Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

  I groaned inside. That’d take four hours at least. But I needed to stay in Mama’s good books. Chemistry camp was just eight days away.

  ‘But the telly’s on too. With the latest DVD from Pakistan. Jasmina’s getting ready to marry the polo player. Fabulous clothes. You’ll have to catch up!’

  ‘Great!’ I said. ‘Can’t wait.’ Glue on my fingers, and sludge in my brain.

  That night, I set my alarm for seven-thirty for the chemistry practice, but I was already awake when it buzzed. It had rained all night, and inside the window, condensation collected in puddle colonies on the sill.

  Soraya sighed and rolled over. Mama clinked plates and cups in the kitchen.

  ‘Soraya,’ I whispered, shaking her shoulder, ‘time to get up.’

  She shook her head and burrowed under the quilt.

  ‘Soraya,’ I said in a louder voice. ‘Get up. El-charisma is waiting for you.’

  She moaned. ‘Not yet, I’m sleepy.’

  I sat on her bed, bouncing on the mattress. ‘I’ll make you breakfast. You’ll need lots of energy for throwing the ball. Won’t you?’ I patted her side. ‘Soraya? Won’t you?’

  She squirmed and rolled onto her back. ‘I need my eyes to wake up. They’re still asleep.’

  ‘Don’t let your brain go back to sleep,’ I said. ‘Promise?’

  She nodded, her eyes shut tight.

  I opened the bedroom door, the heat from the living room warm on my face. Mama stood at the bench, sipping tea.

  ‘Early?’ she said. ‘In a rush for Bassima’s?’

  I tied my dressing-gown. ‘No.’ I shrugged. ‘Just hungry.’

  She put down her cup. I hoped she wasn’t going to stop us from going out.

  ‘Not much of a day for dog walking,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should stay home.’

  Nice try. But she did stop short of forbidding us to go.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘It might clear up. Has Rashid gone?’

  Mama nodded. ‘There’s a plate in the sink. I didn’t see him at all last night.’ That was the second night in a row. What trouble was he was getting himself into? ‘Miserable weather,’ she said, looking out the window. ‘I wish Baba would come home.’

  I looked through the steady drizzle, blurry trees bending in gusts. I didn’t mind he was away. And Uncle with him. Life was much less complicated with Mama busy at the shop, and Rashid out all the time. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

  ‘What’s happening with Grandma?’ I asked. ‘Is she getting any better?’

  Mama shook her head. ‘Who knows? Not the doctors.’ She sighed. ‘I wish she’d make up her mind!’

  I put the kettle on. ‘Not sure it’s that easy.’

  ‘I know. But everyone would be relieved if she got better and went home and everything could go back to normal. Ah, mothers-in-law,’ she sighed. ‘One day you’ll have one too, and you’ll understand.’

  ‘One day you’ll be one, Mama.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes. I need to remember that.’

  She looked at the clock on the oven. ‘Goodness, I’ll miss my bus. Make sure Soraya’s dressed warmly.’

  She kissed me on the cheek. ‘And . . .’ she started, looking for something in her bag.

  ‘What?’

  She looked up. ‘Be careful. And extra-sensible.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m only going to Bassima’s.’

  I thought she looked at me like she knew I was lying. I kept a straight face. I told myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I was just not telling her details she mightn’t like.

  After Mama left, I checked on Soraya. She was asleep, one arm across her eyes. I shook her leg.

  ‘Wake up, sleepyhead!’

  My phone buzzed. A message from Bassima.

  Foul day will pick you up 9.45 B xx

  That was a relief. I texted back.

  Great see you then

  I scraped open my drawers as noisily as I could and clapped my hands to wake up Soraya. The weather might be bad, but my plan was just fine.

  At the entrance to the boys school, Vanessa sheltered under a big yellow umbrella with Mrs Kaminski.

  I patted Soraya’s leg. ‘Have fun,’ I said. ‘Your colouring-in stuff’s in your bag.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Bassima, leaning over to kiss her mother. ‘I’ll ring if it’s still raining when we finish.’

  ‘Yeah; thanks heaps, Mrs Hussain,’ I said. ‘Hope Soraya’s not a pain.’

  Mrs Hussain looked at us in the rear-view mirror. ‘Of course not. We’ll have fun today, won’t we, Soraya?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Soraya. ‘Go away, Azra.’

