Chapter 12: Maya’s Year

The last exam is English Language Paper 2.

I’ve been staring at the timetable on the fridge for six weeks and the dates have stopped meaning things. They’re just shapes now. Monday the eighth. Wednesday the tenth. Friday the nineteenth. I’ve crossed them off with a Sharpie — Mum’s good Sharpie, the one she uses for labelling Yus’s PE kit — and the timetable looks like a murder board from one of those Netflix crime shows except instead of suspects it’s GCSE subjects and the only thing getting killed is my sleep.

Mum’s care home contract ended three weeks ago. The night team’s gone — new provider, like they said. She’s been applying. Agency stuff, mostly. Nothing’s come through yet. UC covers the rent, just, but that’s about it. We don’t talk about it at the kitchen table any more. We just live in it.

It’s June. Bradford June. Not a hot June — not the kind where everyone’s at the park and someone brings a speaker and the whole field smells like disposable barbecue. It’s seventeen degrees and grey and the forecast says rain later and you think yeah, obviously.

I walk out of the exam hall at twenty past eleven. Two hours of writing about a photograph of a forest and an extract from a book by a woman who died in 1923. The invigilator says ‘pens down’ and I put my pen down and I walk out and the corridor is empty because everyone else is still putting their pens in their bags and doing that thing where they flip through the paper one more time even though it’s over.

I stand there for maybe ten seconds. Not thinking about anything. Just standing.

Then the doors open.

Sienna finds me at the bench near the science block.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Dunno. I wrote stuff. Whether it was the right stuff is anyone’s guess.’

She sits down. She gets her phone out, scrolls for three seconds, puts it away.

‘I’m going to fail maths,’ she says.

‘You’re not going to fail maths.’

‘I couldn’t do question seven.’

‘Nobody could do question seven.’

She picks at the wood on the bench. The bench is softer than it was in September. Rain does that.

We sit there. Someone across the yard is crying — not loudly, just a steady sort of sound, the kind you do when you’ve been holding it since page one of the paper and it all comes out now in the corridor where it doesn’t count. I don’t look over.

‘What are you doing this summer?’ Sienna says.

‘Working. Shifts.’

‘Right.’

A pause. She picks at the bench more. A splinter comes away.

‘My mum wants us to go to Majorca,’ she says. Then stops. Looks at me. Looks away.

‘Nice,’ I say.

She bumps her shoulder against mine. Doesn’t say anything. Just the bump, and then she’s looking at her phone again.

I bump her back.

‘Text me when you’re back from Majorca.’

‘Obviously.’ She says it like I’m stupid for even suggesting she wouldn’t.

Wednesday. I see Kai outside Tesco Metro on Darley Street. No uniform. Tracksuit. Hood up. Looking at his phone the way he looks at his phone, which is constantly, but this time it’s different. He’s looking at it the way you look at something you’re trying not to look at.

‘You all right?’ I say.

He puts his phone away. ‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’

A woman pushes past us with a pram. Someone’s left a trolley in the sensor and the automatic doors keep going — opening, closing — like the shop can’t decide.

‘Done with exams?’ he says.

‘English was the last one.’

‘Lucky. Geography Friday.’

I nod. He takes his phone out, stares at it, puts it away.

‘I added it up,’ he says.

I don’t say anything. Just wait.

‘Like, all of it. Since October.’

He doesn’t tell me the number. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders are up near his ears and he looks — smaller. Like he’s taking up less room than he used to. In October he was all arms and volume and showing people his phone. Right now he’s a lad outside a Tesco looking at his shoes.

‘I kept —’ He stops. Scratches the back of his neck. ‘Yeah. I thought I knew what I was…’ He trails off. Shakes his head.

I wait.

‘When you lose,’ he says. Quiet. ‘It made me feel sick. And then I’d do it again. That’s not —’ He shakes his head. ‘Yeah.’

A man comes out of the shop with a bag.

‘I deleted the app,’ he says. ‘The main one. Bet365.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve still got Sky Bet.’ He scratches his jaw. ‘I know. But I’m not putting money in. I stopped depositing.’

I nod. I think he wants me to say well done or something. But I didn’t tell him anything all year. I just watched. And he watched himself.

‘How’d you learn all this stuff?’ he says. ‘The budgeting and that.’

‘I dunno. I just started looking stuff up and then I kept looking stuff up.’

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t take it out.

We stand there for a bit. The pigeon near the trolley park takes three steps sideways and stays.

‘See you around,’ he says, and goes left toward the bus stop.

I go right toward Broadway.

A week later. Half ten at night. Three texts from Kai.

First: a screenshot. His bank balance. I don’t stare at the number. It’s there and it’s his and he sent it, which is the point.

Second:

starting here

Third:

what’s the app you use for your budget

I’m on the sofa bed. Yus is asleep. The flat is doing its night sounds — fridge, a pipe somewhere, something ticking in the wall that I’ve never identified and probably never will.

I type:

monzo
it’s free
just set it up and add ur bank

Three messages. I put the phone down.

