“Worse than ever.” Amber sighed. “The other day I even started wondering if I ought to be taking science A levels.”
“Science?” Rose stared at her. “But I thought writing was your thing.”
“It is – was. But I keep getting blocked.”
“I had been wondering,” Rose said. “I was starting to think my notifications for Wilde at Heart had stopped working. You haven’t blogged for ages.”
“Exactly.” Amber looked down into her lap. “I wish I could be more like you.”
“You do? Why?”
“Well, you’re so sure of what you want to do with your life – so focused on your dream.”
Rose laughed. “That’s funny because I wish I could be more like you.”
Amber stared at her, shocked. “Why?”
“Because you don’t care about being different – the way you dress and stuff. I think I’m getting there – by coming out to you guys, I mean. But I still haven’t plucked up the courage to come out to my mom or at school yet.”
Amber frowned. Did Rose think the same as Chloe and the other bullies at school – that she dressed the way she did because she was gay? “I – I’m not gay, you know.”
Rose stared at her. “I know that. I just meant – you don’t try to be like everyone else.” Her face fell. “Not like me.”
Amber felt a surge of panic. Rose was trying to open up to her. What should she do? What should she say?
“What do you mean?” she asked. That was good – put the focus back on to Rose. If she kept asking questions she could delay the awkward moment when she’d have to give advice.
“Messing around with that boy last year. Sending him that photo.” Rose suddenly looked really down-hearted.
Amber cleared her throat. “Yes, well, sometimes you need to do the wrong thing to work out what the right thing is.” She looked at Rose anxiously. Did what she’d said make sense? To her relief, Rose started nodding.
“Yeah. You’re right. I like that. Thank you.” She grinned and started playing with the silver rose pendant on her necklace. “I definitely know what the right thing is now, that’s for sure.” She looked at Amber. “Have you ever been in love?”
Oh God! Having emotional heart-to-hearts with friends was like negotiating your way through a minefield. Just when you think you’ve dodged one potential disaster, another appears. “Er, no, not really. I don’t really…” she tailed off. Better to say nothing.
“You don’t really what?”
“I don’t really like boys.” Amber’s face started to burn. “I mean, I’m not gay. I’m just not really anything, I suppose.” This was excruciating. She didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life and she didn’t have a sexuality. It was official – she was a complete non-person!
“What do you mean, you’re not really anything?” Rose frowned. “Of course you’re something. Maybe not being interested is your thing.”
“Maybe.” Amber didn’t think so, though. The whole world was built around couples.
“You’re going to figure all this out, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’ve just had a knock-back, like I did last year – but without the nudity.” Rose gave an embarrassed grin. “I know it must have been really tough to get that email about your mom, but you’re going to get through it. Seriously, you don’t need to know who she is to figure out who you are. And when you’ve figured that out you’re going to be stronger and more awesome than ever, I promise.”
Amber smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“No worries. And I’m here any time you need to chat, OK?”
“OK.”
“I have some news, by the way,” Rose said. “To do with my dream.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I’m going to be running a cake stall in Spitalfields Market every Saturday, starting this week!”
“No way!”
“Francesca gave me the job.”
Amber studied Rose’s face. Why was she blushing bright red? “Your boss at the cake shop?”
“Uh-huh. She’s branching out into market stalls and she wants me to run the first one. I’m so psyched. It’s going to be such a great experience.”
Amber smiled. “Well done. I’m so – you’re so – I’m proud of you.”
“Really?” Rose looked like she didn’t quite believe her.
“Yes. After everything you went through last year – it’s great that you didn’t let it make you give up on your dream.”
“Are you kidding me? It was my dreams that kept me going … and my fellow Dreamers.”
As Rose smiled at her, Amber felt a prickle of hope. This was why she’d set up the Moonlight Dreamers – because she believed so passionately in the power of dreams. And even though she felt lost right now, she knew it would be her dreams that would help her find her way again. Once she worked out what they were.
Chapter Fourteen
All the way to the hospital Maali had felt excited about seeing her dad, but as she followed her mum to the ward, her heart sank. An old man was lying in the first bed they walked past. He was wearing faded pyjamas and his skin was wrinkled and paper-thin. His breath rasped as he struggled to sit upright. Maali quickly looked away. It felt intrusive to see complete strangers displayed in their pyjamas like this. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor until her mum stopped by a bed at the far end of the ward. When Maali looked up she had to stop herself from gasping. Her dad was propped against a bank of pillows. His hair was greasy and his face unshaven. Even though it had only been a day since she last saw him, he looked so much worse – and so weak.
“Dad,” Maali said softly. Don’t look upset, she told herself sternly as she walked over to him.
“Maali,” he replied in a coarse whisper.
She perched on the edge of the bed. A thin tube linked to a drip was attached to his arm.
“It’s so I don’t get dehydrated,” he told her, following her worried gaze. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Maali replied. Although it wasn’t good to see him like this – not at all. No wonder her mum hadn’t wanted Namir to come with them. No wonder she’d warned Maali not to expect too much.
