Artichoke Hearts (7 page)

It looked as if Krish was going to come in third place. Then suddenly, right at the end, he made his arms and legs pump faster, and pelted straight past the other two boys.

‘Aye, there’s no doubting, the lad’s got it in his blood,’ croaked the old man in the green tweed cap, standing next to Nana Kath.

Krish had this look of complete determination on his face, like he just
had
to win. Nana Kath, Mum, Dad and me, and the old man with the cap were all cheering him on, and I saw Grandad
Bimal, who was sitting in the car, punch the air as Krish ran for the finish line.

After the race, Krish had to stand in the middle of this podium, on the first place stand, which is the highest bit, and two other boys, who came in second and third place, stood on either side,
in the pouring rain. The loudspeaker played ‘God Save the Queen’, like it was the Olympics or something. Dad said that was a bit over the top, but I thought Krish was lucky to be
standing on a podium in the middle of those mountains . . . Even in the pouring rain, it’s one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. It’s like he belonged. Watching Krish
standing there did feel like a historic occasion in our family, even though they announced the winner to be someone else . . . ‘Chris Levenson’.

It was then that I saw Grandad Bimal hoist himself out of the car, and walk very slowly over to the caravan, where the man was chattering away on the loudspeaker. The next thing I heard was
Loudspeaker Man’s voice.

‘I have an apology to make. I am standing here with-’

‘Dr Bimal Chatterjee,’ Grandad interrupted him.

‘Quite, and the doctor lives locally, married to a Cumbrian lass . . .’ That made Nana Kath smile, to be called a ‘lass’. ‘It’s his grandson who has just won
the Junior Guides Race. He’s the youngest ever child to win this race, and my apologies because I mispronounced his name. It’s not Chris Levenson . . .’

Then I heard Grandad’s voice again with the proper pronunciation of Krishan’s name, which actually sounds quite different from how we all say it.

‘It’s Kri-shan Levenson.’ Grandad’s bass-drum voice echoed through those mountains and for a moment people stopped to listen, as if they were trying to identify strange
birdsong. It felt as if the mountains were listening too, to the news that there’s another fell runner in the family. Maybe the old man was right . . . it’s in the blood.

Since I started my period, every time I think of anything, there’s blood involved somewhere. Krish will never have to feel like I do now; he can just run free, not
worrying about what’s happening inside his body. Suddenly Krish and me are living in separate universes, because of the blood. I don’t even think I could run today and I have never in
my life felt further away from flying.

We’ve always been different, even in primary school, Krish and me. The things I like to do aren’t really about winning. Even Art at school is not the same as it is with Nana. I know
I can do it, but I hate the kind of project where you have to look at an artist’s work, like Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers,
and learn about the techniques he used, and then paint your
own vase of sunflowers. You just get everybody trying to do the same thing, and nowhere near as well as Van Gogh, which, to me, is not really the point of art. With art like that, you don’t
get a chance to work out of your own imagination, except for once in primary school when there was a competition and we could do anything we wanted. I made this collage with photographs and food
and flowers. I used the inside plastic tray from a biscuit tin and painted each compartment a different colour, depending on what I was putting in it . . . the one that had a picture of me swimming
in the sea I painted pale silvery grey and stuck a tiny holey stone inside. Then I painted another with a photo of my dad and Krish before they went to a Tottenham match, deep blue . . . that sort
of thing. I put an old golden frame of Nana’s round it, and stuck it together with superglue. When it was finished, I was secretly quite proud of it, but even at the time I knew other people
would think it was weird so I tried to smuggle it into school under a towel but, of course, on my way in I had to bump into Demi.

‘What’s the big secret?’ she asked me, peering under the towel.

‘Nothing,’ I lied, pulling away from her, but before I could do anything about it, she’d snatched away the towel so I was left standing in the middle of the playground holding
this enormous frame. I felt as if I was standing there naked.

‘What
is
that
supposed to be?’ she shrieked at the top of her voice, which, like a magnet, drew her crew towards her. She might as well have stood there with a sign
advertising an opportunity to rag Mira Levenson . . . and of course her friends came running.

The worst bit is I actually won that competition.

‘A most original entry,’ Mr Needham announced, as he examined the frame with a puzzled expression. I had to walk up the aisle to the accompaniment of sniggering behind my back.
Whenever I think about it, it still makes me cringe. I could just imagine what they were thinking (for ‘original’ replace with ‘weird’). That’s nothing like the glory
of winning a race, is it?

‘What happened to you two?’ Mum jolts me back into the room, staring from Nana to me. ‘Have you had a paint fight or something?’

‘We’ve been having a wild time,’ Nana laughs. What do you think, Uma?’ Nana stands aside so Mum can see the coffin, which we have, more or less, finished.

Krish walks round it, his eyes filling up.

‘You’ve made it look like a painting.’

‘It
is
a painting, der!’ I say.

‘No it’s not, it’s a coffin,’ shouts Krish, the tears stinging his eyes.

‘It’s a painted coffin,’ explains Nana, wrapping her arms around Krish.

‘I don’t get it. What’s the point of painting it if it’s just going to be burned?’

‘What’s the point of running in a race?’ argues Nana.

‘Because I love running.’

