Split

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Positive. Now give me some space so I can switch back into my civvies. But you keep that dress on. We won’t have time for you to change again.’

  ‘B, buy the black dress. You know you want to,’ I say, sliding out of their cubicle.

  ‘Nah,’ Billie says sadly. ‘One dress I could explain away as a gift for “my girlfriend”. Two and Mum’d arrange for Reverend Johnson to come round and perform an exorcism.’

  It breaks my heart. Poor Billie just wants to be themself and the person closest to them keeps judging them for something that’s not even their fault. In a way, Billie reminds me of Muzna. I find that I no longer feel betrayed or hate her for giving me the silent treatment. Her note said her parents were forcing her. Mum’s never done that to me. We discuss things and maybe she gets the last word but at least she always listens to what I have to say.

  I take my phone out, wondering whether I should give her a call and fess up about going to the audition she banned me from. I discover I’m too chicken.

  Billie guides me over to the counter. ‘Can you ring it up while she’s wearing it, sort of thing? We’re late.’

  The sales girl looks flustered than asks me to turn around so she can scan the barcode and remove the tag.

  ‘It might take me a year or two, but I’mma pay you back, B,’ I swear.

  Billie hushes me, taking out a platinum credit card and promptly drops it twice.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  They nod but I can’t help noticing a sweaty sheen has formed over their upper lip and they keep blinking like a clockwork doll. The lady places my ripped dress in a bag and we walk out.

  HONK! HONK! HONK!

  The store alarms go off, security scanners lighting up like the emergency services in traffic. I nearly jump out of my skin as a large security guard saunters over.

  ‘Nothing to worry about!’ Billie says waving at him. ‘The lady at the till forgot to deactivate the tag is all.’ What the heck is Billie chatting about? She did deactivate it.

  ‘Come back in, please,’ the guard says in an intimidating baritone.

  I’m about to do just that when Billie yanks my arm. ‘RUN!’ And with that, they make a mad dash out of the automatic doors. I’m frozen in bewilderment, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  ‘Oi!’ roars the security guard. One look at his furious face, his outstretched hand and I run for my life.

  Billie’s waves to me from the top of the escalators, before shoving people aside as they scuttle down.

  ‘B!’ I call after them, slipping through the shoppers like butter through a knife. ‘What the hell? You paid for my dress, right? Let’s go back and clear this up.’

  ‘Can’t!’ Billie squeaks. ‘I stole the black one. I didn’t mean to. I just . . . I couldn’t buy it and I couldn’t say goodbye either.’

  ‘Oh, Billie!’ I glance behind and see the wide-shouldered security guard struggling to get through the shoppers thronging on the escalators.

  ‘Make for the toyshop over there!’ Billie says gesturing with a flick of their chin then sprints off.

  ‘What have you got me into?’ I cry. Threading through the tourists, my heels hammer the floor like mini pickaxes as I run. The security guard barrels after us. Elbowing a path for myself, I make it to the toyshop but Billie is nowhere to be seen. A yelp has me spinning round. The security guard is clutching Billie by the scruff of their neck, yelling at them. I bite my lip, shrinking back into the crowd. I could make tracks, save myself, get to the audition on time: after all I didn’t steal anything.

  But just as I couldn’t leave Billie to the mercy of Imran’s gang, I can’t leave them now.

  ‘Hey, wait up!’ I call as the security guard is frogmarching Billie back to Fabulous Farah’s.

  We sit together on one side of a table in a room that is so nondescript it’s a couple of cushions short of a padded cell. Sunlight floods through the blinds behind us, charring our necks. On the other side of the table, shunning the chair, stands the security guard, spreading his hands wide, glowering at us. Billie is snivelling, all smudged lipstick and running mascara. I’ve learned never to show my feelings, but on the inside I am shook.

  ‘Clever!’ barks the security guard. ‘Pay for one dress, steal another.’

  ‘No one was teefing nothing,’ I explain. ‘My friend forgot to put the other dress back is all. Easy mistake, innit?’

  ‘What? Stuffed it in his backpack and zipped it up by mistake?’ The sarcasm is real. ‘You know, I could call the police and have you both arrested.’

