Happy Here E-Book

Various

• Herausgeber: Knights Of
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 246

Beschreibung

With an introduction from bestselling author Sharna Jackson, HAPPY HERE features stories and poems by 10 Black British authors for readers aged 7+. Exploring themes of joy, home and family through a wide range of genres and styles, each author has been paired with a different illustrator to spotlight Black British artistic talent. With stories by Dean Atta, Joseph Coelho, Kereen Getten, Patrice Lawrence, Theresa Lola, E.L. Norry, Jasmine Richards, Alexandra Sheppard, Yomi Sode, and Clare Weze.

Leseprobe

iv

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEINTRODUCTION SHARNA JACKSONA HOUSE LIKE NO OTHERALEXANDRA SHEPPARD · ILLUSTRATED BY DORCAS MAGBADELOAMELIA ST CLAIR AND THE LONG-ARMED KILLERJOSEPH COELHO · ILLUSTRATED BY SELOM SUNUA GOOD WEEKENDTHERESA LOLA · ILLUSTRATED BY MOHAMED FADERAWHERE IS HOMEKEREEN GETTEN · ILLUSTRATED BY LUCY FARFORTYOU’RE THE BOSS.E.L. NORRY · ILLUSTRATED BY CHANTÉ TIMOTHYvONCECLARE WEZE · ILLUSTRATED BY CAMILLA RUASHER IS A ROCKSTAR!DEAN ATTA · ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVIA TWISTWAKEJASMINE RICHARDS · ILLUSTRATED BY WUMZUMTOMORROW, AS INYOMI ṢODE · ILLUSTRATED BY WILLKAYTHE AFTER EVER AFTER BUREAUPATRICE LAWRENCE · ILLUSTRATED BY ONYINYE IWUAUTHORS & ILLUSTRATORSACKNOWLEDGMENTSABOUT THE PUBLISHERCOPYRIGHTvi

vii

INTRODUCTION

What makes you happy? Seriously happy, I mean. So happy that you smile so hard your big grin stings a bit as it stretches across your face, making your eyes squint and shine? Thathappy. So happy, someone annoying might say, if the windchangesyourface willstick like that?

It won’t by the way. Don’t listen to them.

But do think about your happiness for a moment. While you wonder, here’s what currently brings me joy.

These days, for me, eating something really spicy, so fiery it burns all the way down, makes me incredibly happy. Chilli sweats are a whole vibe. Sleeping too – phew, I love a good snooze under a blanket on the sofa. But my favourite thing, the one that really beats everything else by miles, is getting to write stories for young people, and being able to share them with the world. viii

That is incredibly important to me. This is why.

Many (many, many) years ago, in the eighties and nineties, when I was a kid, one of my favourite things was cycling around town with my friends and my girl Tropicana – my neon green and pink mountain bike. My first love. My favourite ‘trick’ was attempting to ride without holding her handlebars. Basic, I know, but I was so scared trying it. I still have the scar on my arm from the one time I actually did.

Another favourite thing: I was a bridesmaid three times. Three. Apparently, this means I’ll never get married myself, but that’s OK. These weddings were huge, super-fancy affairs full of brilliantly dressed family from across England, the Caribbean and America. We would congregate, celebrate, gossip and giggle. And eat. Dining and dancing to soca bops, especially with my Granddad at the party bit, was brilliant. He was a good dancer.

These were great times, but my most favourite thing, the one I could do every day, at any time – that really beat everything else – was watching, playing and reading stories.ix

I loved stories, but I wasn’t sure stories loved me back.

I devoured everything I could. Our family was surrounded by stories. I was told tall tales of tabby cats and buried treasure. We shared short stories about snow showers and saving the world. I even read a medical encyclopaedia, more than once – I’m basically a doctor now. I loved all of my books – nothing beats being transported to new and unusual worlds, meeting new people and learning about their lives.

The trouble was, in most of the books we read, I struggled to find us.

In the many stories, nothing felt like our lives.

There were rarely any characters that looked or spoke like me, my friends or my family.

We were missing. Black people weren’t reallythere. When we were, we were mostly being naughty, rude, making trouble, being in trouble. Suffering, generally. Dying first, or doing the deaths, then doing the time. Don’t get me wrong, some of these were great stories – truly xexcellent – but where were the stories about how funny and fascinating ‘normal’ life could be? Where were the little Black British girls, on bikes? Where was the love, where was the joy? Where were the Black heroes? I tried to find them, but I mostly failed.

