I will do whatever it takes to keep it that way.
And I will crush anyone who threatens that.
Anyone.
ULANA
Her hands slide up the nape of my neck and weave into my long thick hair. Hands like my own. Fingers a little longer than most women’s. ‘Piano hands.’ That’s what my dad calls them anyway. Thin, spindly digits that flicker and move fast and effortlessly across the keys. The same fingers that run through my hair now, twisting and looping up stray strands that tickle down my back. Her hands are soft, familiar. Her hands are my hands. Her flesh, her blood, her memories, they made me in every way. From my features to my love of literature and learning. My mother is an incredible woman. And as terrified as I am of upsetting my father, I am more afraid of disappointing my mother, which I know, deep down, would be impossible to do. My mother loves me. And I feel that love every day.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks me, as her hands divide my hair into three sections.
I nod and feel a gentle tug on my scalp as the sections are woven in and out into a tight braid.
‘Is school going OK?’
I nod again, feeling the words stick in my throat. I want to tell her. I really do. But it wouldn’t be fair to expect her to keep anything from my dad, her husband. And I’m not ready to tell him just yet. I may never be ready. But I’m running out of time.
‘Mum, how old were you when you were introduced to Dad?’
Her pace quickens as she nears the end of the braid. ‘I was eighteen years old.’
‘That’s only a year older than me,’ I say, feeling my forehead tighten, like the braid down my spine.
‘Morocco is a very different place to here,’ she smiles. ‘Eighteen means something different over there.’
‘It means family? Not university?’
‘Not necessarily. When we first met, your father made it very clear to me that he would support me if I wanted to pursue further education. I was very lucky to meet him. I almost didn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want to get married. I wanted to move away. I wanted to fall in love before marriage. I wanted a life that gave me some independence.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened. I got all that with your father.’
‘But it was an arranged marriage,’ I say slowly, feeling the unfamiliar words linger in my mouth.
‘An arranged marriage isn’t a forced marriage, Ulana. It’s about two families bringing two people together who they believe will make each other very happy. Even married couples over here meet that way. It’s not “arranged”, sure, but often two people are brought together – “set up” – by their family or friends for the same reason. They plant a seed for love which continues to grow long after the wedding.’
‘I never thought of it that way before.’
She smiles and ties a band around the bottom of my hair, securing the braid.
‘Did you meet Dad before the wedding?’
‘Of course. We met many times. Always in a group, but we had many conversations with each other. Long, meaningful conversations, which eventually led to love.’
‘Was that allowed?’
‘Of course. Like I said, nothing was forced upon us. We married because we wanted to.’
‘But you dated first?’
She laughs and sprays a little hairspray around the hairline. ‘Not dated. But yes, we spent some time together first.’ She smooths the flyaways down with her fingers, those long spindly fingers that look like mine. She pulls my hijab up, tucks the fabric in with kirby grips and strokes my cheeks softly.
I open my mouth, feel my lips part. I’m going to tell her. She’d understand. She’d know why I waited this long to tell her about Aiden. She’d know why Aiden is in my life. She’d recognise the same love that she sought for herself when she was only a year older than I am today.
But I hesitate, just for a second. One second. And the moment passes.
As she walks away, her back to me, hairspray and brush still in her hands, warm tears prick the corners of my eye. And I refrain from screaming her name, calling her back to me, back to the truth.
I want to tell her about Sunday. I try to, more than once. But Sunday rolls around fast. Too fast. And then it’s too late.
While my dad prepares to go to the mosque in Glasgow for Zuhr, the second prayer of the day, I prepare my lies for the day.
‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ I ask him, as he zips up his coat. Soft misty rain trickles down from heavy dark clouds above.
