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- Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Featuring top Young Adult authors and introducing a host of exciting new voices, this anthology of stories and poetry from BAME writers on the theme of change is a long-overdue addition to the YA scene. Contributors include Tanya Byrne, Inua Ellams, Catherine Johnson, Patrice Lawrence, Ayisha Malik, Irfan Master, Musa Okwonga and Nikesh Shukla. Plus introducing four fresh new voices in YA fiction: Mary Bello, Aisha Bushby, Yasmin Rahman and Phoebe Roy.
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Seitenzahl: 257
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‘This anthology […] is much-needed and long overdue.’ Fiona Noble, Editor’s Choice, The Bookseller
‘One day I want to take the representation of BAME voices in YA for granted. I want every young person to find their reflection in a book and discover themselves through fiction. Bold and inspiring, this book leads the way.’ Mariam Khan, blogger and host of #feminisminya
‘Eclectic in genre, emotion and style, but united by theme and brilliance, A Change Is Gonna Come is one of the best anthologies for young adults out there.’ Wei Ming Kam, contributor to The Good Immigrant and co-founder of BAME in Publishing
‘[…] a veritable treasure trove of talent, featuring both present and future YA stars. […] by turns heart-warming, thoughtprovoking and unsettling, A Change Is Gonna Come has something for everyone. I highly recommend this book.’ Cat Clarke, author of Girlhood
‘This is an essential collection for young people, and all readers who feel other, to realize they are not alone.’ Sarah Shaffi, Online Editor and Producer at The Bookseller, and books previewer at Stylist
‘[…] an inspirational collection of voices – all of which are bound by the same energy and vigour, the same desire to bring about something new.’ Pooja Puri, author of The Jungle
‘This lyrical and timely collection offers readers mirrors to feel a sense of belonging and opens a wider window on to a world of stories and storytellers who are writing the change.’ Sita Brahmachari, author of Tender Earth
‘[A Change Is Gonna Come] is a must-read this summer.’ Sonya Lalli, author of The Arrangement
A Note on the Stories
The purpose of this anthology is to give creative space to those who have historically had their thoughts, ideas and experiences oppressed. As such, we have not censored the topics covered by our writers. If you’re worried about coming across something that is particularly upsetting to you, see page 320 for the list of topics covered. We have included some resources that might help if you are affected by any of the issues raised or would like to find out more.
Contents
Foreword
I was delighted to be asked to write a foreword to this book. It features some of my favourite authors, as well as authors I strongly suspect will become new favourites. ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ is, as you probably know, the title of a song written by Sam Cooke that became an anthem of the 1960s Civil Rights struggle in the USA. It’s a song that captures the pain of racial injustice but also the determination and optimism required to change things for the better.
Some changes are inevitable – night and day; the seasons; birth, ageing and death. Some proverbs – ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks’, ‘A leopard never changes its spots’ – suggest that change is impossible. But many changes are neither inevitable nor impossible. That’s what makes ‘change’ such a fascinating topic.
The tension between changing to ‘fit into’ the world and changing the world to be more like we want it to be is present in so much storytelling. We can think of change as the space between who we are and who we want to be – between being and becoming – as individuals and as communities. Change is not inevitable or impossible; it requires imagination to picture how things might be, as well as courage and tenacity to work to make the imagined a reality.
As a teacher, I want those I teach to believe that the stories they write can be about people like them. Yet many don’t, and indeed one child in my class announced that he thought ‘stories have to be about white people’. I think children’s writing often imitates their reading and there is plenty of evidence available that the range of books for children and young people being published is still too narrow and doesn’t reflect the country or the world in which we live. But, although it’s been a long time coming, this is beginning to change.
Writers, like teachers, need to have optimistic views on change. You could say that both are in the business of ‘changing minds’ in some sense – not just their own minds but also the minds of other people. ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ is no mere prediction. It’s an expression of hope and intent. As James Baldwin wrote, ‘Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.’
Thank you to Stripes for facing the situation in children’s publishing. Thank you to the writers in this book for their imagination, their optimism and their determination. May we all be inspired, emboldened and yes, changed, by reading their words.