  I smiled and poked my umbrella out the door. Bassima was already trailing Mrs Kaminski into the school.

  We snaked along empty walkways past a quadrangle. A dented garbage bin lay on its side in a puddle, its ‘Do the Right Thing’ sticker staring up to the sky. Mrs Kaminski turned left into a dark-brick building.

  As we propped our umbrellas under a MythBusters poster, Mr Jefferson called out from the end of the corridor. ‘Welcome! Apologies for the weather.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Mrs Kaminski. ‘Unless there’s something you haven’t told us—it’s not one of your experiments?’

  Mr Jefferson laughed, a jolly wobble like a Santa Claus’s. The kind of laugh that made you want to join in.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, motioning us into the lab. ‘Just about ready.’

  Tom and Bradley sat on stools at the front. Tom must’ve gotten better. I guess Bassima knew that already, or she would’ve said. Though I knew these days she wasn’t telling me everything about Tom.

  ‘Hey,’ said Tom, looking straight at Bassima, like she was the only person in the room.

  ‘Hey,’ said Bassima, grinning right back at him.

  I couldn’t see Pratik. Maybe he wasn’t coming. My stomach fluttered. I wished it wouldn’t.

  ‘We’ll wait a couple more minutes,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘Pratik’s not here yet.’

  I breathed out slowly. Why should I care?

  The entrance door banged, and running footsteps squeaked across the corridor. Pratik charged through the door, sleek as a panther, his wet hair dripping.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, panting. ‘Hectic.’

  Mr Jefferson nodded. ‘Sit down, Pratik. Catch your breath. Now,’ he continued, ‘this morning is a titration contest.’ Bassima caught my eye. ‘Who can give me a definition of titration?’

  Vanessa and Bradley shot their hands up like puppets. Mr Jefferson looked over and smiled. ‘Vanessa,’ he said.

  She shoved her glasses up her nose and spoke fast, like she was afraid her answer would escape. ‘Titration is a way to work out the concentration of an unknown solution.’

  ‘Thanks, Vanessa. Bradley, anything to add?’

  ‘Yeah. You need a reagent to react with the unknown solution,’ he said.

  ‘Very good,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘Today we’ll begin with an acid-base titration, using phenolphthalein as an indicator. Our titrant will be hydrochloric acid. Who can tell me what a titrant is?’

  Vanessa and Bradley put up their hands again.

  ‘Someone else, please?’ asked Mr Jefferson. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Ah. The known solution?’

  ‘Nearly; anyone else? Bassima?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Azra?’

  ‘Um. Known solution of known composition,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Your analyte is sodium hydroxide solution, and you need to measure its concentration by working out its molarity from the equivalence point. Got that?’

  We all nodded, Vanessa and Bradley on a faster nod-rate than the rest of us.

  ‘Okay, in teams, like before.’

  Did he mean the same teams as before? Me and Pratik? My neck prickled.

  ‘But this time,’ he continued, ‘we’ll make it girls versus boys.’

  I suddenly felt relief. Bassima looked disappointed. Like sh
e’d hoped to be paired with Tom.

  ‘All the equipment you need is on these two benches. You have ninety minutes. Results will be assessed on time taken and accuracy. Any questions?’

  Bradley leaned forward, like he was waiting for the starter’s gun at an athletics carnival. Though I couldn’t imagine him in running shorts.

  ‘All right then,’ said Mr Jefferson, ‘your time starts now!’

  By lunchtime, the rain had eased. Pale sunshine sparkled on the asphalt and shimmered on puddles.

  ‘Why don’t you all get some fresh air, while we look through the titration results,’ said Mrs Kaminski.

  ‘Then come eat in the science staffroom,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘Back in the lab in forty minutes.’

  Outside, our breath made clouds in the damp air. Myna birds splashed on the basketball court.

  ‘Would you like a tour,’ said Tom, ‘of the world-famous Mount Lewis Boys?’

  Bassima shrugged. ‘S’pose. Nothing better to do.’

  Tom put his hand over his heart. ‘Nothing better? What could be better?’

  Bassima laughed. ‘All right then. Show us the highlights.’

  Tom paused. ‘Only highlights?’ he said. ‘What you reckon, Pratik?’

