off as ‘compassionate leave’. Nana Josie wants us
all to go to her cottage in Suffolk. I think she sees it as a kind of a family pilgrimage. I actually woke up early this morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep, thinking about Jidé
and Pat Print’s writing group.

Clank, clank, clank.
Last night I got my keys ready so I wouldn’t be so hassled.

‘We’re late. It’s already quarter to eight,’ Millie says, peering through the letterbox and snapping it closed as I unlock the door.

‘I’m ready, Millie.’

‘I’d be ready too, if I were you, only coming in for the best bit of the day!’

She runs, flat out, to school. I trail way behind her, because when I got up this morning I made one of my ‘don’t ask me why I do it’ pacts with Notsurewho Notsurewhat, that if
I trod on a single crack in the pavement, along the walkway to school, our car would break down on the way to Suffolk. Which is not a great pact to make when the probability is pretty high that our
car will break down, as it’s so decrepit. Why did I do that? If it does break down with Nana in it, it’ll be really awful, and now, for no reason at all, except for having the stupid
thought, I’m going to feel like I made it happen. Not only that, but it also means I look like a lunatic weaving around all over the place, when I could be walking in a straight line.

‘For God’s sake, Mira, what on earth are you doing?’ Millie shouts as I pick my way, like someone demented, between the cracks in the pavement.

By the time we get into the ‘safe haven’ of our Year Seven block that Miss Poplar has tried to make all cosy so as not to shock us because our new secondary is one of the biggest
schools in London, Ben and Jidé are already talking to Pat Print and fussing over her sheepdog. But when Millie and I come in the dog spirals round, practically knocking us over with its
frantically wagging tail.

‘Moses, behave yourself, my boy. You’re so excitable anyone would think you’re still a puppy,’ she laughs, dragging him by the collar back to her side. Pat Print either
doesn’t care, like Nana, or she just doesn’t know that dogs aren’t allowed in school. I love the way she talks to him, as if he can understand exactly what she’s saying.

‘Why did you call him Moses?’ I ask, and as soon as I speak Ben elbows Jidé in the side. Jidé elbows him back as if to shut him up. Of course, I can’t look him in
the eye but what I do notice is that Jidé has gelled up his hair at the front, he’s not wearing his tie and his shirt is all hanging out. I blush again, even though there is no way on
earth that Jidé Jackson can know how much I’ve been thinking about him, even dreaming about him . . . One day someone will make a fortune inventing an anti-blushing device. Whenever
you feel one coming on you could just press a button and stop it in its tracks.

‘You’ll have to read my book if you want to find that out. I collect strays!’ Pat says, smiling at me.

It’s weird how that happens. Before last week I had never heard of anyone actually being called Moses, apart from Moses in the Bible, and now within one week I’ve met Eco-Endings
Moses and sheepdog Moses.

‘So what have you all found out about your names?’ Pat asks. That’s when I remember what we were supposed to do. She looks around the room, letting her eyes rest on
Jidé.

‘My full name is BabaJidé. It’s an African name . . . it means “father has returned”, that’s what Jai, my dad, told me anyway. He said Grace liked the
“Baba” bit when I was a baby, but when I started to grow up they dropped “Baba” and just called me Jidé and Mum says it goes well with Dad’s name . . .
Jai.’

I think it sounds really weird calling your mum and dad by their first names, especially when your mum’s a teacher at school . . . she’s Ms Jackson to everyone else.

‘Interesting, isn’t it, how some names are better for babies and others feel too grown up to call an infant,’ Pat Print comments.

Jidé doesn’t reply. He seems lost in his own thoughts so Pat Print turns her attention on Ben. He’s funny because he just launches into things; he often makes me jump. I peer
over his shoulder at his notebook. Ben always does as little work as he can get away with. He’s got about three notes written down, that’s all, but he tells Pat Print this whole epic
story of his name, hardly even glancing at his book. He seems to have no nerves at all.

‘Well, my mum and dad couldn’t decide what to call me. They couldn’t even agree on any names they both liked before I was born. My mum’s Irish and my dad’s Nigerian
. . . that’s where my surname “Gbemi” comes from . . . Nigeria. Dad told me that “Gbemi” means “favoured one”. A long time ago the name used to be
“Fagbemi”, which means something like “favoured by the Oracle”, but somewhere along the line we dropped the “Fa” bit. My mum thought I should have an Irish first
name but Dad wanted a Nigerian one, and even after I was born they still couldn’t agree. So Mum says she just lay in the hospital bed thinking about what to call me. Then one day she looked
up at Big Ben, because Mum was in the hospital just opposite, and she thought, That’s it. The answer had been staring her in the face and blasting her ears, all that time. That’s why
she called me Ben, and Dad said it sounded good with Gbemi. So that’s it, that’s why I’m called Ben Gbemi.’

