Contents ( 64)
- A Letter from the Author
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- ONE
The first thing I see when I wake up on Friday is my phone. It’s hard to miss because Elsa’s pressing it into my eyeball and having a pretend conversation with me. ‘Ah, uh, babab, ah?’ she says.
I push the phone away and that’s when I see I’ve got a message. I sit up, snatching the phone off Elsa. She makes a grab for it so I move to get away from her and stare at the screen. It’s an unknown number. I open the text. Am fine and miss u all. Namaste! Xxx Mum
It’s so good to finally hear from her that I smile. Then I read the words again, trying to find something I’ve missed, some clue about exactly where Mum is and what she’s doing. Elsa thumps my back. ‘Da!’ she says, and my smile fades away. How can Mum say she’s fine and then not ask a single question about us? And if she misses us so much, why doesn’t she just come home?
Elsa latches on to me, pulls herself up and stands there, holding my arm and wobbling in her Winnie the Pooh Babygro. ‘Mum’s OK,’ I say, because I have to tell someone, then I give her the phone and she clamps it upside down against her ear.
‘Mamama,’ she says, and she starts chatting away in a strange alien language.
And that’s when I glance at Mum’s clock and realise how late it is. Somehow we’ve overslept! Quickly, I run through everything I have to do (change Elsa, give her breakfast, feed Pongo), and what I can drop (brushing my hair, feeding me). At the same time I try to work out if I have any hope of getting to school on time. Maybe. If I run.
I grab a nappy and the baby wipes. Then I remember I have PE and that my kit is somewhere in the wash basket. I pull out my mouldy-smelling T-shirt. ‘Am fine’, I think. That’s great, Mum … I’m just thrilled for you.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I’ve been told,’ says Mr Badal, ‘that when I let captains pick teams it makes some of you feel left out. According to one of your mothers,’ he pauses here to stare hard at Richard Gardner, ‘I should find a different way to do it.’
We’re standing in a huddle on the top field, wind whipping up our shorts, icy drizzle misting our faces. Thank you, Richard’s mum, I think. Finally! Mr Badal must be the only PE teacher in the country who still lets popular kids pick teams like this. Usually the only students left standing are me, Richard and Nasma Khan (who has chronic asthma).
Mr Badal thuds his hockey stick down in the grass. ‘But I say, “Man up!” Bella and Jackson, you’re our captains. Get up here and pick your teams!’
My heart sinks. Here we go …
‘Woody!’ says Bella (obviously).
‘I’ll take the one and only Andre Jaquet,’ says Jackson, pointing at his best friend.