Split

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Girl, it’s in the bag!’ Billie squeals, receiving a hail of daggers from the other hopefuls and their furious stage mums.

  ‘Young man, can you keep your voice down?’ says a woman in a red-and-white polka-dot print dress. ‘My daughter is trying to learn her lines.’

  Billie flushes and stutters an apology. Anger flares in my heart for my new friend.

  ‘Sorry, can you not misgender my mate, please?’ I snap.

  Her daughter looks Billie up and down and stifles a laugh.

  ‘A little bit of make-up does not make a boy a girl. It makes him a clown,’ the woman says, chuckling.

  ‘It’s OK, Salma . . .’ Billie says going redder, pulling my sleeve.

  ‘No, it’s really not,’ I insist, refusing to let it go. ‘Can you imagine how hard it is for people to present the way they want without bigots making assumptions? It’s they/them not he/him.’

  ‘Don’t speak to my mum like that!’ snaps the girl. ‘How’s she supposed to keep up with your LGBTXYZ nonsense?’

  Her mother nods. ‘If you’re going to invent snowflake terms for yourselves, don’t expect the rest of us to keep up. You two would be better off auditioning for The Rocky Horror Show.’

  A calm, commanding voice surprises us all. ‘Don’t you speak to my daughter or her friend like that.’

  I turn around, my heart in my throat. ‘Mum!’ I am so dead.

  Mum gives my arm a squeeze, placing her other hand on Billie’s shoulder. ‘Life is hard enough for teens without adults bullying them too. I work in A&E and I’ve seen too many children being brought in, thinking they have no place in the world, because of inconsiderate people like you.’

  The stage mum purses her lips. ‘Come on, Florence,’ she tells her daughter. ‘Let’s go practise somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think.’

  I stare at Mum wondering how she got here, wondering if she’s going to kill me, but mostly feeling mad-proud of how fiercely she clapped back.

  ‘Thank you,’ Billie tells Mum.

  ‘Not at all, love. Thank you for contacting me.’

  My eyes cut to Billie, a flash of betrayal grinding my gut.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Billie says, hiding behind spread fingers. ‘I knew you were going to be awesome. Your mum needed to see it, so I sent her a text after her number came up on your phone.’

  ‘Mum . . . I can explain . . . I’m sorry . . .’ I stammer.

  ‘We can have a long conversation when we get home,’ she says. ‘You defied me and I’m not happy.’

  I cringe, feeling my cheeks flush. ‘I know and I feel so bad.’

  ‘I’ve been so busy with late shifts, I haven’t been making time for you. I don’t ever want you to feel isolated or that you can’t come to me with anything. My parents did that to me and I’ve never forgiven them.’ For a moment, her face is hard. ‘You matter more to me than any school, head teacher, community or friend. I admit, I was terrified of Auntie Balquis and what she’d think. But you’re my daughter, Salma, and I’m always going to be here for you.’

  I can’t . . . today just became one great big weep fest.

  We sit in the corner with sandwiches Mum bought from across the road, waiting for the winner to be announced. Mum’s telling Billie a funny story about the time a famous MP ended up with a very embarrassing emergency. He walked into A&E with a carrier bag over his head with a couple of peep holes cut out to hide his identity. I turn my phone back on. It pings like I’ve hit the jackpot, a ton of messages from Mum when she got off her shift earlier today. Guilt swells in my chest for ever doubting her; for giving up on sharing my dreams just cos she was angry. It’ll never happen again.

  I spot a message from an unknown number. I’m about to hit DELETE when curiosity gets the better of me.

  Not gonna lie: Imran was cute – in a scary, gangsta sort of way. But if my date-mare with Tariq has taught me anything, it’s to make sure your bae isn’t a secret scumbag. I delete the text and block the sexy fool.

  Edwina steps into the green room and a hush descends. The moment of truth has arrived. Mum and Billie grab my hands.

  ‘First, we’d like to thank everyone who answered our open casting call. All three judges were extremely impressed by the quality of the candidates and we’re sure we’ll be seeing more of you in the near future. The acting community is a small one, so familiar faces and networking are part and parcel of the biz.

  ‘After much deliberation we’ve come to a decision.’