Darren Chetty – May 2017
Introduction
A Change Is Gonna Come has developed from a determination to convert hope into action, desire into intention. We know there is a wealth of talented writers of colour out there and we know their voices aren’t reaching readers as often as they should. Each of the twelve writers in this collection has brought their own individual take on the theme of ‘change’. The stories are inspiring but not all of them are stories of success and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As Musa Okwonga’s poem, ‘The Elders on the Wall’ expresses, change is difficult, not least for those who are leading the way. The second poem in the collection, Inua Ellams’s ‘Of Lizard Skin and Dust Storms’, encapsulates the inescapable tension between change as both loss and gain.
The stories gathered in this book take the reader from a past filled with prejudice and bravery of spirit, as in Catherine Johnson’s ‘Astounding Talent! Unequalled Performances!’ to a future where prejudice still exists but spirit has not been extinguished either, in Patrice Introduction Lawrence’s story ‘The Clean Sweep’. In both, it is clear that the people we love are central to everything.
First love is the focus of Tanya Byrne’s ‘Hackney Moon’, a vision of hope for what is possible that should be held close at heart by anyone who has felt lost; Irfan Master, by contrast, reaches for the seemingly impossible in a mind-bending journey through time. The anchor, of course, is love.
None of the writers here are afraid of taking on big questions, of looking at the world we live in and asking us to think a little harder and a little deeper at why things are the way they are. Why don’t things change? Why can’t they? Nikesh Shukla’s ‘We Who?’ and Ayisha Malik’s ‘A Refuge’ both take up this cry.
And as change is, without doubt, about the future, I must make special mention of the four new voices included in the collection. Talented writers who are just at the beginning of their writing careers and whose names I am sure you will see adorning the covers of novels and story collections of the future. The publishing industry is changing and the incredible writing produced here is evidence of that. Discover a world where the mythic and the everyday intertwine in Phoebe Roy’s ‘Iridescent Adolescent’, glimpse the struggle of a girl trying desperately to maintain control in Aisha Bushby’s ‘Marionette Girl’, share in the sadness of losing someone and the joy of gaining unexpected new friendships in Mary Bello’s ‘Dear Asha’ and see what impact a chance encounter can have in Yasmin Rahman’s ‘Fortune Favours the Bold’. I, for one, cannot wait to read more from each of these talented writers.
May the writing in this book be an inspiration and a statement of fact: a change is gonna come.
Ruth Bennett, Editorial Director Stripes Publishing – May 2017
Working on this anthology has been an incredible experience. Not only does it represent an important step forwards, it also showcases outstanding talent. Every teen deserves to be their own protagonist and at long last here is a book to reflect that.
Aa’Ishah Z. HawtonA Change Is Gonna Come Editorial Mentee
THE ELDERS ON THE WALL
•
Musa Okwonga
I wish to change the world, and the elders smirk
Since all I see before me is this:
Their thousand-mile-high wall
With no visible places to grip.
Even if I climb it,
I’ll have to leave so many behind
While I rise towards these elders, who yell
That they made it up there without help.
“You youths can reach where we are if you toil,”
They say, pouring oil down that wall’s face.
They didn’t build this edifice,
But they don’t seem aggrieved that it’s complete.
What to do? The wall extends
In either direction and out of view.
My choices are two:
Either I stand here,
Chip away at each brick,
Or, more dangerously, turn and run from the crowd
Till I no longer hear their anguished shouts,
And somehow tumble forwards over those roughest roads,
Those loneliest hills, and sprint, convinced
There’s better out there, for all of us.
I run, raging and so afraid,
Joyfully and terrifyingly uncaged,
To lands that even maps dare not touch,
Through thoughts that scream I’ll not amount to much,
Through dry-throated mornings, tears of regret,
Fevers of loneliness, migraines of lost faith;
And all that time, there’s no cloak
Round my shoulders, no warm arm, because all
Of those I love are chipping at that wall,
Wishing for its fall.
I lurch on, beyond self-doubt,
Then further still, till I black out –
And find myself atop a cloud,
Looking down towards that wall,
Behind which the elders are scurrying and scared.
I call, though unsure I may be heard:
“Change is hard; still, maintain the charge.
They may have the safety,
But the bravery is all ours.”
I fear my message may not have drifted down
Since the wind up here is strong,
But then a friend raises a hand to hail me,
And they press on.