Instead, I found that some of the best stories I was told, were the ones we told ourselves.

The funniest (funny strange, not funny ha-ha) thing about this was, I didn’t even realise this was a problem. This was just how it was. This was normal.

But howitwaswas wrong, and it should never have been normal. All children, no matter where and who they are, deserve to see themselves being bold and brave in stories – not just bad or broken. At best, that’s boring. At worst, it’s racist. Seeing ourselves in stories is so important. Do you know why? If you can see yourself, it helps you believe in yourself and your abilities. If you believe in yourself, you can achieve anythingyou want to.

I want that for you, because I know you can do it.xi

So, that’s why I love writing stories. I love telling stories about us, for us, and for everyone else, so they can see and understand that there is way more to being Black than just the colour of our skin and the struggles that come with it. I know the writers and illustrators in HappyHereagree with me on this. It’s why you’re holding this book right now. HappyHereis a celebration, and all of you readers out there? Well, you’re all invited to this party. We threw it for you, after all. You’re going to have such a good time, I promise.

In these pages, you’ll find ten incredible stories, with ten stunning illustrations by Black creators that burst with joy, show happiness at home, and are about the love between friends and family. The characters in these stories and illustrations take up space, just by being themselves, by being whoever they want to be and it’s the best. Ginormous thanks and kisses to all the writers and illustrators in this book – not only for their incredible work and talent, but also for their energy, dedication and being such inspirational role models. I’m so glad their work is opening up our world. It’s both a pleasure and privilege to see their thoughts and ideas.xii

HappyHereis making change. Change is happening, but we do have a long way to go yet. Did you know that between 2017-2019 only 7% of all children’s books published in the UK had Black or Brown characters? That’s low and it’s sad. Thankfully, organisations like Knights Of, the incredible publishers of this book, and BookTrust and CLPE (the Centre for Literacy in Primary Education) are not only watching this; they are working hard to make sure we have more Black creators, characters and readers. I am so very thankful to them for making HappyHerehappen.

Finally, massive thank you to all of you, out there, reading HappyHereright now. We see you, and we believe in you. I do have a favour to ask; I would love it if youstarted writing your own incredible stories, I need tales to read when I’m even older than I am now. In the meantime, my greatest wish, for all of you, is that you enjoy this book and you’re HappyHere,happy there, happy wherever you are.

Sharna Jackson March 2021xiiixiv

1

A HOUSE LIKE NO OTHER

ALEXANDRA SHEPPARD ILLUSTRATED BY DORCAS MAGBADELO

Izzy Ferguson held on tight to her dad’s hand. She was the only girl in Year Six who still did that. But as the tube whistled through the dark and pulled to a screeching halt at the end of the tunnel, the other passengers rushed to the narrow doors at the same time. If Izzy didn’t hold his hand, they’d get separated and she’d be lost forever, rattling around the station with nothing but rats for company.

Probably.

Pops looked down at her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Izzy. Just a short walk and we’re there.”

Then you get to go back home, she thought. Traitor.2

They crept up the escalator and made their way out of the tube station. Everything bleeped and swished. All the people looked straight ahead or down at their phones. No one stared at Pops.

In the town they lived in, Pops got a lot of stares because of his dark brown skin and waist-length locs. Izzy and her big bro Dev sometimes got the stares too when they were out with Mum. She’s white and they’re brown and for some reason certain people can’t get their head around that. They stare at them like they are a math’s equation they’re struggling to solve.

Izzy zipped up her winter coat. After the dozy warmth of the tube, the late October chill hit even harder.

The High Street was heaving with people, even on a Wednesday afternoon. Large shops, with shiny window displays, jostled beside market stalls selling incense sticks, shiny jewellery and the type of fruit Izzy only ever saw in the exotic section of the supermarket. She spotted a crate of wrinkled orange mangoes (her favourite!) and the fragrance was intoxicating. It mingled with the traffic fumes and the smell of BBQ lingering in the air.

All the different people, sounds and smells left Izzy feeling too overwhelmed to be anxious about the two days that lay ahead.3

“I’m so jealous of you, Iz!” Pops said, steering them through the crowd with ease. Izzy held on tight to his hand. “I’d love to spend a few days in Brixton with Aunty V. She’s the coolest.”