  You could cut the tension with a knife. I’m praying so hard the veins in my head must be throbbing like leeches.

  ‘Karen Montague, please step forward.’

  A tall redhead rises, her smile as wide as the horizon. I clap enthusiastically but my heart just fell off a cliff. At least she’s not a blonde . . . so there’s that. Plus, like Edwina said, my alveolar trills were crap. And who ever heard of a rapping Cinderella? What was I thinking? Fairy-tale endings are for the stage, not real life. Facts.

  Today my dream didn’t come true, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s been completely crazy and it feels like a million years since I was in Mrs Fossey’s office getting excluded. I’ve reconnected with Mum and now I know she’s got my back when it comes to acting. That is a big deal. Auntie Balquis is gonna wage war on us, but Mum’s ready for it. I’ve lost a mate and gained a mate. Losing Muzna is the worst, but Billie’s shown that sometimes it’s easier just to do what your parents want and Muzna’s got that problem too. Life is hard so you pick your battles and hope they’re the right ones. Guess I finally understand that life isn’t about winning, it’s about being brave enough to try.

  Suddenly Mum and Billie are yanking me out of my seat, babbling in my face. What have I done now? I stare at them in confusion before noticing the entire room is looking at me, including Karen who’s holding her hand out. Confused by her enthusiastic smile, I get up and walk over. She clutches my hand, entwining her fingers with mine.

  ‘Two very different yet equally powerful performances,’ Edwina tells the rapt room. ‘So we’re going to arrange a callback for the two of you, if you’re up for it?’

  I cover my mouth, unable to believe what I am hearing. Karen was a shoo-in; it was all over. Wasn’t it?

  ‘Salma’s definitely up for it,’ Mum says, hugging me from behind. ‘I won’t let her pass up on an opportunity like this.’

  ‘I wish I had a mum like yours,’ Billie whispers on the way out. ‘I could tell her I’m non-binary and there’s nothing I can do to change it except make myself miserable and bunk school. I could tell her I love her . . . and that I wish she loved me.’ Billie’s lower lips trembles, their eyes filling with tears. ‘Then maybe I wouldn’t be on my own.’

  I squeeze Billie’s hand. ‘Mate, you’re not.’

  Outside the theatre, the air has cooled a bit. Pink and orange clouds mesh across a deep blue sky, the falling sun reducing the tallest buildings to purple silhouettes, gilding the smaller ones with gold.

  Mum’s phone rings. She pulls it out, slowly makes a thoughtful face, then stuffs it back in her bag. Going out on a limb, I’m guessing the caller was Auntie Balquis.

  On the way to Mum’s car, we pass a bus shelter with a digital screen. A mysterious-looking woman on the motion poster is aiming a gun, point blank, at the viewer. There’s a flash of light as she pulls the trigger and the bullet strikes the screen, creating the illusion that it shattered, as shards of glass seem to fly out. The name of the movie fills the screen and then the action replays in an endless loop of awesomeness.

  ‘Some day that’s going to be you,’ Mum whispers, giving me a nudge.

  I glance at Billie. ‘Can totally see that happening!’ they agree.

  And just like that, the knot in my stomach, getting tighter and more twisted over the last twenty-four hours, suddenly comes undone. Who knows what the future holds? Success or failure? Happiness or regrets? One thing I do know is that the Salma who wants to be a good daughter and
the Salma who wants to be an actor is finally the same person – no more split.

  The End

  If you enjoyed SPLIT, you might enjoy Children of Blood and Bone, the first book in the smash-hit New York Times bestselling trilogy from Tomi Adeyemi

  Read on for a taster of the stunning fantasy that has taken the world by storm.

  ‘An epic story of family, love and magic’ Stylist

  Zélie remembers when the soil of Orïsha hummed with magic. When different clans ruled – Burners igniting flames, Tiders beckoning waves, and Zélie’s Reaper mother summoning forth souls.

  But everything changed the night magic disappeared. Under the orders of a ruthless king, anyone with powers was targeted and killed, leaving Zélie without a mother and her people without hope. Only a few people remain with the power to use magic, and they must remain hidden.

  Zélie is one such person. Now she has a chance to bring back magic to her people and strike against the monarchy. With the help of a rogue princess, Zélie must learn to harness her powers and outrun the crown prince, who is hell-bent on eradicating magic for good.

