And the days rush past. I try to grasp hold of the hours. I attempt to study, the urgency of exams on everyone’s lips around me, but it’s hard to concentrate in lessons. I tell Fi and one breaktime she gives me her old GCSE books and hugs me tight. Tells me it’ll be OK. I feel lifted for a few minutes. Like when I see Josh. But they’re slippery feelings I can’t hold on to.
At home, I sit at my desk and stare at Fi’s books. She messages me to check if I’m still grounded and if I’m studying. I try. I try and try. But my eyes glide over words, numbers, equations, and nothing goes in.
Mum and Dad’s friends don’t come over in the evenings any more. Dad spends more and more time out. Mum tries to feed me, cooking plates of rice and lamb curry, spicy chicken legs, daal decorated with fresh coriander so green it hurts my eyes. She gives me roti after roti. And so many almonds, blanched white. Good for the brain, she keeps telling me, pushing them into my palm like a secret jewel. But I’m never hungry. I hide the food in tissues and carrier bags and drop it into the bin when she’s not looking. ‘Are you taking your meds?’ she keeps asking. I nod. I always nod. And I make sure I bury a tablet in the kitchen bin every night in case she checks.
My thoughts swirl round and round in my mind like a whirlpool. There’s no break from them. They seem to be living, breathing things. They demand my attention, pulling me away from whatever I’m doing. They don’t stop until I give in to them.
They tell me, PAINT, PAINT, when I should be revising chemistry. And I walk over to my easel and splash paint at the canvas.
They tell me, LOOK FOR AKASH, when I’m walking home from school. And so my eyes peer into cars, stare at the faces of people walking past.
Because he’s been in my room, finishing my paintings. So he could be anywhere. Anywhere.
I live for lunchtimes, when I meet Josh under the willow tree. There everything slows down for a while and the feeling that I’m racing against myself fades. He’s the only thing that makes sense any more, in this seriously messed-up world of mine where my brother disappeared and took me with him.
But with Josh, for a while, I find myself again. His kisses are soft and his breath is warm and he listens as I tell him all about my memories of Akash.
‘Here one day, gone the next,’ he says sadly. ‘You don’t really know what happened.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. And I kiss him again.
It’s Thursday, and we’re three-quarters of the way through the last lesson of the day, which is maths. The class is quiet, copying equations from the board, when someone knocks on the door. A small girl with mousy brown hair to her waist creeps in and hands a note to Mr Baker. He looks across at me and scratches his white beard. ‘Neena, pack up your things,’ he says. ‘You’re wanted.’
I glance at Raheela and for some reason she smiles at me. She usually looks away whenever she sees me and she hasn’t spoken to me since she messaged to say Dad was at her house. I ignore her, collect my things and make my way to the front of the classroom. Mr Baker passes me the scrap of paper. It says:
PLEASE SEND NEENA GILL TO ROOM 21A IMMEDIATELY. SHE WILL BE REQUIRED FOR THE WHOLE OF THE LESSON.
It doesn’t say who it’s from or why I’m ‘required’. And, as I walk down the corridor towards the history building, I have a sinking feeling inside. I hover outside room 21A, staring at the chipped blue door.
I tell myself to stop being silly. It could be about anything – it doesn’t have to be bad news. I gulp in some air and push open the door.
As I step inside, I see that there’s some sort of meeting going on. The tables have been arranged into a square in the middle of the room. Mr Butler and his bright orange tie-dye jumper smile at me. But it’s a sad and serious smile. Ms Jones is sat at the table next to him, but her grey eyes aren’t shining at me like they usually do. And next to Ms Jones is Miss Taylor, her hair as frizzy as ever, but even she seems oddly still, her arms folded tight. And then I see Mum, her eyes full of worry, her hands resting on her stomach.
She’s out of the house! What’s she doing here? Oh God. This must be bad.
Dad’s next to her, wearing his work suit, frowning. Which just confirms my suspicions.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. My voice quivers. I try to calm my thoughts: maybe it’s not such a big deal. Maybe Mum really is OK, like she’s been claiming. It seems the baby has cured her phobia. This could just be … a friendly visit?
Who am I kidding?
Mr Butler stands up. ‘Hello, Neena,’ he says, like I’ve come in for a job interview or something. ‘Please sit. We want to talk to you.’
He rubs his hands together nervously and then indicates his chair. But I don’t sit. My skin itches all over. I want to get out of here. Everyone’s got a mug of tea in front of them and there’s a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table. Maybe this should feel cosy. But it doesn’t.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask again.
Mum wipes her head with her dupatta. She looks really hot and bothered. Dad shoots me a look. ‘Sit down, Neena,’ he says, and his voice is so deep and strong that it forces me to move. I sit down on Mr Butler’s chair and he sits next to me. The smell of strong coffee hits me. Miss Taylor stares into her mug.
‘I’ve been concerned about Neena for a little while now,’ Mr Butler says to Mum and Dad. ‘And so have other teachers.’ He glances at Miss Taylor, who nods, and then he points to a pile of notes in front of him. ‘It’s been a tough year, Neena. You’ve struggled to keep up at times, which is understandable and we all sympathize. But, over the past couple of months, we’ve noticed … Your work’s been … erratic. Possibly due to exam pressure? It seemed you were improving, but there’s been a sudden dip in your grades over the past couple of weeks or so.’
I look at Ms Jones for reassurance. I think Mr Butler has got it all wrong.
‘My work’s been brilliant, hasn’t it?’ I ask her.
Mr Butler coughs. ‘You had a good few weeks – that was all. But, Neena, we’re not here to tell you off. We’d like to know, are there any extenuating circumstances that are affecting your work and concentration right now? Anything that might potentially affect your exams?’
I cross my arms. So I’ve had a bad week. But that’s only because everything’s been happening so fast. I’ve been working hard. I’ve been trying.
Mr Butler clears his throat. ‘OK … I’ve also noticed … We’ve noticed … that Neena has been acting out of character. Withdrawn. And …’ He clears his throat again. ‘We suspect she’s been getting help on her artwork – there has been a vast improvement in some of her paintings while others have been … not so good.’
‘“Getting help”? You mean cheating?’ Dad says, and his voice sounds dangerous.
‘Now wait a minute, I didn’t say that,’ replies Mr Butler.
I glare at Mr Butler. We all know what he means. How could he? Him, of all people. Mr Butler has been the one teacher who has helped me through everything. He let me spend lunchtimes in his classroom, drawing, when I first came back to school after Akash disappeared. He was the one who told me to use what I’d been through and put it into my art.