Forbidden

Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Also by Tabitha Suzuma

Acknowledgements

Chapter Three

Chapter Six

Chapter Nine

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Five

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specificaly permitted in writing by the publishers, as alowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781409097426

www.randomhouse.co.uk

FORBIDDEN A DEFINITIONS BOOK 978 1 862 30816 9

First published in Great Britain by Definitions, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books A Random House Group Company

This edition published 2010

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © Tabitha Suzuma, 2010

The right of Tabitha Suzuma to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Al rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

The Random House Group Limited supports the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organization. Al our titles that are printed on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment.

Set in 11.5/14.5pt Baskervile

Definitions are published by Random House Children’s Books, 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5

5SA

www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

For Akiko, with love

Also by Tabitha Suzuma:

A Note of Madness

A Voice in the Distance

From Where I Stand

Without Looking Back

www.tabithasuzuma.com

Acknowledgements

I wish I could say writing this book was easy. It wasn’t. In fact it was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life . . . Therefore I owe an enormous thank-you to al those who helped and supported me during this tough time. First of al, this book would have never existed had it not been for the passion and unwavering faith of my editor, Charlie Sheppard, who not only fought for this book’s creation, but continued to fight, during the many times I wanted to give up, to keep the book alive. I also want to offer my heartfelt thanks to Annie Eaton, who has been so encouraging and has kept believing in me and in this book so strongly. Editors Sarah Dudman and Ruth Knowles worked extremely hard and I am very grateful for their patience, expertise and commitment. My thanks also extend to Sophie Nelson and to the design team for their invaluable contribution. I am especialy grateful for the incredible support of my family. My mother not only tirelessly proofreads my books at every stage, but also helps me find the time and energy to write them. Tansy Roekaerts offers me constructive feedback on al my books and always seems to know how to help me when I am stuck. Tiggy Suzuma is the pride of my life and somehow manages to make me laugh during the bad times and not take it al too seriously. Thalia Suzuma gives me invaluable feedback too, along with practical help and professional advice. Finaly, I am so lucky to have as my best friend Akiko Hart, who not only helps me to write, but, more importantly, to live.

You can close your eyes to the things you do not

want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the

things you do not want to feel.

Anon.

I gaze at the smal, crisp, burned-out black husks scattered across the chipped white paint of the windowsils. It is hard to believe that they were ever alive. I wonder what it would be like to be shut up in this airless glass box, slowly baked for two long months by the relentless sun, able to see the outdoors – the wind shaking the green trees right there in front of you – hurling yourself again and again at the invisible wal that seals you off from everything that is real and alive and necessary until eventualy you succumb: scorched, exhausted, overwhelmed by the impossibility of the task. At what point does a fly give up trying to escape through a closed window – do its survival instincts keep it going until it is physicaly capable of no more, or does it eventualy learn after one crash too many that there is no way out? At what point do you decide that enough is enough?

I turn my eyes away from the tiny carcasses and try to focus on the mass of quadratic equations on the board. A thin film of sweat coats my skin, trapping wisps of hair against my forehead, clinging to my school shirt. The sun has been pouring through the industrial-sized windows al afternoon and I am foolishly sitting in ful glare, half blinded by the powerful rays. The ridge of the plastic chair digs painfuly into my back as I sit semi-reclined, one leg stretched out, heel propped up against the low radiator along the wal. My shirt cuffs hang loose around my wrists, stained with ink and grime. The empty page stares up at me, painfuly white, as I work out equations in lethargic, barely legible handwriting. The pen slips and slides in my clammy fingers; I peel my tongue off my palate and try to swalow. I can’t. I have been sitting like this for the best part of an hour, but I know that trying to find a more comfortable position is useless. I linger over the sums, tilting the nib of my pen so that it catches on the paper and makes a faint scratching sound – if I finish too soon I wil have nothing to do but look at dead flies again. My head hurts. The air stands heavy, pregnant with the perspiration of thirty-two teenagers crammed into an overheated classroom. There is a weight on my chest that makes it difficult to breathe. It is far more than this arid room, this stale air. The weight descended on Tuesday, the moment I stepped through the school gates, back to face another school year. The week has not yet ended and already I feel as if I have been here for al eternity. Between these school wals, time flows like cement. Nothing has changed. The people are stil the same: vacuous faces, contemptuous smiles. My eyes slide past theirs as I enter the classrooms and they gaze past me, through me. I am here but not here. The teachers tick me off in the register but no one sees me, for I have long perfected the art of being invisible.