There it was. Pops’ reminder about where they were headed brought Izzy firmly back to earth.

For the first time in her life (all ten years and seven months of it), Izzy was spending two nights without her parents or big brother Dev. She wasn’t pleased about it.

Since Dev moved out last month, Izzy’s life had taken a spectacular turn for the worse. It seemed like whatever remained of Izzy’s confidence had disappeared when he’d packed up for university.

Dev looked after her every half-term and she got his undivided attention. But with Dev at uni, there was no one to look after Izzy while Mum and Pops were at work. The week-long holiday became yet another thing that filled Izzy with dread.

She wished she could feel as proud of Dev as Mum and Dad did. They both shed a tear when they dropped him off at his new home, even if Dad tried to pretend he had dust in his eye. But it only reminded Izzy what a coward she was.

Dev moved like it was as simple as changing socks. 4But Izzy was starting secondary school next year and the thought made her tummy curdle like orange juice mixed with milk. Just the thought of this Saturday’s ballet show gave her sleepless nights. Why couldn’t she be as brave as her big brother?

They passed a bakery window stacked with the kind of bread and cakes Izzy only ever ate at Gran’s house.

“Look, Iz,” her dad pointed. “Hardo bread! Isn’t that your favourite?”

Izzy grunted in response. Hardo bread was her favourite and it was impossible to find in their local shops at home. But she wasn’t about to give Pops the satisfaction of making her smile. Not when he was abandoning her.

Izzy had tried everything to get out of staying with Great Aunty V. She was practically a stranger. The rest of Izzy’s Jamaican family gathered at Gran’s house for Christmas, Easter and the Summer BBQ. But Great Aunty V never visited. Izzy only heard about her in dribs and drabs over the years.

“Gran said that Great Aunty V is a ‘character’,” Izzy said. “What does that mean?”

Pops laughed. “It means that she’s a very interesting person.”

“Is it true that she had a bright yellow car? And that she was a singer?”5

“Yeah! She had a Mini Cooper called Martin. And she made a heap of cash doing a pet food jingle back in the 80s. Now she’s a Drama teacher, I think.”

“Drama? Ugh.” That was Izzy’s least favourite subject. After what happened at the last ballet show, she never wanted to set foot on a stage again. But Mum insisted she finished the term.

“You begged for ballet classes, Izzy,” she had said when Izzy tried to get out of it. “They’re paid for and I’m not letting that go to waste.”

Izzy couldn’t argue with that. She did beg for ballet classes. It was all Lottie’s idea, and now after The Incident, her ex-best-friend won’t even talk to her in class.

They turned onto a quiet street and left the traffic behind them. Soon, the only sound was the rumble of Izzy’s suitcase wheels against the pavement.

“Are you sure I can’t stay at home alone, Pops? I wouldn’t even think about using the stove or opening the door to strangers or––”

He chuckled. “That’s out of the question, kiddo.”

“But I can take care of myself!” Izzy said. She realised she was still holding his hand and dropped it quickly.

“Getting out of your comfort zone will do you good,” Pops said.6

“Mum said the same thing,” Izzy muttered.

Pops paused for a second and sighed. “Look, Iz. If you really don’t want to stay away from home for two measly nights, your mum and I can work something out. Maybe we can both rearrange our shifts. I’m not sure if it’ll work, but…”

If they went back home, Izzy would get to sleep in her own bed with her polka dot duvet. There would be no unknowns. But she could just picture the look on Mum’s face when they walked back through the door.

Dev told you to be brave, she thought.

“Iz?” Pops said. “We can make the next train back home if we hurry.”

Aren’t you sick and tired of always being afraid?

Izzy took a deep breath. “No. I’m going to stay with Great Aunty V.”

*

“If memory serves me correctly, Aunty V’s place is just… here!”

Izzy looked up at a terraced house much like every other on the quiet street, apart from one thing. Every inch of it was bright yellow. From the roof tiles to the bricks to the garden gate.7

And not a subtle yellow, either. It was the sort of colour Izzy imagined astronauts could see from space. Yellow curtains adorned the windows and a yellow brick path led up to the front door. Even yellow rose bushes bloomed in the front garden, their bright petals even louder against the watery grey sky.

Pops smiled. “It’s exactly how I remember it.”

They walked up the garden path and Pops reached for the door knocker. The front door swung open before he touched it.

“Hello? Aunty V?” Pops yelled. “Maybe she forgot to lock the door behind her.”

