Then in Year Nine we finally got our allocated term of swimming lessons, except for me and Farah. We were exempt, because … well … neurology. Every week for a whole term, we sat together by the side of the pool for an hour a week while the other kids splashed and dunked each other and supposedly learned how to swim.
At first, we ignored each other. Farah did her homework, which I hadn’t expected. I stared dismally at the kids playing in the pool. The Asian kids and the white kids didn’t mix much in my school and I wish I could tell you a story of our blossoming friendship at the poolside, our bond of mutual adversity, but … not so much. We had nothing to say to each other.
But that didn’t stop my fourteen-year-old self developing a raging crush on her.
Every week I got more and more obsessed. Every week, I imagined that we’d find our way into easy conversation. I’d make her laugh and everything else would follow. But every week my awkward hellos were met with a faintly bemused frown as she turned back to her books.
I don’t know what finally made me do it. It wasn’t like she’d given me the slightest indication that she might say yes if I asked her out. I had a feeling, that’s all. Like I ought to.
OK, I was a complete idiot.
When the time finally came, I’d spent so long working myself up to it I don’t even remember what I said. My heart was pounding and I was more worried about passing out than anything else. All I do remember is her slightly sad smile and the smallest shake of her head before she turned back to her work without even giving me the dignity of a straight “no”.
I can hardly bring myself to look at her, even now. She sits very still next to me. I glance at her, at the sharp line of her jaw that I remember so well, her unruly black hair barely contained in a scrunchy.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
Her eyes meet mine for a second and then skate away. Maybe she doesn’t remember me?
I take out my phone and then remember that it’s dead. “Do you have a charger?” I ask. “My phone’s not working.”
Farah shakes her head ever so slightly. The same way she used to shake her head when I tried to say hello at the pool. “Sorry. Mine too.”
I kind of half turn in my seat, looking around like I’m searching for the official phone-charger guy. “Maybe we should ask someone, we could borrow—”
“I don’t think it’s that,” Farah says.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think a charger will help.”
I open my mouth but no words come out. Something about the look in her eyes makes me anxious. I recognize that look: I see it in myself sometimes after a seizure. Stunned. I wonder why she’s here. She was supposed to have been cured back when she was thirteen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Getting my nails done, how about you?” she replies without a pause.
I groan inwardly. I should have a witty response for this. “Tonsils,” I should say. But that’s the kind of snappy one-liner I only think of about an hour after the conversation is over.
She taps the side of her head. “Tumour,” she explains.
“I thought they cured that,” I say.
“So did I,” she says. “But I didn’t come here for the view, did I?”
What was it? I wonder. What clued her into the fact that something was wrong? An unexpected seizure? A sudden weakness on one side? Blind spots? Something had alerted her to the fact that it was still growing silently inside her. She was the school bad girl and nobody could tell her what to do, but when your brain sends you to see the head teacher, you go, even if you’re Farah Rafiq.
“What about you?” she asks.
“Epilepsy,” I reply.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I had a seizure. Earlier this morning, I mean.”
I don’t know why I still feel ashamed when I tell people I had a seizure, like it’s my fault, like it means I’m weak.
“Do you always come to the hospital after a seizure?”
“No,” I say. Defensive.
She’s watching me. No, not watching me, studying me. She leans closer, like she’s about to tell me a secret and I realize for the first time how pale she is.
“What was different this time?” she asks.
“I … nothing.”
Her mouth pinches in that small, sad smile she has. She turns away.
“I don’t see you in school anymore, do I?”
“I’m doing retakes online. At home,” I explain.
“Oh yeah.” She smirks. “It’s your fault I got an eight instead of a nine in maths, you know that?”
My heart sinks.