There is a new English teacher – Miss Azley. Some bright young thing from Down Under: huge frizzy hair held back by a rainbow-coloured headscarf, tanned skin and massive gold hoops in her ears. She looks alarmingly out of place in a school ful of tired, middle-aged teachers, faces etched with lines of bitterness and disappointment. No doubt once, like this plump, chirpy Aussie, they entered the profession ful of hope and vigour, determined to make a difference, to heed Gandhi and be the change they wanted to see in the world. Now, after decades of policies, inter-school red tape and crowd control, most have given up and are awaiting early retirement – custard creams and tea in the staffroom the highlight of their day. But the new teacher hasn’t had the benefit of time. In fact she doesn’t look much older than some of the pupils in the room. A bunch of guys erupt into a cacophony of wolf whistles until she swings round to face them, disdainfuly staring them down so that they start to look uncomfortable and glance away. Nonetheless, a stampede ensues when she commands everyone to arrange the desks in a semicircle, and with al the jostling, play-fighting, desk-slamming and chair-sliding, she is lucky nobody gets injured. Despite the mayhem, Miss Azley appears unperturbed – when everyone finaly settles down, she gazes around the scraggly circle and beams.

‘That’s better. Now I can see you al properly and you can al see me. I’l expect you to have the classroom set up before I arrive in future, and don’t forget that al the desks need to be returned to their places at the end of the lesson. Anyone caught leaving before having done their bit wil take sole responsibility for the furniture arrangements for a week. Do I make myself clear?’ Her voice is firm but there appears to be no malice. Her grin suggests she might even have a sense of humour. The grumbles and complaints from the usual troublemakers are surprisingly muted. She then announces that we are going to take turns introducing ourselves. After expounding on her love of travel, her new dog and her previous career in advertising, she turns to the girl on her right. Surreptitiously I slide my watch round to the inside of my wrist and train my eyes on the seconds flashing past. Al day I have been waiting for this – final period – and now it is here I can hardly bear it. Al day I’ve been counting down the hours, the lessons, until this one. Now, al that’s left is the minutes, yet they seem interminable. I am doing sums in my head: calculating the number of seconds before the last bel. With a start I realize that Rafi, the dickhead to my right, is blabbering on about astrology again – almost everyone in the room has had their turn now. When Rafi finaly shuts up about stelar constelations, there is sudden silence. I look up to find Miss Azley staring directly at me.

‘Pass.’ I examine my thumbnail and automaticaly mumble my usual response without looking up. But, to my horror, she doesn’t take the hint. Has she not read my file? She is stil looking at me.

‘Few activities in my lessons are optional, I’m afraid,’ she informs me. There are sniggers from Jed’s group. ‘We’l be here al day then.’

‘Didn’t anyone tel you? He don’t speak English—’

‘Or any other language.’ Laughter.

‘Martian maybe!’

The teacher silences them with a look. ‘I’m afraid that’s not how things work in my lessons.’

Another long silence folows. I fiddle with the corner of my notepad, the eyes of the class scorching my face. The steady tick of the wal clock is drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

‘Why don’t you start off by teling me your name?’ Her voice has softened slightly. It takes me a moment to figure out why. Then I realize that my left hand has stopped fiddling with the notepad and is now vibrating against the empty page. I hurriedly slide my hand beneath the desk, mumble my name and glance meaningfuly at my neighbour. He launches eagerly into his monologue without giving the teacher time to protest, but I can see she has backed down. She knows now. The pain in my chest fades to a dul ache and my burning cheeks cool. The rest of the hour is taken up with a lively debate about the merits of studying Shakespeare. Miss Azley does not invite me to participate again. When the last bel finaly shrieks its way through the building, the class dissolves into chaos. I slam my textbook shut, stuff it in my bag, get up and exit the room rapidly, diving into the home-time fray. Al along the main corridor over-excited pupils are streaming out of doors to join the thick current of people: I am bumped and buffeted by shoulders, elbows, bags, feet . . . I make it down one staircase, then the next, and am almost across the main hal before I feel a hand on my arm.

‘Whitely. A word.’

Freeland, my form tutor. I feel my lungs deflate.

The silver-haired teacher with the holow, lined face leads me into an empty classroom, indicates a seat, then perches awkwardly on the corner of a wooden desk.

‘Lochan, as I’m sure you are aware, this is a particularly important year for you.’

The A-level lecture again. I give a slight nod, forcing myself to meet my tutor’s gaze.

‘It’s also the start of a new academic year!’ Freeland announces brightly, as if I needed reminding of that fact. ‘New beginnings. A fresh start . . . Lochan, we know you don’t always find things easy, but we’re hoping for great things from you this term. You’ve always exceled in written work, and that’s wonderful, but now you’re in your final year we expect you to show us what you’re capable of in other areas.’

Another nod. An involuntary glance towards the door. I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is heading. Mr Freeland gives a heavy sigh. ‘Lochan, if you want to get into UCL, you know it’s vital you start taking a more active role in class . . .’

I nod again.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying here?’

I clear my throat. ‘Yes.’

‘Class participation. Joining in group discussions. Contributing to the lessons. Actualy replying when asked a question. Putting your hand up once in a while. That’s al we ask. Your grades have always been impeccable. No complaints there.’

Silence.

My head is hurting again. How much longer is this going on for?