  Billie gasps, wringing their hands together.

  ‘But you wouldn’t do that, would you?’ I suggest, giving my prettiest smile. ‘You seem like a nice guy who wouldn’t wanna spoil a coupla teenagers’ lives. Specially when they owned up that they made a dumb mistake and they are so, so sorry.’

  The guard taps his lips thoughtfully then places a pad down in front of us. ‘Pick up that pen. I want your full names and your parents’ numbers. And no funny business!’

  ‘Oh, please don’t!’ Billie begs. ‘My mum is literally worse than the police.’

  The guard cocks an eyebrow. ‘So you’d rather I call the cops then?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, we wouldn’t.’ I scribble on the pad. ‘There. That’s both our names and numbers. We are sorry, you know?’

  He snorts, turning the pad his way, looking from one to the other, flexing his jaw muscles. ‘Wait here.’

  The moment the door clicks, I grab Billie, yanking them to their feet. ‘Help me get this window open!’

  Billie doesn’t need to be told twice. Shoving aside the blinds, we turn the handles and push it open. Practically falling over one another, we leap out of the window and make a bolt for freedom.

  ‘We’re free!’ Billie shouts as we exit the alleyway, running along the back of the building and across the road. ‘Squeeeeeee!’

  ‘Hold that squeee ’til we’re on the bus!’

  Two minutes later, we’re safely hidden at the back of the bus and the driver is en route to the Fortuna Theatre. ‘Honestly, B, what the hell were you thinking? In what world is stealing a dress not a crime?’

  Billie covers their face in shame. ‘I was more afraid of coming out to my mum as non-binary than getting a criminal record for stealing. How messed-up is that? I guess I just wanted to do something crazy to prove I can make decisions. But I’m sorry I got you into trouble.’

  My frown thaws. ‘Guess you ain’t had it easy, hun. It’s not for me to tell you to come out. But I’ll tell you this for free: Auntie Balquis is gonna blab to everyone on my street that I’m going to be an actress. She’ll get it twisted, make it sound dirty and link it to the fake selfie my fake boyfriend took of some faked-up stuff that never happened. But once it’s out there, I don’t have to care any more. I’ll be free!’

  ‘But suppose you get excommunicated by your community?’

  The bus jerks to a stop.

  ‘Then I’ll just have to find my own way. The world is big enough for everyone, B. Worrying about stuff is the worst. That’s the thing that kills you.’

  Billie considers this then hugs me. ‘You’re right. Thanks, hun. Craziest day ever?’

  ‘Amen!’

  ‘Everyone off the bus!’ the driver calls, making my heart stop. ‘I’ve called an engineer for repairs, but it’s gonna take a while for him to get here.’

  Outside, on the pavement, I’m wondering why everything keeps going wrong. Auntie Balquis said Dad would curse me from beyond the grave for shaming our family. As stupid as that sounds, could that be what this is?

  ‘I don’t have lizards for footmen,’ Billie says, taking out their phone, ‘mice for white horses, or even a pumpkin for a coach, but I’m maxing out my credit card and calling you an Uber.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The odds were stacked like a mountain, God only knows how many rules we broke, and we cut it so fine that the guy at the desk refused to register us. Begging an
d pleading wasn’t working either. If it hadn’t been for three more girls turning up after us and arguing up a storm, I’d be sitting on the steps outside the Fortuna Theatre right now, crying my eyes out.

  Instead, I’m standing at the back of a queue of preening girls and prickly stage mums. They’re sizing each other up, evaluating their chances. Seems like every last one of them is perfectly turned out and immaculately dressed. Then I spot a girl biting her nails, looking up at her mother every couple of minutes like she’s a prison officer. I smile at her. Her smile is brief and sad, like she’d rather be anywhere but here. I can kind of relate. Five minutes in the toilets was barely enough time to sort my scraggly hair or blot my oily skin. The dress is fabulous but the girl inside is trash. Suddenly I’m yearning for Mum so bad, I think I’m going to cry.

  ‘Will you stop doing that to yourself?!’ Billie chides as the last three girls join the back of the queue.

  ‘You lost me.’

