‘I don’t want Weetabix!’ Ismail moans, pushing his almost full bowl away. ‘I want pancakes!’
Ammi tuts, reaching over and sliding the bowl back towards him. ‘We have to leave in ten minutes. Eat your breakfast. Or I’ll have to feed you it like a baby.’
‘No!’ Ismail says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. ‘I don’t want it!’
‘Ismail!’ Ammi chides. ‘This is the same breakfast you have every day – why is it suddenly not good enough?’
‘It’s disgusting!’ Ismail says. ‘I want what Abbu has.’
‘That’s a grown-up breakfast. You need energy to keep you going through the day – that’s what Weetabix is for. C’mon, just eat it. Do you want some more hot milk?’
‘I want a big-man breakfast!’
Abbu laughs. Actually laughs. He ruffles Ismail’s hair. ‘You can have a big-man breakfast when you’re a big man, son.’
‘I am!’ Ismail says, sitting up in his chair. ‘Look how much I growed. I’m a big man now. I need a big-man breakfast.’
He wants to be just like Abbu, and the thought of that makes me want to puke my Shreddies all over the table.
‘How about I put some fruit in it?’ Ammi asks. She’s clearly exasperated but knows Ismail’s in a mood that won’t be tamed easily.
‘No! Fruit is for girls. I hate it!’
Abbu laughs again, which makes me want to scream.
‘I want the same as Abbu!’ Ismail crosses his arms, huffs and sits back in his chair, pursing his lips.
‘Just make him some eggs, Shirin,’ Abbu says, scrolling on his phone. ‘It won’t take long.’
Ammi and I share a look. Her expression tells me she’s just as worried as I am. Ismail is getting worse by the day. I can’t even tell when the switch happened. He was such a sweet kid, and now for some reason he’s turned into a brat. I need to stop this. I need him to realise that Abbu is not a good role model. His behaviour shouldn’t be copied. But how do you tell that to a five-year-old?
I leave the room wordlessly, putting my bowl in the sink as Ammi cracks an egg into a pan.
In assembly Mr Bach gives us a lecture about the Burn Blog. He goes on and on about how harmful rumours are, how the school has a duty of care towards us and so will investigate everything thoroughly. I slouch down in my seat, the tips of my ears burning. I can feel people looking at me, trying to see my arm. The wound’s healed enough that I’ve stopped putting the bandage on it, but I don’t dare take my blazer off at school.
‘The site has been blocked, and as always, we will be monitoring your internet activity on school computers and Wi-Fi,’ Mr Bach says. ‘Just know that we will find the person or people behind this blog. And they will be dealt with. If anyone has any information, I urge you to come and talk to me.’
I turn my head and find Huda already looking right at me. There’s a weird expression on her face. Not anger, not happiness, not even the high-and-mighty look she had when releasing the blog post. She looks … sad. It’s the only way I can explain it. I’ve only seen her this sad once before – when she was asking for help with her Perfect Daughter plan. Is it weird that I feel almost bad that I haven’t asked her how she’s feeling lately? I know she’s probably having a tough time with her carers and the baby, and as her best friend I should really check in, even if I’m mad.
But no. She doesn’t deserve that. She hasn’t even tried to make contact with me since she wrecked my life. There’s no way I’m going crawling to her. I have Maggie now. She sits next to me in assembly, alternating between whispering, ‘I wish that projector thing would happen again,’ and resting her head on my shoulder to sleep.
I sit with Maggie and her friends at lunch, as I’ve been doing for the past few days. They’re nice people, and we’ve already made plans to go to the cinema as a group during study leave. We’re halfway through our lunches when whispers start up around us. I immediately assume they’re about me, about the blog post, so I shrink down in my seat, adjusting my headscarf – a nervous habit.
‘Did you hear that?’ Juwairiyya, one of Maggie’s friends, asks excitedly, looking at a couple of boys who are rushing out of the canteen, laughing.
We all look at her.
