A Pocketful of Stars, page 11
I wonder if Mum and I will start going to visit Aunt Zaina and Rawan?
‘I wanted to come after you,’ Izzy admits, looking quite upset. ‘I thought they were being awful. And the whole thing at the bike shed too . . . but I was too scared . . . I guess I . . .’
‘I get it,’ I say, patting her back a little awkwardly. ‘It’s not easy to stand up to your best friend.’
‘But you did!’ Izzy insists. ‘Anyway, Abir’s not my best friend any more . . . not after that,’ she says with certainty, and she fills me in on what happened after I left.
No one really said anything; they just carried on being their mean selves. Izzy made an excuse to go home, and hasn’t spoken to the others since.
‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ Charlotte adds, after Izzy is done. ‘It was so brave of you.’ Gini nods in silent agreement. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t mind how I look. Not usually. It’s just when . . .’
‘People point it out to you?’
She smiles. ‘Exactly.’
I understand that. I’ve never really had a problem with how I look either. I’ve always liked my imperfections because they make me . . . well . . . me. But when someone points them out to you as if they’re something bad, you can’t help but think that maybe they’re right.
Soon after that talk turns to Mum, and I give them a quick update. Mum’s moving her arms now, and she’s off the ventilator properly. Everything’s going to be OK.
While we talk, Lady’s head darts back and forth between us, watching the conversation. Her tongue lolls, like she’s smiling. I have all the confirmation I need: she can understand English.
Dad comes home soon after and, without missing a beat, offers us a second hot chocolate. We all gratefully accept before getting into a heated debate about the best Studio Ghibli films.
‘I had no idea you watched them!’ I say. Finding people who love them as much as I do feels as special as finding a rare dragon’s egg.
Izzy and I are Team My Neighbor Totoro, while Charlotte and Gini prefer Howl’s Moving Castle.
‘You have to come over to my house,’ Gini says passionately. ‘We can watch them all back to back.’
‘Gini’s house is amazing,’ Charlotte says. ‘Her parents have a film room with a projector in it!’
Dad interrupts our conversation with a special treat: cheese and Marmite toasties.
‘Your dad’s cool,’ Charlotte says when he leaves.
‘The coolest,’ I agree.
My laptop goes off, a notification from Fairy Hunters. It’s instantly recognizable to anyone who plays, and sounds just like a windchime.
‘No way!’ Gini says, jumping up and down on my bed excitedly, spilling breadcrumbs everywhere. ‘You play Fairy Hunters too?’ She looks from me to Charlotte. ‘Where have you been all our lives?’ Charlotte looks equally as delighted.
‘You both play it?’
The three of us jump around in glee for a few minutes, until we catch Izzy’s confused expression.
‘Oh no.’ Gini shakes her head. ‘Show her, someone, please.’ She covers her face, as if horrified.
‘Maybe next time,’ Charlotte says. ‘Mum’s just texted to say dinner’s ready soon, so we’d better eat our toasties and go. You know what she’s like.’ She rolls her eyes and Gini smiles. In that moment they remind me of Hana and Ib. It’s like they’re them, I’m Aminah, and Izzy is Rawan.
Their friendship makes me happy; it’s how best friends should be together. I glance at Izzy and see she’s looked up Fairy Hunters on her phone.
‘Do you want to stay for dinner?’ I ask her.
Izzy says she would love to, and texts her parents to ask.
‘Please convert her while she’s here,’ Gini says, looking at me with such seriousness that I salute.
After they leave and Izzy and I are left alone, we talk about Elle and Abir. For the whole of secondary school I’ve always sat next to Elle in most of our lessons, and Izzy’s sat next to Abir. But she’s worried they’re going to be weird with us.
‘Promise we’ll sit together?’ she asks a little nervously, like she thinks I might say no. It’s strange knowing I have that effect on Izzy, but I won’t act the way Elle did with me. There are no leaders or followers in our friendship. We’re equal.
When I watch the memory for a second time, I see her.
