Chapter 12

Drowning

‘Imagine if you had a talking lizard that knew about quantum mechanics.’

Okay, when I say it out loud like that it sounds totally weird.

‘Talking animals are lame,’ Lily says. ‘They’re for little kids.’

Since when did my sister stop being a little kid? Still, I have to admit, I hate books with talking animals in them, too. ‘Yeah, but if you actually met one for real, it would be completely different.’

‘But you’re not going to meet one, are you? That’s why only kids like them—they still think that could really happen.’

How sad is that? At what age are we supposed to stop dreaming of impossible things?

I crack an egg into the bowl of batter, and Lily jumps up onto the counter where I’m trying to work. ‘Let me stir that for you!’

‘Get lost, Lily—this is my thing.’

‘But I want to help. You need my help. Mum’s been giving me cooking lessons, not you.’

Mum never wanted me in the kitchen when I was Lily’s age. ‘I don’t need your help,’ I say. ‘I make great pancakes.’

‘True! You can teach me. Come on, Luke, I only have a crappy homemade card to give her.’

‘Well, you should have thought of that sooner. Breakfast in bed is my idea, so I’m going to make it for her.’

I’m making a hell of a mess, too, and it won’t be much of a birthday present if Mum has to clean the kitchen afterwards. ‘Okay, fine—you can do the washing up.’

‘No way! I want to help properly. Ooh, can I put chocolate spread on this one?’

I swat her hand away as she reaches for the crepe I’ve just turned out onto a plate. ‘No—honey and lemon. It’s traditional.’

‘You’re being so unfair!’

I know I am, but how can I explain to an eleven-year-old girl that this is more than just a nice gesture? It’s the only way I can show my mum that I love her. Without, you know, telling her I love her. It was easier when I was Lily’s age. Lily’s lucky—girls aren’t expected to grow out of all the mushy stuff.

Lily slumps onto a chair in a huff. ‘Well, Mum will still love me just as much if I don’t make her breakfast. I don’t have to bribe her into loving me.’

‘God, Lily, stop trying to make it all about you! You’re not Mum’s only child, you know.’

‘I’m her only daughter.’

I throw the spatula at her. It’s only a plastic one, but it still leaves splatters of half-cooked batter in her hair and a big red mark where it hits her face. She’s so surprised that it takes her a minute to start screaming at me. But she deserved it. She took my shining, perfect plan and dropped it in the dirt. I leave Lily screeching in the kitchen, the frying pan beginning to smoke, and run to my room.

I’m over-reacting; I know that. I’m paper-thin. If you held me up to the light you would be able to read everything about me. And I’m letting other people write all the words on those pages. All the words they say—not trying to hurt me, just normal things that normal people feel—those words are erasing me, rewriting me.

I cry. Proper, messy, drowning kind of tears. The book of other people’s words tells me, boys don’t cry, and I answer: Yeah, that’s why I’m crying. There’s something in there that I need to listen to, but I’m too busy drowning in snot and despair.

I’m too scared to listen to what’s inside me. Except Aliya; I can listen to her. Wait for her to rescue me from being myself.

We are the two strands of a DNA helix: part of the same thing; moving around one another but never meeting.

I need to be her to discover what it means to be me.

It’s Aliya that gives me the courage to clean myself up and go back downstairs to the kitchen. Mum’s up and is sleepily running the frying pan under the tap while Lily rants.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Please go back to bed and let me try this again.’

So, I make pancakes. Without Lily’s help. Which is what I wanted, but it turns out not to be what I want at all.

The pancakes are great. But it’s still the worst birthday ever.

The doctor phones while we’re eating, and the whole world falls apart.