MARIONETTE GIRL
•
Aisha Bushby
Ask me anything about Harry Potter. Seriously. I’ve done twenty-three quizzes online so far and got one hundred per cent on all of them. I’m a Gryffindor, apparently, although I don’t feel brave most of the time. Usually I feel scared when things don’t go to plan, but that’s for another conversation.
My wand is seven inches, maple, unicorn hair, bendy.
The bit about the unicorn hair is my favourite.
Maple is supposed to mean I’m a natural traveller and adventurer. That made me laugh. On a scale of adventurousness, I don’t even register.
Oh, and my patronus is a cat. That I can believe because cats thrive on routine. Did you know that if you try and disrupt their routine it messes with their mental health?
I did, because I’ve researched it.
A lot.
FRIDAY 12.01 p.m.
Maths is my favourite subject. I like the certainty of it. We spend the first half of the lesson learning a new formula and the second half applying it to a worksheet. Also, unlike in English, we aren’t asked to contribute our opinions. That terrifies me.
But today is different.
I go to sit at my usual spot: third row in, by the wall. I don’t sit right at the back where Callum and his minions cluster, nor do I sit at the front.
But today someone else has taken my seat and I freeze, actually freeze, by the door when I see her. A few people who had been following behind bump into my heavy rucksack and swear at me, but I don’t care. Eventually they squeeze past while I stay glued to the spot.
“A problem, Amani?” Mr Delacourt asks. He has a stern-looking face with a thick greying moustache and he always sounds sarcastic, even when he’s being sincere.
“Um…” I pause. I want to say someone is in my place but it’s a girl who’s just visiting for the day before deciding whether to join our school next year. Milly Wilkinson. Our form tutor, Ms Yates, introduced her to us this morning and she looks terrified.
Plus it’s petty, isn’t it?
Even so, I hope this doesn’t mean I’ll have to move around during my other lessons. Mr Delacourt’s drawl interrupts my worries.
“Well, then, take your seat,” he says, shuffling through his papers. Everyone is starting to stare. I take the only seat left, which is right in front of Mr Delacourt’s desk, and already I feel exposed.
I drop my bag to the floor, sit down and pull the chair forwards. As I do I feel something pliable beneath my fingers. I cringe. Someone has stuck a piece of used gum under the chair and I’ve just touched it.
My uncontaminated hand shoots up.
“Yes, Amani?” Mr Delacourt sighs.
“Please may I go to the toilet?” I ask. Please, please, please. My heart beats in time with the request. I can feel the germs dancing across my fingers – it makes them tingle.
“Has someone put you up to this?” He sounds irritated now.
“What? No, I—”
“You had plenty of time to go to the toilet during break. I’m sure you can hold it until lunch.” Without a pause he launches into the lesson, but I can’t concentrate.
All I can think about is washing my hands. I can’t touch any of my things, either, so I flip through my book one-handed.
Mr Delacourt’s words float in one ear and out the other. My mind is too full of worries to absorb anything.
Instead I sit and watch as the clock tick-tocks closer to 1.00 p.m.
1.03 p.m.
I’m in the girls’ toilets before most people have even made it out of their lessons. I let the tap run extra hot and stick my hand under it for as long as I can bear.
I feel the anxiety slip down the drain as I wash.
But once isn’t enough.
One, two, three.
Some girls walk in and I have to speed up my ritual.
They can’t know.
1.27 p.m.
“Chicken and sweetcorn again?” Gabby teases.
I look up from my lunch in time to catch the amused expression on her face.
“And, let me guess.” Efe joins us at the table. “Salt and vinegar crisps?” She grins. “And…”
“A Mars bar!” they both finish together in a fit of giggles.
“You are a weird one, Amani,” Gabby says, smiling at me fondly.
Whenever we get into this sort of territory, I clam up. “Ha, yeah,” I mumble, swallowing half of my sandwich in one go. It hurts as it goes down – too dry.
But they’ve already moved on to discussing their summer plans, barely registering as I sink further into myself.
They don’t mean to be unkind.
They just don’t understand.
3.45 p.m.
The bell rings, signalling the end of the day, and I rush out to meet Dad, who should be waiting in the car park.
Or, at least, I try.
On the way out Callum intercepts me. “Hey, Amaaar-niii,” he says, standing in my way.
