Artichoke Hearts (20 page)

Clank! Clank! Clank! Clank!

‘All right, I’m coming!’

‘Where were you yesterday? I called by for you, but there was no one in.’ Millie scans my face for signs of bad news. I can’t believe I completely forgot to call her.

‘I had the day off.’

‘You could have called me. You don’t like you’ve had a day off!’

‘Sorry, it was a mad day. Laila got taken into hospital, then we had to go to see Nana.’

‘Little Laila! Is she OK?’

‘She will be,’ I say. ‘She’ll be out in a few days.’

‘We all thought maybe your nana . . .’ She trails off not wanting to finish her sentence.

‘Millie. Do you believe in God?’

‘Yes. Why? Don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Millie frowns at me, as if to say, ‘Do we
have
to have one of these big conversations, right now?’ Then she

shoots me her mischievous smile.

‘Jidé Jackson seems very interested to talk to me about you.’

‘Really,’ I say, as if I’m not that bothered.

‘Really,’ replies Millie, grinning at me.

I think we must be the first in school, but then we pass Orla sitting on a bench outside the Year Seven block. Without her sidekicks, Demi and Bo, she looks so tiny and, well,
lonely.

‘Why don’t you come to this writing group we’re in? See if you like it. You might as well; you’re always in so early,’ I say.

Orla shakes her head. I can see that there’s no way she’s going to change her mind.

‘Maybe next time,’ I mumble, walking off feeling slightly stupid for asking in the first place.

‘Thanks though,’ Orla calls after me.

I turn and smile at her.

What made you do that?’ asks Millie, staring at me as if she hardly recognizes me.

‘I don’t know really . . . I just thought . . . she’s been all right to me since . . .’

You’re right. We should have asked her before. I can’t believe we’ve just walked straight past her every week, especially me, when I know how tough it is for her.’

‘Why so tough?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Millie sighs as I swing open the door to the Year Seven block.

In the space of a few days Orla has been transformed from one of the three-headed bullies into a human being just because I’m not too scared to talk to her any more. I look back at her and
notice, more than ever, how small and thin she is.

Jidé and Ben are sprawled in their usual couldn’t-care-less pose over their desks – these days they wear their boredom like an unconvincing fashion item. Strange that they’re
always the first to arrive! As soon as Jidé sees me, he sits up and grins. I have to stop myself bursting out laughing because he looks like one of those cute over-keen meerkats you see on
nature programmes. I sit down in the seat right next to his and out of the corner of my eye catch Millie smirking.

Pat Print looks up and smiles, as if us four sitting in front of her in this room is something that she’s been looking forward to all week. How does someone make you feel like that, just
by the way they smile at you?

‘Good to see you, girls. Let’s get straight on. What we’re looking at today is . . . character . . . my favourite subject. You can’t be a writer unless you’re
interested in people, and people are characters. All writers have to start by working out why people behave the way they do, their motivations. What makes people choose their paths in life? Or
maybe they don’t feel as if they have a choice. Their ambitions, their drives, their fatal flaws, what makes them tick. Now that’s a lot to think about, I know, but you’ll be
surprised how quickly a character can emerge. This is an exercise I use myself. I call it “instant writing”. The most important thing is not to take your pen off the page . . . just
keep writing whatever nonsense pops into your mind. Sometimes it’s the unconscious mind that provides us with the best material. I want you to choose someone you know – change their names if
you want to – anyone you find interesting, and write the first things that come into your head when I give you some prompt words. Don’t think too much . . . let the random in! Pens and paper
at the ready!’

After about five minutes of writing, trying to get everything down before Pat Print jumps on to the next word, she orders us to lay our pens down. Nobody wants to stop writing, so we all race to
finish off our sentences. When I finally take my pen off the paper, I realize how hard I’ve been pressing, because my hand aches so badly.

‘Excellent! Now who would like to read theirs out? It probably won’t make exact sense, but it’ll be all the better for that. How about you, Jidé?’