Well, I love painting. This coffin will probably be my most valuable work of art.’

‘I don’t get it, Nana,’ Krish sulks.

‘Because the dolphins, and the doves, and the waves, will stay in people’s memories . . . just like you, winning that race today. I bet your mum will never forget that,’ Nana
says, turning to Mum, who nods and smiles but says nothing because she’s on the verge of crying too.

Krish collapses on to Nana’s sofa, his stick-thin legs folding under him.

‘You look all washed up,’ says Nana, slumping down by his side.

‘So do you,’ Krish lobs back.

Nana tips Krish’s chin upwards, planting a kiss on his cheek. Krish squirms out of Nana’s grasp as he attempts to rub her blue handprint off his face.

‘I suppose we may as well all be blue together,’ sighs Nana.

I pack my school bag.

Pads and panty liners, sanitary towels . . . even some tampons . . . some of each . . . just in case. Even the names are a nightmare. I mean ‘sanitary towels’
-could they think of a worse name for them? But then I imagine myself getting a job in advertising and having to invent a name for all this period stuff, and guess what I come up with? A big fat
blank. The advert I find the funniest is the one where the pads have wings and they have little pictures of birds flying around, because the last thing you would ever feel like doing when
you’ve got your period is flying. I mean, as if, with that pad stuck inside your pants and the ache in your belly.

In my mind, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Millie was going to be first, just like when we started wearing bras. Up until now Millie has always gone first with everything. This is
how I imagined it. Millie would start her periods and I would follow maybe a couple of months after. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be too long after, just enough time for Millie to have become
a specialist in all things periody We would have had one of our mad sessions round at hers when no one else was in, like we did the time when we were trying to work out what bra size we were. It
turned out there wasn’t a size small enough (!), but we still tried on her mum’s silky bras while Millie started up a commentary about how the ‘fashion note’ of the season
was to wear your oversized bra on the
outside
of your clothes.

‘Prada is so last year! Proudbra is this season’s must-have item.’

Then, as we heard Millie’s mum coming in, we practically died of laughing trying to undo the catch on the bra I was wearing, and stuff all the underwear back in her drawer before we got
caught.

So, in my head, Millie and me would have had a laugh about the whole period nightmare and, by the time I got to the stage of packing my bag, I would definitely know what I should be using (and
how to use it), because Millie would have told me. Instead I just feel a bit sick worrying about the whole thing.

‘Are you ready, Mira?’ Mum shouts up the stairs. ‘It’s nearly half past eight. What
are
you doing up there?’

What I am now doing is dabbing some of Mum’s foundation on to my enormous spot, but the make-up just makes it a million times more obvious, so I end up washing it off.

Just one last thing I say to myself as I stare at my volcano-sized pustule in the mirror . . . I close my eyes and beg Notsurewho Notsurewhat to please please please make Jidé Jackson be
off school today so he doesn’t see me like this. For a moment I think about trying it on for another sickie, but then the letterbox clanks and Millie makes my mind up for me.

‘All right?’ asks Millie, her owl eyes zoning right in on my zit.

Millie is far too polite to comment. I should tell her right now. This is the moment I should tell her, and then, when she starts her period, it would just be like the bra thing all over again,
but the other way round, with me helping her. Except it won’t be like that. This is so unfair of me, but in a way I feel a bit annoyed with her for not being able to help me out. It’s
not her fault that I’ve started first, but in a way I feel as if she’s let me down.

‘All right,’ I say.

There is a Notsurewho Notsurewhat after all! At morning registration Miss Poplar announces that Jidé and Ben are out at some sporting event. At least that’s one
less thing to worry about. Maybe the pustule will have shrunk by tomorrow.

Each time I go to the loo, I am convinced that someone will hear me unzipping my bag and unwrapping the towels. I swear suddenly the acoustics in the girls’ loos are of a
concert-hall standard. Just undoing the stupid pads, each wrapped in its own ‘discreet envelope’ cover, makes so much noise I have to pull the chain at the exact same time as I open the
packet and tear off the sticky strip. It works, if you get the timing right.

At lunchtime registration Miss Poplar calls me over. Just my luck that it’s my day for her to inspect the teacher’s notes in my planner.

‘Mira, is there any particular reason why you’ve been late for just about every lesson this morning?’

As she’s supposed to be the specialist Year Seven tutor you’d think she might have guessed.

‘Sorry, miss,’ I mumble.

Maybe I should tell her, because every few minutes I shift around on my seat and look behind me, to make sure I haven’t leaked.

‘Mira Levenson, what’s got into you today?’ asks Miss Poplar. ‘Have you got ants in your pants?’

At the mention of ‘pants’ I feel like I’m going to die. Of course, I blush bright red and Orla, Demi and Bo fall about laughing.

All afternoon I duck into a loo every time I pass one . . . just in case.

Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’ asks Millie.

‘Dodgy stomach,’ I lie.

‘See you later, zit face!’ Bo calls out as she pushes past me through the school gates, which is odd, because Bo’s forehead and just about her whole face is covered in
acne.

‘How was your day?’ Mum asks when I get back from school.

‘Good.’

And it has been a good day, because Jidé wasn’t in and nobody found out.