Читать книгу Llama Out Loud! - Annabelle Sami - Страница 10

In terms of best days in the year, the order for most children goes:

Third place – last day of school

Second place – Christmas (or Eid for Yasmin)

First place – BIRTHDAY!!

But more often than not, what should have been the best day of the year for Yasmin was just like any other day. And, just like any other day, as Yasmin and Auntie Bibi turned the corner on to their road, they could hear yells coming from the Shah family home.

Number 11 Fish Lane was the last to be built on the road, and had been squished in between the furthest two houses on the street. This meant that the house was extremely tall and extremely thin, with one room on each floor. If it hadn’t been sandwiched between two other houses, it would probably have toppled over in a strong breeze.

Yasmin’s room was all the way up in the attic, while the bathroom was in the basement. The strange layout of number 11 meant that Yasmin had to walk up through every family member’s bedroom before she could get to her own. Being at the top of the house was good for privacy, but it also meant that you had to be careful after eating a spicy curry from Brick Lane. Yasmin was sure she could rival any Olympic sprinter running down those stairs in the middle of the night, desperate for the loo.

As Yasmin and Auntie Bibi came in through the kitchen door, they were hit by a wall of sound that Auntie Bibi immediately added to.

‘We’re home!!!’ she sang, heading over to Ammi, who was sweating over a boiling pot of rice.

‘WHYAREYOULATEDINNERISREADYGOGET CHANGED!’

Ammi only spoke in shouts and never expected an answer, even if she asked a question.

‘These potatoes need coriander! I always say add coriander!’ Papa yelled at no one in particular.

‘Papaaaaaa!’ Tall Brother roared. ‘Tariq accidently spilled curry paste on Yasmin’s chair.’

Short Brother smirked. ‘Whoops! Clumsy me . . .’

Yasmin scowled. That curry-paste spill was no accident. It would have to be soaked overnight in Ammi’s special baking-soda concoction.

‘I guess you’ll have to sit on the wonky stool at the end of the table, Yasmin,’ Tall Brother sniggered.

‘I hope you didn’t get any curry paste on my seat at the head of the table. A father should always sit at the head of the table,’ Papa shouted, angrily stirring his potatoes.

Auntie Bibi giggled and patted her younger brother on the head. Papa hated it when she did that and immediately smoothed his hair down in the reflection of the fridge.

‘Ammi, I’m laying the table but Tariq isn’t helping!’ Tall Brother called out.

‘Yes I am!’ Short Brother bellowed.

‘No you’re not!’

Unnoticed, Yasmin hurried up the stairs, leaving the noise and the thick aromas of curry and daal behind. She needed a moment of peace away from her family before dinner.

On the floor above the kitchen was the room that Auntie Bibi shared with Auntie Gigi. The aunties were twins, and had lived with Yasmin ever since she was born. It would have been strange not to hear their thunderous snores every night, or their endless gossiping at all hours of the day.

As Yasmin passed through her aunties’ room, the smell of perfume washed over her. She inhaled the sweet smell deeply before noticing her Auntie Gigi, who was applying incredibly thick eyeliner in the mirror. She looked like a panda who had melted in the oven. Why people made such a fuss over makeup, Yasmin would never know.

‘Yassy darling, could you put my shoes on for me? You know I can’t bend down nowadays, my back won’t let me.’

Yasmin didn’t want Auntie Gigi to snap in half, so she did as she was asked. With much pushing and tugging, the shoes went on. Auntie Gigi sighed in relief.

‘Well done, flower. Now go and get your party dress on.’ Auntie Gigi winked.

Both of Yasmin’s aunties were shopping fanatics. However often Yasmin politely protested, Auntie Gigi would still buy flouncy, frilly outfits for her to wear – outfits that Yasmin would never choose herself. But because she knew her auntie was just trying to be nice, Yasmin bit her lip, forced a smile and took herself off up the next flight of stairs.

In her parents’ bedroom, everything was in military-level order as usual. Ammi would accept nothing less. The same couldn’t be said for her brothers’ room on the floor above. They had left the TV playing a particularly noisy and violent programme, and Short Brother’s PE kit was in a stinking pile on the floor. (Yasmin usually referred to her siblings as ‘Tall Brother’ and ‘Short Brother’ as their heights were, quite honestly, the most interesting thing about them.)

Yasmin paused at their door with a grin. A year earlier, her brothers had hung up a sign that said ‘No Girls Allowed’ in big, red letters. They obviously hadn’t thought it through, since Yasmin had to go through their room to get to hers. She liked to rub this in by grinning at the sign every time she swanned through.

As she entered her little attic bedroom and slung her schoolbag in the corner, Yasmin felt her shoulders relax for the first time. She had decorated her room to include all the things she liked. There was a big poster about the ancient Egyptians on her ceiling (Yasmin loved history) and she had painted the wall behind her bed like a chalkboard. It was filled with little doodles and ideas that popped into her head just before she went to sleep. She thought of drawing a special birthday doodle, but the inspiration left her when she saw the dress that Auntie Gigi had bought, laid out neatly on the bed and wrapped in a pink bow. It was lime green with embroidered jewels around the bottom and, of course, a pair of matching sparkly shoes.

Auntie Gigi had written a little note on the top.

Yasmin rolled her eyes. What was wrong with a pair of jeans? Dresses just made her feel . . . icky.

Suddenly inspiration struck again. She knew exactly what she wanted to draw. With a little smirk, Yasmin picked up her black sketch book and began drawing one of her favourite doodles: a comic strip she called ‘Secret Agent Yasmin’ (or SAY for short). In each comic strip, she had a different mission. Flipping through to find a blank page, Yasmin saw some of her earlier masterpieces such as THWART TALL BROTHER’S PRANK. For her latest edition, the mission was clear: AVOID WEARING UGLY DRESS.

Yasmin examined her finished masterpiece. It hadn’t lifted her spirits. All of the comics she drew were fun . . . but they were just daydreams. She never had the confidence to act on any of them.

Yasmin picked the dress up and tossed it into the corner of the room, wishing that a sinkhole would suddenly appear and slurp the dress away into the depths of the earth. She stomped over and blew a raspberry at the crumpled heap. It was no use trying to fight her family’s wishes. She would have to wear it, or she’d be labelled rude and ungrateful.

Tonight, there would be no favourite smelly trainers and jeans.

Tonight, like every night, Yasmin would have to wear the clothes her aunties wanted her to wear.

And eat the food her parents wanted her to eat.

And sit where her brothers wanted her to sit.

Even though it was her tenth birthday.