RUN, SALMA! RUN! screams the voice in my head, but I’ve never been good at taking orders, not even from myself.
‘You ain’t funny, fam. So piss off.’ The edge in my voice is battle-honed. When you and your best mate have been bullied from a young age, you pick up survival tactics real quick or you die. Body language and tone are everything. Showing fear is asking for it.
The boys turn to look at me. Their leader – a fool in a durag and box-fresh creps – is the last one to turn around. His pit-bull snarl switches up to a smile. Every girl knows this is way worse.
‘Hey, baby,’ he leers. ‘Where ya been all my life?’
‘Given I’m sixteen, probably in school.’ The sarcasm flies off me like projectile vomit.
‘Well you ain’t dressed for no school. You dressed for fun.’ He makes a salacious noise, like he’s just sampled steak and found it juicy.
‘Actually, I’m dressed for an audition. FYI, I just got excluded for bashing some boy’s brains in. Now, you gonna disappear or you gonna test me?’ I’m lowkey terrified, wishing a cop would walk past. Fat chance with government cuts and my luck.
‘Ooooh!’ cry his mates, lapping it up.
‘Oil-wrestle it out!’ suggests another, cracking his mates up.
‘Nah, baby girl . . .’ the leader coos, walking round me like he’s sizing up the goods. His voice drops to a horribly intimate whisper, brushing curls away from my right ear. ‘King don’t want to upset his queen.’
‘Then you’d best get home to her, innit? Pretty sure she’d be mad jealous seeing you now.’
His warm breath tickles my ear. ‘You wanna see what I got?’
‘Nah, I’m all right. So how about you leave me and my boyfriend the hell alone?’
The entire gang’s eyes pop out like they got told the world’s about to end in five. Even the victim looks like he swallowed a golf ball.
‘Y-your boyfriend?’ he stammers, blinking. ‘Nah, you ain’t dating this queer.’
I clutch the kid’s sweaty hand. ‘Bruh, we’re Haringey’s most loved-up; practically married. Ya don’t believe me? Check out our Insta stories.’ The poor kid finally gets it, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees in a nervous squeak. ‘Me and . . . er . . . Jasmine were voted cutest couple.’
Jasmine? It takes every bit of my self-control to pull the breaks on an eye-roll.
‘On Valentine’s Day,’ I add. Hoping to plaster over the cracks of our fragile lies. Because the other option is violence and in spite of all the self-defence classes Mum got me I doubt I can take a gang of six teenage boys. Least of all their leader who looks like he’s pushing six foot.
‘Nah, man,’ says one of the boys, getting riled up, his body language exaggerated and choppy. ‘This girl be disrespecting you.’
‘Shut up!’ snaps the leader. ‘Princess Jasmine here has asked us to go and that’s exactly what we’re gonna do . . . right after she gives me her number.’ He pushes an iPhone Pro Max into my trembling hand, pressing his sweaty skin to mine.
‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Where my manners at?’ He pulls the durag off his head and bows. For one moment, I stare at his cornrows – each one as flawless as a string of black pearls. Don’t think I’ve ever seen an Asian guy with hair like that before. ‘I’m Imran.’ He dimples and adds with a knowing wink, ‘But you get to call me “boo” or mera ishq, innit? All ya gotta do is gimme one missed call, baby girl, and I can make dis all go away.’ He spreads his arms, gesturing to his feral squad.
Normally, when a boy asks for my number I fob him off with a fake, but faking a missed call is impossible. This one’s sly. Reluctantly I pull my phone out, dreading turning it on in case Mum’s left a ton of messages. The phone screen lights up but there are zero messages. Oof. Imran calls his number out as I type it in then press the green phone icon. A ringtone like Beenie Man or Alkaline fills the park.
‘Aye!’ he says, making his phone vanish. ‘Good luck with your audition, Princess Jasmine. Give man a call later, yeah?’ He points at the kid, ‘I know you guys ain’t dating but take care of her anyway. A’ight?’
The kid nods obediently.
