Free Artichoke Hearts by Sita Brahmachari Page B

being returned to its people, like a scalp or a macabre trophy. You might have to dig a bit deeper to find out,’ Pat Print tells Millie. ‘So
what do you think? If Millie did the research, would you want to read that story?’
    ‘I would, for definite . . . that’s what I go for . . . adventure, mystery, that sort of thing,’ perks up Ben.
    ‘Indeed. You’ve got an epic historical novel on your hands there, Millie Lockhart. If anyone can handle it, you can. Why don’t you write the opening paragraph for next week?
Let’s see if we can help you out a bit. Jidé, if you were reading that book, what would make it a page-turner for you?’
    Jidé doesn’t even need to think before he answers.
    ‘She’ll have to make a link between herself and that story, like an adventure through time.’
    Millie nods.
    ‘I think I’ll just give up my day job,’ jokes Pat Print. ‘With a writer’s note like that, I may as well pack up and go home.’
    A noise that never escapes my mouth in school fills up the room. It’s strange and low and loud and it shocks everyone, my laugh, because I don’t think, except for Millie, the others
have ever heard it before. It’s so embarrassing. I don’t even know why I’m laughing.
    ‘Now, that’s a first!’ Jidé Jackson nudges me on the arm, playfully.
    My face is as hot and red as if I’ve been running a very high temperature. How did that slip out? And now my laugh and Jidé’s nudge have made my temperature shoot up to
boiling point and left behind a stupid grin that I can’t wipe off my face. I can’t even look up. Pat Print must realize that I am paralysed with embarrassment because she switches to
Jidé instead.
    ‘Jidé. What about your surname? Did you find out anything more?’
    Jidé shakes his head, Suddenly Jidé the joker looks miserable. It’s like we’ve swapped roles.
    ‘That’s a shame,’ sighs Pat.
    ‘”We don’t have that information.” That’s what Grace said when I asked her if we could ever trace my original surname. I wasn’t always a Jackson.’
    I’ve never heard Jidé talk so quietly.
    ‘I don’t know what my birth name is. I had a sister, she was about three when she died, they think, older than me anyway . . . but she wouldn’t speak, not even to tell them her
name or mine. Grace said she was too traumatized to talk. Grace and Jai, they gave me the name “BabaJidé” when they found me. I told you, didn’t I, it means “father
has returned,” and even though Jai met so many children out there he had a feeling, as soon as he saw me, that he should be my father. I was about a year old, they’re not sure. I have a
made-up birthday. And . . . my birth parents, who knows? You probably watched them on the news, floating down the river.’
    The words from Jidé’s list echo around my mind.
    A blueberry-coloured rash starts to spread up Pat Print’s neck and over her face. I didn’t have her down as a blusher.
    ‘Rwanda . . . is that right?’
    Jidé nods.
    ‘What did Grace and Jai do out there?’ she asks gently.
    Aid workers in one of the refugee camps, the one my sister walked into with me. I suppose I could research what happened to people like my birth parents, but I could never find out my
proper name,’ explains Jidé. Anyway, I’m lucky to be alive, aren’t I? If it wasn’t for Grace and Jai . . .’ Jidé trails off.
    He suddenly looks exhausted. I don’t think he talks about his past to many people. I haven’t really understood this before, about Jidé, how much he doesn’t say. The
layers of his heart are well protected. Even the way he tells us all this is said in a matter-of-fact sort of voice, but he can’t disguise the fact that he’s angry. Now I think I
understand why there are all these different edges to him. ‘Jidé the joker’, ‘Jidé with attitude’, ‘Jidé trying his best to hide how clever he
is’, although at least in Pat Print’s class he seems to be giving up on that one. Nana