The witch throws Aminah into the tiny room in the great big tower again. But just as she’s about to lock the door she stops and looks upwards, and that’s when I start climbing back up the wall.
‘What was that?’ Hana asks, glancing around suspiciously.
‘Just a twig,’ Rawan says dismissively.
I peer over to find Zaina scrambling down the slide. She rushes back towards the kitchen, disappearing inside the house.
I knew it. I knew it wasn’t the cats who toppled the slide a few memories ago, because I saw something by the kitchen door. It was Zaina. She’s been spying on Aminah. And I have a feeling she’s the key to the next object.
Dad’s made us both a cup of tea, which we drink in the kitchen while we wait for Aunt Zaina to answer the phone.
Dad’s already spoken to her before, to update her on Mum’s condition, so this is all normal for him. Whereas I’m trying to figure out how to introduce the memory without looking too suspicious, and somehow not freak out too much about chatting to my aunt for the first time.
Aunt Zaina doesn’t answer, so we wait for a bit before trying again. I make us a second tea, while Lady keeps bringing toys to me, one after the other, like she knows I’m nervous and she’s trying to make me feel better. It’s because that’s the sort of thing that cheers her up. I wish I was a dog sometimes. Lady’s biggest stress is the fact that our neighbour’s cat keeps pooping in our garden.
The phone rings, and Dad, Lady and I all jump.
‘Hello?’ A high-pitched voice answers in Arabic, blaring out of Dad’s speaker on his phone. But the voice is older than I expected. I suppose Aunt Zaina would sound different now that she’s not a child.
‘Hi . . .’ Dad says nervously, glancing at me. ‘I have Safiya here with me.’ He pauses, and I awkwardly say hello.
‘Hi, James. Hello, Safiya, habibti,’ my aunt says. She pronounces my name the proper Arabic way, stressing the letter ‘s’ so it comes out all throaty. ‘How’s Ami doing?’ she asks, getting straight to the point and saving me from talking right away.
‘Well . . .’ Dad begins, and then he tells her exactly what I told the girls the other day. That Mum’s getting better.
When he’s done Aunt Zaina says she’s looking at flights to come and visit Mum as soon as she’s out of the hospital.
‘And you’ll come see us too, Safiya? In the summer?’ Aunt Zaina asks. She’s a lot calmer than her ten-year-old self, and it stops me in my tracks a little.
‘Of course!’ I say, excited at the prospect of seeing where Mum grew up. We could even go together, Mum and I, and visit Rawan too. That’s when I ask about her, and it feels as if my heart stops while I wait for Aunt Zaina’s response.
‘Rawan?’ she says as if the name is unfamiliar. For a horrible moment I think she’s forgotten her and I won’t get my answers. Then: ‘Of course I remember her . . .’
My heart leaps.
‘Do you remember the play Mum and Rawan acted in?’ I ask excitedly.
Aunt Zaina laughs. ‘Yes! Your mother would sneak off to rehearse. I was always so jealous of the way she was with Rawan. You have to understand, Safiya . . . Your mother was my best friend when I was young . . .’
My heart soars as she tells her story.
‘Anyway, one day I decided to get revenge. I knew our mother would be angry if she found out Aminah was acting in a play without telling her. She would think it was a waste of time, you see. So I took photos of your mum sneaking off with our family camera. It was a game I played. I created an investigation around your mum, like she was some sort of criminal. And the photos were evidence I compiled.’
‘Do you still have them?’ I ask.
‘Oh no. Your mother took them after Mama found them in my room. I didn’t mean for her to see them, but then they had that big fight . . .’
Dad jumps in then, before I have the chance to ask about the fight. ‘So she really did have a secret hideaway?’ he asks and tells Zaina his own story about the cats.
While Dad and Aunt Zaina chat, my mind drifts off to my one of my favourite Mum stories. You’d think it would be something big, like a trip we took together, or a birthday, but it was just a very normal cold February morning . . .
‘Russia Globetrot,’ Mum said to the coffee-shop barista.
‘Mum!’ I laughed. ‘That’s not your name,’ I whispered, confused.
