Proud of Me Read online

  Looking in the attic is a last resort. It would be a good place to hide something, but terrible if you wanted to try and find it again. I haven’t been up there for ages, but I know it’s full of stuff, jam-packed with boxes and bags. It would take ages if I had to search through all of those.

  That leaves the filing cabinet in the box room. It’s grey and squat with only two drawers and a ridiculous tasselled cloth draped over the top to try and make it look nice. It still looks ugly. Mum got it at an office closing-down sale, along with one of those chairs on wheels that Becky and I used to dare each other to spin round and round on until we felt sick. The cabinet’s locked, but I know where the key is – attached to a bit of string taped to the back. Hardly top security.

  I’ll start with the filing cabinet, it’s the most obvious place.

  I squeeze my plate into the dishwasher, switch it on and head upstairs. I close the door to the box room quietly behind me. My heart is beating fast. I feel like a burglar in my own house.

  The filing cabinet drawer squeaks a little when I open it. It sounds loud, but Becky won’t hear it over the noise of the TV and the dishwasher. I tell myself it’s okay, I’m not doing anything wrong. Mum and Ima have never specifically said not to look in here. I guess they assumed we wouldn’t want to.

  Inside, the cabinet is so organized. This must be Mum. Folders arranged alphabetically with all the documents and papers tucked in neatly.

  I start with “B” for “birth”. And the system works – there are our birth certificates, with their official red writing and old-fashioned fonts. Mum’s name on mine. Ima’s on Becky’s. It feels weird that Ima’s name is not anywhere on mine, just like Mum’s isn’t on Becky’s, even though it’s obvious that Becky and I are brother and sister and that Mum and Ima are both our parents.

  Even more weird is the empty space on both birth certificates in the box marked “Father”. I can’t stop staring at the blank. It bothers me. I just want to know who he is, that’s all. A name, a face. To know who he is, and to know who I am.

  The birth certificates are no help. Next I try “C” for “clinic”, “F” for “fertility”, even “S” for “sperm donor”. Nothing. I slam the drawer shut in frustration. This was a stupid idea. Of course there won’t be anything here.

  I pause and listen – still quiet downstairs, apart from the churning of the dishwasher and the sound of the TV. I take a deep breath to calm myself. One last try.

  I flick through the files as methodically as I can, telling myself not to be too disappointed as, one after another, they give nothing away. I reach the final file, “XYZ”, but when I try and reach right to the back of the drawer, something gets in the way. I put my hand in and dislodge a crumpled piece of paper. I smooth it out against the top of the cabinet. It’s the printout of an email. Not just any email, but an invoice. The date at the top is from before Becky and I were born, and at the bottom is the name of a fertility clinic.

  And I know. I’ve found what I’m looking for.

  The front door slams.

  “I’m home! And guess what I’ve got to show you.”

  Ima’s voice floats up the stairs. I take a quick picture of the invoice on my phone then shove it back where I found it, slide the drawer shut, turn the key and smooth out the cloth on the top of the cabinet.

  I head back downstairs. On the outside, nothing’s changed. But inside, my heart is racing. So close.

  I’m kind of glad that Ima’s come back early. I need time to think about what to do next. Time to talk to Becky. But I don’t know if I can. Not about this.

  Ima lays out some sheets of paper on the coffee table, and Becky and I huddle round to get a closer look.

  “I talked to Neil today,” she says. “About the cake. He’s going to do it, it’s all booked in and he’s promised not to say a word to Mum.”

  Neil and his wife Sandy go to the same synagogue as us. They’re two of Mum and Ima’s oldest friends and are always round our house. They have three daughters – all younger than Becky and me. Neil runs a catering company and does weddings, funerals, everything. He makes the most amazing cakes I’ve ever eaten. He talks a lot, but he’s nice too – he pretends not to see when I sneak a pinch of crumbs from the side of the plate or even help myself to an extra slice. He always jokes that he and I should look out for each other because we’re both men outnumbered in houses full of women.

