patterns on tiles, patterns on boxesâbeautiful, intricate patterns, shapes and flowers and vines and letters, some in a soft flowing script, some square and printed.
A man stood in front of a wall of tiles, speaking. A group of children sat in front of him, listening. We crouched behind, eavesdropping.
âCan anyone spot the mistake in this one?â the man asked, pointing out an almost-cross-shaped tile.
A girl near the front, a yellow bandanna holding her hair down, put her hand up and told him that one of the letters was missing a line.
âYou see,â the man went on, âmost Islamic artists will add a deliberate mistake to their work to make it imperfect. They believe thatonly God is perfect, and they show this in their art.â
We wandered on, into the gallery.
âThatâs like people, isnât it?â I said to the boy.
He stared back at me.
âEveryoneâs got something wrong. No oneâs perfect.â
We looked at a large vase, about half as tall as me. I was searching for the mistake.
âJust, weâre the only ones brave enough to admit it.â
I thought this might be true, even though I felt far from brave.
The way back was much like the way there. It was much like it, the walking, the Tube. But it was also very different; I wasnât afraid of Poppy or the other girls. Luzie smiled at me and I smiled back. And I noticed as I stared at the others, my classmates, they all had things wrong, just like me.
When we got back into the playground and stood shivering, waiting for our parents, Jo was no longer by the flower beds, but a different face, just as welcome, said hello: a soft yellow star, the first daffodil.
GROWING
After the school trip, my angel brother came down again.
He sat on the end of my bed. He hadnât sat before, just sort of hovered. I could see the wounds, thick streaks of red across his wrists, still glistening, wet, sticky. They made me think of jewels; rubies set in golden skin. I wondered how much a ruby that size would be worth.
He looked where I was looking and pulled his sleeves down to cover the terrible chasms.
âHey, Tiny,â he said.
I said âHeyâ back.
Bright eyes glowed out from under a flat-brimmed cap. Moses cast them around the room, then fixed them back on me. âYouâre growing,â he said.
I didnât feel like it. I hadnât had new shoes or trousers in ages, not since the last time Iâd seen him in the waking world. I told him so.
âNo,â he said, pressing his hand against his chest. âIn here, youâre growing.â
I placed my own hand on my own chest. Inside, my heart beat and fluttered. We sat still a long time. I felt in the darkness the pulsing warmth of my body.
âIâm growing?â
âYouâre growing. And itâs good. Youâve got to grow,â the angel Moses said.
Mr. Wills has been teaching us about similes and metaphors, when you compare something to something else that itâs like.
Hereâs a famous simile by William Wordsworth:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high oâer vales and hills
Itâs good, isnât it? The cloud, lonely, wandering, high, away from everything.
When Mr. Wills told us about it I was staring out the window, inspecting the clouds, making it make sense.
âYouâve got to pay attention, Kaia!â he shouted at me. âThis is important, youâve got to focus.â
I know
, I thought.
And I was
. But I didnât say anything; I just stared back at the board as if that rectangle of white were where you could learn everything under the sun.
Poppy and the clever table got to write simile poems about animals, describing the way they look, act, feel.
We had a âfill in the blanksâ worksheet. Stupid stuff like:
The boy ran as fast as â¦
A lionâs mane is like â¦
The teacher was as fierce as â¦
I hate doing stupid