He doesn’t reply. I don’t wait for him to.

Saturday morning. Yus is eating cereal in the kitchen. Which is the front room. Which is where I sleep. So he’s crunching directly into my consciousness at ten to nine and there is no volume control for Cheerios.

‘Yus.’

Crunch.

‘YUS.’

‘What?’

‘Could you. Just. Slightly less.’

He crunches with his mouth closed. Progress.

I sit up. The sofa bed has the same dip it’s had since we got it. I was going to fix it with a folded towel. I still haven’t. The dip is just where I live now.

‘I need you for something this morning,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘We’re going into town.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll tell you on the bus.’

‘Is it boring?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Yus. Twenty minutes. I’ll give you three quid for a Fanta and you can go to Hamza’s after.’

The calculation. Three quid and a Fanta versus staying in bed.

‘Fine.’

The 72 drops us in the interchange. We walk up toward Bank Street. Past the Ladbrokes with the lights on and the screens going — I don’t look in but I know what it looks like because every Ladbrokes looks the same.

Yus is two steps behind me, dragging his feet.

‘Where are we actually going?’

‘Yorkshire Building Society.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s like a bank but for savings.’

‘I don’t have any savings.’

‘You’ve got ten quid from your birthday.’

‘That’s not savings, that’s my money.’

‘It’s your money sitting in a jar doing nothing. We’re putting it somewhere it does something.’

He doesn’t ask what.

The building society is next to a Barnardo’s. Blue and white logo. Push door — I pull it first, obviously — then push.

Carpet. Dark blue. Quiet. Two women at the counter ahead of us. A man filling in a form at a desk. A staff member behind the counter — forties, glasses, the kind of smile building societies have that banks don’t.

‘Hiya, love. What can I do for you?’

‘We want to open a savings account. For him.’

Yus is looking around like I’ve brought him to court.

We sit at the desk. She pulls up the form on her screen. Name. Date of birth. Address.

‘And how old is he?’

‘Eleven,’ I say.

‘Lovely.’ She types something. Clicks something else. Reads the screen.

‘Right, so for under-sixteens we need a parent or legal guardian to be present. They’ll need to sign the application and show ID.’

I look at her. ‘I’m his sister.’

‘I know, love, I’m sorry. It’s just the policy — we can’t open it without a parent or guardian here in person.’

I opened mine at sixteen. Walked in on my own, showed my passport, done in fifteen minutes. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t occur to me there’d be different rules for eleven.

Yus is spinning a pen he’s found on the desk. He hasn’t clocked what’s happened.

‘Can I call my mum?’

‘Course you can. We’re open till half twelve.’

I get up. Walk toward the door. Pull out my phone.

It rings four times.

‘Maya?’

‘Mum, are you busy?’

‘I’m on Ingleby Road. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m at the building society on Bank Street with Yus. We’re trying to open him a savings account but they need you here to sign. He’s under sixteen.’

Pause. I can hear traffic on her end.

‘You’re at the building society?’

‘Yeah.’

‘With Yus?’

‘Yeah.’

Shorter pause.

‘Twenty minutes.’

She hangs up. I go back inside. Yus is still spinning the pen.

‘She’s coming.’

The woman smiles. ‘No rush, love. Can I get you a glass of water while you wait?’

‘We’re all right. Thanks.’

We sit. Yus picks up a leaflet about fixed-rate bonds and stares at it. Puts it down. Picks up another one about ISAs. Puts that down too. Checks his zipped pocket where the tenner is. Pats it. Still there.

A man comes in. Gets a form. Sits at the other desk. The printer does something in the back office. Yus swings his legs and catches the desk leg with his trainer.

‘Yus.’

‘Sorry.’

I look at the carpet. Blue. Worn near the door where people stand. This is the kind of place Nani went. Not this branch, but places like it. Counters and forms. Papers that weren’t right, or were right but not enough. She went three times and three times they said no and after the third time she bought tins from the pound shop instead. Different decade. Same carpet, probably.

Yus kicks the desk again. I don’t say anything this time.

The door opens. Mum. She’s got her coat on. The green one, too warm for June, but it’s the one with the deep pockets. Lidl bag in one hand. She must have been on her way back from the shops.

She sees us at the desk. Walks over. Sits down in the empty chair.

‘Sorry about that,’ she says to the woman. ‘What do you need?’

‘Just your ID and a signature, love.’

Mum gets her driving licence out of her purse. The woman types. Mum signs where she points. Ninety seconds. The whole thing that stopped us was ninety seconds of Mum’s handwriting on a form.

‘What happens if he wants to take money out?’ Mum says. ‘Does he have to give notice, or can he just come in?’

The woman looks up. ‘No notice at all. He can come in any time.’

Mum nods. One question. Small.

‘And the initial deposit?’

I look at Yus. He pulls the tenner out of his tracksuit pocket. Warm, creased, one corner folded.

He looks at the note. Looks at the woman. Looks at me. Back at the note. His thumb runs along the crease.

