“Yes I am, Naomi, but—”
“But what?”
Louise sucked in a long breath. “You might lose something of yourself, the real Naomi Brisset,” she said. “For example, would you expect a black boy who doesn’t know anything about Scotland to wear a kilt?”
“What’s a kilt? It’s not a tartan condom, is it? I think you’re losing your dumplings in your casserole, Louise. The real Naomi Brisset wants plaits like Solange Knowles and Alicia Keys. Don’t you think they look gorgylicious? Kim and Nats do.”
“Yes, they’re very attractive.”
“Then why are you munching your knickers about my braids? If we get a good summer this year I’m gonna try and get myself a decent tan. I’d love to look like Rita Ora.”
“Rita Ora hasn’t got a tan, Naomi.”
“You sure? Looks like she’s got one to me. Either that or she sleeps on a kick-ass sunbed in her bedroom.”
A waitress came over and took our order. Louise went for a boring salad. What’s the friggin’ point of wheeling all the way to Monk’s Orchard for a salad? I made sure I ordered the most expensive dessert—something called a tire-mousse. Her purse needed a shakedown.
“A new foster family I know are returning from their holiday on Saturday,” Louise said. “The Hamiltons. I thought you might be a good match with them. They’ve got a daughter who’s nineteen years of age. She’s at university. She could be a good influence on you.”
“I dunno about that one,” I said. “I wanna see how it rolls with Colleen. She’s on point. Did you know she was in care too?”
“Yes, I do know. But what about Tony? Are you getting along with him?”
“I’m not gonna lie on that one,” I replied. “He can be a bit of a prickhead. He loves to do his man-of-the-house thing. He reminds me a bit of Rafi. Rafi would try and lock down rules on my ass. But I’m not too bothered about Tony and I don’t think he’s a prick fiddler. He kept his ass downstairs when I had my shower. And I like Sharyna and Pablo. I can look after them. Maybe they’ll ask me to babysit if they go on holiday somewhere? Where do these Hamilton peeps live?”
“Spenge-on-Leaf,” Louise said. “Lovely house.”
“Spenge-on-Leaf,” I repeated. “Isn’t that where the first-class peeps live? Kim told me she went out with a bruv from there once. She reckoned he was twenty—”
“Don’t believe everything Kim tells you,” Louise said.
“Are you calling her a liar?”
“Er, not . . . Anyway, the Hamiltons live near the top of a hill. They’ve got a lovely view.”
“A lovely view. If I wanna lovely view I’ll look at postcards.”
“Hmmm.”
“There was this kid in the home from Swee Lanka. Neat black curly hair he had. His house was by the beach, or the way he went on about it, it was more like a hut—he had to go outside to take a dump. Quiet he was. You wouldn’t believe the shit he’s been through. His lovely view didn’t do him much good. In fact, his lovely view murked his liccle cousin. He showed me a pic of her—she had—”
“That’s different,” Louise chopped my flow again.
“These Hamilton peeps? What do they do?”
“Tim, Mr. Hamilton, is an architect. His work takes him all over the country and beyond. His wife Susan does voluntary work at the youth club on South Smeckenham Road. She’s very experienced at working with kids of all ages. She’s been an emergency foster carer for nearly a year now.”
“What’s an architect?” I asked.
“People who design buildings.”
“Design buildings? They must be white, right? I’ve never seen any black people draw buildings—not even on TV.”
“Er, yeah, they are white. The Goldings are brilliant for the short term but don’t you think it would be more appropriate to be with your own kind for the long term?”
“Depends if they’re on point,” I said. “Architect and a youth worker? Don’t sound cool to me.”
“Then, Miss Brisset,” Louise chuckled, “what’s cool to you?”
I thought about it. The waitress returned with our lunch.
“Thank you,” smiled Louise.
Grabbing my Coke, I sank half of my glass before answering. “Why can’t you put me with interesting peeps? And I don’t give a fruck what color they are. Grime DJs, wrestlers, clowns, actors, singers, dancehall queens . . . or that woman whose balloon popped on Big Brother the other day. She needs looking after.”
“You need looking after, Naomi.”
“I can look after myself!” I raised my voice. I attacked my chicken and mushroom pie. “Wasn’t I doing that before you lot came into my life giving me all your boring rules and sending me to live in nuff postcodes?”
Shaking her head, Louise picked at her salad.
* * *
When Louise had finished her meal, she leaned in closer to me and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know what time of year this is, don’t you?”
“Course. It’s April. I haven’t lost all my dumplings, Louise. You gonna get me another Coke?”
“No, you’ve had enough. When you get to my age you’ll have no teeth left.”
“Then I’ve got a long, long wait, innit.”
“Naomi! Try and be serious for once. You know what I’m talking about.”
I thought of Mum. The bathroom in our old flat booted an entry into my mind. It was horrible. I didn’t wanna chit the chat about her. It made me feel on the down-low.
“It’s been nearly four years,” I said. “Seems like it all happened just yesterday.”
Louise put on her top-rated social worker concerned look. “Don’t you want to do anything to remember her by?”
“What can I do?” I raised my tones. “She’s dead. We burned her. I can’t bring flowers to a . . . what d’you call it? It looks like an old jug.”
“An urn,” Louise helped me out.
“I can’t bring flowers to an urn, can I? That’s just wrong. I still can’t believe that Mum’s ashes could fit in there. I mean, with my mum’s size, she woulda never made the cut of Ashburton’s Next Top Model.”
Louise covered her mouth to block her chuckles but I wasn’t trying to be funny.
“I can’t work you out, Louise,” I said. “Didn’t you used to tell me to try and forget about what happened to my mum and think about my future? Now you’re telling me I gotta remember her. Make up your freaking mind! You’re aching my brain!”
“I just thought you might want to do—”
“No, I don’t. Carpet-bomb that. I don’t wanna remember her.”
I didn’t mean it like that. I think of her every day. But cos I think of her 24-7, I have to relive the way she died. It was all red.
“Okay, I get your point,” Louise said. She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. She still had her nine-week-course social worker expression on. “Is Colleen serving you food that you like?”
“Yeah, we went shopping yesterday. Tried some black people food as well.