“Do you want some water?” her mum asked.
“Yes, please.”
Maali watched as her mum took a jug of water from the bedside cabinet and poured some into a plastic cup. Then she carefully lifted it to Maali’s dad’s lips and he took a sip. It was horrible to see him like this – so vulnerable. He was always the strong one, and so full of life.
“How was school, pet?” he asked. Even his eyes had lost their sparkle, as if the virus had swept through his body and chased away all of his joy.
“It was OK.” Maali reached into her school bag. “I brought you a present.” She took out the framed photo and handed it to him.
“Oh, Maali, this is lovely.” His hands trembled as he held the picture. “Look,” he said, showing it to her mum.
“I thought you could keep it by your bed while you’re here – to remind you of Mum and home.”
“It’s beautiful,” her mum said, her voice wobbling slightly. “When did you take it?”
“Christmas morning.”
“Thank you,” Maali’s dad said, his eyes shiny with tears.
Maali smiled at them bravely but fear was fluttering like a trapped bird inside her ribcage. She hated seeing her parents like this.
As Maali climbed the stairs to her attic room later that night, her legs felt heavy as lead. Normally she could find hope in any situation but not today. The hospital visit had left her feeling drained. She knelt before her shrine. “Please, Lakshmi, I need your help. Please, please give me a sign that things will get better. That my dad will get better. Or at least let me know how I can help.” She gazed at the figurine. It looked cold and lifeless in the dark. Then Maali had a terrible thought. Why would God do this to her dad? Why would he put anyone through such pain? It felt so cruel. And
then another terrible thought struck her. What if there were no gods and goddesses? What if Amber and Rose were right and it was all a sham? Maali prayed every day. She meditated. She tried to live in the most loving way possible and so did her parents and yet this was how they were rewarded. It didn’t seem fair and it didn’t make sense. Don’t be so stupid, of course God exists, Maali told herself as she got undressed and into bed. The sheets felt icy cold against her skin.
“And next on the open mic, we have Rebel Writer.”
Sky watched as Leon made his way up to the front of the room. He’d been so nervous before but as soon as he reached the mic he seemed more at ease. She watched wistfully as he took his time to adjust the microphone stand. On the two occasions she’d read her poems in public she’d been so terrified she wouldn’t have dared to touch the mic in case it fell over.
“Hello,” Leon said softly. His eyes twinkled under the spotlights as he met her gaze. “I’d like to read you all a piece I wrote called ‘Be the Change’.”
Sky sat back in her chair and closed her eyes as he started to read. She wanted to let the words soak in without any distraction. Leon’s poem was all about the discrimination he faced being black. How, right from the age of five, certain teachers treated him differently. How he and his friends would get stopped all the time by the police. How people sometimes looked scared when he got on a bus. How tired he was of constantly feeling he had something to prove – that he wasn’t a gangster or a dealer or a thug. It was heartbreaking, but then the whole mood of the poem changed. Leon talked about how he’d been really angry at first but then he’d read a quote from Ghandi about being the change you want to see in the world and this had transformed everything. “Be the change, be the change, change the be, be the change,” the refrain went, over and over, melodic and hypnotic. She could see now why it was called performance poetry. His voice lilted up and down. Every line, every word was recited with exactly the right cadence. Softer, then louder, pausing for emphasis. She could tell that he must have put as much thought into the performance as he did into the writing. Sky was in awe. This was how she dreamed of performing someday. Rather than blurting her work out as quickly as possible, she longed to have the confidence to experiment with her voice, to pause for effect, and not forget her lines.
The poem came to an end. Leon stood at the mic, eyes closed. There was a moment’s silence, then the audience burst into applause. Leon opened his eyes and looked straight at Sky and grinned. Sky’s hands stung from clapping so hard. He came and sat down next to her, giving her arm a quick squeeze. Sky’s stomach fluttered in response.
“That was great. You were great,” she whispered. She felt so proud, and once again it was as if she’d known him for years.
“Really?”
She loved that he looked genuinely surprised – that he wasn’t aware of how talented he was. “Yes, really.”
After the open mic was over they walked through Covent Garden together. Even in deepest, darkest, coldest January the streets were full of tourists and revellers and the narrow roads hummed with rickshaws and black cabs.
“How are you getting home?” Leon asked, swinging his sports bag over his shoulder.
“Tube, from Leicester Square. How about you?” Sky asked casually but hoping so badly he’d be going the same way.
“Same. Whereabouts do you live?”
“Currently, Camden.”
Leon looked at her questioningly.
“It changes. My dad and I live on a houseboat.”
Leon grinned. “Oh man, that must be great.”
“It is. How about you? Where do you live?”