  ‘Worrying. Look, you know your lines, your improv piece is brilliant, your face was made for close-ups and you said you wanted to be an actor more than anything in the entire history of wanting things. And we made it in time!’

  ‘It’s not that simple. These girls are quality, you can see it in the way they stand. They’ve had years of training and they probably have friends in high places. Why am I putting myself through this, B? Not only do I have to outshine all this talent, but I have to make the casting directors think outside the box too.’

  ‘I feel your pain,’ Billie confides. ‘I didn’t tell you this before. In primary, I wanted to play Dorothy so bad in the school play but got shot down for being “a boy”.’ The finger quotes Billie is so fond of are out again with a vengeance. ‘I was a coward. I am a coward. You’re not like me, Salma. You’re a fierce queen.’

  I shake my head. ‘Next to this lot, I’m like something that got stuck to a glass slipper.’

  ‘Really? Show me one other girl who went through hell and high water to be here. You don’t need a stage mother to do the talking, like these other girls do. Your talent will speak volumes. Go out there, Salma; go before those judges and whatever prejudices they’re holding on to, and send the other girls sashaying away.’ Billie snaps their fingers. ‘Because you were born for this. Shantay, you stay.’

  ‘You’re making me cry!’ I hug Billie.

  ‘Oh my God, they’re so fake!’ whispers one hopeful but I take it in my stride. She may look like classic Cinderella, but she has the heart of an ugly sister. The glass slipper can only fit one of us, but even if it’s not me it won’t mean I have to give up my acting dreams. Hollywood’s full of stories about casting directors remembering a reject for a different role that came up later. The trick is to be memorable. And if this mad, bad and dangerous day has taught me anything, it’s that I’m seriously unusual.

  ‘Babes, you’re on!’ Billie says.

  CHAPTER 8

  I stand before the panel, wearing a smile I barely feel. Edwina Hirsch sits in the middle, hair piled on top of her head like a three-tiered chocolate fountain, a spine as straight as a javelin, and unblinking cat eyes. The queen of British theatre is holding court. Back in the day, Edwina was a world-class ballerina before she broke her leg then discovered she had a gift for musical theatre. To her right sits Dalton Wright who was in a boyband in the nineties, then had a short run on a soap, before the producers killed his character off after he kept turning up on set drunk. Dude might be relapsing cos his face is flushed and his man-weave is glued on wonky. Completing the judging panel is Ananya Banerjee, a British Bangladeshi journalist who co-hosted a daytime TV show a few years ago before turning to radio. A pink gem glistens above her right nostril, a wide smile simmering beneath it.

  ‘Tell us your name, where you’re from and why you think you’d be perfect for the role,’ says Edwina, rolling her R’s in old-school received pronunciation.

  I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Calm down, I tell myself. You got this. Be yourself – that’s one job you can’t screw up. I manage the first two, no problem.

  ‘What makes you think you’re more special than the other girls we’ve seen?’ presses Dalton.

  ‘Nothing,’ I admit. ‘Cos everyone’s special in their own way. But I think you should pick me cos no one would be more dedicated or committed to the role. 5 a.m. call times? No problem. Last minute script changes? I can learn lines faster than you can write them. I’m a triple threat.’ I can act, sing and dance but should I mention my vocal struggles with public singing? ‘But acting is my number one.’

  After rolling his eyes twice, Dalton scribbles something on a pad.

  ‘Cinderella is a girl from the wrong side of town,’ I continue. ‘With big ambitions but everyone’s telling her to remember her place. That could be me you’re talking about, right there. I got bundles of creative energy but three drama lessons a week ain’t enough. I want to do it twenty-four-seven. I need it to breathe.’ I clutch my ribs, flaring my nostrils. ‘No one back home seems to understand that, so I keep ending up in trouble. People take one look at me and they think they know who I am. No one ever gives me a chance.’

  ‘What? People hate you because you’re beautiful?’ Dalton says sassily, placing his hands under his chin as if serving shade on a platter.

  ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ I quote back at him. ‘Everyone’s got a story to tell and sometimes a smile can hide pain and tears.’

  ‘Well,’ Ananya says with a kind smile. ‘We’re giving you that chance now.’

  Edwina narrows her eyes. ‘Begin.’