  “That’s brilliant about the cake,” says Becky. “One more thing off the list and still weeks to go.”

  “The most important thing – you can’t have a proper birthday party without a cake!” agrees Ima. “Look at these.” She points at the page of sketches, showing the different layers of chocolate cake with salted caramel icing – Mum’s favourite – and sugar flowers on the top.

  “Wow, it’s like something from Bake Off!” sighs Becky.

  I nod. It is impressive, but I’m still worried.

  “Josh, you’re quiet. What do you think?” says Ima gently.

  “It looks great,” I say, after a pause. “Really great. It’s just, well, do you think Mum would really want a surprise party? I mean, she doesn’t usually like a lot of fuss.”

  “Oh, Josh,” groans Becky. “Don’t be so boring!”

  “No, Becks, Josh is right. She doesn’t normally have a lot of fuss on her birthday. It’s always pretty low-key, right? She’d never think of organizing a party for herself.” I nod. Ima is starting to get it. “But that’s exactly why a surprise party is such a good idea – she’s waited so long for a proper celebration. She deserves it, doesn’t she? Anyway, you don’t get to be fifty every day of the week.”

  “I s’pose.”

  Becky and Ima are so excited about this party. There’s no talking them out of it. Maybe they’re right – perhaps this is what Mum has always been hoping for.

  “Do you really think she doesn’t suspect anything?” asks Becky.

  “Not a thing!” says Ima gleefully. “Everyone’s been sworn to secrecy. And I’m getting loads more replies to my messages every day. People she hasn’t seen for decades. I even tracked down a couple of her friends from school. Imagine. Even people who can’t come are sending pictures and messages.”

  If everyone that Ima’s got in touch with comes, the house will be packed. It’s pretty impressive. I mean, she’s rubbish with social media normally, yet she’s still managed to find loads of Mum’s friends from years ago. Even the ones who’ve changed their names or look completely different now.

  A thought sparks in my mind. An exciting thought. Even if I can’t trace my dad through the fertility clinic, there will be other ways to find him. Everyone’s on social media somewhere, if you look long enough and hard enough. No one can totally disappear.

  Becky nudges me. “What are you dreaming about, Josh?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just don’t ever organize a surprise party for me,” I whisper to her. “Not even when I’m fifty.” I can’t think of anything worse – the stress of having to be nice to everyone all at once, being the centre of everyone’s attention. And not even knowing beforehand. No warning, no time to prepare.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers back. “I wouldn’t dare. It would be wasted on you anyway. I know you don’t like surprises. I’d quite like one though, you know, one day – just saying…”

  “Okay. One day. Let’s get Mum’s out of the way first though.”

  “Out of the way?” says Becky, incredulous. “It’s a party, Josh, not a test. It’s not about ‘getting it out of the way’, it’s about enjoying it.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose.”

  “Anyway, you’d never be able to keep a surprise party secret from me. I can see right through you. No secrets between us, little bro.” She smiles, and I go cold. Does she already know? Should I just tell her now instead of keeping it bottled up?

  There’s a moment…but then she turns away, singing to herself, and goes to the kitchen to help Ima get lunch ready.

  In school on Monday, I look out for Carli. We’ve still only spoken once. All I know about her is that she’s American. That’s it.

  But it’s Archie, not me, who spots her first. She’s sitting in the canteen at a table by herself, eating a salad, looking still and composed despite the bustle and noise all around her.

  “Hey,” says Archie, nudging me. “Look, it’s the new girl. Let’s go take her under our wing!”

  “Her name’s Carli,” I object, “not ‘the new girl’.” I’ve been hoping to bump into Carli all morning, yet now that she’s right in front of me, I feel too shy to go over. I pull Archie back. “Perhaps we shouldn’t disturb her. She might not want to talk to us. She might be waiting for someone or…I don’t know…thinking about things.” I tail off weakly.

  “Oh come on! Of course she wants to talk to us. Anyway, after last week, you two are practically best mates already!”