‘No, you enjoy the afternoon with your friend. I like her.’ He smiles. He gently touches a hand to my cheek then starts checking all the switches in the kitchen. He’s always done that since I was little. He’s terrified of fire, so he checks and rechecks that everything is switched off and unplugged. I always remind him that the houses here are packed so tightly together that if next door is on fire, chances are we’d be next despite our strenuous safety measures. But he doesn’t listen. He just checks and rechecks. I slide off the seat and unplug the kettle and toaster for him.
I check my watch. Sophia’s late. What if she doesn’t come? ‘You should head out. You can’t be late.’
‘I’ll wait until Sophia comes. Then I know you’re safe. I don’t want you walking there alone.’
‘I think she’s running late, Dad.’
‘Then I’ll walk you myself.’
Hurry up, Sophia!
The doorbell rings and a loud sigh escapes my lungs. I slide off the chair and rush to the door before my dad even turns around.
Sophia stands on the other side, hair damp from the misty rain, skin pale, cheeks hollow. She tries to smile, but it looks too painful for her.
‘Hi,’ I whisper. ‘Thanks for coming.’
My dad comes up behind me. ‘Hello, Sophia!’
She tries again at smiling. No success.
‘You don’t look so good? Are you feeling ill?’ he asks her.
‘I’m fine. I’m just recovering from a cold. But I’m much better,’ she lies, convincingly.
‘Well, we’d better get going,’ I interrupt before the conversation goes any further. I know her mind is bogged with Steve thoughts and I can’t risk a slip up. ‘Lunch will be ready soon and we can’t keep Sophia’s parents waiting.’
‘Should I pick you up later?’
‘No!’ I yell at my dad. I clear my throat and try not to glance at Sophia. ‘I mean, I’m not sure what time lunch will be finished and I don’t want to rush them. Sophia will walk me home, or her parents will give me a lift. Right?’
Sophia simply nods. Right, it’s time for us to leave. This could go wrong quickly. ‘Bye Dad!’
I nudge her away from the door, and loop my arm between hers, dragging her down the road. I glance back and smile at my dad who’s still standing at the door waving at us. A deep sensation burns at the bottom of my belly. Guilt? Shame? Regret?
Why did I say yes to this?
‘Sorry. I hope I didn’t mess it up for you back there,’ she mutters, her voice barely audible. A damp piece of hair falls across her face and sticks to her rain-slicked cheek. She doesn’t brush it away. She doesn’t even seem to feel it. Or feel anything at all right now actually.
‘No, you were great. Thanks for coming. Sorry to drag you out. I know you have other things going on. Speaking of, have you heard from Steve?’
‘Nothing. Not one text. Not one response to any of mine either.’
‘You texted him?’
‘Of course. I asked him to take the photos down and he just ignored me.’
‘They’re still up?’ I gasp.
‘Yes. I’m going to report him on Facebook.’
‘Why haven’t you done that yet?’
‘Because he’ll get banned and I’m scared that’ll draw more attention to the photos. Plus what if Facebook contacts the police because of my age and they get involved, then the school finds out, my parents find out. That
’s going to be more humiliating. If it can even get any worse that is.’
We walk a little faster, through the park, past the slides, around the fence, behind a set of old council estate houses.
‘That’s Trina Davis’ house,’ I point out.
A little rabbit hutch sits in the back garden, the animal having long since died. The wood looks soft in the rain, and the metal grid on the gate looks rusted.
‘I always forget that you were friends with Trina Davis.’
‘Yeah, I guess we were,’ I shrug. It all seems so long ago now. Those days where everything seemed so easy, and everyone just got along with everyone. There were no cliques, no rules, no gossiping, no bullying, no writing of names on bathroom doors, no social media shaming. Everything was just so innocent back then. So different. A world I can barely remember now. And what about the generation that comes after me? What legacy are we leaving for them if I can barely remember a time before social media?
‘What was she like?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Trina. What was she like back then when you were friends with her?’
‘She was different from how she is now. My parents would never let me hang out with her now if they knew her reputation. Reputation is everything to them. If they knew what people say about her, they’d worry that I’d be tarnished with the same bad brush. Is that the saying?’