‘Something’s going down over by the humanities block! Sounds like a prank war thing!’ She starts hurriedly packing up her stuff. Everyone else does the same. I want to stay sitting here, finish off my Doritos. I don’t want any part in this prank war. It’s doing my head in. I try to stand my ground, but Maggie tugs on my arm so much that I literally have no choice but to go.
As we approach the humanities block, we can see a crowd outside the doors. Maggie speeds up; I almost trip over. We arrive at the back of a deep circle of students – mostly Year Elevens. Maggie and I crane our necks, but we can’t see anything.
‘I think Backpack’s in the middle!’ Maggie says, after jumping to get a look at the centre.
A girl in front of us turns around, a huge grin on her face. ‘He’s caught them!’ she says with a weird glee. ‘He’s caught the ones doing the pranks!’
This lights a fire inside Maggie; she doubles her efforts to get into the middle and manages to drag us a little bit further in – it involves stepping on a few feet, and lots of people swearing at us, but we finally get to a spot where we can just about see Mr Bach standing facing someone. I can’t quite make out who, no matter how much I crane my neck. Mr Bach’s voice booms over the crowd though.
‘… Disgusting behaviour. I warned you all about what would happen if this continued. Do you have ANY IDEA how much damage you’ve caused?’
‘What did they do?’ I ask Maggie, even though I know she doesn’t know.
She ignores me. Her phone is out now, filming, as are a lot of other people in the circle.
‘Right, LISTEN UP!’ Mr Bach booms. ‘Everyone to the hall. NOW.’ There’s so much anger in his voice, people get scared and start shuffling. ‘Anyone not in the hall within five minutes will be suspended!’ he adds.
People scatter immediately.
I’ve never seen the hall so packed. There’s no chairs out, because of the haste, but Maggie and I have luckily managed to find a spot on the floor. Students from all years are standing around the edges of the hall, spilling out of the open doors.
‘I wonder what happened,’ Maggie says. ‘What could have made Backpack mad enough to bring everyone here?’
The gossip mills had been churning all the way to the hall, and someone told us that the person Mr Bach was shouting at was Ezra. I don’t know why he’d keep going with the pranks, given that he’s already been caught and put in isolation for a few days. Although someone else said his parents are getting a divorce, and that’s why he’s been acting out. Who knows? You don’t see me making life hell for the teachers, and look at how my parents are.
Mr Bach doesn’t even come into the hall in the end. No one spots Ezra either. Everyone’s too busy gossiping about what his punishment is gonna be, trying to figure out what prank it was that he actually pulled, or was trying to pull (I’ve heard so many different stories, I don’t know what to believe), to notice Ms Powrie walk onto the stage. She’s not a teacher to be ignored though, and within seconds she’s yelling, ‘SILENCE!’ Everyone falls silent immediately.
‘There’s been an incident involving the school’s water supply,’ she says. ‘And legally we’re not allowed to keep you on campus any more. Everyone is to return home. Or just leave the site. We don’t really care where you go, as long as it’s not here.’
No one laughs. Because even though it’s funny, Ms Powrie gets super annoyed if you laugh at anything she says.
‘There are teachers posted at all the doors, with a letter for each of you to take home, explaining the situation. Make sure to take one on your way out.’ She leaves the stage and voices erupt all over the hall.
‘Oh my God!!’ Maggie squeals. ‘What did Ezra do to the water? How do you even get access to that sort of thing?’<
br />
‘EVERYONE. OUT!’ Ms Powrie roars again.
This time it has the desired effect and everyone scatters.
‘I’m gonna go find out what happened,’ Maggie says as we leave the hall. ‘Wanna come?’
‘Nah,’ I reply. ‘Think I’m just gonna go home and watch Netflix.’ I don’t tell her that I’m trying to keep away from the gossip, that I’m fed up of it. But I can see that Maggie is all hopped up on the excitement of everything. And, deep down, I really do want to know what Ezra did to make them close the entire school.
‘Text me when you find out, yeah?’ I say to her, just before she bounds off after the group of girls we sit with at lunch. As they disappear around the corner, I spot a familiar figure.
Huda.
