‘It’s like these people don’t realize it’s nearly the Christmas holidays,’ she says, making me realize the exam idea wasn’t just Ms Pettigrew being extra. Instead of winding down for the end of term, they’re winding us up.
I watch her plodding away. ‘Hey, Kelz,’ I call, making her whirl round. ‘Gotta ask. Why do you wear them boots?’
She looks down and shrugs. ‘Because I like them?’
Kelly’s friends hate her boots, and they seem to pull all the strings. Something doesn’t add up. ‘No offence, but they sorta look like man boots.’
She goes very quiet. ‘They belonged to my dead Uncle Fiz.’
I swallow the foot in my mouth. ‘Hey, sorry man. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’
She crouches down, rubbing at a scuff mark. ‘Uncle Fiz was the only member of my family who ever thought it was great that I wanted to be an author. Mum hated him.’
‘Cos he supported your dreams?’
‘That also, but mainly because he was gay and proud. She wouldn’t let me see him because she thought he was corrupting me.’
‘That is cold!’
Kelly sighs, her eyes glistening, and I immediately realize how close she must have been to this Uncle Fiz.
‘I guess it’s not completely her fault – she’s from a really strict religious family. She didn’t even go to his funeral.’
‘But you did?’
She nods, smirking. ‘I was only ten. I caught a bus and turned up late. His funeral was fab-u-lous. So many weeping drag queens in one place! They played the 1974 Elton John-Bernie Taupin collaboration “The Bitch Is Back”. Uncle Fiz totally believed in reincarnation.’
I smile sympathetically. ‘So you wear his boots to show solidarity.’
‘And to piss Mum off, obvs!’
We both crack up.
‘When I’m wearing these boots, I feel I can do anything – hop on a bus or take a rocket to the moon. That’s how Uncle Fiz lived his life.’
‘I hope he comes back as a unicorn. One with a rainbow mane.’
‘He’d love that!’ She gives me a goofy grin, then clip-clops down the corridor.
‘Yo, bro! You got a mo?’ Daevon calls.
I’m standing in the lunch queue, getting stressed cos Mrs Waldorf, as part of her Make-Stanley-Park-Outstanding campaign, has shortened the lunch hour to forty-five minutes and launched some messed-up system letting kids from different years in at different times. Basically she thinks us Year 11s are bullying the lower school. Like making us hangry is going to fix that.
I scowl at Daevon. ‘What you want, bredrin?’ I hope I injected enough sarcasm into the last word to show him that all this ‘brother’ stuff is bollocks.
‘You been ghosting. Where you at?’
‘Dude, we literally just had English together!’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘My life ain’t changed except I have detention with Gilchrist on a regular basis cos someone got him involved.’
‘That someone was trying to save your life. Look, hate me all you want. Imran’s back in school on Monday. Facts.’
‘And?’ I act like I’m not bothered by the news I’ve been dreading.
‘We need to settle this beef. Don’t want to see you get hurt. You and me were tight – remember that?’
‘Stop holding up the queue!’ snarls a dinner lady, misting the stainless-steel food containers with spittle.
‘Yeah, can I get one of them, that, and a Radnor – the red one, please,’ I say, pointing.
‘Ilyas, Noah’s on a mission to stab you,’ Daevon whispers in my ear. ‘His idea of a welcome back for Imran. Just watch your back, OK?’
‘You, uh, wanna join me?’ I say, jerking my head towards a table. It’s a peace offering because, truth be told, I’ve been raging against my boy Daevon, when this aggression belongs to Imran and Noah. If he’s remembering the old days, then maybe he does care.
Daevon looks away. ‘Gonna take a rain check till you smooth things over with the big guy. See you Monday. Hopefully.’
It’s the end of the day, and I’m standing outside F10. This is it. The last time me and Kelly will ever be together.
A little digging revealed she’s in Set 1 for everything. Hell, last year she was a ball girl for the Wimbledon women’s semi-final. Whether Kelly decides she wants to be the prime minister or a best-selling sci-fi author, nothing in life will ever hold her back. We’re from totally different worlds, and in spite of everyone always going on about ‘breaking the rules being the coolest thing ever’, no one wants to cross the border into Freakdom.
I take a deep breath, then knock on the door. Poking my head round, I see Mr Gilchrist sitting there with his hands pressed together.
‘Hello, Ilyas. Had a good day?’ he asks in a distant voice.
I shrug. ‘School’s school, innit?’
He nods. ‘Indeed it is. Ah, here’s Kelly!’
I watch Kelly hurry in and take her regular spot, just behind me.
‘Well,’ Mr Gilchrist says, clearing his throat and frowning. ‘I hope you two have finally managed to produce sincere letters of apology. I think we’re all a little tired of this rigmarole.’
Kelly and me hand over our letters. Gilchrist studies them carefully, breath whistling through his hairy nostrils. He glances up, blue eyes flicking back and forth between us. ‘I’m impressed. I really hope you mean what you’ve put down here.’
‘Absolutely,’ Kelly says, zipping up her bag. ‘How’s Mrs Gilchrist?’
‘Much better, thanks,’ he says.
‘That’s a relief,’ I say. ‘Hospitals are spooky places.’
Kelly smiles sweetly. ‘Can we go now?’
‘In a minute. Right, so here’s the plan for Monday. You will both arrive at 8 a.m.’
‘That’s like half an hour early!’ I say in surprise.
‘It is exactly half an hour early, yes. This will give you ample time to come to my office and meet with Imran, who will be returning to school. He has been discharged from hospital. Kelly, a similar arrangement will be set up for you and Melanie by Mrs Waldorf.’
