Читать книгу The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters: the ultimate heart-warming read for 2018 - Nadiya Hussain - Страница 8
Оглавление‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. That’s my sister, Fatti’s, motto every time she fails her driving test, which would be – not even exaggerating – for the fifteenth time now. That’s right. Fifteen. It’s kind of a rich thing to say when she walked into the house, with cheese all over her chin. Remember, guys: saturated fat does not make you stronger. Just looking at the gooey substance smeared on her face made me want to take a shot of wheatgrass. Anyway, ciao for now. More on the trials and tribulations of a millennial living in a Wyvernage later.’
I came out of Snapchat and stopped jogging on the spot for my warm-down after my run. Checking my Fitbit as I walked into the house, I called up to Dad from the passage.
‘Bet that run would’ve taken care of your headache, Dad.’
Headache – yeah, right. I walked back into the kitchen because where else would Fatti be? ‘Look what I made,’ I said, carefully placing the phone upright so the video captured me opening the fridge.
Fatti looked at the celery salad in disgust, scrunching up the pudgy nose she hates so much, even though I think it’s cute in its own way. But, hey, I’m the youngest in the family – what do I know?
‘Is that camera on again?’ asked Fatti. ‘Where’d Mum put the prawns?’
Of course the camera was on again. What would it take for my family to realise that this wasn’t some hobby now – it was work. I’d have the best GCSE media project in the year. No other student had eleven thousand subscribers on their YouTube channel. I stepped in front of our huge silver fridge. ‘It’s a scientific fact that celery can speed up your metabolism,’ I said, putting the bowl down in front of her.
‘Don’t worry, Fatti,’ said the mothership who’d walked in. She adjusted the drape of her sari and glared at me, which meant I should move out of the way or I might have a slipper thrown at my face. ‘You will pass the test next time.’
And she handed her the prawns, which I guess brought a bit of balance to the synthetic cheese in a tube.
‘Mae, can’t you eat like a normal girl?’ said Mum, looking at my salad. ‘Don’t you want your amma’s delicious curries?’
No, thanks. I’d rather not have a heart attack, but of course I didn’t say that because it would’ve been rude. I stepped back and zoomed the camera in on Mum who put her hand on Fatti’s cheek. I had to shirk off this weird feeling I got – as if I’m missing out on something. I tried to remember the last time Mum put her hand on my cheek. I couldn’t. Just then the front door opened and slammed shut again. Farah tumbled in with about seven shopping bags as Fatti went to help her. There was a look on Farah’s face, which I wanted to capture, but I couldn’t zoom in close enough – what was it? Like sadness, but it disappeared too quickly, because as soon as Mum came into view Farah put on a smile.
‘I see Mae’s busy with her high-school assignment,’ said Farah, raising an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps put the camera down for a moment and help with the bags?’
I rolled my eyes. The thing is, I don’t mean to, but it kind of just happens. Apparently it’s called having an attitude problem. Whatever.
‘Is …’ Farah cleared her throat. ‘Is Bubblee here?’
Farah’s movements slowed down as Mum told her: ‘She’s so busy in London. She said she can’t make it this weekend either.’ Mum’s sigh was audible.
‘All she’d do is smear mud all over the carpet and call it art. Ugh,’ I said, repulsed at the chocolate digestives that Farah put on the breakfast table. ‘Do you know obesity is one of the top killers in the UK?’
‘Tst,’ said Mum to me as she continued: ‘If Bubblee comes I might be able to show her some boys. She is so beautiful – maybe someone will marry her before she opens her mouth. And then at least she will give me grandchildren.’
Mum glanced at Farah not so discreetly, waiting to catch her eye, just so she could give her an aggrieved look. Because that’s how Mum rolls.
‘You haven’t heard that for five minutes, have you?’ I said to Farah.
She pursed her lips as she turned to Fatti. ‘Well. How’d the test go?’ she said, a hopeful look on her face.
Fatti shook her head. ‘But it’s okay. What doesn’t kill you—’
‘—Yeah, yeah,’ I said, catching Fatti staring at Farah’s wedding ring. ‘We know.’