“Willesden – in a tower block. And yep, it’s as grim as it sounds.” He cleared his throat. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
Sky felt a strange jolting sensation deep inside her. “Me too.” Part of her was praying that he’d ask to see her again but a deeper part of her, the part that had recognized Leon as soon as he walked through the door, felt certain she’d be seeing more of him. It was a very weird feeling, nervous and calm at the same time.
“I was wondering…”
“Yes.” She glanced up at him. He was looking straight ahead.
“Would you like to meet up some time? I’d love to hear some of your work.”
Sky smiled. “Of course. That would be great.” They reached a crossing crowded with people. She felt Leon’s arm, solid and strong, lightly touch her shoulders, shielding her from being jostled. It felt so nice. So safe. They crossed over. All of the noise and chaos of London faded into a background haze. It was as if she and Leon were the only two in focus. Like this was a pivotal scene in the story of her life. One that was meant to happen.
Leon rode the Tube with her to Camden, even though he should have got off two stops before.
“You sure you’ll be OK getting home from here?” he asked as the train pulled into the station. “You don’t want me to walk you?”
“No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
As a crowd of people surged to the door to get off, he once again put his arm lightly around her shoulders, blocking her from everyone, like a solid wall of muscle. She loved the way he was so gentle and strong all at once.
“OK, well I better head back to Euston,” he said as they reached the part of the station where the tunnel divided. He rooted around his bag and pulled out a pen. “Give me your hand.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shake it again.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind. You have a very nice handshake.”
His dark eyes shone. “I do?”
She blushed and looked away. “Yes.”
He took her hand in his. It felt warm and strong. “Well, you have a very nice hand.”
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a busker singing Imagine by John Lennon came echoing through the tunnel. Sky felt a shiver of joy. Now, every time she heard that song, she’d think back to this magical moment.
Leon started writing something on the back of her hand. “My number,” he explained. “If you’d like to meet for more poetry and handshakes – any time.”
“Thank you.” Again, she felt the weird mixture of sheer joy that she had his number and the certainty that she was always meant to get it.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Leon said, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder. “I hope.”
“You will,” she replied and their eyes connected for what seemed like ages. Then another swarm of people surged towards them and carried them their separate ways.
When Sky arrived back at the houseboat she could smell incense from the tow-path. Liam was back already. She felt a moment’s apprehension but she was so happy she doubted anything Liam could do or say would spoil her mood. She made her way through the narrow kitchen and into the living room. Liam was sitting on the floor, strumming his guitar.
“Hey, Dad, sorry I’m back so late.”
“Where have you been?” Liam put down the guitar and got to his feet. He looked more relieved than angry.
“I went to the Poetry Café after school. A friend of mine was reading there.” It wasn’t a lie. Leon was a friend now. He just hadn’t been before.
“Ah, OK. And how was school?” He studied her face anxiously.
“It was fine.” Everything felt fine now. Her entire world – even the worst parts – had been cast in the warm glow of meeting Leon.
“Ah, that’s grand.” He hugged her. “I knew it would get better. The first day was bound to be the worst. I got a couple more private clients from tonight’s class, so hopefully we should be OK for the mooring fees.”
“That’s great, Dad.” Sky breathed a sigh of relief. As long as she could stay in London, she’d be happy.
When she got into her bunk later, she thought of Leon’s poem, trying to remember the lines. She wondered what it must be like to face constant discrimination because of the colour of your skin. She felt ashamed that she’d let a little mild teasing about her name get to her so much. That was nothing compa
red to what some people had to face day in, day out. But Leon wasn’t bitter and sulking about it, he was out there writing and speaking about it, trying to change things for the better. She pulled her duvet up to her chin and gazed into the darkness. That was how she wanted to live her life – not bitching and moaning from the sidelines but actually doing something. Being the change she wanted to see in the world.
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WHAT IF YOUR THING ISN’T A THING?
As teenagers we’re constantly being asked to define ourselves. Through our appearance, through our behaviour, through the bands we like and the clothes we wear and through our sexuality.
There’s this constant need to categorize. Like society has to know exactly where we fit in.
But what if you don’t fit in?
What if there’s no neat little pigeonhole or label for you?
What if your thing isn’t even a thing?
For example: what if you don’t like any kind of music? Or what if you don’t have a clue what you want to do when you leave school? Or what if you just aren’t interested in boys or sex … for example.
Does anyone else ever feel like this?
Does anyone else feel the pressure to fake it sometimes just to fit in?
Maybe more of us need to find the courage to speak our truth.
If you don’t fit in, say so, instead of pretending to be something you’re not.
If how you are doesn’t exist as a thing, be brave enough to create your own thing.
Who knows, there could be thousands of people out there all hoping and wishing they weren’t alone, when the truth is, they’re not. It’s just that they’re all being silent.
I’m going to leave you with a favourite Oscar quote of mine that I know I’ve used before on this blog but it’s perfect for this topic:
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”
Be yourself. Be proud of yourself. And dare to speak loud about yourself.
Till next time…
Amber
Tell It to the Moon Page 9