We Can Be Heroes
Authors: Catherine Bruton
After graduating from the University of Oxford, Catherine Bruton began her career as an English teacher and later went on to write feature articles for
The Times
and other publications. She started writing
We Can Be Heroes
in 2009, inspired by her research for an article about children whose parents died on 9/11, and by the manga fans in her Year 9 class.
We Can Be Heroes
is her first novel for Egmont. Catherine lives near Bath with her husband and two small children.
We Can Be Heroes
First published in Great Britain 2011
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2011 Catherine Bruton
Inside illustrations copyright © 2011 David Shephard
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5652 0
eISBN 978 1 7803 1068 8
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, Warwickshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
All 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 publisher and copyright owner.
Table of Contents
For Jonny, Joe-Joe and Elsie Maudie,
and all our lovely grandparents,
with love xx
My dad was killed in the 9/11 attacks in New York. I was only two at the time so I don't really remember him much, although when people ask, I say I do. People ask about my dad a lot. I usually respond with a shrug or by looking at my shoes. But no one seems to mind: it's OK if I'm rude or even a bit weird at times, because I'm the boy whose dad died on 9/11.
But the stuff in this book is not about that. It's about the summer my mum went away; the summer that me and Jed and Priti tried to catch a suicide bomber and prevent an honour killing; the summer that Stevie Sanders disappeared and we caused a race riot. It's about how we built a tree house and joined the bomb squad; how I found my dad and Jed lost his; and how we both lost our mums then found them again.
So it's not really about 9/11, but then again none of those things would have happened if it hadn't been for that day. So I guess it's all back to front. Sort of . . .
THINGS I'D LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT MY DAD
1. Who was his favourite
Star Wars
character? Was he a fan of the Dark Side? Darth Vader or Maul? Young Obi Wan or old?
2. If he could choose for England to win the World Cup or for Aston Villa to win the treble, which would he go for?
3. Who did he think was the greatest ever Sports Personality of the Year?
4. Could he light a fire by rubbing sticks together?
5. What was his record for keepy-uppies?
6. Was he a morning person or an evening person?
7. Would he have been good cop or bad cop? (Mum says she gets tired of trying to be both.)
8. What did he smell like and what did it feel like to hug him?
9. What did he think about me?
10. I can't think of another one, which is pretty rubbish. You'd think I'd have loads and loads of questions
about my dad since I hardly remember him at all and he died in such tragic circumstances, but I can't even think of ten. What does that say about me exactly?
This used to be my dad's room. When he was a kid, he shared it with his brother, Ian. They stuck the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and the Smurf stickers all over the window frame. On the shelf are some trophies my dad won â chess champion, Under 12 Most Improved Player, that sort of thing. And on the wall is a second place pennant he once won in a rowing regatta, covering up a doodle on the wallpaper. So maybe he liked drawing, like me.
I'm going to be sleeping here, just like last time. And, just like last time, I don't know how long I'll be staying, and it's not worth asking Granny and Grandad because they don't know either.
So I'm sitting on the windowsill, drawing cartoons. That's what I do when stuff like this happens: I draw
things. Doodles, mainly, and cartoons, whatever comes into my head. I don't know why, but it sort of helps. First I doodle the birds on the telephone wires. I draw them with mobile phones held up to their beaks, then I draw phone numbers circling their heads, spinning round them till they go goggle-eyed. Then I start to draw a girl with the phone, but she ends up looking like my mum so I stop because I don't want to think about my mum.
I put down my pencil, run my finger over my dad's faded Smurf stickers and stare out of the window.
Downstairs I can hear my grandparents talking.
âHow was she?' That's my granny.
âThe same as last time,' Grandad replies.
Which doesn't tell me anything I don't already know.
I pick up my pencil and look out of the window again for something else to draw.
The cul-de-sac is empty except for the little chav kid (that's what my grandad calls her, but I think her real name is Stevie) riding a pink bicycle with tassels on the handlebars round and round her driveway. She's been there for ages, all on her own. I draw a
picture of her â a cartoon girl with big Bambi eyes and a tiny body in outsized shoes. I make it look like she's riding her bike through a twister in the sky â just like the witch in
The Wizard of Oz
â then I draw things whirling and twirling around her: a washing machine, a pair of wellies,
click-clackety
knitting needles, a hula-hooping cow, a fish bowl on a piano.
I glance over at the house opposite. My grandad says an Asian family have moved in. Most of the neighbours on the cul-de-sac are as old as my grandparents, except the Sanders (Stevie's family) next door and now the Asian kids in the house opposite.
I'm just wondering whether any of the kids are my sort of age when the door of the Asian House (Grandad again) opens and out comes the oddest-looking girl I've ever seen.
She's about ten, I reckon, maybe eleven. Skin the colour of toffee, massive bunches attached to the sides of her head with frilly pink things that make her look like a poodle. She's wearing her school uniform so I guess her school hasn't broken up yet either. I suppose I should be pleased that I'm missing the last week of
term, but I'm not â not really. On top of her school uniform, the bunchy girl is wearing this red tutu thing, and on her feet she has trainers that, from the way she's zooming around, I guess must have wheels in them. They're bright pink and look very new.
She looks up, sees me in the window and ignores me. Then she wheelies up and down her drive, twirling in neat circles before coming to a stop in front of her doorway with a little flourish â like she's an Olympic gymnast or a figure skater or something. Stevie stops to watch her, but the bunchy girl just ignores her too and keeps on wheelie-ing.
I draw a cartoon of a wheelie-wearing superheroine â giant bunches flying, the wheels in her heels going at the speed of light, whizzing past Stevie on her flying bike and the hula-hooping cow and the upside-down fish-bowl piano.