Mum slapped me across the back of the head. I swear I have a bald patch because of her. I got my phone and tapped on the Twitter icon:
Some people have alopecia, others suffer from male-pattern baldness – I have a mother who likes to hit me across the head #Abrasiveparents #Hairloss #Aintfair #Meh #Whatever
Fatti walked out of the kitchen as I saw Farah’s eyes settle on our sister’s widening arse. I mean, hello, why doesn’t anyone say anything to her? I’m the only one who cares enough about her arteries to make a celery salad, and then I’m the one everyone shouts at for being ‘insensitive’. Yeah, well, when she’s in hospital because she needs a bypass at the age of thirty-five, then we’ll talk about who’s been insensitive.
‘Mum, you really need to stop buying all that cheese in a tube,’ said Farah.
Mum, as usual, opted for selective hearing and asked Farah whether she got more prawns. Fatti likes to mash them up and mix it with the cheese. If that doesn’t make you vom, I don’t know what will.
‘Here,’ said Farah, handing an envelope to Mum. ‘Five hundred.’
Mum quietly took it and slid it into her drawer. More money. From Jay, the prodigal son. Why our brother doesn’t give it to Mum and Dad directly, I don’t know. I decided that no-one cares about what I have to say and took the bowl of salad upstairs to Dad.
‘Come in,’ he said as I entered Mum and Dad’s room.
He was lying on the bottom bunk, scratching at the wood panel above him, but sat up, craning his head forward so he didn’t hit it against the bunk’s panel.
‘How’s the headache?’ I asked.
‘Hmm? Oh, yes,’ he replied, putting his hand on his head. ‘Better.’
Of course it was.
‘Mum was on top last night then?’ I said, settling down next to him, holding on to the bowl of salad.
He looked at me, momentarily taken aback. ‘Oh. Yes. On top,’ he replied. His eyes settled on the salad.
‘I guess you don’t want it either,’ I asked.
They say youth is energy. Like, you should be grateful for it and stuff. But youth to me feels like wading through a mass of crap, wishing someone would give you direction because you can’t see (because there’s crap in your eyes, obvs). Dad’s top lip twitched – his eyes still on the salad.
‘Yes, yes. I’ll have it,’ he said, picking up a celery stick and crunching into it. It took him about five minutes to swallow the thing.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Dad said: ‘How is school?’
‘Yeah, cool,’ I replied.
He scratched his chin. ‘And, er … this video,’ he said, looking at my phone with concentration. ‘You are filming things?’
‘Correcto-mundo.’
He looked at me, confused.
‘It just means, yes, Abba.’
‘Ah, good, good,’ he replied.
‘My teacher said I’ve got talent,’ I told him.
‘That’s very good.’
I waited for him to ask me some more questions: like, what kind of talent, and what will you do with it when you leave high school? That kind of thing.
After a bit more silence, he asked: ‘You like those smoothies, don’t you?’
‘Only the homemade ones, because you can’t trust what supermarkets put in stuff.’
‘But we buy everything from supermarkets.’
‘Yeah, but they’ve got all those e-numbers and stuff.’
‘E-numbers?’
I nodded. ‘It’s unhealthy. It’s killing us.’
‘But there is nothing wrong with us,’ he replied, looking at his body up and down as if it was an example of supreme health.
It was like trying to explain fashion to Fatti. I gave up.
‘You know what is healthy?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘YouTube,’ he answered. ‘Very good. For the brain.’
What the hell was my dad going on about?
‘Er, okay.’
He hesitated then said: ‘You said you had scribers.’
‘Subscribers, Abba.’
‘Oh, yes. That’s what I meant.’
‘And?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Just … carry on.’
‘Sure, Abba. Thanks.’
We both sat in silence for a few minutes.
‘Oh, I know,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll make tofu curry tonight. For dinner.’
Dad nodded, as if there was someone forcing the movements of his head, and patted me on my back. It’s not on the cheek. Not like it is for Fatti, or a hand on the head like it is for Farah; the pinching of the nose like it is for Bubblee. But who really cares?
