The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters: the ultimate heart-warming read for 2018

He scratched his chin. ‘And, er … this video,’ he said, looking at my phone with concentration. ‘You are filming things?’

‘Correcto-mundo.’

He looked at me, confused.

‘It just means, yes, Abba.’

‘Ah, good, good,’ he replied.

‘My teacher said I’ve got talent,’ I told him.

‘That’s very good.’

I waited for him to ask me some more questions: like, what kind of talent, and what will you do with it when you leave high school? That kind of thing.

After a bit more silence, he asked: ‘You like those smoothies, don’t you?’

‘Only the homemade ones, because you can’t trust what supermarkets put in stuff.’

‘But we buy everything from supermarkets.’

‘Yeah, but they’ve got all those e-numbers and stuff.’

‘E-numbers?’

I nodded. ‘It’s unhealthy. It’s killing us.’

‘But there is nothing wrong with us,’ he replied, looking at his body up and down as if it was an example of supreme health.

It was like trying to explain fashion to Fatti. I gave up.

‘You know what is healthy?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘YouTube,’ he answered. ‘Very good. For the brain.’

What the hell was my dad going on about?

‘Er, okay.’

He hesitated then said: ‘You said you had scribers.’

‘Subscribers, Abba.’

‘Oh, yes. That’s what I meant.’

‘And?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Just … carry on.’

‘Sure, Abba. Thanks.’

We both sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘Oh, I know,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll make tofu curry tonight. For dinner.’

Dad nodded, as if there was someone forcing the movements of his head, and patted me on my back. It’s not on the cheek. Not like it is for Fatti, or a hand on the head like it is for Farah; the pinching of the nose like it is for Bubblee. But who really cares?

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f59f320b-93af-53ee-bffb-530befab3260)

Bubblee (#ulink_f59f320b-93af-53ee-bffb-530befab3260)

‘You need to get the contours right,’ said Sasha, clearing her throat and observing my latest piece. ‘It’s … it’s coming along.’

I looked at my sculpture, Sasha’s hand resting on the hip of my centaurian woman. The idea is to subvert expectation by showing the interchangeability of sexuality.

‘But that’s the point,’ I replied. ‘What is right?’

‘Still,’ she said, walking towards the window of my poky studio flat and lighting up a cigarette. She regarded the sculpture again. ‘I’m not sure your aim is quite, you know, coming across.’

Sasha really has nothing good to say about anything. My mobile rang and ‘Mum’ flashed on the screen.

‘You gonna get that?’ asked Sasha.

‘Later,’ I replied, looking at the sculpture.

Something was amiss, but why should that be wrong? Isn’t it like in life, where the imperfections are hard to pinpoint and yet are just there?

‘You’ve go to stop over-thinking things,’ she said. ‘Your problem is you always want to create something with multiple layers of meaning, but that should be the end result, not the starting point. Art is about feeling.’

‘A glimpse of the world as you see it,’ I muttered, reminding myself.

Well, I definitely see it as being amiss, so I must’ve been on the right track. My phone rang again. This time Dad’s name flashed on the screen.

‘How many times do they call you in a day?’ said Sasha. ‘No point in exhaling. They can’t hear you. Just pick it up.’

‘I’m busy.’

Before I knew it, Mae was FaceTiming me.

‘Is someone dying?’ I said, picking the phone up, staring down at Mae’s pixie-like face. ‘I’ll call you back.’

‘She failed again,’ she said.

‘Who failed?’ I asked.

‘Fatti.’