  Danger lurks in Orïsha, where strange creatures prowl, and vengeful spirits wait in the waters. Yet the greatest danger may be Zélie herself as she struggles to come to terms with the strength of her magic – and her growing feelings for an enemy.

  PICK ME.

  It’s all I can do not to scream. I dig my nails into the marula oak of my staff and squeeze to keep from fidgeting. Beads of sweat drip down my back, but I can’t tell if it’s from dawn’s early heat or from my heart slamming against my chest. Moon after moon I’ve been passed over.

  Today can’t be the same.

  I tuck a lock of snow-white hair behind my ear and do my best to sit still. As always, Mama Agba makes the selection grueling, staring at each girl just long enough to make us squirm.

  Her brows knit in concentration, deepening the creases in her shaved head. With her dark brown skin and muted kaftan, Mama Agba looks like any other elder in the village. You would never guess a woman her age could be so lethal.

  “Ahem.” Yemi clears her throat at the front of the ahéré, a not-so-subtle reminder that she’s already passed this test. She smirks at us as she twirls her hand-carved staff, eager to see which one of us she gets to defeat in our graduation match. Most girls cower at the prospect of facing Yemi, but today I crave it. I’ve been practicing and I’m ready.

  I know I can win.

  “Zélie.”

  Mama Agba’s weathered voice breaks through the silence. A collective exhale echoes from the fifteen other girls who weren’t chosen. The name bounces around the woven walls of the reed ahéré until I realize Mama Agba’s called me.

  “ Really?”

  Mama Agba smacks her lips. “I can choose someone else—”

  “No!” I scramble to my feet and bow quickly. “Thank you, Mama. I’m ready.”

  The sea of brown faces parts as I move through the crowd. With each step, I focus on the way my bare feet drag against the reeds of Mama Agba’s floor, testing the friction I’ll need to win this match and finally graduate.

  When I reach the black mat that marks the arena, Yemi is the first to bow. She waits for me to do the same, but her gaze only stokes the fire in my core. There’s no re spect in her stance, no promise of a proper fight. She thinks because I’m a divîner, I’m beneath her.

  She thinks I’m going to lose.

  “Bow, Zélie.” Though the warning is evident in Mama Agba’s voice, I can’t bring myself to move. This close to Yemi, the only thing I see is her luscious black hair, her coconut-brown skin, so much lighter than my own. Her complexion carries the soft brown of Orïshans who’ve never spent a day laboring in the sun, a privileged life funded by hush coin from a father she never met. Some noble who banished his bastard daughter to our village in shame.

  I push my shoulders back and thrust my chest forward, straightening though I need to bend. Yemi’s features stand out in the crowd of divîners adorned with snow-white hair. Divîners who’ve been forced to bow to those who look like her time and time again.

  “Zélie, do not make me repeat myself.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Bow or leave the ring! You’re wasting everyone’s time.”

  With no other choice, I clench my jaw and bow, making Yemi’s insufferable smirk blossom. “Was that so hard?” Yemi bows again for good measure. “If you’re going to lose, do it with pride.”

  Muffled giggles break out among the girls, quickly silenced by a sharp wave of Mama Agba’s hand. I shoot them a glare before focusing on my opponent.

  We’ll see who’s giggling when I win.

  “Take position.”

  We back up to the edge of the mat and kick our staffs up from the ground. Yemi’s sneer disappears as her eyes narrow. Her killer instinct emerges.

  We stare each other down, waiting for the signal to begin. I worry Mama Agba’ll drag this out forever when at last she shouts.

  “Commence!”

  And instantly I’m on the defensive.

  Before I can even think of striking, Yemi whips around with the speed of a cheetanaire. Her staff swings over her head one moment and at my neck the next. Though the girls behind me gasp, I don’t miss a beat.

  Yemi may be fast, but I can be faster.

  When her staff nears, I arch as far as my back will bend, dodging her attack. I’m still arched when Yemi strikes again, this time slamming her weapon down with the force of a girl twice her size.

  I throw myself to the side, rolling across the mat as her staff smacks against its reeds. Yemi rears back to strike again as I struggle to find my footing.