‘And,’ Imran pauses, suddenly less sure of himself. ‘Sorry about that stuff I said earlier, yeah? Was having a laugh, mate. We cool?’
‘Totally,’ he replies.
When the crew are a safe distance away, and quite definitely not coming back, I deflate.
‘Thanks! I owe you my life,’ gushes the kid. ‘God, I wish I was as pretty as you.’
Looking up in surprise, I notice for the first time that he’s wearing lipstick, clumpy mascara and cakey foundation, in a shade that would even look fake on an orange.
‘And now you can see why they were bullying me.’
‘N-no,’ I say, ashamed of wearing my thoughts on my sleeve. ‘You caught me off guard, is all. I thought—’
‘See, that’s the thing about cis-folk: always making assumptions.’ He frames the words with finger quotes like he’s scratching out somebody’s eyes.
‘Well what are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m Billie. At least I will be once I can legally change my name.’
‘So . . . you’re a girl?’ I suggest, trying to keep up.
‘No. My pronouns are they/them. I’m enby.’
‘OK!’ I say brightly, knowing I sound fake.
‘Don’t worry, nobody ever gets it.’
I press my skirt against my legs, sitting on the bench. ‘Hey, just cos someone doesn’t get you, don’t mean they don’t want to.’
Billie studies me, as if trying to work out whether I’m taking the piss. ‘Sorry, I’m so tired of being seen as a joke. There’s even some people in the LGBT community who give me grief.’
‘Yeah, well, I know a little something about communities judging you even though they’ve had to deal with judgemental crap too.’ I stare at a couple of bedraggled pigeons fighting over a chicken wing. Birds eating bird – I swear London is getting crazier every day.
‘The difference is you’ve got pretty privilege. The world’s a lot more accepting when you’re getting called Princess Jasmine by a hot thug.’
‘Yeah, well, pretty ain’t everything.’ I hug myself, feeling small and vulnerable.
‘Oh boohoo!’ Billie snaps making me jump. ‘Being a hot girl must be such a drag. I mean look at those poor Kardashian-Jenners and every bikini babe on every reality TV show ever. Getting paid millions to pout must be so traumatizing!’ That escalated quickly.
‘That’s not my life . . .’ I mutter.
‘No? You just got a gang of alphas to back down. Think you could’ve pulled off that minor miracle if you weren’t so hot?’
I turn to face them. ‘I’m poor, brown and my community think I’m a skank. Still wanna trade places? I got excluded for two weeks and I’m disobeying my mum to go to this audition. You jealous, fam? All of y’all get to have an opinion about a “hot girl” – everybody but herself.’ The pigeons coo in alarm and take flight. ‘What – I have to be friends with the mean girls just cos I look a certain way? Hell to the no! My best mate is this girl with literally tons of talent but people are always asking why I’m friends with her, like I owe them an explanation for their own dumb prejudices. I got guys like that Imran hitting on me when all I want is to be left alone. And when I won’t put out, I get called a ho and suddenly everybody’s hating on me. Like how does that even make sense?’
‘OK, OK! I hear you!’ Billie says making me realize I’m ranting. ‘Jeez!’
‘You know something?’ I say, glaring at Billie. ‘You can shut up anyway cos you’re pretty too.’ Billie gives me an eye-roll. ‘You are but—‘
Billie’s eyes cut sharply back to me, defensive and vulnerable. ‘But what?’
‘You’re crap at doing make-up.’
Their lips form a bright red ‘O’.
‘C’mere,’ I say, rifling through my bag. ‘
Auntie Salma’ll give you a makeover.’
‘Salma? I thought it was Jasmine.’
‘Nope, you made that up.’
Billie blushes. ‘I guess everyone’s a little guilty of making assumptions.’
I scrub a make-up wipe over Billie’s delicate features, a legal requirement before attempting any sort of glow up.
‘OK.’ I give Billie winged eyeliner, smoke it out with my eyeshadow pallet, then apply a bold aquamarine pigment to the corner of their eyes.
