‘You’ve been … very quiet,’ she says, fiddling with a loose strand of grey-black hair round her face. ‘Everything … OK?’
I glare at her. Is she serious? I’ve been quiet for months! Ten, to be exact. We all have. And is anything ‘OK’?
‘You sleeping at night?’ she goes on. ‘You look tired.’
I carry on staring at her. She really is unbelievable sometimes. ‘So do you,’ I say. She has huge dark patches under her eyes. I hear her sometimes, making tea in the kitchen at two in the morning. At least I sleep most nights. ‘It’s not a big deal, Mum.’
Mum frowns and smiles at the same time. Wrinkles crease round her puffy eyes. ‘Oh, jaan,’ she says, and I’m worried she might cry. She does that a lot lately. Well, since everything happened, which is understandable, but even more recently.
She touches my cheek, fingers gently brushing my skin. I smell her perfume, a deep lavender smell, and it’s so awkward, the way she’s just caressing my cheek and staring, that I flinch and push her hand aside.
Which just makes everything even more awkward.
She snatches her hand back. Looks down at the floor. I turn back to Hamlet. I hate these moments that remind us how much easier it used to be to hug and talk. It feels like a lifetime away now, those days when I’d curl up on her bed with hot chocolate and tell her about my day. It’s been years.
I grab the leg of chicken and take a bite out of it to make her happy. ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. I stick a smile on my face because I am actually. I really am. ‘You’re right. I’m tired. I’ll eat then go to bed.’ I give a fake yawn.
Mum nods. Pats my shoulder. ‘OK, my jaan. You eat. And sleep well, huh?’ She gives me a small, polite smile. ‘Goodnight.’
She’s itching to get back to her friends now, I can tell. I put down the chicken leg. ‘Night, Mum.’
As soon as the door clicks shut again, I go back to my dressing table. But this time I don’t look up at my sky-sea. Instead, I pull Akash’s yellow-and-purple cap out of the drawer and put it on before looking in the mirror. Be happy. That’s the last thing my brother ever said to me. My throat goes tight as I remember his words, remember that night, but I quickly gulp down the lump. I’m an expert at that. I’ve become an expert at loads of stuff I never thought I’d be any good at.
I line my eyes with kohl, swap my blue jeans for black and slip on the silky red vest top I’ve borrowed from Fi. Then I shove a couple of towels under my duvet so it looks like I’m asleep. I check that my room’s tidy: books on shelves; easel stowed in corner; my clothes off the floor and hung up to keep Mum happy. Then I remember the food Mum brought me. Crap. I find an old carrier bag in the bottom of my wardrobe and empty the plate into it before tying it up. I’ll take it with me and shove it in the bin outside. I do feel bad, but there’s no way I can eat right now.
OK, everything’s in place. I’m ready. I grab my bag, switch off the lamp and climb out through my bedroom window before pushing it shut. Well, almost shut – I leave a gap so I can open it again later.
It’s almost too easy. Honestly, one of the few advantages of living in a bungalow is how simple it is to sneak out.
The garden smells of curry, drifting from the kitchen. Not exactly what I want to smell like at the party, especially as I’m hoping Josh will be there. I sling my bag over my shoulder and get away as quickly as I can.
As I hurry round the side of the house, I bung the carrier bag of food in the bin and think about the first time I did this. It was two months after Akash disappeared. I was so scared Mum and Dad would catch me that I was shaking. But there was also this fire burning in my chest. Fi and I were already chatting by then, and when she invited me to her birthday party it was perfect. I could finally find out if she knew any more about what happened to Akash.
In the end, it turned out she knew nothing more than I did about the night he disappeared. But she also wanted to know more. So I kept going to her parties, got better at sneaking out, better at drinking, and Fi and I became friends for real. She gets me … like Akash.
I imagine him with me now, my brother. By my side as I make my way up the drive. The bounce in his step. His shiny dark eyes. His black hair gelled sleek and a grin on his face. He was always happy, wasn’t he? And the smell of him: whisky, deodorant, cigarettes and mints, and something deeper, sweeter, that was just him.
My throat tightens and again I gulp down the lump. Take in a deep breath. I smile, like he would. I slip off my shoes and speed up – try bouncing like him. It feels good. Like he’s me and I’m him. I quietly laugh into the still, warm air. Because that’s what he would have done. Everything was an adventure for him. Always.
Moving further from the house, I breathe a little more freely. I wish I could tell Akash – confess that after months of sneaking out myself I finally understand why he did it. Though it is different for me. Poor Akash got so much hassle from Dad. With me, they don’t suspect a thing. I guess I’m lucky they still think I’m the ‘perfect’ daughter I once was – studying, sleeping, not up to much else.
I stop walking for a moment. I almost look back at the house but stop myself.
Do they really think that? And what would they do if they caught me? I wouldn’t be able to go to parties any more. Wouldn’t see Fi, or Josh.
And then I think about the art college I’ve applied to, for after GCSEs: it’s basically the only thing I’ve got going for me. My stomach tightens as I remember how hard it was to persuade Dad to let me apply: months of Mum, Akash and me begging. He finally agreed after Akash disappeared.
A couple of cars speed along the main road, jolting me out of my thoughts. The world spins around me as the worry kicks in: pavement, street lights, houses. What am I doing, standing in the middle of the street? Has anyone seen me? Mum? Dad? Someone they know?
I rush along the main road again, high heels dangling from my hands, head down and eyes focused on the road ahead. I don’t look back. Although looking back is definitely one of the things I’ve become an expert at, this is not one of the times I do it. I don’t let myself.
Music blasts through Fi’s house. I push my way along the crowded hallway, past the family photos of Fi and her parents on the walls, and through the wafts of perfume and aftershave, beer and wine, and smoke that’s strong and sweet. I nod some hellos, but I don’t actually stop until I reach the small rose-pink kitchen at the back of the house. It’s packed, but there’s no one I recognize, so I squeeze through and find a bottle of white wine. I pour some into a plastic cup and down it, before topping it up again and looking around to see who else is here.
I’m looking for Josh, I realize. There’s no sign of him. My stomach tenses: a mixture of excitement and nerves. But I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know if Josh is coming tonight and, even if he is, I have no idea what’s going on with us, other than a bit of flirting. I think. I can’t even be sure of that. We’ve known each other for so long that it could be my imagination.
And anyway, even if we have been flirting, nothing can actually happen. No boyfriends: that’s Mum and Dad’s number one rule. They’d go ballistic.