I hate the way he stresses the vowels in my name, drawing them out. He always likes to point out how ‘foreign’ my name is.
Callum’s the popular guy at school and he loves to exercise his power by getting a few laughs from his friends. Unfortunately tormenting people like me will do it.
I don’t say anything, just keep my head down and try to push past. We do a little dance as he matches his steps to mine.
Eventually I mumble a request for him to move.
“What was that?” he asks exaggeratedly.
I glance at the clock. 3.51 p.m. I’m officially late. We won’t make it home in time.
Callum still doesn’t move and my hands start shaking. I know he’s taunting me but all I can hear is the blood pulsing in my ears as the clock ticks on and on.
Eventually I shove him aside, adrenaline fuelling me. I hear him yell after me, “Oi, you bit—” but I’m already out of the door before I can hear the rest, my breath coming in heavy pants as I race to Dad’s car.
I’ll pay for this on Monday but right now I don’t care.
“We have to hurry!” I cry as soon as I get in.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Dad remarks, but he starts the car quickly after he sees my face.
“How much time do we have?”
“Five minutes,” I say, glancing at the clock.
“Don’t worry,” Dad says, determined. “We’ll make it in time.”
I wonder what would happen if we didn’t make it in time. I don’t find out as Dad speeds to get home and we step through the front door at 3.59 p.m. I know this because I set an alarm to go off at 4.00 p.m. It vibrates in my pocket just as I rush up the stairs to my room.
As I step inside I feel my chest deflate, the tension oozing out of my body.
I have several alarms that get me through the day.
This is one of them.
It’s hard to explain why I do this. But try to imagine that your brain is going to internally combust unless you walk through the door of your home before 4.00 p.m.
And then ask yourself what you would do if you were in my shoes.
SATURDAY 7.23 a.m.
My alarm wakes me up. The first thing I do is check to see if I have any notifications on my phone. Sometimes it takes the whole seven minutes, other times it doesn’t. Today is one of those days where I’m done by 7.26 a.m.
I can’t get up though – not until 7.30 a.m. It’s kind of like the floor is lava, except the lava is inside my stomach. I can’t leave my room until 8.00 a.m., either. It seems odd but I didn’t decide these rules – my brain did.
I just follow them.
Even though it’s the weekend I won’t sleep in – I don’t remember the last time I did.
It’s never as bad when I’m at school. There’s a timetable and I stick to it. Then the evenings usually go: homework, teatime, TV, read and bed.
It’s the weekends I find hard.
Dad always suggests days out but the idea of not getting back in time scares me a little too much and I usually ignore him. (See, I’m definitely not a Gryffindor and my wand isn’t maple). Mum understands my routine and we work around it together. But she’s not here today.
I spend the next few minutes peering out of the window from my bed. All I can see is a cloudless sky and the tops of the trees as they rustle in the breeze. It’s sunny today and the light is shining through my blinds in delicate strands. I watch the little dust particles float in the air in front of me. They sway to and fro, and for a while it’s like nothing else exists in the world.
It’s a relief not to think about anything for a minute, until I hear Dad start the blender. He’s making one of his gross breakfast smoothies again. The sound puts me on edge and reality comes crashing back into my mind.
He finishes by 7.29 a.m. and it feels like I can breathe again.
Then, my second alarm of the day goes off.
7.30 a.m.
Hermione is sleeping on the teal chair that sits in one corner of my room. It has this fringing on each of the arms that she loves, and she spends ages playing with it.
If you’re confused, Hermione is my cat.
She’s a really pretty tortoiseshell and she hates feet. If you put even a toe near her she’ll growl at you and cat-walk away. We get along because she’s just as set in her ways as I am.
Every night when I go to bed I leave the door open just a little and every morning when I wake up, she’s there, sleeping.
I stroke her three times before I go for a shower. I don’t know what I’d do if the bathroom wasn’t connected to my room.
I won’t tell you about this bit of my routine because that’s, well, kind of weird.
When I’m back I stroke her two times and get ready for the day. I always lay out my clothes the night before. They’re folded neatly at the end of my bed. I dress slowly and even then I’m done by 7.51 a.m.
I stroke Hermione, just once this time, and that’s usually when Dad calls for me, even though we both know I’ll be down at 8.00 a.m.