Izzy folded her arms. “And you want to leave me alone with this woman?”

Pops ignored her. Izzy followed him into the darkened hallway and up a narrow staircase. He pushed open another door (also unlocked) and they walked into a large open plan living room bathed in sunlight. It flooded in through the windows, washing the wooden floorboards with its rays. The sunlight combined with the yellow furniture and yellow walls had a dazzling effect. It was like being inside a buttercup.

It took Izzy’s eyes a few seconds to adjust. “But it’s cloudy outside,” she whispered in awe.8

“Cloudy is a state of mind, my dear,” boomed a voice.

Izzy spun around to see where it came from. At the other end of the large room a very short, very round older woman stood on a stool at the stove. She stirred a pot that was nearly the same size as her. Like the house, she was dressed top to toe in yellow. She wore a yellow blouse, yellow jeans and a yellow shawl was wrapped jauntily over her shoulders.

“Aunty V!” Pops exclaimed, rushing over to greet her.

A tubby black cat purred in the shard of sunlight pouring through the window.

“Don’t be rude, Winston! We have company,” Great Aunty V said to the cat. She stepped down from the stool and walked over to Izzy.

“Oh my, Isabelle. You have shot up,” she said, looking her up and down. Izzy was a good head-and-shoulders taller than Great Aunty V. “The first time we met, you stained my second-favourite shawl with baby vomit. This is already a vast improvement.”

“Call me Izzy, Great Aunty V,” she said.

“I beg your pardon? My dear, you will have to be bold and use your voice. I’m a trifle deaf,” Great Aunty V said.

But she heard me mutter from across the room, Izzy thought.

“I said, call me Izzy!” She bellowed.9

10“That’s more like it! When you’re in this house, speak loud and proud.”

“We really appreciate you looking after Iz at such short notice,” Pops said.

Great Aunty V smiled and for a second she looked just like Gran. “It is long overdue. Will you stay for dinner, Errol? I’ve made your favourite.”

“I’d love to but I need to catch the next train home. Early start tomorrow,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, Aunty V. The front door was unlocked.”

“Don’t be foolish, Errol. It wasn’t unlocked. The house knew it was you.”

Izzy and Pops exchanged a glance. “Well, as long as you’re sure.”

They said their goodbyes, and then Pops was gone. Izzy was well and truly alone for two whole days.

“You must be hungry after that long train journey. Go on, sit! I made your favourite.”

Izzy smiled weakly and pulled up a chair at the yellow dining table.

“There you go, sweetness,” Great Aunty V said. “Your favourite!”

She presented Izzy with a deep bowl of grey-looking mush. It was the texture of lumpy porridge and the colour 11of concrete.

Izzy smiled weakly. “Looks delish,” she muttered.

“Thank you, darlin’. I spent all day cooking so mind you don’t waste a drop.”

Izzy scooped up a spoonful of grey mush and swallowed it quickly. Her eyes widened with shock.

“It’s mango-flavoured!” Izzy exclaimed. And not just any old mango, but the ripest and juiciest mango she’d ever tasted. The porridge tasted more like mango than mango itself.

Great Aunty V looked puzzled. “What did you expect, child? I told you I made your favourite.”

Izzy polished off her bowl of mush in record time. She even asked for seconds and thirds.

Once she’d eaten her fill, Izzy pulled out her phone. No signal. “Great Aunty V, what’s your Wi-Fi password? I promised Dev I’d let him know when I arrived.”

Great Aunty V waved her hand. “I don’t bother with any of that nonsense, sweetness. This is a technology-free zone.”

Izzy looked around. There was no television or phone or laptop in sight. “B-but how will I do my homework?”

She cackled. “Child, you and I both know you don’t give a single fig about homework.”12

“But how do you do anything without the–”

“Enough, Isabelle,” Great Aunty V said sternly.

Izzy gulped. “So what do you do for fun?”

“I read, I sew, I play with the cat. Winston can be the most fabulous company when he isn’t in one of his sour moods, like today.”

“Mi-aow!” came the sharp rebuttal from Winston. He was curled up on the mustard yellow sofa.

“I’m sorry about him,” she whispered. “He’s not used to sharing me with house guests.”

Izzy raised one eyebrow. It seemed like Great Aunty V was a few sarnies short of a picnic, as Mum would say.