‘You seem distracted. Are you taking in what I’m saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Look, you have great potential and we would hate to see that go to waste. If you need help again, you know we can arrange that . . .’

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. ‘N-no. It’s OK. Realy. Thanks anyway.’ I pick up my bag, sling the strap over my head and across my chest, and head for the door.

‘Lochan,’ Mr Freeland cals after me as I walk out. ‘Just think about it.’

At last. I am heading towards Bexham, school rapidly fading behind me. It is barely four o’clock and the sun is stil beating down, the bright white light bouncing off the sides of cars which reflect it in disjointed rays, the heat shimmering off the tarmac. The high street is al traffic, exhaust fumes, braying horns, school kids and noise. I have been waiting for this moment since being jolted awake by the alarm this morning, but now it is finaly here I feel strangely empty. Like being a child again, clattering down the stairs to find that Santa has forgotten to fil up our stockings; that Santa, in fact, is just the drunk on the couch in the front room, lying comatose with three of her friends. I have been focusing so hard on actualy getting out of school that I seem to have forgotten what to do now I’ve escaped. The elation I was expecting does not materialize and I feel lost, naked, as if I’d been anticipating something wonderful but had suddenly forgotten what it was. Walking down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds, I try to think of something – anything – to look forward to. In an effort to shake myself out of my strange mood, I jog across the cracked paving stones past the litterlined gutters, the balmy September breeze lifting the hair from the nape of my neck, my thinsoled sneakers moving soundlessly over the pavement. I loosen my tie, puling the knot halfway down my chest, and undo my top shirt buttons. It’s always good to stretch my legs at the end of a long, dul day at Belmont, to dodge, skim and leap over the smeared fruit and squashed veg left behind by the market stals. I turn the corner into the familiar narrow road with its two long rows of smal, run-down brick houses stretching gradualy uphil.

It’s the street I’ve lived in for the past five years. We only moved into the council house after our father took himself off to Australia with his new wife and the child support stopped. Before then, home had been a dilapidated rented house on the other side of town, but in one of the nicer areas. We were never wel-off, not with a poet for a father, but nonetheless, things were easier in so many ways. But that was a long, long time ago. Home now is number sixty-two, Bexham Road: a twostorey, three-bedroomed, grey stuccoed cube, thickly sandwiched in a long line of others, with Coke bottles and beer cans sprouting amongst the weeds between the broken gate and the faded orange door.

The road is so narrow that the cars, with their boarded-up windows or dented fenders, have to park with two wheels on the kerb, making it easier to walk down the centre of the street than on the pavement. Kicking a crushed plastic bottle out of the gutter, I dribble it along, the slap of my shoes and the grate of broken plastic against tarmac echoing around me, soon joined by the cacophony of a yapping dog, shouts from a children’s footbal game and reggae blasting out of an open window. My bag bounces and rattles against my thigh and I feel some of my malaise begin to dissipate. As I jog past the footbalers, a familiar figure overshoots the goalpost markers and I exchange the plastic bottle for the bal, easily dodging the pint-sized boys in their oversized Arsenal T-shirts as they folow me up the road, yelping in protest. The blond firework dives towards me: a tow-headed little hippy with hair down to his shoulders, his once white school shirt now streaked with dirt and hanging over torn grey trousers. He manages to get ahead of me, running backwards as fast as he can, shouting franticaly,

‘To me, Loch, to me, Loch. Pass it to me!’

With a laugh I do, and whooping in triumph, my eight-year-old brother grabs the bal and runs back to his mates, yeling, ‘I got it off him, I got it off him! Did you see?’

I slam into the relative cool of the house and sag back against the front door to catch my breath, brushing the damp hair off my forehead. Straightening up, I pick my way down the halway, my feet automaticaly nudging aside the assortment of discarded blazers, book bags and school shoes that litter the narrow corridor. In the kitchen I find Wila up on the counter, trying to reach a box of Cheerios from the cupboard. She freezes when she sees me, one hand on the box, her blue eyes wide with guilt beneath her fringe. ‘Maya forgot my snack today!’

I lunge towards her with a growl, grabbing her round the waist with one arm and swinging her upside down as she squeals with a mixture of terror and delight, her long golden hair fanning out beneath her. Then I dump her unceremoniously onto a kitchen chair and slap down the cereal box, milk bottle, bowl and spoon.

‘Half a bowlful, no more,’ I warn her with a raised finger. ‘We’re having an early dinner tonight –

I’ve got a ton of homework to do.’

‘When?’ Wila sounds unconvinced, scattering sugarcoated hoops across the chipped oak table that is the centrepiece of our messy kitchen. Despite the revised set of House Rules that Maya taped to the fridge door, it is clear that Tiffin hasn’t touched the overflowing bins in days, that Kit hasn’t even begun washing the breakfast dishes piled up in the sink, and that Wila has once again mislaid her miniature broom and has only succeeded in adding to the crumbs littering the floor.