Jidé shakes his head.

‘Fair enough, what about you, Ben?’

Ben shakes his head, echoing Jidé, as usual.

‘I see it’s going to be up to the girls then.’

Pat Print turns to Millie with a slightly pleading smile. Millie nods and starts to read.

Orla Banks. Aged twelve. Looks . . . thin, small, pale skin like milk, grey-blue eyes, mousy hair. Favourite colour . . . I don’t know. Personality . . . shy, only
confident in a gang, bullies if she’s with Demi and Bo, jealous, lonely, sad, hungry. What I’ve noticed . . . never eats her lunch, always gives it away or throws it in the bin, or
hides it . . . never seen her eating anything. What
I
know . . . her dad’s left home, she lives with her mum, in a flat opposite me, with her brother who’s about two years old.
She’s always looking after her little brother. Her mum drops her off at school at seven thirty in the morning every day because she’s got to get to work. She’s a nurse, very thin
and worried-looking, just like Orla, but her baby brother is fat.

‘Comments?’ asks Pat.

‘It made me feel sorry for her. She only lives upstairs from me. My mum and her mum are friends but I never really think about her that much,’ blurts out Ben.

‘That’s one of the great things about literature -you can get inside even the most difficult people, and have some understanding of their situation. It’s called empathy. As a
character, what were the most interesting details?’ asks Pat Print, sitting right on the edge of her seat as if she can’t wait to hear our next response.

It’s infectious, her enthusiasm, and despite himself Jidé jumps in.

‘Her hunger,’ answers Jidé, who has finally given up trying to look like he doesn’t know the answers, ‘and her thin, worried mum, her being a nurse and having to
look after everyone else . . . her fat brother . . . dropping Orla off at school at seven thirty.’

‘And her dad leaving,’ Ben almost whispers. ‘I remember that.’

‘That’s right, Ben . . . that would have a massive influence on a girl that age. So you can see how from an exploration of what forms a character you’ve got the beginning of a
story,’ says Pat, and then she pauses for a moment. I think she’s trying to work out how to explain something to us.

‘Just a word of caution to all of you. Make sure, if you’re talking about people you all know, to understand that this work is done in confidence. Perhaps I should have insisted you
change the names.’

‘But we still might have worked out who Millie was talking about,’ interrupts Ben.

‘That’s true,’ nods Pat. ‘And I’m sure you’re such a sensitive group, you’ll be discreet. Now, Mira, do you want to read yours out?’

‘I’m not sure now, because I’m writing about my dad!’

‘Dads are fair game!’ says Pat, making everybody laugh.

Sam Levenson, aged forty. Dark brown hair, what’s left of it. Dark eyes, almost black. Pale skin. Favourite colour, deep blue. Personality . . . kind, gentle, makes jokes, swears a lot,
hides his real feelings. What I’ve noticed . . . he’s not keen on art exhibitions, he worries a lot about me and he doesn’t like anything that’s too heavy or serious. He
doesn’t trust people with straight teeth. What I know is my dad loves all of us, me and Krish and Laila and Mum and Nana Josie, and he’s going to miss Nana so much when she’s
gone. What
I
think he thinks is that I’m a bit strange for wanting to be with Nana so much when she’s dying. Generally, I think he thinks I’m a bit morbid.

‘Good word that, morbid. What’s
your
opinion?’ asks Pat.

‘Nana said it’s a necessary heartbreak . . . when you love someone and you have to say goodbye.’

‘But what do
you
think?’ Pat asks again.

‘I don’t know. Yesterday was the first time I didn’t want to be there.’

‘What’s morbid?’ asks Ben.

‘Someone with a tendency to think of dark things . . . dwelling on death,’ answers Pat Print. ‘The thing is, Mira, no matter how much you love someone, sometimes facing the end
. . . can all get too much.’

Pat Print has a faraway look in her eye as if she’s thinking about someone in particular, but then she seems to pull herself together, tapping her pen against her notebook and springing
back into action.

