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.’