We Can Be Heroes Read Free

saying.
    â€˜You were the one who said your brother heard it from your mum or whoever,’ I say, getting up and trying not to show how much my ankle hurts.
    â€˜Yeah, well, your granny must have made it up in that case.’
    â€˜Why would she do that?’ I shove the board in her direction.
    â€˜I dunno. To get free meals-on-wheels? To have something to talk about with her pals at bingo? To get herself through to the next round on
The X Factor
? How should I know?’
    â€˜Well, she didn’t,’ I say.
    â€˜I mean, you don’t exactly look like someone whose dad got killed by terrorists, do you?’
    â€˜What am I supposed to look like then?’
    â€˜I dunno – just different.’
    I glance down at my shoes. Imagine doodling sad faces on the toe of each one.
    â€˜Would it be better if I had a leg missing or a big sign on my head saying
9/11 Boy
or something?’ I say.
    â€˜All right. No need to get upset just cos I don’t believe you! Which I don’t by the way.’
    â€˜I’m not getting upset,’ I say. ‘It’s not my fault that you’re too young to remember it.’
    â€˜I so am not!’ says Priti. One of her bunches has come loose and is hanging much lower than the other so it makes her look lopsided. ‘My dad says I’ve got a memory like an elephant, and that’s pretty big.’
    Even though I’m fairly sure that elephants have small memories, I don’t argue with her; I just say, ‘I’m going in.’
    Most people, when they find out about my dad, are super nice to me in a way that’s really creepy. Even my friends go all weird on me every September, like I’ve got a contagious disease or something. But no one has ever accused me ofmaking it up before. And it’s really annoying.
    Priti jumps to her feet. ‘Don’t go,’ she says. ‘If you go in my mum’ll make me do my homework. She’s dead hot on that sort of thing.’
    Part of me wants to go back inside just to get her in trouble. But then I glance back at my grandparents’ house and I can see my grandad sitting in his favourite armchair watching daytime TV and eating ginger biscuits. My granny’s probably in the kitchen, fixing tea and worrying. And I realise I don’t want to go back inside, not just yet.
    â€˜If you stay, I won’t ask you any more about what happened with your mum, or about your dad . . . or your Twin Towers fantasy,’ Priti says in this super-nice voice.
    I look at her. She looks at me.
    â€˜AND I’ll tell you a secret! A BIG one!’
    I glance back at the house again. I don’t want her to think I’m a pushover.
    â€˜OK,’ I say with a shrug.
    So she does.
    â€˜My brothers are going to kill my sister,’ Pritiwhispers, squatting down dead close to me, like she’s my girlfriend or something.
    I give her a look. ‘That’s the secret?’
    â€˜Yup,’ she says. ‘Good, innit?’
    I stare at her again. ‘Yeah, right!’ I say.
    â€˜They are!’ she says. ‘It’s going to be an honour killing.’
    â€˜What’s that anyway?’
    â€˜It’s when they kill her because she’s got a boyfriend.’
    â€˜My mum’s got a boyfriend,’ I say. ‘He’s called Gary.’ An image of my mum laughing with Gary flashes through my mind. I push it to one side. ‘So are they going to kill her too?’
    â€˜Don’t be stupid. My sister is, like, sixteen. And anyway, it’s a Muslim thing.’
    â€˜Are you a Muslim then?’
    In my head I draw Priti in one of those giant burkhas, her wheelie shoes peeping out of the bottom.
    â€˜Yep,’ she says, tugging at her bunches until one ends up slightly higher than the other. ‘I know it’s a bit confusing because I’ve got a Hindu name – apparently there was a big row about it at the time, but my mumloved it