She’s walking along, alone. As if she can sense me, she looks up and our eyes meet. It’s the second time we’ve had a moment like this today. I expect her to drop her gaze and walk off, but instead … she heads my way. I look around, thinking she must be going to someone else, but nope, it’s only me here. The closer she gets to me, the more I feel anger rising up.
‘Hey, Maani,’ she says when we’re a metre apart.
I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why she’s here. I hate that I just want to hug her right now. To hold her tight and make everything go back to the way it was.
‘You OK?’ she asks. There’s hesitance in her voice.
And then I get it. I get why she’s here. Why she’s here now.
‘You worried I’m gonna grass on you?’ I ask her. After that assembly, she’s got to be terrified of being found out. Of being expelled before her exams. That’s the only reason she’s here. She doesn’t care how I am.
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Because I’m such a pushover, right?’ I ask. ‘I’d never stand up and say anything.’
‘That’s not what I said. I’d never say that about you.’
‘But you might type it, right?’ I ask with a sneer.
‘Amani, no. Look, I just … I want to apologise.’
I pause, my insults dying in my mouth. ‘What?’
She takes a breath, looks around awkwardly. ‘I just … I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have done it. It was stupid, I wasn’t thinking.’
It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from her, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough.
‘I miss you,’ she continues. ‘I miss sitting next to you in class. I miss hanging out with you, miss teasing you about your terrible taste in snacks.’
This is where I’m supposed to tell her I miss her too, because I do. But somehow something else comes out. ‘It’s taken you five days to tell me this?’
Huda’s eyes widen in surprise, and weirdly that makes me feel good – I’m showing her I’m not the weak little pushover she thinks I am.
‘Do you know what’s happened in those five days?’ I ask. ‘Do you know how much chaos your stupid little mistake caused?’ I take a breath, waiting for her to butt in so I can cut her off and feel good, but she doesn’t even try – just stands there staring. ‘The school called my mum in, Huda. They interrogated her, put her on the spot. They’ve … they were going to call social services. They were going to split my family up, Huda. I was terrified.’
‘Shit, Amani. I feel terrible.’
‘So you should!’ The anger’s rising within me again. I’ve been wanting to get this out, to say this to her ever since that stupid blog went out. When we had that first fight, I was in shock, too emotional. But now …
‘You said that you didn’t regret it – that you thought you were doing the right thing. I tried to see where you were coming from, I really did. But I can’t. Because no best friend would ever do what you did. No decent person would ever do that – feed off other people’s misery. You’ve made things worse, Huda. So much worse.’
She doesn’t reply, just looks at me with a downturned mouth and tears in her eyes. It makes me madder than ever. I groan in frustration.
‘Just do everyone a favour and fuck off, Huda. Honestly, the only good thing about this past week has been not having you in my life,’ I spit. ‘Maybe you were right. Maybe it did do some good.’
I don’t give her a chance to reply. Just walk off towards the gate. As soon as she’s out of my sight, the adrenaline inside me disappears, and I feel like shit.
48
Neither of my parents are home when I get there. It’s only one o’clock, so they’re both probably still at work. I really need to start paying more attention to Abbu’s schedule – it’s been all over the place recently. I guess it’ll settle down if he gets this job he’s interviewed for. God, I hope he gets the job.
I walk in, dump my bag and shoes and go into the living room. I’m still reeling from the fight with Huda. I both wish I’d said more and wish I hadn’t said so much. It’s weird, the house being so quiet. I could do so much. Watch TV, bake a cake, clean the house … revise? I think I really do just want to lie in bed and watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine though. I walk into the living room and check the pile of post that’s stacked on the table. I hear a car door slam. Followed closely by another. I crane my head and look out of the window, to our driveway, where both of my parents’ cars have suddenly appeared. Fear strikes in my heart and I duck down, even though I’m not doing anything wrong by being here. I even have a letter to prove – oh shit. Guess who forgot to pick up the letter on her way out of school! Shit shit shit! I literally can’t believe this. Without that letter, I can’t guarantee my parents will believe my excuse. After Ammi got called in to discuss my grades, they’ve both been on at me to focus on schoolwork. If they find me here, and Abbu’s in a bad mood, then it’s all going to go to hell. I should have just gone straight upstairs. They can’t see me here. They can’t. I could risk running upstairs, but I might not make it to my room before the front door opens.