  “Zélie,” Mama Agba warns, but I don’t need her help. In one smooth motion, I roll to my feet and thrust my shaft upward, blocking Yemi’s next blow.

  Our staffs collide with a loud crack. The reed walls shudder. My weapon is still reverberating from the blow when Yemi pivots to strike at my knees.

  I push off my front leg and swing my arms for momentum, cartwheeling in midair. As I flip over her outstretched staff, I see my first opening—my chance to be on the offensive.

  “Huh!” I grunt, using the momentum of the aerial to land a strike of my own. Come on—

  Yemi’s staff smacks against mine, stopping my attack before it even starts.

  “Patience, Zélie,” Mama Agba calls out. “It is not your time to attack. Observe. React. Wait for your opponent to strike.”

  I stifle my groan but nod, stepping back with my staff. You’ll have your chance, I coach myself. Just wait your tur—

  “That’s right, Zél.” Yemi’s voice dips so low only I can hear it. “Listen to Mama Agba. Be a good little maggot.”

  And there it is.

  That word.

  That miserable, degrading slur.

  Whispered with no regard. Wrapped in that arrogant smirk.

  Before I can stop myself, I thrust my staff forward, only a hair from Yemi’s gut. I’ll take one of Mama Agba’s infamous beatings for this later, but the fear in Yemi’s eyes is more than worth it.

  “Hey!” Though Yemi turns to Mama Agba to intervene, she doesn’t have time to complain. I twirl my staff with a speed that makes her eyes widen before launching into another attack.

  “This isn’t the exercise!” Yemi shrieks, jumping to evade my strike at her knees. “Mama—”

  “Must she fight your battles for you?” I laugh. “Come on, Yem. If you’re going to lose, do it with pride!”

  Rage flashes in Yemi’s eyes like a bull-horned lionaire ready to pounce. She clenches her staff with a vengeance.

  Now the real fight begins.

  The walls of Mama Agba’s ahéré hum as our staffs smack again and again. We trade blow for blow in search of an opening, a chance to land that crucial strike. I see an opportunity when—

  “Ugh!”

  I stumble back and hunch over, wheezing as nausea climbs up my throat. For a moment I worry Yemi’
s crushed my ribs, but the ache in my abdomen quells that fear.

  “Halt—”

  “No!” I interrupt Mama Agba, voice hoarse. I force air into my lungs and use my staff to stand up straight. “I’m okay.”

  I’m not done yet.

  “Zélie—” Mama starts, but Yemi doesn’t wait for her to finish. She speeds toward me hot with fury, her staff only a finger’s breadth from my head. As she rears back to attack, I spin out of her range. Before she can pivot, I whip around, ramming my staff into her sternum.

  “Ah!” Yemi gasps. Her face contorts in pain and shock as she reels backward from my blow. No one’s ever struck her in one of Mama Agba’s battles. She doesn’t know how it feels.

  Before she can recover, I spin and thrust my staff into her stomach. I’m about to deliver the final blow when the russet sheets covering the ahéré’s entrance fly open.

  Bisi runs through the doorway, her white hair flying behind her. Her small chest heaves up and down as she locks eyes with Mama Agba.

  “What is it?” Mama asks.

  Tears gather in Bisi’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I fell asleep, I— I wasn’t—”

  “Spit it out, child!”

  “ They’re coming!” Bisi finally exclaims. “ They’re close, they’re almost here!”

  For a moment I can’t breathe. I don’t think anyone can. Fear paralyzes every inch of our beings.

  Then the will to survive takes over.

  “Quickly,” Mama Agba hisses. “We don’t have much time!”

  I pull Yemi to her feet. She’s still wheezing, but there’s no time to make sure she’s okay. I grab her staff and rush to collect the others.

  The ahéré erupts in a blur of chaos as everyone races to hide the truth. Meters of bright fabric fly through the air. An army of reed mannequins rises. With so much happening at once, there’s no way of knowing whether we’ll hide everything in time. All I can do is focus on my task: shoving each staff under the arena mat where they can’t be seen.

  As I finish, Yemi thrusts a wooden needle into my hands. I’m still running to my designated station when the sheets covering the ahéré entrance open again.