‘You, tarnished? Yeah right.’
‘Yeah, but I couldn’t risk it. I still see her at school obviously. But we don’t really talk much. Maybe a quick “Hi” in the hallway if we pass, which we don’t really. We take different classes. But I feel bad for her. Especially now. She looks like she’s been having a hard time. She looks like she’s been crying every time I see her.’
‘Yeah, Lucy McNeil makes everyone’s life a living hell.’ Sophia rubs away a tear with the heel of her hand, then looks away.
‘I’m sorry that—’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. We’re here.’
I resist pulling her in for a hug, knowing that she might crumble in my arms. So I keep my hands down by my hips and turn away. Aiden’s house is bigger than I expected. Much bigger. A tall iron gate encircles a large rectangular white stone house, with a conservatory that juts out on the right, topped with a smaller version of a turret. In the front garden, scattered among the crushed copper stones, sit heavy ceramic plant pots with tall green leaves sticking out, some flopping over onto the stones. A black Range Rover is parked in front of a double garage door, painted copper like the stones. A white cat lays out on the damp step by the main door, head half resting on the welcome mat.
‘Well?’
‘Well,’ I say. I take a deep breath. ‘OK, here goes.’ I push open the gate, and swing it back around, sealing myself inside the garden. ‘Thanks again, Sophia.’
She tries that smile again, then turns to leave, the heavy mist encasing her, taking her from me. Then she’s gone.
When I turn around, Aiden’s face appears in the living room window and I instantly feel my heartbeat slow down. The door swings open and the cat meows loudly, momentarily annoyed at being disturbed, then scampers inside back into the dry warmth.
‘Hi.’ He’s beaming from ear to ear.
‘Hi.’ My cheeks hurt so I must be doing the same. I pass through the entrance, giving Aiden a quick kiss on the cheek.
He takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. Standing by the oven, spatula in hand, surrounded by a ceiling of pots and pans, and an island counter as big as my bed, is a beautiful woman with coppery blonde hair that bounces right above her shoulder bones. She vigorously stirs a ceramic bowl filled with what looks like flour and butter, and then glances up.
A big smile pulls tight across my face. Then I see hers.
She looks…surprised. Then she shakes her head and a smile suddenly appears. ‘Hi, you must be Ulana. Aiden doesn’t stop talking about you.’ She rushes over to shake my hand but stops only inches from me. ‘Sorry, am I allowed to…’
I reach my hand out and take hers. ‘It’s nice to meet you finally.’
‘Is that the elusive Ulana I hear?’ Aiden’s dad rushes through, beer in one hand, remote control in the other. He stops at the steps of the kitchen, glances at me then his wife, then moves into the space, smiling. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ He raises his arms to hug me, then quickly draws it back.
‘It’s nice to meet you too,’ I mutter. I realise I’ve taken my shoes off at the door and while I stand in their beautiful big kitchen in green polka dot socks, they all have their shoes on. In fact, I couldn’t look more different from these people if I tried to. I suddenly don’t feel so good. ‘Excuse me, where’s your bathroom?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Aiden nudges me out the door, taking my hand again. ‘It’s right there.’
He starts up the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ I blurt out, rushing out of the bathroom.
‘I’ll be right down. Relax. They won’t bite.’
I linger in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. Then I adjust my hijab and pinch my cheeks to bring a little colour to the surface. I turn off the light and creep out into the carpeted hallway. My socks really pop against the beige. In fact everything in this house is beige. Except me.
I hear their whispers from the kitchen before they hear my footsteps. I don’t hear Aiden, only his parents. I wait by the kitchen wall and listen in, just for a few seconds.
‘He did say her parents were “strict”, that’s why we hadn’t met her before today.’
‘He didn’t say she was…she was…’
‘Muslim?’
‘How is this going to work? They’re so different from each other.’