“But to be quite honest, my work keeps me busy. I run Drama classes for local kids in the studio downstairs. Some of them begin the classes hating it, but by the end they all bloom in confidence,” Great Aunty V smiled. “I was so excited to hear that you’re a prima ballerina!”

Izzy blushed. “Hardly. I’ve only been taking lessons for a couple of years.”

Great Aunty V held her hand to her ear. “Speak up, child! My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

“I’m a ballerina,” Izzy said louder, sitting up straight. “But I’m quitting soon. The show on Saturday will be my last.”13

“I see,” Great Aunty V said, looking concerned. “What happened?”

Izzy could feel her eyes fill up with tears. She didn’t expect to say what she said next, but there was something safe about Great Aunty V. “I completely humiliated myself at the last ballet show. I was about to do my solo piece but then I realised how scary it all was: the big stage, the bright lights. Tonnes of people in the audience. And I…froze.”

Great Aunty V nodded, as though prompting Izzy to carry on. So, she did.

“I gawped like a goldfish and ran off stage. And none of the other girls in my ballet class have talked to me since. Including my so-called best friend Lottie,” Izzy blurted out. It was the most she’d talked about this to anyone.

Great Aunty V sighed. “Let me ask you something. Do you enjoy ballet?”

Izzy nodded. “Yes. At least, I used to.”

“What do you love about it?”

“Oh,” Izzy said. No one had ever asked her that. “It’s hard to put into words. I guess… When I’m doing normal things like speaking to other kids at school, or putting my hand up to answer a question, I’m so worried about looking silly that my mind goes into overdrive. But when I dance, I don’t do any of that. That part of my brain switches off. And I feel free.”14

Great Aunty V was silent. Izzy felt her cheeks colour. She felt like she’d said too much.

“Then you must stick with it,” Great Aunty V said. “Don’t ever let fear stop you from being true to yourself.”

Easier said than done, Izzy thought.

Great Aunty V hopped down from the dining room chair (she really was very short). “Now that you’ve eaten, let me give you a tour of the house,” she said.

After the tour, Izzy had her theory confirmed: Great Aunty V was loopier than a rollercoaster.

Izzy followed the old lady up several flights of narrow stairs, each one narrower than the last.

“Here’s the bathroom. The hot water tap only works if you sing it a nursery rhyme first. Don’t ask me why, it’s been that way since 1989.”

“Here’s the study. This room only gets heating on the third Wednesday of the month, so I avoid it from October ’til April. My fingers are too elegant to be frostbitten, thank you very much.”

Izzy followed her up the final, and narrowest, staircase into the attic bedroom. It had a fluffy cream carpet and a four-poster bed in the centre of the room. Compared to the yellow living room, it was an oasis of calm.

On the dressing table sat a fancy-looking wooden box 15with a ballerina on top. Izzy skipped over to it.

“That’s my jewellery box. You’re welcome to have a look inside.”

Izzy didn’t need any further encouragement to open the box. She spotted pearl bracelets and diamond earrings nestled in the satin folds of the jewellery box. She held up a glamorous dangly earring studded with jewels against her ear and looked in the mirror.

Izzy frowned. She saw nothing but a little girl playing dress-up.

Great Aunty V hauled herself up on the bed. “You can try them on, if you like.”

“I can’t. Mum says I have to wait until Year Seven before I can get my ears pierced.”

“In that case, I have some clip-on earrings you can borrow,” Great Aunty V winked. “I think they’re in the spare room downstairs,” she said before leaving the room.

Izzy returned to the jewellery box. And that’s when she spotted something that stood out from the rest.

She pulled out a bracelet made from wooden beads and held together by a ratty length of string. It didn’t compare to the glittering jewels in the box.

Each bead was painted with a different letter. Izzy 16squinted and saw that the letters spelled D-A-H-L-I-A-+-V-E-R-N-I-C-E. She guessed that Vernice was Great Aunty V, but she had no idea who or what Dahlia was.

She slipped the bracelet on. “What the…” Izzy muttered to herself. The wooden beads began to glow and grew warm against her wrist.

Suddenly, she was no longer in Great Aunty V’s bedroom.

Later that night Izzy would try to make sense of what happened next. It was the single strangest thing that had ever happened to her.

A series of moving images flicked through Izzy’s mind like a slideshow. Izzy was on stage, nailing her performance at the ballet show. Izzy was at school, laughing and joking with her ex-friend Lottie. Izzy was eating dinner with her parents, the pain of Dev’s absence lessened.