Dad works from home doing design stuff, so we have breakfast together on Saturdays before he finishes his jobs for the week. Mum’s usually still asleep but today she’s at some sort of academic conference.
I wait at the threshold of my room, one hand poised on the doorknob, the other flicking through my phone, until the alarm goes off.
As I mentioned, I have all these alarms on my phone to remind me what I have to do next. It keeps me motivated.
I tap off the alarm and, before I leave, I take a last look at Hermione through the doorway.
She’ll be in there for a few more hours.
8.00 a.m.
This is when it gets a little more difficult.
Outside my room there are all these external factors that I can’t control and just the thought of it is making my mouth go dry.
Especially after yesterday.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as I sit at my usual spot at the dining table.
“Yo,” Dad says, barely looking up from his paper. It’s either his attempt at a joke or sounding cool, I can’t really tell which.
I give him a grudging smile and take a sip of tea. I have this mug that says ‘Don’t Let the Muggles Get You Down’ and it’s my favourite.
It’s not that Dad and I don’t get along. I love him, of course. It’s that he doesn’t always understand my issues. I once heard him say to Mum that if they left me to it, I’d ‘snap out of it’. He didn’t exactly say I was attention-seeking, but it was definitely implied.
Dad looks up and frowns. “Your hands are a little dry today.” That’s all he says.
Dad’ll never properly engage me in a conversation about it. Mum will always ask directly: “Amani, have you been washing your hands again?” Sounds like a strange question, doesn’t it? I mean, most parents would be pleased to have a hygienic child. But there’s that and then there’s using a whole bottle of handwash a day.
That’s not normal.
They tried to send me to a therapist once. His advice was that I should have an allocated budget for cleaning products each week. The idea was that I would learn to ration myself, like we’re in some sort of zombie apocalypse. But that didn’t work. Four days in and I’d already used all of the money, and had to beg Mum for more. It got so bad I was on the floor screaming, just screaming at her. She cried. I cried. Dad walked out of the house and didn’t come back all evening.
We stopped going after that.
The kitchen smells like fresh coffee and toast today, and that’s when I notice the problem.
“Dad?” He doesn’t answer. I clear my throat. “Dad, why aren’t we having eggy bread?”
Every Saturday we have eggy bread. That’s how it is.
I stare at the pile of toast and spreads teasing me from the centre of the table.
Dad sighs deeply, like the world’s problems are lodged in his oesophagus. “We ran out of eggs,” he says simply, staring me down.
It’s a challenge.
My palms start sweating and it’s as if my chest is on fire. I can feel the tears coming on. That makes me sound like a brat, doesn’t it? Crying over eggy bread. But it’s not like that, I swear.
I grip the edge of the table and stare down at the empty plate. Dad is still looking at me, I can tell. And then I bolt, right out of the room and back upstairs. I get under the bedcovers and I cry.
I cry because I can’t eat the toast. I cry because I’m stuck in a time warp – one where I’m doomed to live the same day over and over again and there’s nothing I can do about it. I cry because Dad doesn’t understand.
Eventually, when I can’t cry any more, I sit up. My pillow is wet and scrunched up but I place it roughly behind my back. I look over at my chair for Hermione but she’s gone.
12.51 p.m.
Dad’s gone out, so it’s just me. That helps. It means I can get on with my day without worrying about someone else’s movements. He didn’t check on me, even though I was crying loud enough to make the walls shake. It’s like he’s scared of me, like I have some sort of contagious disease.
When I go downstairs there’s a note to say a new printer is going to be delivered between 9.00 a.m. and 6.00 p.m. I hate that it’s such a big window. I feel I have to sit and wait the whole time, on edge for when the doorbell rings. The best thing to do, I decide, is to start a new book from my never-ending pile and read until the delivery arrives.
I’m enjoying the book. It’s about a girl who’s mixed race, like me, who has anxiety, like me. Her dad dies and she can’t cope. She’s taken to a fantasy world where she has to fight a demon. I’m only a third of the way in but things aren’t going too well for her right now. I can relate.
1.47 p.m.
The doorbell rings and Dad’s still not home. But when I answer it, it isn’t the delivery. It’s my aunt. She sometimes likes to just ‘pop round’ for a cup of tea. She hasn’t quite mastered the art of texting or calling beforehand. Her impromptu visits make me nervous, especially as she has this way of talking at you, not with you.