  Taking a deep breath, I recite Sophocles, feeling the power of the words resonating in my soul, forming tremors in the air that seemed to grow bigger and bigger. In my mind I am Polynices in Ancient Greece, pleading for forgiveness from the family I have wronged.

  Ananya nods and smiles broadly, while Dalton looks disappointed. Edwina clears her throat, ‘That was . . . different. We’ve had a surfeit of Juliets and a Miranda or two, but you selected a traditionally male role. What was your thinking behind that?’

  I shrug. ‘Back in the day, men got the best roles. I figured if I was going to show my range, that’d be the way to go.’

  ‘We’re casting for Cinderella not Cinderfella,’ snipes Dalton.

  ‘Yes, but the winning actor gets to give the character her own unique spin,’ replies Ananya.

  Edwina taps her upper lip. ‘There was something in your delivery just now . . . the degree of guilt and self-flagellation. Of course your diction was terrible. The alveolar trills in particular were quite flat.’

  I blush. Not sure what she’s on about but ashamed all the same.

  ‘Quite horrendous!’ Dalton agrees with relish.

  Edwina asks me to move on to my song. ‘Now I want you to enter into the mind of Cinderella – the school pariah. Don’t play her, be her. When words are simply not enough in theatre, we sing. Tell the audience through the power of song exactly how you are feeling.’

  ‘What’s your song choice?’ asks Ananya.

  I shuffle about nervously. ‘I . . .’ The silence is deafening. ‘I couldn’t find one. So I wrote my own.’

  Edwina nods. ‘Begin.’

  ‘Mamma was my guiding light; I’mma preach it.

  Daddy taught me wrong from right; Him’ma teach it.

  Cancer stole my mum away, can’t believe it.

  Couldn’t live another day, wanna leave it.

  So Daddy marries another girl, it hurtin’ me.

  Stepma come to destroy my world, she workin’ me.

  Sistas brung twin hearts of stone, dem lurk fo’ me.

  Soulless clones who yell and moan, dem come fo’ me.

  Daddy don’t believe what’s said! Dem lie.

  But Daddy did and now he’s dead. Man die.

  Here I am, all alone. Ask why.

  Become a slave in my own home. I’mma cry.

  Oh-oh-oh-oh! How I cry—’

  The rap breaks me, my emo
tions so raw, the wounds too deep. I cover my face and start to sob, knowing I’ve blown it. Somehow I always mess everything up.

  Applause cuts through my downward spiral, making me double take. Ananya is on her feet shouting, ‘Brilliant, brilliant!’ and clapping like there’s no tomorrow. Dalton is looking seriously sketchy, scribbling away on his pad like he’s filing a victim report. Edwina’s neck has extended like an alert giraffe.

  ‘It’s a big YES from me!’ Ananya says grinning, sitting down. ‘Did you really write those lyrics yourself?’

  Rubbing my eyes, I nod. I feel like I’m back at primary school, blubbing in front of the class cos my life sucks.

  Dalton raises his eyebrows and sighs as if blowing an invisible balloon. ‘Yeah, not really a fan of gimmicks. It’s a cover for a lack of talent, isn’t it? The rapping was great and all but this is primarily an acting role and there are thousands of kids in inner city schools who can rap. Nothing special.’

  ‘How can you sit there and say that after we’ve had samey performances all afternoon?’ says Ananya, bristling.

  ‘It’s how I feel and I’ve been in the business long enough to know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘You were in three episodes of EastEnders and we all know how that ended!’

  ‘It was called Rochdalers and we had creative differences! Happens all the time.’

  Edwina sniffs and the bickering promptly stops.

  ‘Salma Hashmi, isn’t it?’ she asks checking her tablet. I nod, the tears drying on my cheeks. ‘I believed every word. Thank you for reminding me of the magic of performance.’

  I cover my mouth, the tears flowing again. Edwina winks and my heart does a backflip.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘You were fricking awesome!’ Billie squeals, hugging me like a gigantic clothes peg.

  ‘You think?’ I ask doubtfully. In the two minutes it took me to walk back to the green room, I’ve come to believe I imagined it all; that Edwina and Ananya weren’t really all that impressed and were just being polite.