by Alex Wheatle
“Yeah. Course! My toes are ripe for this. You know that.”
“They have classes on Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings,” said Colleen. “I was thinking we could introduce you to the tutor on Tuesday. She’s a lovely woman—a French-Tunisian lady. Beautiful accent she’s got. Ms. Ibtissem Almi—hope I pronounced it right.”
“But I don’t speak French-Tunis-whatever-it-is,” I said. “How am I gonna understand her tones?”
“She speaks good English,” laughed Tony. “Would you like to join on Tuesday?”
I could use this to nice up my wardrobe. Don’t let the opportunity fly by, Naoms.
“I haven’t got any dance garms,” I pointed out. “Had to bomb my last sneakers I danced in. Gonna need those slip-on shoes, leggings, tracksuit bottoms, and all that . . . and I wanna headband . . . please. And I don’t want any cheapo brands—they don’t last.”
“I was planning to shop for your dance things next time I go shopping,” said Colleen. “Louise said it’s okay if we buy you stuff—within reason. We just have to give her the receipts. Pablo and Sharyna need some new clothes as well. We’ll drive down to Southside.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely on that.”
“Great!” said Colleen. “We’ll go after school or on a weekend. We’ll have a meal there too.”
“I’m on that too. Can we go to Mega Burger? They’ve got this new double-bacon-burger thing with cheese.”
Colleen screwed up her face. “Hmmm, I suppose so.”
* * *
The next day after school, I sort of made shortbread with Pablo. I took out all the ingredients myself: unsalted butter, plain flour, and sugar. Pablo had massive fun with the blender. The kitchen had brand-new decorations but I cleaned it up. Colleen kept on breaking an entry into the kitchen. I had to tell her to go missing. “I’ve got this,” I said. “You don’t have to be the food police on this one.”
As Pablo and I used the biscuit cutters, Colleen and Sharyna went out to get something for Sharyna’s science homework. By the time they came back, the oven was a disaster zone. I opened all the windows to let the smoke out and proper scrubbed the inside of the cooker. Pablo giggled his little ribs out as he slopped the burned shortbread into the bin. He laughed harder when Colleen stood by the kitchen door with her hands on her hips. Sharyna entered and placed a hand over her mouth.
“It went a bit wrong,” I said.
Colleen’s hard-curb stare wouldn’t leave me alone.
“Pabs, I’ve got something for you,” Sharyna said.
Colleen didn’t move until Sharyna and Pablo had climbed the stairs.
I went to the sink and rinsed my hands.
“Naomi,” Colleen said, “sit down.”
I dried my hands and took a seat. Colleen scoped me hard. I stared at the floor.
“I—” I stuttered, “I had the gas up too high. I put it on mark eight but it was meant to be on mark three. Pabs wanted to play a game while the biscuits baked for twenty minutes.”
Colleen’s laser gaze coulda sliced a bank vault.
“I didn’t understand why it burned till I looked at the instructions again.”
“Listen to me, Naomi,” Colleen lowered her voice. “When I was asking you about the instructions and if you want to ask me anything you’re unsure about, I’m not thinking you’re not capable. Not at all. It’s just that if you’re taking on adult responsibilities, you should be clear on what you’re doing. Do you understand that, Naomi?”
My cheeks sizzled like the oven. I had no defense on this one.
“I know you’ve had to be an adult for much of your life,” Colleen went on, “but there are times when you have to put your hand up when you’re not sure. You’re still fourteen.”
“I get it, Colleen!”
“In fact, I’m at fault too,” she admitted. “I should’ve stayed here to supervise you. God knows what Louise would have made of all this.”
Half a grin escaped from my lips. “She’ll probably clong you with a million risk-assessment forms. There won’t be a full stop on that one. Don’t fret, my gums are sealed.”
“Promise me that if you’re not sure about something, anything, then ask?” Colleen said. “It’s not a sign of weakness. It’s how we learn.”
“So you’re not banning me from the kitchen forever?”