He puts it on the desk. Slow. Accha, Yus.

‘Thank you, love.’ She takes it. Types.

The printer whirs.

A passbook. Small. Like a booklet. She opens it. His name. The date. And underneath: £10.00.

He holds it. Turns it over. Opens it again.

‘That’s mine?’

‘That’s yours.’

Mum’s watching him. She opens her purse and takes out a five-pound note. Puts it on the desk.

‘Can you add that as well, please?’

‘Mum —’

‘He’s not starting on his own.’

The woman adds it. Types. The passbook comes back across the desk. £15.00.

Yus looks at it like the number’s changed colour.

‘Fifteen,’ he says.

He zips it into his jacket pocket. Pats the pocket once. Twice.

‘Right,’ Mum says. She tucks the Lidl bag between her feet and stands. ‘Anything else?’

‘That’s everything,’ the woman says. ‘He’s all set.’

Three of us to get it done. A phone call, a bus ride, a signature.

‘Can we go to CeX?’ Yus says.

‘Yeah.’

We walk back down Bank Street. Past the Barnardo’s. The phone place. Traffic from the roundabout. Mum’s walking with us as far as the bus stop — she’s got the Lidl stuff to get home.

‘I checked that thing you showed me,’ she says. Not looking at me. Looking ahead. ‘The housing element. On the UC journal.’

I glance at her.

‘There might be something there. I need to ring them Monday.’

She says it the way she’d say the bus is late. Flat. Ordinary. But she looked it up. I showed her once, weeks ago, sitting at the kitchen table with my phone, and she looked it up on her own.

‘That’s good, Mum.’

‘We’ll see.’

She touches Yus’s head as we reach the bus stop. ‘Don’t spend it all in CeX.’

‘I won’t.’

She goes left. We go right.

Yus is ahead of me. He checks the zipped pocket — quick pat, keeps walking. We cross at the lights. A bus goes past. I step over a flattened takeaway box on the pavement. Yus kicks a bottle cap into the gutter. We walk.

In CeX he disappears into the game section. I stand near the door. The game he wanted was fifteen quid. He walks past it. Looks at it. Keeps going. Comes back with a DVD instead. Holds it up. Fast & Furious 6.

‘Two quid,’ he says.

A quid left from the three I gave him.

‘Bus,’ I say.

‘Fanta first.’

‘Fine. Fanta first.’

Night. Everyone’s asleep. Phone on 11%.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up.

Mum. From the bedroom, a text instead of walking ten feet, because it’s late and Yus is asleep and that’s how we do it now.

got an interview tuesday
different agency, days not nights
less hours but its something
we’ll work it out x

I read it. I read it again.

I start typing. Delete it. Start again. Delete it. Then just:

we will x

I put the phone down.

I get the notebook out. The one from school — half chemistry notes, half blank. I find a clean page near the back.

Yus,

I write that. Stare at it.

Don’t lend money to anyone at school.

That one comes easy. I know that one in my bones. Lucozade and a lie about Monday.

Then I try to write the next bit. The bigger stuff. About budgets and accounts and why Mum doesn’t talk about money and what I wish someone had told me before September. I get four words in and cross them out. Try again. Cross that out too.

It’s all there. In my head. I know it. But sat here with a pen and a half-empty notebook it won’t come out right. It sounds like a lecture. It sounds like school.

Yus’s door clicks. I hear him go to the bathroom. The tap runs. Stops. He pads back. The door clicks shut.

I look at the page. One line and two scribbles.

I close the notebook. Put the pen on the arm of the sofa bed. It rolls off. I leave it.

Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll just show him. Some stuff you can’t put in a letter, yaar.

Outside, a car alarm. Two blasts. Silence.

I pick up my phone. Open Monzo. Not because anything’s changed since this morning — just checking. The way you check the weather before you leave even though you already looked out the window.

£80.

Eight months of putting bits aside. Some months fifteen. Some months nothing. The Chromebook — ninety quid, scratch on the lid. Emergency pot rebuilt to fifty. One month at the new rate. Fifty plus thirty. Eighty.

The numbers are small. The emergency fund wouldn’t last a month if something went properly wrong and I know that. But I know where every pound is. What’s going out Thursday. What’s coming in Friday. What’s left after the phone bill and the bus pass and the bit I give Mum.

I close the app. Put the phone face down on the carpet.

The crack in the ceiling is still there. Light fitting to the corner. Nine months I’ve been looking at it. The first night in this flat I lay on a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor and stared at that crack and thought about the deposit and the scuff on the wall and the way Mum sat in the car with her eyes closed. September. A different version of me who didn’t know there were rules, let alone that there were rules about the rules.

I didn’t get rich or fix anything. Mum’s still looking for a new contract. Nani still keeps her money in tins. The system is still the system and £80 wouldn’t survive a month of anything going wrong.

But I know what I’ve got. And what I don’t.

I sit with that. Theek hai.

The fridge hums. Same sound as September. Same buzz. But I’m not — I dunno. Something’s different.