  Bradley lagged behind, texting on his phone.

  ‘What highlights do you mean?’ asked Pratik. ‘It’s not like anything interesting ever happens here.’

  ‘Not true. There’s, ah, birdlife,’ said Tom. ‘In its natural habitat.’

  ‘Is that the first highlight?’ asked Bassima. ‘I don’t want to get too excited all at once.’

  Vanessa cupped her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  ‘Well, yes, of the nature tour. Perhaps you’d prefer something different?’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Pratik. ‘The daleks-invaded-ourplayground tour?’

  Tom ran his fingers through his hair, and tucked a strand behind his ear. Bassima’s eyes sparkled as he spoke.

  ‘Nah. We can do better than that. I suggest the biology tour. Darwin. Survival of the fittest. The male tribes of Mount Lewis. This way?’ He pointed to the basketball court. We followed him to the edge of the puddle. The birds squawked, and flew off.

  ‘Here’s sports jock central. This species scores hoops from seven metres. They’re at least one point eight metres tall by Year Eleven. They disguise themselves in oversize clothing, and are frequently attracted to loud hip-hop.’

  Bradley looked up from his phone, perplexed.

  ‘Now, to the revheads,’ said Tom, motioning us to the back of the assembly block. Timber seats lined the edge of the building, and overlooked the staff car park. Cigarette butts were sprinkled on the mud.

  ‘This species decorates itself with red P plates, and suffers from dubstep-induced deafness.’

  I laughed. Maybe Rashid used to hang out here.

  ‘They attempt to attract mates by wearing falling-down trousers, laces-free shoes and flashy key rings. At the height of the mating season, their hair grows in a buzz-cut shape. When fully grown, this species may be able to read, but only enough to pass driving tests. Or to read Extreme Racer magazines. Or else they just look at the pictures.’

  Pratik shook his head. ‘Too scary.’

  ‘Now, Pratik,’ said Tom, ‘how about your habitat?’

  Pratik grimaced. ‘Um, where exactly?’

  Tom held his hand to his mouth and spoke sideways. ‘Handball courts.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pratik. ‘Those.’ He stood up straight. ‘This way.’

  He led us back across the quadrangle to the edge of the library. Below the fire stairs, a concreted area was marked into squares.

  ‘This is it, the handball court.’

  ‘Any details, Pratik?’ asked Tom.

  I could tell he was trying to make Pratik seem lame. It wasn’t nice. Pratik shook his head.

  ‘No? Let me explain. Outdoor nerd precinct,’ said Tom. ‘This species has short trousers with belts. Clean socks. Many have poor vision, from too many computer games, and they frequently need glasses.’

  Vanessa giggled; she was almost as bad as Bassima.

  ‘Bulldogs hi-bounce balls highly prized. Maximum nine nerds together at any one time, each one isolating itself inside a single square. Only visible in fine weather. In danger of extinction, due to low breeding rates.’

  That was mean. Bassima laughed, but Pratik looked embarrassed.

  ‘Give him a break, Tom,’ I said. ‘You haven’t told us what you do at lunchtime yet. And how super-cool it is.’

  Tom looked surprised. Like I’d bitten him.

  ‘Whoa. I would. But, sadly, I think we’re out of time.’

  Then he bowed like a French waiter in a movie. ‘You can leave tips with my assistant, Mr Singh.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Bassima, rubbing her belly and frowning a little. ‘My tip is we should eat lunch before time’s up. Best save something for next time.’

  Tom bowed low again. ‘As you wish.’

  XIV

  End point

  the point in a titration when the indicator changes colour

  Back in the lab, Mrs Kaminski leaned against the demonstration bench, chatting to Mr Jefferson.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Jefferson, standing up as we walked in. ‘First up, the results,’ he said. ‘I am pleased to announce that the calculations were very close, but there was a clear winner.’

  Vanessa caught my eye, looking nervous.

  ‘This morning’s winning team is Mount Lewis—’ he paused for effect—‘Boys High.’

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Bradley, punching the air. Tom grinned. Pratik did as well.

  ‘Told you we took too long,’ said Bassima, rubbing her stomach again.

  ‘Now for part two,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘This afternoon, you’ll work in pairs to identify two unknown compounds from a possible six named substances. Baking soda, aspirin, caffeine, Epsom salts, borax and chalk.