Colleen laughed. “Oh, no!” Her face went soft again. “You can fry my breakfast when it’s my birthday. Last year Tony made a mess of it. Come on, I’ll help you clean up and then I’m taking you all to Southside.”
chapter twelve
A French Master Class
My dance outfit, white headband, and slip-on dance shoes were inside my new Adidas shoulder bag. On my way to the dance studio, I pressed my meerkat against my chest and gazed through the passenger-side window—the North Crongton streets were grimy. We passed a lot of fried chicken huts, bookies, liquor shops, and cheapo stores.
“Are you okay, Naomi?” asked Colleen.
I have to admit, I wasn’t on Colleen’s radar. I was thinking what the other girls at the dance class might be like. Would they laugh at me? Behind my back would they be making loser signs and dropping me to the bottom of their rankings? Say I fall over? Say I make a prick outta myself? I wish Kim and Nats were with me. They’d have my spine. But I might not be as good as they say I am. I swear that if anyone busts out a giggle at me, I’m gonna clong ’em so hard their granny’s toenails will feel the vibrations. Then I’ll quick-heel outta there and make my own way back even if I have to hike it.
“Naomi,” Colleen repeated as she reverse-parked into a space, “are you okay?”
“Yeah . . . kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“What sort of peeps are gonna be in the class?” I wanted to know.
Colleen switched off the engine. “Kids who want to learn about dancing, I suppose.”
“I mean . . . are there gonna be peeps . . . like me?”
“What do you mean, like me?”
“You know what I mean, Colleen. Kids from a unit. Kids who’ve been expelled. Kids who have . . . issues.”
“Honest answer is, I don’t know, Naomi. It doesn’t matter what your background is. What’s important is that you want to learn to dance, right?”
“But—” I could feel the furies flying the loopy-loop in my stomach. “But I haven’t been with normal kids for the longest time. Not since I started going to the PRU. I’ve been at that place for, what, nearly two years now . . . off and on. The kids at this dance place might think I’m backward. They might look at me funny. They’ll whisper things behind my back.”
“They don’t even need to know about your background,” said Colleen. “You’re not going there to swap family histories.”
“But they might ask me about my life,” I said. “Sooner or later they’re gonna drop that barbell on me. I don’t need that drama. What am I gonna tell ’em? I can’t stand it when normal kids talk about their mum this and their dad that and their brother this and their sister that. And all that my dad’s picking me up in his BMW. My mum’s gonna buy me a name-brand dress for the school prom. My parents are taking me to Cun-Can-Cun or whatever it’s called for their summer holiday. It presses my rage buttons.”
Colleen gave me a really look. She must’ve been taking lessons from Louise. “And you’re going to allow that to stop you from doing something you really want to do?” she challenged me. “Come on, Naomi! You can do this!”
I stroked the head of my meerkat. “Kim says I shouldn’t trust normal girls, girls who still live with their parents. They’ll always think they’re better than you, she said.”
Colleen wrapped her hands around mine. “You shouldn’t listen to everything that Kim says. She’s only a few months older than you and she doesn’t know everything.”
“Funny you saying that,” I replied. “Louise says the same thing.”
“Maybe we’re right.”
“Maybe you’re wrong!” I raised my
tones.
Awkward pause.
“I think I know a little bit about what you’re going through,” Colleen said after a while.
“You do?”
“I remember going on my first school journey,” she went on. “My mum was all excited that I got selected but I was dreading the trip. I wasn’t in the in-crowd and I thought I’d be Colleen-no-mates. I didn’t want to go but Mum was saying it was a great opportunity, so I went.”
“What happened?” I asked. “They cussed you out? Dropped your knickers in the toilet? Pissed on your pillow? Put their raspberry pads in your trainers? That’s what Kim did to some girl she had a beef with.”
Colleen shook her head. “Raspberry—” she stuttered. For a short second she looked proper shocked. “No, it never got as bad as that. The in-crowd girls still refused to talk to me but I made good friends with another girl—Tracey Cunningham. We’re still close to this day. She’s married and has two kids now. And you know what I say about those other girls who spread gossip about me and threatened me?”