  “But what about the others? They’re saving us a space.” I gesture over to a table of girls from our form at the far end of the canteen. But Archie’s already gone. He marches over to Carli and slaps his tray down on the table beside her.

  “Hey, I’m Archie,” he announces and sits down. I hang back nervously. It’s weird how much I want them to like each other when I’ve barely spoken to Carli myself.

  “Hey, Archie.” Carli smiles back. Her smile is like someone turning on a light. “We have math together, don’t we?” Then, before Archie can answer, she spots me trailing behind him. “Hi, Becky – thanks for getting me to science last week. Don’t worry, I’ve been studying the map and I think I’m kinda getting the hang of things now.”

  “Well, you found your way to the canteen,” I say.

  “This is the canteen?” Carli says, eyes wide. “Oh no, I thought this was the sports
hall.” She makes a show of looking around in mock horror. “Hmm, come to think of it, maybe you’re right. This map really does suck.”

  “Are you into sport then?” asks Archie, smiling. I can tell he likes her already. I feel strangely proud, like I discovered her.

  “Yeah, anything that involves running, jumping, hitting a ball – I’m right there,” says Carli.

  Archie does a little shudder.

  “Not your thing then?” Carli asks him.

  He shakes his head.

  “Not even basketball? But you’re so tall!”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t seen how uncoordinated I am. I’d be a danger to everyone else on the team!”

  “So what do you play?” I ask, keen to get the conversation back to Carli.

  “Well, pretty much anything – softball’s my favourite though.” She looks at our blank faces. “You know – oh, maybe you don’t.”

  “What’s softball?” I ask.

  “Kind of like baseball. You know baseball, right?”

  “But with a soft ball?” hazards Archie. “That sounds like my kind of sport. Less risk of getting your teeth knocked out by something fast and hard.”

  “Actually, no, sorry. The ball’s just as hard as in baseball – but bigger.”

  “Bigger? That’s even worse!” says Archie. “Although I guess that means there’s slightly more chance I’d be able to hit it – if I couldn’t duck in time.”

  Carli grins. “Anyway, I guess I won’t be playing softball here, if English people haven’t even heard of it. Unless I start my own team. What about you guys, what are you into? Not sports, I guess.”

  “No, but my brother is,” I say. “He’s on the football team. But, well, photography’s more my thing.”

  “Wow, cool.”

  “Yeah, Becky’s really good,” gushes Archie. “She even set up a photography club after school. Now the art department’s going to offer GCSE photography because so many people have got into it. And her photos are amazing! She’s like a real professional.”

  “Archie!” I murmur, warning him to shut up. I’m blushing. I love talking about photography, but I don’t want Carli to think that I’m boasting about my skills before she’s even seen a single one of my pictures.

  “That’s so cool. What kind of pictures do you take? Like, is it people or landscapes or, I don’t know, like those really close-up arty shots where you can’t see what it is but it looks beautiful?”

  I laugh. “A bit of everything really. I like taking shots of people best, photos that tell a story. I’d love to be a photojournalist one day, you know, reporting from war zones or really remote places that hardly anyone’s been to before. But so far I haven’t been much further than my cousin’s wedding in north London!”

  “I’d love to see some of your photos.” She looks straight at me and I know she means it. She’s not just being polite or so desperate to make friends in a new school that she’ll hang out with anyone who’s nice to her. Her eyes are bright blue and they sparkle.

  “Maybe you could come round to my house after school one time and see them?” I blurt out. “That is, only if you want to. Maybe not Thursday, that’s photography club, but any other night. Although, I mean, Thursday’s probably okay too if you want…”

  I’m just burbling on now. Archie looks at me in surprise. He knows I’d never normally suggest missing photography club, but Carli beams at me. That smile again.

  “I’d love to. I’ll need to check with my mom first. She’s not that happy about me doing stuff on school nights, not while we’re still settling in and all. But what about Friday?”

  “Yeah, okay, Friday, great.”

  “Ahem.” Archie pretend-coughs. “I’m here too. What about me? Aren’t I invited?”

