Page 5 of The Black Flamingo

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like the mums do.

Callum and Emily don’t like each other.

Callum lives in a flat with his dad.

They play video games together

and eat takeout for dinner

and sometimes Callum gets to stay up

and watch TV all night, if his dad is out;

it must be so much fun.

Callum is mixed the same

way as me, a black dad and white mummy,

but he doesn’t live with his mummy

and I don’t live with my dad.

Mummy has made stuffed grape leaves,

stuffed peppers, and Greek salad.

There’s olives, carrot sticks, pita bread

and hummus, which I love, and taramasalata,

which I think tastes yucky but I love the word.

I teach my friends how to pronounce it:

Ta-ra-ma-sa-la-ta. Tarama-salata.

“What is it?” asks Callum. “And why is it pink?”

“It’s fish eggs,” I say, proudly, “and my mummy

told me it’s dyed pink. I think it looks pretty.”

“But it tastes disgusting!” Callum says,

spitting it back out onto his plate. “Ihatepink.”

He scowls, looking straight at Emily.

Later, I blow out six candles

on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles birthday

cake and make

my wish

for

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