“What? Saw off their baby toes with a broken rum bottle?”
Colleen ignored my bottle remedy. “Screw ’em,” she said. “If they don’t like you for yourself then you don’t need them as your mate.”
I loved Colleen’s little movie but the furies were still booting my ribs. “Say I’m rubbish at the dancing or what this tutor asks me to do?”
“You won’t be,” reassured Colleen. “You have a great talent. Use it.”
“But you’re gonna say that cos you know me.”
“I say it because it’s true.”
I gave Colleen a half smile before I climbed out of the car. I left my meerkat on the seat on purpose—didn’t wanna be given grief about bringing a cuddly toy with me.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” offered Colleen.
“Nah, I’ll be good. I don’t wanna step in there with you and let them all think, Look at her! She has to walk in with her foster mum. She must have untold issues!”
Colleen started the car, tooted her horn, and hot-wheeled away.
For half a second, I thought about skipping dance and visiting Nan. Where would I get the bus from? I thought better of it. Louise would puff another box of fagarettes a day.
I took in a mega breath and pushed through the door. I found myself in a short hallway that led to a dance studio. Notice boards advertising extra English and math classes, yoga sessions, car boot sales, homework clubs, IT classes, Sunday church services, and a lost white cat with black patches covered the walls. One day I’d like to keep a cat, but if it doesn’t wanna sink the food that I cook, it’ll have to go out there and hunt for its own dinner.
A tall, honey-skinned woman dressed in black leggings and a black vest sitting behind a round table was helping a mixed-race teenage chick fill in a form. I watched them silently until I was noticed.
“Hello there,” the lady greeted me with a strong accent. “Bonjour.”
“Hi,” I replied in a whisper.
“Have you come to join the dance class?”
I nodded.
“Can I ask you to fill in the enrollment form? I am the tutor. My name is Mademoiselle Almi. Comment t’appelles-tu? What is your name?”
“Naomi . . . Naomi Brisset.”
“Naomi Brisset? Oh yes! Bon. Your parents came to see me the other day.”
Monkey impressed. I want to take her accent home and put it in my hot chocolate before I go to bed.
“They’re not my parents,” I pointed out.
“Excuse moi, Naomi. How do you say? Er, foster parents . . . Are you coming to watch today to see how we do things or would you like to take part?”
“I dunno.”
“Have you something to dance in?”
“Yeah.”
“That is good. Bon. After you fill in the form, get changed in the dressing room upstairs and come down to the studio. Stretches and warm-ups start in fifteen minutes. If you want to watch today, just to see what we do, that is good. If you want to join in at any time, that is good too.”
The staircase was to my left but I hesitated. I scoped the form and screwed up my face as I read the question: Next of kin.
How am I gonna answer that? Dead mum. No phone number there. Dad, the heavyweight rum king of Ashburton and all the bars surrounding it. No digits there either. Good luck on trying to find his drunken ass. Maybe I should write down Louise’s, Colleen’s, or Tony’s name? No, bomb that. I’ll leave it blank.
I regretted leaving my meerkat behind. I wished Kim and Nats were with me. Normal peeps didn’t bother Kim. Then again, Kim loved to start mauls with everyday chicks. Our weekend trip to Butlin’s gate-crashed my mind.
“Ne t’inquiète pas,” smiled Ms. Almi.
“Come again?”
“That’s French for, Don’t worry, Naomi,” Ms. Almi translated. “You love dancing, oui? So we all do. You will have good fun.”
Sitting in my new dance outfit on a bench in the changing room, I watched the other dancers arrive, get changed, and skip down the stairs. Their ages ranged from around eleven to sixteen. They looked so comfortable and I felt so awkward. Only when the room was empty did I stand up and perform a few stretches. There was a mirror above the sink and I peered into it. I adjusted my headband and said to myself, I can do this. Colleen thinks I’m good, Kim and Nats think I can bless any dance floor, and my PE teacher at primary school, Ms. Banks, always gave me top ratings—God bless her bunions. She would clench her fist, stare at me hard, and say, “Knock ’em dead, Naomi.”
