Artichoke Hearts by Sita Brahmachari Page B

that had a picture of me swimming
in the sea I painted pale silvery grey and stuck a tiny holey stone inside. Then I painted another with a photo of my dad and Krish before they went to a Tottenham match, deep blue . . . that sort
of thing. I put an old golden frame of Nana’s round it, and stuck it together with superglue. When it was finished, I was secretly quite proud of it, but even at the time I knew other people
would think it was weird so I tried to smuggle it into school under a towel but, of course, on my way in I had to bump into Demi.
    ‘What’s the big secret?’ she asked me, peering under the towel.
    ‘Nothing,’ I lied, pulling away from her, but before I could do anything about it, she’d snatched away the towel so I was left standing in the middle of the playground holding
this enormous frame. I felt as if I was standing there naked.
    ‘What is that supposed to be?’ she shrieked at the top of her voice, which, like a magnet, drew her crew towards her. She might as well have stood there with a sign
advertising an opportunity to rag Mira Levenson . . . and of course her friends came running.
    The worst bit is I actually won that competition.
    ‘A most original entry,’ Mr Needham announced, as he examined the frame with a puzzled expression. I had to walk up the aisle to the accompaniment of sniggering behind my back.
Whenever I think about it, it still makes me cringe. I could just imagine what they were thinking (for ‘original’ replace with ‘weird’). That’s nothing like the glory
of winning a race, is it?
    ‘What happened to you two?’ Mum jolts me back into the room, staring from Nana to me. ‘Have you had a paint fight or something?’
    ‘We’ve been having a wild time,’ Nana laughs. What do you think, Uma?’ Nana stands aside so Mum can see the coffin, which we have, more or less, finished.
    Krish walks round it, his eyes filling up.
    ‘You’ve made it look like a painting.’
    ‘It is a painting, der!’ I say.
    ‘No it’s not, it’s a coffin,’ shouts Krish, the tears stinging his eyes.
    ‘It’s a painted coffin,’ explains Nana, wrapping her arms around Krish.
    ‘I don’t get it. What’s the point of painting it if it’s just going to be burned?’
    ‘What’s the point of running in a race?’ argues Nana.
    ‘Because I love running.’
    Well, I love painting. This coffin will probably be my most valuable work of art.’
    ‘I don’t get it, Nana,’ Krish sulks.
    ‘Because the dolphins, and the doves, and the waves, will stay in people’s memories . . . just like you, winning that race today. I bet your mum will never forget that,’ Nana
says, turning to Mum, who nods and smiles but says nothing because she’s on the verge of crying too.
    Krish collapses on to Nana’s sofa, his stick-thin legs folding under him.
    ‘You look all washed up,’ says Nana, slumping down by his side.
    ‘So do you,’ Krish lobs back.
    Nana tips Krish’s chin upwards, planting a kiss on his cheek. Krish squirms out of Nana’s grasp as he attempts to rub her blue handprint off his face.
    ‘I suppose we may as well all be blue together,’ sighs Nana.

 

    I pack my school bag.
    Mobile
    Books
    Pencil case
    Gym kit
    Packed lunch
    and . . .
    Pads and panty liners, sanitary towels . . . even some tampons . . . some of each . . . just in case. Even the names are a nightmare. I mean ‘sanitary towels’
-could they think of a worse name for them? But then I imagine myself getting a job in advertising and having to invent a name for all this period stuff, and guess what I come up with? A big fat
blank. The advert I find the funniest is the one where the pads have wings and they have little pictures of birds flying around, because the last thing you would ever feel like doing when
you’ve got your period is flying. I mean, as if, with that pad stuck inside your pants and the ache in your belly.
    In my mind, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Millie was going