‘There’s another exercise I like to play with character . . . pens at the ready . . . think of a character, and try to imagine what animal he or she would most be like? Quick, quick
. . . first thing that comes to mind.’

I write ‘horse’.

‘A vegetable or fruit?’

I write ‘artichoke’.

‘A colour.’

I write ‘green’.

A place.’

I write ‘Rwanda’, folding over my paper as soon as I’ve written the word. Of course I’ll never read this out – I’ll just make something else up if she asks me.
Luckily she doesn’t.

‘OK! Boys. What did you come up with for your characters?’

Ben says just four words, ‘Seal, onion, grey, psychiatrist’s.’

‘Intriguing character. Let’s hear yours, Jidé?’

He laughs and shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone.’

‘That’s unlike you.’ Pat Print casts him a look as if to say, ‘I’m not sure you’re telling me the truth.’

She checks her watch. ‘I can’t believe time’s up already. Next week, bring something in, an object, a photo, a painting that means something to you. We’re going to do an
exercise where you bring the object to life. It’s called the “pathetic fallacy”.

‘What’s a phallus, anyway?’ sniggers Ben, trying to embarrass Pat Print. We’ve just done Life Education
again
so we know all the words for willies. We had to write
a long list of the words we thought were OK to use. We came up with eighteen words for a willie, but only eight for a fanny, but that could have been because the boys go so wild and the girls just
give up in the end. When Millie and me tried to work it out on our own, we came up with twenty names for a fanny including a few we made up ourselves!

‘Pathetic fallacy. It’s when you imbue an object with a human emotion.’

‘Sounds pathetic,’ whispers Ben to Jidé, a bit too loudly.

‘Let me offer you an example, Ben . . . ah yes! The rebellious table.’

‘I don’t get it,’ grumps Ben.

Well, just ask yourself. Is it the table that’s rebellious? Or possibly those who sit at the table . . . what innate energy within the table itself makes it rebellious?’ smiles Pat,
pushing a giggling Jidé and Ben out of the room.

In the corridor Jidé hangs back. As I draw level with him, he places a note in my hand and as he does so he folds his hand over mine and squeezes it, before striding off down the
corridor. My heart is beating ridiculously fast as I duck into the girls’ toilets to read . . .

Mira Levenson. Aged twelve. Looks, long dark shiny hair, dark brown eyes (almost black), brown skin, beautiful. Favourite colour, copper orange,
I
think. Personality,
clever, bright, serious, shy, funny without realizing it, holds back her thoughts, mystery girl, arty. What I’ve noticed: she’s stronger than she thinks she is; she doesn’t speak
much at school. What I know: she’s got a loud laugh (when she lets it out). Her best friend is Millie Lockhart. She doesn’t need Millie as much as she thinks she does. Her grandmother
is dying and she loves her. She’s started talking in Pat Print’s class. I know she doesn’t know how much I think of her, how much
I
miss her if she’s not around.
What
I
think she thinks about me is that I’m a bit of a joker, but I’m deadly serious.

‘What’s taking you so long in there?’ shouts Millie from the basins.

‘Nothing,’ I call back, folding Jidé’s note carefully into my pocket and trying to wipe the grin off my face
Love Jidé.
Now I know what it means to have
butterflies in your belly.

Sometimes as I leave Nana at night I stand and look at her, trying to remember everything about her . . . in case I don’t see her again. Then the next day it’s like
she’s almost back to her normal self, sparkly and cheery and sitting up in bed. It doesn’t last very long when she’s like that, but it makes you think that she might be with us
for a little bit longer. Other days she’s so sleepy she hardly has the energy to even open her eyes.

I peer round the corner of the ward to see her sitting up in bed, eating. When she sees me, she raises her arm in the air, and I run up to her and give her a cuddle, sploshing prune juice all
over her white sheets. Nana is having what she calls an ‘up time’.