Emma Smith-Barton was born in South Wales to Pakistani parents. Growing up between cultures has heavily influenced her writing and she is especially interested in exploring themes of identity and belonging. Before writing, she taught in secondary schools for six years and is passionate about increasing awareness of mental health in young people. Her short stories have appeared in various publications such as Mslexia and The Bristol Short Story Prize 2016 anthology (under her pseudonym for adult fiction, Amna Khokher). The Million Pieces of Neena Gill is Emma’s first novel for young adults.
For Oli, for everything
The moon is full and bright, and I try to focus on that, try to distract myself, but it’s not working. Nothing’s working.
We’re standing in the middle of the garden, Akash and me. Bare feet on crisp, dry grass. Akash has brought me out here because Mum and Dad are arguing inside. Their voices are getting louder.
I feel sick. I’m breathing fast, as fast as I can, because there’s not enough air and I need more. My chest is tight. It hurts. My whole body hurts. I try not to cry.
Akash crouches down next to me. ‘Breathe in deep,’ he tells me, his voice low and calm. ‘Like I showed you, yeah? Deep into your belly.’ He presses his hands against his stomach.
I nod. Akash knows all about helping me breathe. He’s fourteen and I’m eleven. We’ve done this before.
I close my eyes, ready to breathe into my belly. But everything – my chest, throat, my whole body – is too tight. Dad’s still shouting, but Mum’s now quiet. Somehow that’s even worse. Pain shoots across my chest, up my arms, my legs. ‘I can’t!’ I tell Akash, my eyes flicking open.
There’s a lump in my throat the size of the moon. The moon has fallen out of the sky and down my throat. That’s impossible, I know, but this is how it feels. The tears I’ve been holding back drip down my cheeks.
Akash buries his hands deep into his jeans pockets, his eyes bright. ‘You can. Try again. And think of somewhere nice this time. Remember?’
I nod. Dry my cheeks. Yes, somewhere nice. A happy place. I keep my eyes open this time; focus on Akash’s wonky smile and straight teeth. I picture the seaside we go to in the summer. See Mum and Dad lying on the beach. I hear waves crashing against rocks. Feel my toes sink into warm sand. Smell salt and doughnuts.
And I breathe. Deep. Into my belly. Eventually, my chest stops hurting. My body feels looser. And, although my chest is still a bit tight, the moon is back in the sky, not in my throat.
‘Do you think they’re … getting a divorce?’ I ask, remembering my best friend, Raheela. She cried for months when her dad left. Even in lessons.
‘Nah. It’s just a disagreement.’ Akash shrugs. ‘It happens.’
‘Really? You’re sure?’
He nods. ‘Don’t worry, OK?’
We sit down on the grass, facing away from the house, looking towards the shed at the back of the garden. Mum and Dad are now quiet. Maybe Akash is right.
‘You’re very wise,’ I tell him, smiling now.
Akash laughs. He drapes his arm round my shoulders and I press my face into his soft, cosy hoody. He smells like he always smells: of deodorant, mints and cigarette smoke. ‘Yeah, full of the wisdom, me! What would you do without me, eh?’
I’m staring at my sky-sea. It’s my favourite painting in the world. I love how Van Gogh makes the inky sky look like it’s water, and the stars and moon have fallen in, making hundreds of golden ripples around them. My brother bought me the framed poster for my birthday. Starry Night, it’s called. The picture’s unbalanced. Unsteady. It’s how the world feels when I worry. It’s how I feel.
But then is it so surprising that I’m worrying a lot lately?
Mum hasn’t left the house for months.
Dad’s impossible to be around since everything happened.
And I don’t know who my friends are any more. Don’t know who I am.
I’m falling into my own sky-sea.
Because my brother disappeared.
It’s been ten months.
And I’m shattering into pieces.
‘Neena?’ Mum knocks on my bedroom door and fumbles with the handle. ‘You still awake?’
I pull my eyes away from the sky-sea poster above my dressing table and quickly slip into the chair at my desk. All my schoolbooks are out ready for this moment, so I just grab a pen and fix a look of concentration on my face. Furrowed brows. Twisty lips. Totally natural, not staged at all.
‘I’m awake,’ I call, burying my head in the books. ‘Come on in.’ I say that last bit under my breath because Mum always barges in after she knocks, like she really doesn’t get the point of knocking. Not that she’d notice the sarcasm, even if she heard me. She doesn’t notice much these days.
‘Ach, still studying!’ she says, coming into the room.
Laughter and chatter drift in with her. Mum and Dad’s friends are over. They’re here almost every evening now. It’s their way of helping, I get that – it’s just a bit much. I wish they’d leave us alone. But it does mean I can sneak away without Mum and Dad paying too much attention. Silver lining and all that. And tonight I’ve got a party to go to. So, double silver lining. They’d never let me go if they actually knew I was going …
I glance at Mum. She’s balancing a tray on her hip. Her long black hair is plaited neatly and pulled to one side, draping over her right shoulder. There’s always this transformation when her friends come over: she washes her hair, changes her clothes and wears lipstick and everything. Today it’s a berry shade.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, still going … Got all this homework to do, so … It is GCSEs …’
Mum sighs in this really exaggerated way, like she’s the one working. ‘You need a break,’ she says. ‘Are you taking breaks?’
‘I’m fine!’ I try not to roll my eyes. The moment I actually take a break, she stresses about me not studying. Dad’s the same. Can’t win. Anyway, if I take a break now, she’ll want me to hang out with their friends. Which is not happening. At least if they think I’m studying, they’ll leave me alone.
‘Hmm … Well, you must be hungry.’ She puts the plate of food she’s carrying down on my desk. Nudges it towards me.
It’s piled high with rice, lamb curry and minty yogurt. A fat leg of tandoori chicken is carefully balanced on top. I don’t get hungry much these days, but cooking’s pretty much all Mum does since she stopped leaving the house. If I say I’m not hungry, she’ll want to know why. And when did I last eat? What exactly did I have? It’s easier to always be hungry. ‘Mmm. Thanks, Mum.’
She grins. She has a smudge of lipstick on her front tooth.
I pretend to read Hamlet, thinking Mum will leave now – usually, she can’t wait to get back to her precious crowd in the kitchen. But she hangs around forever, and all I can think of is when she’s going to leave so I can get ready for Fi’s party. She perches on the edge of my desk and it creaks under her weight. I know it’s mean, but I’m worried it’ll collapse. I look up at her again.