Billie folds their arms, frowning. ‘I hate school. People think being non-binary is a fad. I get called a “shim” or “Ladyboy Gaga”. Then there’s some idiots who tell me they identify as a unicorn or a dragon. Like what the actual frick?’
I shake my head and sigh. Poor Billie trusting me with all this private info. Guess offloading to a complete stranger is low stakes. ‘I feel you. But hey, my . . .’ I check myself, not wanting to mention Mum for some reason. ‘Someone told me there’s like a tribe of people in Pakistan called khusre. They’re legally recognized as the third sex and they’ve been around forever.’
‘I didn’t know that about Pakistan.’
‘Why would you? With the amount of hate going on in the media, it’s hardly surprising.’ I screw the lid back on the lip gloss and admire my handiwork. Holding my phone out I ask: ‘What do you think?’
Billie’s delight is so obvious it’s cute.
‘Hashtag no filter,’ I add.
Billie tears up. ‘You made me look pretty! I always wanted to know what this feels like. You’re like Queer Eye and my fairy godmother in one.’
‘Actually . . . it’s Cinderella I’m aiming for,’ I explain. ‘That’s the role I’m up for.’
‘Sick! I hope whoever’s doing the casting isn’t sold on Cinders being a white girl.’
‘That, my enby friend, is exactly what I’m counting on. Cinderella’s race has zero to do with the actual story.’
Billie smiles. ‘You’re way prettier than Disney’s version. Plus you can kick some actual man-arse.’
‘Thanks.’ I furrow my brow. ‘Man-arse, woman-arse, non-gender-specific-arse: don’t let the glass slippers fool you. If a butt needs kicking, I’m on it.’
Billie chuckles.
‘So you bunking cos of the bullying?’ I ask.
‘What time’s your audition?’ Billie counters, avoiding my question.
‘Any time between nine and four.’
‘Great. That’s more than enough time for me to buy you an ice cream. It’s the least I can do for making me look gorge.’
We walk past the hissing fountains and towards the large iron gates, shadow and sunlight dappling our path like marble.
Parked a little way up the road is an OG ice-cream van. The ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ floats towards us on a cushion of warm air like reheated memories from a time when life wasn’t such a struggle. Back when Muzna and me could be friends without families and communities and boys having a say in it. Every inch of the van’s windows are plastered in stickers advertising the delicious and the divine. A queue of mostly office staff snakes round the side of the van, wilting under the intense heat yet desperate for the fleeting release of a frozen dessert. A tinny voice on somebody’s tablet is ranting about it being the hottest day of the year.
‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ mutters a lady, fanning herself with an envelope, earning some laughs.
‘This isn’t all for me!’ says another woman defensively, carrying a cardboard tray of four sundaes back to her office.
Seven years ago, Mum took me and Muzna to see a musical version of Rumpelstiltskin at the local theatre. I was mesmerized. The costumes, the singing, the dancing and, of course, the acting was on point and sent my eight-year-old brain into a frenzy. Guess you could say it was the moment the acting bug got its fangs in me. To possess the power to make people laugh, fall in love and cry was mind-blowing. For the entire time you were up on stage, creating magic, you were living somebody else’s life. It meant I wouldn’t have to think about Dad, or how hard Mum worked, or how difficult school was.
Billie thrusts an ice lolly into my clenched fist. ‘Wow, you looked super mad.’
‘Wha?’ Feeling exposed, I cover with a snicker. ‘Million miles away.’
‘Yeah?’ Billie says licking fluorescent-pink bubblegum sauce off the top of their ice cream. A sugar unicorn horn pokes out of the side, coloured like a pastel rainbow. ‘So what’s a nice girl like you getting excluded for?’
I sink my teeth through the delicious orange ice shell of my lolly, tasting vanilla ice cream and fruit sorbet beneath. ‘I think the more important question is: why do you bunk when kids bully you? Why not report it to a teacher or your parents?’
A rose glow spreads over Billie’s cheeks which has nothing to do with the blush I applied earlier. ‘I skip school every now and then when things get too intense. I’m sick of having to explain myself. Why can’t teachers just protect me for being me?’
