Untitled Adam Baron 2. Adam Baron
said Veronique. ‘Or something like that. I’m not too sure. Nanai was rescued. Her sister wasn’t.’
Oh NO.
I looked down at Nanai, that second time I met her, and felt like such an IDIOT. Talking about not having a sister! I couldn’t believe I’d done it.
‘Not your fault,’ said Veronique, guessing what I was thinking. ‘Come on.’
She pulled me into the garden.
‘I should have told you,’ she said, ‘about Thu. It’s why Nanai hates being asked about being a refugee. She won’t talk about it.’
‘Blimey. And they were twins? Were they identical?’
‘No. Nanai was a tomboy, she says.’
‘You can tell that by the football.’
‘But Thu was quiet and arty. Musical. And really beautiful. Nanai says that’s where I …’
‘What?’
Veronique blushed. ‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wish I had a sister, don’t you?’
I blinked at Veronique, not knowing how to answer. For some reason I thought about Stephan’s two little girls, who he brings over at the weekend sometimes. They’re okay and the little one’s cute, actually. She climbs on my knee and calls me Thimbeline. She draws pictures of me that are hilarious.
But I just shrugged.
I couldn’t get the image out of my head, of Nanai clutching that photo like it was a swimming float. Something to keep her safe.
It made me feel close to her and for a second I didn’t know why. But then I did. You see, I’ve lost someone too. It happened when I was tiny, though, and I never knew them. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Nanai to lose her twin the way she did.
I shivered, and then Veronique’s dad called us in for supper. All through it I thought of that photo in Nanai’s hands, and how frail and tired she looked as she clung on to it.
So when Mum drove me round after school and I saw the ambulance in the driveway I was really scared – for Nanai.
And, sure enough, when Mum and I walked into their kitchen, Veronique’s dad told us that Nanai was ‘having a little trouble with her breathing’.
I swallowed. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘They’re not sure, Cymbeline,’ he said, trying too hard to sound cheerful. ‘They’re taking her into hospital. Just a precaution,’ he added, putting his hand on Veronique’s shoulder. ‘The medics are just having a little look at her before they go.’
‘Can I go down and see her?’
Veronique’s dad said better not, which was a shame. He was going to go with her to the hospital and Veronique’s mum was away playing music concerts, so Veronique was coming home with us.
‘For a sleepover?’
‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘And she’s very welcome, isn’t she, Cymbeline?’
Welcome? A sleepover – ON A WEDNESDAY? And with Veronique, who I used to like so much I couldn’t even talk to her?
‘Suppose,’ I said.
‘Can I bring Kit-Kat?’
‘PLEASE!’ I bellowed, knowing I shouldn’t be too excited, because Nanai was ill. But I couldn’t help it.
‘Course,’ Mum said, ‘though I think we’ve got some Mars bars at home somewhere, so …’
Mum didn’t get to finish because Veronique ran off up the stairs, while we went out to the car with the bag her dad had packed for her.
Mum got in the car while I climbed in the back. Mum and Mr Chang chatted quietly through the window until Veronique came out. She was carrying a big plastic box, covered in a cloth, which she set on the seat between us. Mum was already getting the car started so she didn’t see it – not until we got back to our house. We parked opposite and Veronique lifted the box out.
‘Oh …’ Mum said, ‘Kit-Kat. Silly of me. I thought you meant … But what is that?’
‘He’s a—’
‘HAMSTER!’ I shouted, as we started to cross the road.
‘How sweet,’ Mum said, and then spent five minutes hunting in her bag for the house keys.
Now, what I’d just done is BAD, and I certainly don’t want you to think that fibbing to my mum is something I do very often. I was only trying to protect her, though, because Mum is afraid of EVERYTHING. Daddy-long-legs make her scream like that kid in Home Alone. If a wasp flies in the kitchen window, she makes me hide under the table with her until it’s gone. She asked Uncle Bill round for lunch last Sunday and I swear it was only because she’d seen a spider on the bathroom ceiling the night before. When he arrived, she shoved the sweeping brush in his hand and pushed him up the stairs.
‘And hurry up!’ she shouted. ‘I really need a wee!’
So, I did fib, but fibbing about Kit-Kat’s true identity was not as bad as you might think. Because he is not, as I told Mum, a hamster.
He’s a RAT.
And he is epic.
Kit-Kat can shake hands with you. He can fetch things. He loves the piano, climbing up on to Veronique’s shoulder whenever she practises. He’s a great tightrope walker, and can do the high jump, put a ring on your finger, recognise people, and even untie your shoelaces! He can’t tie them yet (but Lance can barely do that) and Veronique’s training him – and I know who I’d bet on to get there first. Veronique’s trained Kit-Kat a lot in fact, but he was like that even before, because Veronique’s dad’s a scientist and Kit-Kat came from his lab. He is in fact the Veronique of the rat world.
I have another confession too. Kit-Kat being there made me forget about Mrs Martin. I’d planned on spending the whole night thinking about what had happened, but once we were in the house I pulled Veronique up the stairs.
‘Supper in an hour,’ Mum said. ‘What would you like to do, Veronique?’
‘Don’t worry, Mum, we’re going to play Subbuteo.’
Mum wondered whether that was something Veronique would really like to do, but I didn’t listen. I dragged Veronique up to my room and pulled the Subbuteo box out from under my bed.
Now Subbuteo, which is a game with little plastic footballers that you flick at a ball, is excellent normally, and I knew Veronique would have enjoyed it – but teaching Kit-Kat to play was going to be even better! And, as expected, he was ACE. His dribbling was as good as Mo Salah’s and somehow he knew to stay on the pitch (though he trod on the players’ heads until I gave him a yellow card). Soon he was taking the ball round the players instead of over them and then slipping it past the keeper, all for the reward of a dried pea, which Veronique had brought and which he’s obsessed with. It was great, but at 5–0 to Kit-Kat I put the pitch away. Mum had been right: Veronique didn’t seem to be into it. I turned to her.
‘Is it Mrs Martin? That was totally weird, wasn’t it? But you shouldn’t be upset about it. No one thinks it was you, do they?’
‘It isn’t that,’ Veronique said.
I slapped my forehead. I’d got carried away with the Subbuteo – it was Nanai