Huda and Me by H. Hayek (summer beach reads TXT) 📗

so bright and crisp I think it could be made from printer paper. He squats down beside our seats.

‘I’m your flight attendant today,’ he says in a squeaky voice. ‘My name is Martin.’ He glances at his notebook. ‘And you must be Hooda and Akeaw.’

Huda snorts and tries to muffle a laugh at the way he pronounced our names.

‘Now, Hooda and Akeaw, make sure you buckle your seatbelts nice and tight. If you need anything today, you just press that button and I’ll come right over.’ He points to a little button with a lightbulb on it built into my seat’s armrest. ‘Can I do anything for you before we begin the safety briefing?’

I open my mouth to say no and thank you, but Huda cuts in before me. ‘Thanks very much, Martin. I’d like a Coke, please.’

Martin’s eyes widen for a brief moment. ‘Sure, just make sure you finish it before take-off, okay little lady?’

‘Actually, Martin, make it two Cokes. My brother needs a drink. And do you have any of those kids’ colouring packs? I’d like one of those too, please.’

I glare at Huda.

‘Two Cokes and a colouring pack coming right up,’ Martin says before heading off down the aisle.

‘You can’t just go around demanding things like that, Huda,’ I say.

‘I wasn’t demanding. He asked if I wanted anything. You need to relax, brother.’

‘Relax! We were almost just sent to a kids’ prison for the rest of our lives!’

Martin brings us our drinks and Huda’s colouring pack and we fall silent until he leaves again.

‘I don’t know how Mum and Dad agreed to let us onto this plane when that woman called them,’ I hiss when it’s safe to talk again.

‘It wasn’t Mum and Dad on the phone,’ says Huda casually, as she takes a sip of Coke.

I pause for a moment. ‘What do you mean it wasn’t Mum and Dad?’

‘It wasn’t them,’ she says, taking another sip.

‘Huda, for heaven’s sake, what are you on about?’

‘I gave ’em Mr Kostiki’s number when I booked online. It asked for parent or garden details, so I typed in his address and phone number.’

I’m guessing she means guardian.

‘You don’t think I’d really give ’em Mum and Dad’s number, do you? Even a child wouldn’t do that.’

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘And Mr Kostiki went along with it? When the airline rang him out of the blue?’

Huda reclines her seat. ‘Mr Kostiki has a lot of faith in me, Akeaw. You really need to take a chill pill.’ She taps her watch. ‘And look, no one else will realise we’re missing until after school, in another five or six hours, and we’ll be out of Australia and in the air by then. So just calm down and don’t give us away before the plane takes off, okay?’

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. I can’t believe we actually got onto the plane, and that we’re on our way to Mum and Dad. Surely the worst of it’s over. I need to relax.

I take a sip of my Coke, put on my earphones, and look past Huda out the window. Martin finishes pointing to the emergency exits and winds up his safety briefing, then straps himself into his special seat at the front of the plane.

This is it. We can finally put the last week of torture behind us. As the plane rumbles and charges forward, gaining speed on the runway, I can’t help but think back to how this all began. The plane lifts itself into the sky. Home seems so far away already.

Mum and Dad Leave

Two nights after Mr Kostiki’s birthday party, Mum and Dad left. It’s hard to think about it because I miss them so much.

It was only last Sunday, after our last family dinner together. Mum was in her room packing two gigantic red suitcases. There were a lot of gifts for her family: cardigans for her sisters, expensive chocolates for her nieces and nephews, and even creams and medicines from the pharmacy for her sick mum.

Huda was in Mum’s walk-in wardrobe, wearing a pair of high heels that were about eight sizes too big for her and throwing clothes around, being ‘helpful’.

‘This is so pretty, Mum. You have to wear this when you get there,’ said Huda, popping her head out of the wardrobe and holding up a green, sequinned outfit. It was Mum’s engagement dress.

Mum smiled and kept packing. She had tears in her eyes.

Huda disappeared into the wardrobe again and I gave Mum a big hug. She always smells like fresh roses. She hugged me back and then bent down so we were eye-level. ‘I’ll miss you, habibi,’ she whispered.

‘I’ll miss you, Mama.’ I could feel tears pricking my eyes too.

‘You need to look after her, you know that.’ Mum tilted her head towards the wardrobe, where Huda was still making a mess.

‘I know, Mama.’

‘You’re a big boy now. I know you’ll make sure she’s okay.’

‘I will. I promise.’

Huda poked her head out again, this time holding up a black lacy top. ‘This one, Mum! You have to wear this one!’ When she saw us cuddling, she charged over and threw her arms around Mum too. ‘I’m going to miss you more! More than him!’

Mum held us both tight until Dad came in carrying baby Raheed in his arms. Dad kissed him on his rosy cheek and his forehead, then the jiggly soft bit under his chin – everyone’s favourite spot. Raheed twisted and turned when he saw us, trying to get to the floor.

‘We’re only going for two weeks, you monkeys,’ Dad said. ‘You’ll be eating your mum’s Lebanese bread and hummus again before you know it.’ He half-dropped Raheed onto the carpet. I knew he was trying to cheer us up.

I joined in the joke, because I knew I was a minute away from exploding like a huge tear-bubble. ‘Nah, I can’t wait for the tabouli!’

Huda rubbed her tummy and smacked her