The front door opens.
I panic and wriggle behind the sofa, kneeling on the floor and curling myself into as tight a ball as I can. I’m hoping they’ll go into the kitchen and close the door. That way I can sneak up the stairs quietly without being seen.
‘I was just asking why you seem so happy, with the whistling and everything,’ I hear Abbu say as they walk in through the front door. ‘There’s no need to be defensive.’
‘Do I need a reason to be in a good mood?’ Ammi asks, with a nervous laugh. I hear her drop her keys into the bowl we keep by the door.
‘I’m just taking an interest,’ he says. His voice has an edge to it.
‘It was nothing special,’ she expands. ‘Just a good day at work. Friendly customers, not too busy.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask how my day was?’ Abbu asks after a few seconds’ pause.
Ammi responds immediately. ‘I was just about to ask about your day.’ There’s a tightness in her voice that I recognise all too well.
Please not here. Not now. Please don’t start something, Abbu.
They both walk into the living room. Damn, there goes my hope of sneaking upstairs.
‘Did you talk to your manager about getting those extra hours?’ he asks, ignoring Ammi completely.
‘I did,’ she replies carefully. ‘I was going to talk to you about it tonight. They’ve offered me an extra day in the week, and a few extra hours on my other shifts. They gave me a printed rota – I can show you later.’
‘Why later? Why not now?’ he asks.
‘I just thought you might … have better things to do.’
‘Or … or you’re hiding things from me.’
‘What? What would I be hiding from you?’
‘Exactly. That’s what I’m asking.’
It’s torture kneeling behind the sofa, having to listen to this. I try telling myself that they’re just talking. It’s not going to escalate. Abbu’s been good recently. We haven’t had a Bad Night since Ammi spoke to Mrs Farook. The streak is going to continue. They’ll get past this, they will.
‘Wh
y don’t I just look for myself, if you won’t tell me what you’re hiding?’ Abbu says. I hear his footsteps and then rustling.
‘I’m not hiding anything from you, I promise!’ Ammi says. ‘Please … please don’t go through my bag!’
‘Why not? If you’re not hiding anything from me.’
She pauses for a second; she knows not to fight him. ‘I proved that I don’t hide things from you the other day, didn’t I? I told you what happened at Amani’s school.’
Abbu doesn’t reply. I can hear him on the other side of the room, rifling through Ammi’s bag and then unfolding some paper. ‘What’s this then?’ he asks.
‘That’s … a job application,’ Ammi says carefully. ‘My manager thinks I could be a supervisor. Now that I’ll be doing more hours. It’s a decent pay rise. I just need to fill –’
‘What’s wrong with your current position?’ Abbu’s voice is at the highest level of danger. I feel myself tensing up even more.
‘Nothing. It’s just a few more responsibilities. It’ll be good on –’
‘What about your responsibilities at home?’
‘I can do both.’
Abbu’s quiet for a few seconds and I’m praying it’s all over.
‘You can’t apply for this job,’ he says forcefully.
‘But … it’s not any different than what I’m doing now. Now that I’m getting more hours.’
‘You can’t get those extra hours either.’
‘But … but you said!’
‘That was before!’ he shouts. Violent shouting. Bad Night shouting. ‘That was before those idiots rejected me for the job. You can’t get extra hours now. You need to be at home.’
Abbu didn’t get the job? Shit.
‘Surely this means I need the extra hours,’ Ammi says carefully. ‘If I’m going to be the only –’
The sound of the slap reverberates around the room, and I wince. I screw my eyes shut and pray. Please please please let this be over soon.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ Abbu growls.
My heart spikes, thinking he’s noticed me. I peek around the edge of the sofa and he’s still looking at Ammi, the application form in his hand. Ammi’s hand is over her cheek. I retreat again.
This Is My Truth Page 24