Weirdest of all, a peculiar feeling surged through her body.

Izzy felt…brave. More than brave. Like she could take on the world.

Suddenly, she was back at the dressing table. Izzy hurriedly removed the bracelet and stuffed it back into the jewellery box. Instantly, the superhero feeling faded.

The next morning Izzy woke up feeling groggy. Her bad dreams about Saturday’s ballet show kept her up half the 17night. But any morning brain-fog quickly disappeared after her ice-cold shower. Bizarrely, Great Aunty V was right: the water warmed up nicely once she sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

Izzy sat down at the dining table where a bowl of grey mush was waiting for her. This morning it tasted just like the pancakes with maple syrup Mum had made for her birthday.

“Good morning, Great Aunty V!” Izzy chirped.

Aunty V chuckled. Today she was dressed in a burnt orange blouse with matching wide-legged slacks. She looked like a Halloween pumpkin on legs. “I’m glad you’re in a good mood, sweetness. I’ll need you to channel that energy in my Drama class today.”

Izzy dropped her spoon. “What?”

“You didn’t think I’d let your fabulous performance skills go to waste, did you? I’d like you to teach a class for my students. They’re so excited to meet you.”

Izzy felt like her breakfast would make a return at any second.

“I-I’m not so sure about that,” Izzy stammered.

“Being sure about things is overrated,” Great Aunty V chuckled. “Now get your leotard on, slow-coach. Winston and I don’t like to be late.”18

*

Izzy, Winston and Great Aunty V didn’t need to go far - the drama studio was in the basement. While Great Aunty V answered the door to students and Winston chased a fly, Izzy tried to calm herself down.

She was about to perform in front of complete strangers. They were going to judge her. And there was nowhere to run if she fluffed it.

Not if you fluff it, but when, Izzy told herself. Because you can’t do anything right.

By 10am sharp the studio was filled with chatting older kids dressed in t-shirts, tracksuit bottoms or leggings. It was clear by the smiles and hugs that they all knew each other. They fussed over Winston, who purred with delight while they rubbed his belly. But no one looked twice at Izzy.

Even the cat gets more notice than you.

Izzy was in a room full of people but had never felt more alone.

Great Aunty V clapped to get everyone’s attention. The room fell silent and the twenty or so students sat cross-legged on the floor. Winston jumped onto her back and draped himself across her shoulder like a furry black parrot.

“Today we have a very special guest. This is my great-niece, 19Isabelle,” Great Aunty V pointed to Izzy who sat in the corner. “She’s an exceptionally talented ballerina and she will be teaching us some basic moves.”

A few of the boys groaned. “But, Miss! Ballet is for girls,” one muttered.

“Luke, to practice ballet requires strength, determination and discipline,” Great Aunty V said. “I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t benefit from that.”

Strong. Determined. Disciplined. If Izzy had to describe herself, those three words would be at the bottom of the list.

Great Aunty V did the register then led the warm-up. The other students wriggled their bodies and yelled out silly voices with enthusiasm while Izzy stood in the corner, tummy roiling with nerves. Although she was tall for her age, Izzy was younger than most students here. By the way they talked she realised they were probably all in secondary school.

“Now we’re going to play Hot Spot!” Great Aunty V yelled over the chattering students.

The kids immediately formed a giant circle and Izzy followed suit. A couple of girls argued over who would stand in the centre.

“Shanice, you went first last time darlin’,” Great Aunty V said. “Zora can start us off today.”20

The girl called Zora smiled smugly at Shanice, who rolled her eyes before collapsing into giggles. It was clear that they were good friends.

“Zora, you will start singing any song you like, within reason. No bad language in my studio, please. Then someone else will jump in and sing a song that is linked to the first one until everyone has sung.”

Everyone. Has. Sung. Izzy couldn’t think of more spine-chilling words. Just standing in front of strangers in her silly leotard was bad enough. But to make her sing?

“Take it away, Zora!” Great Aunty V said.

Zora began singing the first few bars of a pop song. Her voice wasn’t particularly good but she was enthusiastic and her voice projected beautifully. After a few seconds, another girl jumped forward into the circle and started singing a different song. She even threw in a few cute dance moves while the rest of the circle clapped along.

Izzy ran through potential songs in her head. If she was forced to sing, what would be the least embarrassing option?