‘That’s a pretty name,’ one of the baristas commented. She spelled it as R-A-S-H-A.
‘Thank you,’ Mum smiled, not missing a beat.
It was another one of the games she liked to play. Come up with the weirdest name you can think of and see if you can get away with it.
‘Russia.’ I scrunched up my nose. ‘That’s a country.’
‘Well done,’ Mum said sarcastically.
I laughed. ‘My turn next time.’
A few weeks later, when the weather turned warmer and we got ourselves some cold drinks instead, I tried out the name ‘Picklina Elfinpants’, and the barista didn’t even blink.
‘I win!’ I said triumphantly, once we sat down.
Mum shook her head, laughing. ‘I’ll beat you next time,’ she said.
We have time, I remind myself, to make more memories.
‘Thank you,’ I eventually say when Aunt Zaina and Dad have finished chatting.
‘You are more than welcome,’ Aunt Zaina says. ‘Call me again, habibti.’
As soon as the phone call is finished I make an excuse to go to Mum’s flat. Because I think I know what the next object is going to be: a photograph of Rawan and Mum and the other girls from the night of their rehearsal.
I race through our neighbourhood and towards town to Mum’s flat, pedalling my bike with fury.
When I get there I pull out the old photo album again, and search through it desperately, looking for the picture I need to get into the next memory. But there’s nothing there.
My heart sinks, like it’s falling from the clouds, ready to hit the ground, splat. But then it soars, like a bird has caught it in its beak when I look through all our old photos.
Mum holding me just after I’m born; Mum and Dad standing next to me on my first day of primary school. My eyes prickle as I sift through them all. At the aquarium with Elle on my eighth birthday; our last family holiday at the beach, Mum trying to hold her hat down as the wind threatens to snatch it away.
And my favourite: a fancy dress party for Mum’s birthday. It was based on her favourite book and film, The Wizard of Oz. Mum went as Dorothy, Dad went as the Scarecrow, and I was the Cowardly Lion.
Except I’m not so cowardly now.
We watched the film and had a dance-off and ate her favourite food, with cake for dessert. Mum said it was the best birthday ever.
After I’m done with the album, I pull her copy of the book out from the shelf and stroke the cover. It’s made of soft green cloth with golden lettering. I sit right there on the floor, turn to the first chapter and start reading.
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer’s wife . . .
When I turn to the next page something flutters to the floor, like a forgotten feather.
I look down. It’s a Polaroid.
When I pick it up and peer at the photo I see them: all four girls in their secret hideaway, rehearsing for their play that night. I recognize Hana’s headscarf and Aminah’s hair with the cloth plaited into it. Rawan is climbing up the side wall to reach Aminah, as Hana and Ib watch on, grinning.
This is it. This is the object I need to unlock the next memory!
As soon as I get home I add it to my memory box with the perfume, bracelet, cats and flyer. Each of them form a separate piece of the puzzle of Mum’s past. And I’m slowly putting it together in time to save her.
The house is different this time. The walls are beginning to crumble again, which doesn’t make sense because Mum’s getting better and I’m collecting the objects. The silver branches grow thicker, shining bright in the darkness. Their yellow flowers, which have now sprouted all over, look inky blue in this light.
The smell of the perfume is overpowering today. I follow it up, up, up to the biggest bedroom in the house. It draws me in, hypnotizing me; it clouds my thoughts and fills my mind with memories that aren’t my own.
I walk over to a dressing table; it’s spilling with perfume and make-up, just like Mum’s. And each time the house breathes, it feels as if everything might just topple over the edge. This must be my grandmother’s room.
She even has a walk-in wardrobe behind the mirror of her dressing table, and I wish I could show it to Izzy because I know she’d love it.
I walk into it, and it’s like being swallowed up by a rainbow. Colourful dresses and tops with beads and glitter jump out at me, asking me to dance with them. My eyes are drawn to one in particular, because I recognize it. Mum’s Arabian-style mermaid dress. The one I found in her wardrobe, the one I saw her wear years ago. Only I never knew it was my grandmother’s. It glistens like hidden jewels in a treasure box, beckoning me.