‘Maybe that’s why he likes her. She seems sweet.’
‘And I’m sure she is. But she’s Muslim. We’re Catholic. They’re not like us, Ed.’
‘They’? Does she mean me? My family? Or my whole community?
My ears warm and I feel nauseous again. I hear Aiden moving around upstairs, but suddenly he’s not familiar to me anymore. Nothing here is.
My feet walk back to the bathroom, and I turn the light on again and stand at the mirror. My eyes are watering at the edges and my cheeks are starting to redden. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken off my shoes. Maybe I should have snuck a little more make-up on. But, who am I kidding? Lip gloss and mascara wouldn’t have made me look any different. Because that’s what I’m feeling right now and that’s what they’re seeing. That’s what they think I am.
Different.
TRINA
Journal Entry 6: 31.10.2018 – Halloween
(Not answering the door to anyone tonight – It’s Not Safe – nowhere is anymore)
The best thing happened to me this week. I’d been praying for a way to get Lucy McNeil back for everything she’s put me through. And my prayers were finally answered. Finally a step in my direction, a win for my team.
So this is amazing. Let’s just emphasise how much Lucy portrays herself as Little Miss Perfect (I’ll call her LMP)–she always looks like she’s spent about two hours washing, blow-drying, straightening then tonging her hair every single morning. Also, who goes to all that effort to style their hair until it looks pin straight then goes and takes a heated curler to it? Counter Productive! There’s a big word for her!
Anyway, back to her hair – it’s not too straight to be lank, but not too tonged to be curled. OK, even though I hate her, she does rock some good celebrity hair in the mornings. BUT, it’s all a front. Like everything else on her body and in her life, generally. More on that after.
Now her make-up: pinched cheeks, contoured cheekbones, dark mascara-brushed eyebrows that look like they’ve been tattooed on (have they?), highlighted collarbone and lip gloss that looks like it costs more than my mum’s car. A bit boring on the make-up side for me. She’s not going to church. Ha! That’s the last place she’s going, but we’ll get to that.
Nails? Either a French manicure or a dust
y rose shade. Gels. Always gels. LMP doesn’t have time for a chip.
She almost never wears the same outfit twice. Her family clearly have money to burn. She’s always going on about the holidays her dad takes her and her mum on. Whoopee! She’s rich! Who cares? Let’s talk about the fact that those expensive jeans she slides into every morning are no longer fitting her! Yes, that’s way more exciting.
You know, I was thinking before this happened that LMP was looking a little ‘fuller’ these days, especially around the hips and chest, but I thought she’d just eased up her crazy diets. Oh, if you thought her skinny figure was a blessing from Mother Nature, think again. Prior to the last few weeks, the most I’ve seen that girl eat is a whole banana. But here she is ‘randomly’ gaining weight (but also not random at all!). Even her hair is looking a little dishevelled these days. And her skin? It’s looking a bit grey if you ask me…OK, no one is, but I’m still going to mention it because she deserves it. Any ten of my posts don’t touch even one of her posts. She’s lethal with her words. I just tell the truth. And that’s exactly what I did today. Tell the truth. To everyone.
I’m getting ahead of my myself.
Let’s start from the beginning:
Actually, side note: I’ve decided that instead of LMP, I’m going to refer to her from now on as LMH – Little Miss Hypocrite! Because that’s what she is: a lying, pathetic hypocrite! And I’m exposing her for just that. It’s not mean. It’s not revenge. It’s justice. Sophia would understand if I asked her. See, I’m not the only one who’s been having the worst school year ever because of her. Lucy bullies everyone and loves to point out everyone’s faults, and then laughs at them. Well, not anymore. This time the tables are being turned on her. This time she finally gets what’s been coming to her for years. Gone will be her little admirers and followers, gone is that perfect hair, those perfect nails, those perfectly fitting outfits, that perfect make-up. No, there will be nothing perfect about her anymore.
We Are Not Okay Page 13