“Amani, how lovely to see you,” she says, her voice flat. “Is your dad around?” she asks, glancing past me, no doubt hoping he might materialize.
“Um, no…” I say, shuffling my feet.
“Ah, right, of course,” she says, as if she knew this already. “Well?” She’s still hovering. I’m hoping she’ll leave. “Let me in for a cuppa, will you?” she finally asks, bustling past me. “I’ll just wait until he gets back.”
I’m still facing the door, which is good because that means she can’t see the face I just pulled. I take a few deep breaths before looking up and there’s the delivery man, staring down at me.
“Hello, love,” he says, a little too cheerfully. “Sign here, please. Can I just have…”
I don’t hear what he says next because my aunt is making a lot of noise behind me, clattering through the cupboards.
“Am, where’s the Earl Grey?” she asks.
I cringe. I hate that nickname.
At exactly the same moment, the man holds out this machine to get my electronic signature. I can’t handle the two things happening at once so I cover my ears with my hands.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” my aunt scolds, walking to the door. “Thank you,” she says to the man, giving me side-eye while she smiles at him.
“Are you OK?” he asks, looking between me and my aunt as she takes the box. It’s clear he’s jumping to all sorts of conclusions, so I smile.
“Fine,” I say.
“Here it is!” she sings from the kitchen as she turns on the kettle.
The man frowns down at me but nods, before stepping away.
“Thank you,” I add, for good measure.
Back in the kitchen my aunt rounds on me. “Honestly, Amani, you’re not a child. You need to learn to do these sorts of things without help. What would you’ve done if I wasn’t here? What’ll you do when you’re off to uni?” She stares down at me and I don’t have the energy to explain that I probably won’t be going to university because of my illness. So instead, I busy myself setting up the printer while she sits with her tea.
She hasn’t taken off her shoes and I’m imagining all the germs on the carpet. I can see this path where’s she stepped, like a slug trail. I imagine my aunt as a giant slug for a moment and it makes me feel a little better.
2.33 p.m.
Dad’s home. It turns out he was running some errands, including a food shop, and I know it was to buy me eggs. I barricade myself in my room. I can hear my aunt talk about me from up here, her voice penetrating the walls. I can hear Dad, too, though he speaks too quietly for me to know what he’s saying. His voice sounds annoyed but I’m not sure if it’s aimed at me or her.
I’m still reading my book. I’ve decided I’m going to spend the rest of my day reading because leaving my room is too stressful. Dad knocks on my door and the sound sends jolts of anxiety through my body.
“Amani?” he calls, his voice muffled.
“Come in,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“She’s gone now.” He grins sheepishly. “She’s a bit full-on, isn’t she?” he says.
I nod. I can’t explain that for me it’s more than that.
“Want some lunch? You haven’t eaten today. I got eggs…”
I don’t respond right away. We usually have lunch at 1.00 p.m. but we couldn’t because Dad was out.
“I ate,” I finally say.
“When?” he asks.
“Ages ago. I had leftovers…”
“And you couldn’t wait?” Dad asks, visibly annoyed.
I look at him and I don’t know what to say. So I just say, “I’m sorry.”
5.11 p.m.
I hear Mum walk through the door just as I’m on the last few pages of my second book. My heart starts beating fast as I race to finish before she comes up to speak to me. I glance at the clock as I read, willing my brain to process the story faster.
When I’m finally done I let out a sigh and fall back on to my pillow.
“Amani!” Mum calls soon after.
I run down to greet her. When I get there her diabetic equipment is out on the table. I frown.
“Don’t pull that face at me.” Mum chuckles as she pricks her finger to test her insulin levels. I turn away when she sticks the needle in. “I didn’t have a chance to stop and eat much today.”
“Mum you have to—”
“Oh shush, and give me a hug,” she says, pulling me close.
I hug her back a little too intensely and, when we break away, I see her frown over at Dad. He’s too busy packing away his laptop to notice.
“Let’s go out for food tonight,” Dad says. His smile is a little strained.
Mum looks at the clock. “The Italian down the road?” she suggests. “We have enough time for that.” She glances at me and I know what she means. So does Dad but none of us address it. “Is that OK, Amani?” Mum asks, and now they’re both looking at me, concerned.
