Richa doesn’t seem bothered that I can’t answer any of her questions. She keeps chatting and bouncing and asking me things.
The worry that Richa is there eases and I stop wanting to run away and hide. It starts to get fun, despite the heat. I like the whoosh of air lifting my hair, the roar in my ears and the light feeling in my body.
Bouncing is good, but not as free as dancing. I go to dance class once a week and Just Jive, my summer dance school, starts on Monday. Three brilliant weeks of dancing. Last year there was a Just Jive show. I really wanted to perform but my Selective Mutism stopped me. The thought of the class and my fun teacher, Felicity Delaware, makes me do dance-jumps.
I jump in a big star and a pogo stick. I do a scissor kick, and a lightning bolt.
As I dance-jump Richa stops talking. I’d got almost used to her chattering away. I twist jump to face her. She twists too, matching my move. We jump, facing each other, perfectly in sync. I try a star and she copies me, stretching her arms and legs out wide. Next, I jump a superman; Richa mimics me, her right arm straight up, fist tightly clenched. She matches a couple of straight jumps, then a quick-tuck. Both our knees are hugged tight into our chests. There’s a good feeling inside me.
She laughs. ‘I’m as quick as you. My turn!’
I copy a few of Richa’s straight ‘jump into the swimming pool’ style bounces, arms clamped tight to our sides. Then I copy her back-leg flick and a knee-bounce.
It’s fun.
She pokes out her tongue, I copy. I wave my arms in the air above my head, she copies. She makes floppy bunny ears, I copy. She goes crazy, freestyle, wobbly mad and does lots and lots of bounces. She keeps laughing and laughing and saying, ‘That’s not the same. You got it wrong.’
I grin and almost laugh. This is the most fun I’ve had with anyone who can’t call me Lion in a long time, maybe ever.
After a lot of different bounces and dance moves, Richa flops onto her belly on her trampoline. I have to bounce up high to see her.
‘I’m too hot,’ she complains. ‘There’s only boring water in our house. And it’s all warm from the tap. No ice. We’ve not got the freezer bit of the fridge working properly yet.’ She rolls onto her back, squints her eyes against the glaring sun above and announces, ‘I’m coming over to your house.’
Panic stops my bouncing. Out of rhythm, the trampoline bullies me, bumping me to my knees and flat onto my belly. I hear Richa call up to the open window, probably telling her mum in Gujarati where she’s going. Her mum leans out again and looks over our fence.
She says, ‘Alright with you?’ to me, her Indian accent heavy. I see the top of her belly all stretched with baby.
‘He doesn’t talk, Ma,’ Richa shouts up.
‘What?’
Richa answers her in Gujarati. Her mum answers back.
‘Alright, half an hour. I get it. OK,’ Richa says, and I hear her crunching her way through the wildly dried-up, crispy plants in her garden to her back gate. I swivel round to sit on the edge of my trampoline, my legs swinging free, my heart racing. Patch rushes down our garden to greet Richa as she comes through our gate and closes it behind her. The confidence of this amazes me. She acts if she has always lived here and does this every day.
‘Look at you!’ Richa says as Patch leaps all over her, trying to lick her bare legs and wagging his tail so fast all his body goes bendy. ‘What a good boy. You are a lovely dog. Look at your patch.’
Dogs know lots of words, at least fifty scientists say, and definitely their own names. When Patch hears his name, he squeals with happiness as if he’s been waiting for Richa to arrive his whole life.
‘Is that your name? Are you called Patch? What a beautiful boy. What a good boy you are Patchy Patch Patch.’
Patch rolls onto his back showing his white belly, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth his feet bent over, desperate for more and more tummy tickles.
‘Hello, hello.’ Ryan appears, framed by the back doorway, eating what I call Napoleon (even though I know it is supposed to be called Neapolitan) ice cream, straight from the tub.
Grateful to be distracted from Richa for a minute, I jump down to take a look, making sure my brother isn’t scoffing only the chocolate. He is. It smells good and I want him to share, but can’t ask him, not with Richa here.
‘Who’s your friend, Lion?’ Ryan asks me, nodding down the garden towards Richa.
‘Lion?’ says Richa, getting up from petting Patch. ‘Is that your real name?’ she asks me. She tries to walk towards us but it’s difficult for her to get close with Patch weaving in front of her and staring up at her like she’s the Goddess of all dogs. I thought he only looked at me like that. All kinds of confusing thoughts and feelings are rushing through me. It’s impossible to pick just one, but my worry gets stronger the nearer Richa gets.
Ryan leaves the spoon in his mouth so he can pat my head. I know this means that my brother will tell Richa about my hair and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I watch Ryan dig the licked spoon back into what’s left of the chocolate ice cream.
‘When Leo was born,’ Ryan begins, drawing Richa closer, ‘he had a full head of hair. It puffed up high and when our sister, Brianne, first saw it she said it looked like a dandelion clock – you know, like the ones you blow on to tell the time?’
‘I know them, but they’re rubbish,’ says Richa, ‘they never work. I just use a watch.’
Ryan chuckles. ‘Anyway, he got called Lion, short for Dandelion, because of his hair. He’s been Lion ever since.’
‘But your real name is Leo?’ Richa asks me. I stare at her knees, all dusty from where she’s been kneeling to play with Patch. She’s getting closer so my worry should still be getting bigger, but it’s not. My worry is staying still. She’s near enough for me to catch the coconut scent of her sun cream.
‘He won’t talk to you,’ Ryan explains.
I can feel Richa studying my hair. ‘It looks like a lion’s mane,’ she decides.
I like the idea of a lion’s mane better than a dandelion clock and I wish I could tell her that. Someday, somehow, I’m going to overcome my Selective Mutism enough to perform. I want to dance in The Lion King in the West End. It feels like a step towards my dream if I’ve already got the right hair.
‘I’m Ryan, older brother.’ He sticks the spoon back in his mouth and offers his hand like he’s making a business deal.
‘Richa,’ says Richa, shaking it. ‘Moved in next door.’
‘From somewhere in the north, is it?’
Richa nods. ‘We’ve lived all over the place, but this is our first time in the south.’
‘Well, welcome to St Dukes Estate. Luton’s finest.’ He sounds funny because he still has the spoon in his mouth. He takes it out and wiggles it at Richa. ‘No brothers or sisters?’
‘I’ve a ratty little brother and Mum’s about to have a baby.’
‘Nice,’ says Ryan. ‘Thirsty?’
Richa nods. ‘Dry as Weetabix … without milk.’
Ryan laughs. ‘Funny girl. I like you. Got a good one here, Lion.’
I’ve spent hours imagining having a friend. I even practise imaginary friend conversations with Patch. My sister Brianne says that when you read, you’re never alone: not really, because you make friends with all the characters in the stories. She taught me to read and write before I started school. I’m brilliant at it. Reading and writing is how I talk when I’m not with family.
But it’s easy for Brianne to say that to me, because she has lots of real friends that she can talk to.
What the kids at school say is definitely true: you can’t be friends with someone who can’t talk. It’s impossible, but it doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it.