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glass of water, asking me in Punjabi if she was OK. Her voice got louder, as did the noise from her clogs. Julie began coughing uncontrollably. I patted her back as she tried to say something. Her hair was all over the place, eyes watering, and her face bright red. Meanwhile, Mum was bouncing around the cupboards trying to find a solution. She came back with a bowl of sugar and tried to shove a spoonful into Julie’s mouth. Julie didn’t know what was happening until she moved the tiny crystals around with her tongue. Then she stopped coughing and just sat quietly, staring at the sugar bowl.
    The meal ended when Dad came in, probably to figure out what all the noise was about. He stood between us making polite conversation with Julie in English, which I was thankful for, then left the kitchen holding a cup of chai Mum had handed him.
    I smiled at Julie, pleased that something had eventually gone right, and took a sip of water.
    Julie smiled back. ‘Is that your granddad?’ she asked.
    The glass missed my mouth and water trickled down my chin onto my netball skirt. I couldn’t believe she’d said that and I felt a sudden rage set in. No one had ever said that, nor had it occurred to me before that my dad was probably twice as old as most of the parents at my school. Perhaps the teachers thought my brother was my dad when he attended parents’ evening in the place of Dad, who worked late, and Mum, who couldn’t understand English.
    I responded with a poker face. He may be older, I wanted to tell her, but he was the best dad in the world. He was my universe.
    The next morning, school started with geography. I hated the subject. Who cares where Gambia is located, I thought. It wasn’t as if I was ever going to go there.
    I sat at the back of the class with Julie, studying a map together. The teacher, Miss Wilcox, was stood at the front. She had the most boring monotone voice. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying but kept thinking about Julie.
    We’d hardly had a chance to talk about the evening. I did try to spark up a conversation during registration but she avoided eye contact. My paranoia kicked in when I noticed a few girls looking round at us during class and wondered if she had told them anything.
    Julie turned the page over to a map of Chile and studied its strange shape and population data.
    ‘Did you like coming to my house yesterday?’ I whispered.
    She shrugged in response and carried on staring at the map.
    I wasn’t giving up and I threw a few more questions at her when Miss Wilcox turned her back to write on the blackboard. ‘Did you like the food?’ ‘Is your tongue still burning from the spices?’ ‘My mum really likes you.’
    Each time I got the shrug, which made me wonder which part of the evening she didn’t like.
    In the end, I had let her think my dad was my granddad. First, because I didn’t want to explain that my parents had had an arranged marriage when Mum was fourteen years old and that she was Dad’s third wife. Secondly, she wasn’t worth the effort; I was still very annoyed by her hurtful comment.
    Julie suddenly reached across the desk for my Biro and started scribbling over the map of Argentina. I looked up at the teacher who was still writing on the board, then back at Julie, not quite believing what I was seeing. Scribbling in books would earn us detention for the rest of the year. I didn’t really understand the Falklands War, apart from Margaret Thatcher not being happy with Argentina, but I didn’t expect Julie to be so patriotic.
    ‘Are you alright?’ I finally asked.
    ‘My auntie’s having a baby,’ she replied, eyes down still scribbling over the contour lines. ‘It’s going to be brown.’

CHAPTER TWO
BREAKING AWAY
    B Y THE TIME I was twelve, Mum had me fully trained in all the skills necessary to become the perfect housewife: knitting, sewing and sitting pretty. She took me to bridal evenings in the local community to watch brides having their