‘We shouldn’t be in here!’ Rawan says nervously, before I have the chance to reach for it.
I whip my head round to look at her. Even though I know she can’t be talking to me, part of me wonders if she is. But then I see Aminah waltz into the wardrobe, and I know I’m still invisible.
‘Oh, calm down, Raw,’ Aminah says, rolling her eyes. ‘Mama’s out for the day with her sisters. She won’t be back for a while,’ she says resolutely. ‘And anyway, didn’t you say we needed costumes for the play?’
Rawan purses her lips. ‘Yes, but I didn’t think we were going to be stealing them . . . From what you told me, your mother sounds very scary. Not someone I want to mess with.’
Aminah ignores Rawan and starts sifting through Mama’s clothes instead. ‘There it is!’ she says, staring right at me for a moment. But then she puts her hands through me as she brandishes the mermaid dress. ‘Now, we just need to find you something . . .’
I watch Aminah as she talks to Rawan. The way she scrunches up her nose when she finds something funny; the way she waves her arms around excitedly as she talks; and the way she speaks with such confidence she could be telling you the grass is blue and the ocean purple, and you would believe her.
The two of them spend ages going through Mama’s clothes, chatting about the play, and trying to think up other locations for it. Then their conversation shifts a little.
‘What do you want to do with your life?’ Aminah asks Rawan.
Rawan turns to her, frowning. ‘That’s a serious question.’ Then she shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I like acting and directing. I’d love to carry on with the theatre.’
‘I want to go to England . . .’
Rawan glances sideways at Aminah. ‘I know, you said.’
‘No, I mean, I filled out my application and everything . . . They’ve . . . accepted it.’
Rawan’s jaw drops. ‘Um . . . congratulations! Why didn’t you say sooner?’
‘I only found out today!’
‘Wait . . . how did you get your mother to agree?’
‘She . . . hasn’t.’ Aminah looks sheepish.
‘But then how did you get permission for your application?’
‘My dad signed the forms when he came back for the weekend.’
‘So, you’re just going to . . . leave?’
‘Of course not!’ The pair stop searching for clothes now and settle cross-legged on the floor. ‘I will tell her, just not . . . yet.’ Aminah sighs. ‘She’s so hard to talk to. And she has these ideas about how she wants me to act, what she wants me to do. I just don’t . . .’
‘Want to?’ Rawan finishes the sentence for her.
‘Exactly.’ Aminah nods. ‘She wants me to do what everyone else does, but I just want to try something different. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?’
Rawan shakes her head. ‘No, it doesn’t. Why else do you think I’m running a secret theatre in a hidden alleyway? Still, you need to tell her . . . She’s your mum.’
Aminah shrugs defiantly. ‘So what? It’s not like we have anything in common. Sometimes I think we may as well be strangers . . .’
And, before I can hear the rest of the conversation, or watch Aminah and Rawan finish searching for their costumes, I’m pulled out of the wardrobe, out of the memory, and back to the hospital. But it’s OK because I have everything I need to find the next object.
I lean in and kiss Mum goodnight. I drink in the smell of her perfume, and imagine what it’s going to be like to speak to her again.
We’re at Gini’s house today watching a Studio Ghibli film. Charlotte was right, Gini’s film projector is way cool. She has her very own games room the size of our entire living room at home – just for her!
This time we found a film we can all agree on: Spirited Away. We’re snacking on popcorn and hot chocolate while we watch.
It’s nice to have something good in my life, something that isn’t about hospital visits and monitors and daily updates.
Right after I saw the last memory, I went and got the mermaid dress from Mum’s flat and put it in the memory box. It’s getting pretty full now. I wonder if I’m close to the end of the memories, and finally unlocking Mum’s door?
I’m going to stop by the hospital on the way home. I haven’t got any time to lose, especially as the walls from the house are cracking again. I don’t really understand why, though. Mum’s getting better, so shouldn’t the house look new? I thought it was fixed again because I was saving her.