Ben definitely speaks as though he’s projecting his voice across London. He’s tall too, probably the tallest boy in Year Seven.

Pat has been smiling all the way through Ben’s explanation.

‘Big Ben! I’m predicting a bold career in broadcasting for you!’

‘What’s broadcasting?’ asks Ben.

‘I’m thinking . . . you could be a presenter, no, maybe more daring . . . a journalist reporting while battling against the elements, earthquakes or storms, or even in a war zone . .
. surviving against all odds and still bringing us the news.’ Pat Print is obviously enjoying herself making up a story for Ben’s life.

Jidé laughs and slaps Ben across the back.

You can’t help but smile, because you can just see Ben Gbemi in a job like that.

‘Which comes first – the name or the personality?’ asks Pat Print. It’s one of those questions she’s not expecting us to answer.

Ben looks down at his feet and tries hard not to show he’s smiling underneath his copper glinting curls.

‘Now who’s next?’ Pat’s sharp eyes settle on me. ‘Mira?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Print, I didn’t do the name bit. I wrote the diary though.’ There it is again, that thin little voice of mine.

‘OK! I’ll hear that later. Call me Pat, please. Now Millie, what have you got for me?’

Millie needs no encouragement.

‘My ancestors are Scottish and, further back, originally from France, dating right back to 1066. Dad’s told me all about it, but it’s a bit complicated. Apparently, one of my
ancestors had Robert the Crusader or Marauder’s heart locked up in a box.’

‘Which was it? A crusader or a marauder?’ Pat Print asks, looking amused.

‘What’s the difference?’ asks Ben.

‘Good question.’ Pat laughs. ‘Sorry, Millie, I interrupted your flow.’

‘Well, my ancestor’s job was to keep Robert the Something’s heart locked up in a box. That’s why I’m called “Lockhart”.’

‘Why would he have to keep the heart locked up?’ butts in Jidé, forgetting again his own rule that he’s not supposed to be this interested.

Millie sighs, fed up with being interrupted.

‘Fascinating, Millie.’ Pat smiles. ‘It’s a great name, “Lockhart” – beautifully iconic. The heart is the subject of so many wonderful stories. I bet if I
asked you, you could all write a different story about love. Now you’ve given me an idea.’

Ben and Jidé groan at the same time . . . back to their double act again.

‘Write down as many words as come to mind when I say the word “heart”. Just make a list. I’m giving you fifteen seconds so don’t think about it too hard, just
scribble down whatever springs to mind . . . starting NOW! The word is “heart”.’

That’s all I write in fifteen seconds.

‘Now STOP! Exchange papers and have a read of each other’s,’ orders Pat.

I was going to swap with Millie, like I always do, but before I can, Jidé Jackson has swapped papers with me. In fact, he’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with me, and just that
closeness makes me turn my most impressive crimson colour. At least I can keep head down while I read his list.

‘Now see what words you have in common and choose one word from the list that you would like to ask your partner about,’ Pat instructs us.

I look sideways at Jidé and for a second I do what I can never usually do . . . look him in the eye. Jidé makes a tiny movement with his head that tells me not to ask him anything
about his words, so we talk about black pudding and pig’s blood and how my Nana Kath’s friend tricked me into eating it by telling me it was a vegetable.

‘And you believed her!’ Jidé laughs.

Then he asks me about the artichoke, so I tell him about Nana Josie’s artichoke-heart charm and what she told me about it, and all the time I’m talking I’m thinking of what
his
story might be behind those words.

‘Let’s have a couple of examples then,’ calls out Pat Print as Jidé and I go back to avoiding eye contact with each other and her. For a moment I forgot we were even in
class. Now that I’ve actually looked into them, I realize that Jidé’s eyes have a hazel light in them.

It takes me a while to get my head back into the room, and by the time I do Millie’s reading out the word ‘transplant’, from Ben’s list, because what he didn’t tell
us earlier is that he was one of the youngest babies in Britain ever to have a heart transplant. It’s hard to believe that Ben Gbemi could have ever been small and weak.