‘They don’t do jack?’
‘They do, but it always comes with advice.’ Billie’s fingers dance like flashing quotes. ‘ “If you stop wearing make-up to school and dying your hair bright colours, people will probably leave you alone.” ’
‘Victim-blaming,’ I say, scowling. ‘Yesterday I got slut-shamed and complained to the Head. Says she’ll look into it but reckons it wouldn’t happen if I didn’t dress inappropriately. And I’m the one who gets excluded.’
‘Jeez!’ Billie trills, nearly dropping their ice cream. ‘They’re all the same. And I’m literally being told to stop being me.’
‘But you can do you when you’re older and no longer their problem?’
‘Exactly! See, you get it.’ Billie licks the pink sauce off their fingers. ‘I get super stressy and can’t concentrate in school unless I feel like me. I’ve given up correcting people for using wrong pronouns. I should at least be allowed to exist in peace.’ I place a hand on Billie’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. ‘Wish my stupid mother let me be home-schooled! She’s like, “Everyone gets bullied at high school, it’s a rite of passage.” Blah, blah, blah and I should “Stop being a baby”.’
Hearing Billy diss his mum like that makes me think of my own. Mum grounded me for getting in a mess with Tariq but at least she believed I was innocent.
‘Did you tell your mum what the bullying’s about, though?’
‘You practically told Imran you bashed a boy’s brains in. C’mon, I need details!’ Billie asks clapping their hands, once again dodging my question.
Really not wanting to revisit it, I give them the CliffNotes version. ‘We went on a date together and I fell asleep. Y’know? Too much fried chicken. Then he takes this posed picture making it look like stuff happened between us on a first date. The picture gets shared around and pretty soon I’m the biggest ho in town.’
Billie swears and covers their mouth. ‘Sorry but that’s dumpster-tier nasty! Then what happened?’
I cover my face, rubbing my eyes. ‘I confronted him, demanding a public apology. Then he starts telling everyone about my audition, made me look like some foolish child. You do not do that, fam! That’s personal; that’s somebody’s dreams. So I went crazy and tried to beat him up. Next thing I know, I’m being dragged to the Head’s office.’
‘Yaas, queen!’ Billie says clapping. ‘Smash the patriarchy!’
‘This is real life, Billie, where nobody’s crowning queens or attacking the patriarchy.’ I squeeze my fists together. ‘Boy got me so mad, it’s like I split into two people. The one beating him up – the one in control of my body – just didn’t care. She did not care. The rest of me was as shocked as everybody else.’
‘You don’t seem like the sort of girl who goes around attacking people.’
‘Ya think? Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy, pretending to be two different people, keeping up appearances and that. All I want is to be the real me. Why is that such a big deal?’
‘Hell if I
know,’ Billie says crossly. ‘Maybe you’re just too special for this world?’
‘And if I’m mental?’
‘Finish your Solero and let’s go to this audition of yours,’ Billie says, stemming my self-doubts.
‘You coming?’
‘Miss out on my new bestie getting Cinderella? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
I mirror their smile then falter when my phone starts ringing. I place it on the bench between us, glancing at the number on the screen. ‘It’s Mum.’
Billie pulls out their own phone and checks the time. ‘You gonna answer it?’
I shake my head with fear.
‘Your mum, she’s not supportive then?’
‘I know my dad would’ve taken a running jump at the River Thames rather than have an actor for a daughter. Mum . . . not gonna lie: she lets me do stuff. She lets me wear what I want, even if it does upset some of the aunties. But she’s mad that I ended up in the middle of a big sexy scandal, so I’m grounded.’
‘I honestly think you should just explain to her how much this opportunity means to you. Give her a chance, eh?’
‘It’s not that simple. Everyone thinks wanting to be an actor is a bimbo’s dream. That winning a part is like the lottery: it could happen to literally anyone but the odds are stacked against you. I have to prove to Mum that I can get this part, not cos of what I look like or dumb luck, but cos of what I can do. That I’m talented enough to make a career out of it,’ I say firmly.
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