  ‘First up, one very important detail. You must not taste any of the compounds as part of your identification. Unless you want a short cut to hospital.’

  I looked over at Bassima. Her face was all twisted. Something was majorly wrong. She grabbed the edge of the bench so hard, her knuckles turned white.

  ‘It’s a race to identify your compounds,’ said Mr Jefferson, who hadn’t noticed anything. ‘First, you need to test all the known compounds for solubility, density and pH. Then test your unknown compounds.’

  ‘Urghh,’ said Bassima, doubling over. Her scarf fell over her face.

  ‘There’s some aspirin here,’ said Tom, pointing to the unknown compounds.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Bassima, her voice muffled. ‘Not joking.’

  Mrs Kaminski hurried across the room and put an arm around her back. ‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Bassima groaned. ‘Hurts bad, miss. Swear to God. My stomach. Ooohh.’

  Mrs Kaminski looked at Mr Jefferson. ‘Can she lie down somewhere for a minute?’

  He jangled his keys. ‘Of course, there’s a foldaway bed in the staffroom. Boys—a hand, please?

  Tom, Pratik and Bradley dashed after him. I think they were glad to escape. Bassima looked terrible. I’d never seen her like this.

  ‘Something you ate?’ asked Mrs Kaminski. Bassima shook her head. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better after a rest.’

  Bassima straightened up.

  ‘Okay?’

  Bassima nodded.

  ‘This way,’ said Mrs Kaminski, leading her by the elbow and taking small steps. At the doorway, Bassima yelled, ‘Owww!’ and grabbed her belly. ‘I’m being stabbed!’

  I ran over and held her other arm. ‘Shall I call your mum?’

  There were tears in her eyes. ‘Please,’ she said.

  ‘How about we call an ambulance?’ asked Mrs Kaminski. ‘We can meet your mother at the hospital?’

  Bassima shook her head. ‘I just want my mum.’

  I fished out Bassima’s phone from her pencil case. I
pressed ‘Mama Hussain Mobile’. It rang and rang until her voicemail answered.

  ‘It’s Azra here. Bassima’s sick. Please call back?

  ‘She didn’t pick up,’ I said.

  ‘Owww,’ said Bassima, ‘it really, really hurts. Dear Lord, I’m going to faint.’

  Mrs Kaminski looked alarmed. ‘Ever had this kind of pain before?’

  Bassima shook her head. Then there was a huge burp, and vomit cascaded all over the floor.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Mrs Kaminski.

  Bassima sobbed, strands of mucus hanging from her nose.

  ‘How we going?’ asked Mr Jefferson, sticking his head around the door.

  Mrs Kaminski shook her head. ‘Bad. Maybe an ambulance.’

  Bassima’s phone buzzed on the bench. I picked it up.

  ‘Bassima? I just missed your call. What’s wrong? Soraya and I are out walking the dog.’

  ‘Ah, it’s Azra, Mrs Hussain. Bassima’s not well. You need to come. Now.’

  ‘My goodness! I’m only at the park, we’re not far away at all. Be there in a minute or two. Soraya! Come quickly. Bye, Azra.’

  ‘I think we should call an ambulance,’ said Mr Jefferson.

  ‘Her mother’s nearly here,’ I said. ‘She’ll be here really soon. Should I wait by the front gate?’

  ‘Please,’ said Mrs Kaminski. ‘Bring her straight in.’

  ‘I’ll take her phone,’ I said, putting it in the back pocket of my jeans.

  Mrs Kaminski nodded. Bassima moaned.

  Mr Jefferson brought over a roll of paper towel from the demonstration bench. The whole lab smelled terrible. Poor Bassima. She was a mess. I hoped her mum would be quick.

  When I pushed open the entry doors, the others were sitting on the steps. Tom stood up quickly.

  ‘She all right?’ he asked. ‘Hope she hasn’t got my virus.’

  I looked at him, understanding something for the first time. Don’t tell me they’d been kissing? Dear Lord. I couldn’t deal with that right now. I turned and ran for the front gate.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, racing after me.

  At the front of the school, the street was empty. Shallow puddles from the morning rain rippled in the breeze. A cockatoo screeched in the tree above, cracking a pod with its beak. Stripped casings fell and bounced on the road.