  I had sort of forgotten about Archie, just for a moment.

  “What about you? Mum says you practically live at our house anyway. Of course you can come round.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d never ask! Actually, I can’t do Friday. Soz. Mum’s working late and I need to be home to look after The Little Horror.” “The Little Horror” is what Archie calls his younger brother, Mark. Mark isn’t horrible at all really, but he is little. He’s nine, nearly ten, and next to Archie he looks tiny. Maybe he’ll have a growth spurt soon, like Archie did in Year Seven, and Archie will have to think up a new nickname for him.

  Archie’s always fun to be around, but I’m secretly looking forward to it being just Carli and me on Friday. Well, just Carli and me and Mum and Ima and Josh.

  “So when will you tell her?” asks Archie, as we stack our trays and leave the canteen.

  “Tell her what?”

  “You know,” he whispers loudly, “about the having-two-mums thing?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  Back in primary school, I didn’t have to tell anyone about my mums. At the start of each year, if there was a new teacher, Mum and Ima would come into school and explain to them about our family. And that was it. There weren’t any problems – or if there were, no one told me or Josh about them. Mum and Ima would take turns dropping us off or picking us up, and both come to parents’ evenings and school concerts when they didn’t have to work. Everyone knew them. They were just…around.

  But there was one time I remember in Year Four. A big game of football at lunchtime. It began with just our class, then Year Five and even some Year Sixes started joining in too. Mostly boys, but a handful of girls as well. Each team was huge and the game gradually took over the whole playground. No one planned it, it just happened. Anyone who wasn’t playing was watching – Mrs Williams, our teacher, too. The whistle was hanging loose round her neck, and she looked like she’d forgotten it was up to her to blow it and send us back into our classrooms for the afternoon.

  It seemed like Kyle in our class would score the final goal. The decider. It was such an easy kick. Kyle was right there, ready. Yet, at the last minute, something went wrong. He slipped, and the ball rolled away to the side. The other team went mad – cheering, slapping each other on the back, before running off to collect their jumpers from the pile by the fencing.

  Kyle was left by himself, bright red, trying not to cry. Some of the bigger Year Six boys clustered round him.

  “Why did you do such a gay shot?” one shouted at him.

  “Yeah, stupid gay boy,” said another.

  And suddenly Mrs Williams was right next to them. I’d never seen her move so fast. She was almost as red in the face as Kyle.

  “You do not use the word ‘gay’ as a term of abuse at this school! Or anywhere,” she shouted. “Understand?”

  The boys shuffled. “But, Miss – didn’t you see? We could have won the game if it wasn’t for him.”

  “But nothing – inside now or you’ll be going straight to Mr Phelps.”

  She turned her back to the boys and shooed away the small crowd which had gathered to watch. But she beckoned to Josh and me.

  “Becky, Josh – are you all right?” she asked gently with a hand on each of our shoulders. We nodded, unsure what had happened, unsure why we might not be all right. No one had shouted at us. We were still out of breath from the game. We knew the word “gay” was something to do with Mum and Ima, but it wasn’t a bad thing or a name you called someone. Not until that day.

  At Larkhall it’s different. I’ve got so used to people saying “gay” like it’s just another word for “stupid” that I hardly notice it any more. I take a while now to tell new people about my family. I wait till I’ve really got to know them and know that they’ll be okay. But with Carli, for some reason, I’m not worried.

  “She’s nice,” I protest to Archie. “She’ll be cool with it. It’s no big deal.”

  “You never know with some people,” says Archie darkly, wagging his finger at me. “She’s American, she’s into sport. They’re the ones to watch. Haven’t you watched any American high-school dramas?”

  I sigh. “She was okay with you, wasn’t she?”

  “Well, of course she was, no one can fight my natural charm. Anyway, it’s not like I’ve got GAY written in neon capital letters on my forehead, is it?”

  “Oh, really?” I reach up on tiptoes and trace the letters on Archie’s forehead. “Come on, we’ll be late for class.”