I heard the pounding on the floor below. Warm-ups had begun, I guessed. I stared at my clothes on the pegs and thought about changing back into them. Kim wouldn’t mouse out of this one, I thought. She wouldn’t sit up here all on her lonesome. She would bounce down to that dance studio and not give two flying diddlys what they thought about her . . . and Nats would follow her.
I tip-tap-toed down the stairs. I stopped at the double doors that opened to the studio. A dance track with a heavy bassline bruised the floor. I nodded to the beat. Taking in two deep breaths, I entered the studio like I was starring in America’s Next Top Model. I felt the heat of a million pairs of eyes scoping me from eyebrow corner to little toe.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor with cane in hand, Ms. Almi was drilling the girls in the first five steps of a routine. A boombox in the corner played a Nicki Minaj track. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq!” Ms. Almi instructed. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq!”
Seeing myself in the long wall-length mirror, I sat down at the empty end of the studio. I fixed my headband again and tapped my feet as I watched the girls go through their moves. I was impressed to the max and wondered if I could match them.
Twenty minutes later, the furies in my belly took a time-out and I decided to join the line of dancers. Ms. Almi was about to introduce me to the other members of the class but thought better of it. I didn’t think she wanted to bring added attention to me. Within minutes I picked up the routine and high-kicked away my stress cells. Ms. Almi smiled at me and killed the music. “Très bien! Fantastique! Now relax for a moment.”
My legs did this spaghetti-in-a-boiling-pot thing as Ms. Almi approached me. Her pointed toes, lifted chin, and straight back fascinated me. I wondered what it was like to grow up in France and if they had PRUs and children’s homes there.
“Very good that you have finally joined us, Naomi, but maybe next week you join us for stretching and warm-ups, oui?”
I nodded, relieved that I didn’t mess up in my first session. I even let loose a half grin.
“Bon!”
When I get back to the PRU, I’m gonna ask them if I can learn French.
chapter thirteen
The Corner Shop Scam
Rolling out of the classroom fifteen minutes before the lesson finished, Kim led Nats and me to the playground where we parked on a bench.
Taking out her smokes from the pocket of her stolen purple suede jacke
t, Kim offered me one. I accepted. “Thanks.”
Not smoking herself, Nats flicked her lighter to fire up our fagarettes.
“So what d’you reckon about Richard’s lesson this afternoon?” asked Kim.
I shrugged.
“He’s just being nosy,” said Nats. “He’s just like the rest of the staff. They all want to know every liccle ting about you.”
“You’re not wrong, Nats,” said Kim. “I didn’t write one friggin’ word. Fruck that for a slabful of grimers.”
“Nor did I,” said Nats. “How could he expect us to write down something on a piece of paper that no one knows about ya, and then he collects the papers and everybody has to guess who wrote down what? Only three people did it.”
“I did it,” I said. I sucked hard on my cancer stick and checked Kim’s and Nats’s reactions. They weren’t too happy-clappy about it. “Richard did say it didn’t have to be too personal,” I explained. “It could’ve been a fave singer or something.”
“Why did you do it?” Kim wanted to know. “Didn’t I tell ya they’re just putting their mitts in your business? You know that they’re gonna keep all that. They’ll probably get Marie to type it all up and they’ll slap it in your file and paste it on their spreadsheets. And then they’ll get everyone to read it when they have their staff meetings. You can’t trust ’em, Naoms. When are you gonna start crooking your ear and giving me attention on that one? I’m not hyping.”
“What did you write?” asked Nats. “What is it that none of us know about ya?”
My cheeks microwaved. I stared at the ground.
“Oh come on, Naoms!” urged Kim. “You can’t tell us that you wrote something and not spill about it. Come on! Let the rhino shit on the shagpile.”
I let them brew for a few more seconds. “I thought it was a good idea,” I said. “I think Richard’s on point when he said that if we knew a little info about each other, we’d understand each other more and there wouldn’t be so many fights.”