Other than one swallow, Kelly’s poker face holds up way better than mine.
‘Once we’re all ready,’ Gilchrist says, ‘your letters will be returned to you, and you will have a chance to read them out to your victim. With any luck, your apology will be accepted, at which point we’ll be in a position to draw a line under this unpleasant situation. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ we both say.
‘Good. Believe me, the new GCSEs are hard enough without having all this hanging over you. I fully expect you to keep your noses clean for the rest of the academic year. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Kelly says, pulling on her coat. The pale grey fur is so long and thick that she looks like a yeti.
‘Got it,’ I agree, slipping on my jacket.
Gilchrist rolls his eyes, ‘Off you go.’
Kelly zooms out the door. I stare open-mouthed. Would it have hurt to smile or at least say bye?
Five days of detentions. Five days of friendship. Now the detentions are over, so are me and Kelly.
‘See ya, sir,’ I say heading out.
I nearly well up when I see Kelly stood by the double doors. She taps her watch meaningfully, and I rush towards her, unable to suppress the grin splitting my face.
‘I’ve told my mum I have detention, so I’m good for the next forty minutes. Wanna hang before my piano lesson?’ She slings her backpack over a fluffy shoulder.
‘Here for it!’ I confirm.
Little bubbles of joy flood my chest as her arm slips neatly into the crook of mine and she drags me down the corridor.
‘I picked up a cool new manga at the library today and I hear they’re making it into a movie. Are you into anime?’
‘Not really,’ I confess.
She stops walking and points to a little furball hanging off her bag on a golden keychain. ‘Do you know who this is?’<
br />
I squint at the ball of fluff with the crazy googly eyes and pointy ears. ‘Bugs Bunny?’
For a moment I believe she’s going to hit me as her cheeks balloon with frustration.
‘You don’t know Ghibli?’
‘Is that an anime studio?’
‘It’s the anime studio.’ She grasps my shoulder, ‘We are going to have ourselves a little anime-fest tomorrow at my place. Your attendance is mandatory. What’s your digits?’
My heart does a happy dance as we exchange phone numbers.
‘What do you want to do now?’ she asks, as we head out of school.
‘Let’s get coffee,’ I say, mentally tasting gingerbread latte on my tongue. ‘Did you say something about piano?’
‘Ugh. Mum thinks piano lessons make me a shoo-in for Cambridge.’ She pinches her temples and shudders, making me laugh. ‘Plans are afoot to move me to a grammar school for A levels.’
‘Cambridge, huh?’ I say, impressed. ‘I’ll be lucky if my dad even lets me go uni.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ she asks as we approach the Starbucks knock-off.
A man in a trench coat comes sauntering out, then holds the door open for Kelly giving her a creepy wink. She smiles sweetly, then hugging my arm, drags me in. As we join the queue, I let the warm, syrupy smell flow over me, rubbing my frozen hands together.
We order lattes – me, a gingerbread; Kelly, a red velvet – then carry them over to a quiet spot near the window.
‘So why do you think your dad won’t let you go to uni?’ she asks, picking up the thread I thought she’d lost interest in.
‘He thinks it’s my duty to continue the family business. When Great-Grandpa Mian came over here in the sixties, Asian food wasn’t a thing. He saw a gap in the market and opened up a small grocery store selling all the stuff immigrants were missing from back home. You know, bhindi, karela, fufu and ackee. Dude was OG.’
‘That must’ve been so popular.’ Kelly swirls her latte with a straw, then licks the cream off the end.
‘Nah. Tons of people had the same idea, innit? I’m not saying G-gramps didn’t make money, but never enough to build the empire he was dreaming of. His son, my grandad Hamza, was wicked smart. Went to uni and everything, but it didn’t do him any good.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos racism?’ I take a long drag on my straw, the sugar giving me a hit. ‘It messed him up. He tore up his hard-earned degree and went to work at G-gramps’s store. Years later, he had my dad, who eventually inherited the store. Since my bro Amir’s gone America and disowned us, I’m next in line to carry on the family tradition.’
‘Sorry, but that sucks,’ Kelly says, examining her straw. ‘You get it from both ends: tradition and racism. I know I couldn’t handle it.’
‘Not like I get a choice.’
She falls into a reflective silence. ‘Mum helps people get qualifications to improve their job prospects. No offence, but nearly all of them are people of colour. She reckons it’s because “certain communities don’t value education”.’
‘What do you think?’ I ask, studying her expression.
Kelly shakes her head, wild curls bouncing free of her hood. ‘Well, based on what you’ve just told me about racism, she’s guilty of victim blaming.’
I stare at her, barely able to believe my ears. ‘You reckon?’
‘Come on, you think I don’t know my own privilege?’
I blush, because it had crossed my mind. Mostly because I once mentioned white privilege in a PSCHE lesson and ended up in detention with Mrs Waldorf who told me to ‘stop seeing colour’.
Something suddenly occurs to me.
‘The Afrobeats in that Morocco-trip assembly. That was you, wasn’t it?’
She covers her mouth and giggles. ‘Oh my God, Jade got so pissed! I love me some Swift, just as much as the next girl, and I know Afrobeats doesn’t cover all of Africa, but I couldn’t resist.’
We fist bump.
Salivating, I gaze at the counter like a meerkat. ‘How do waffles sound?’
‘At 4.20 in the afternoon? Sounds like yum.’
I hop over to the counter, returning with a platter of delicious waffles and four different syrups.
‘I was thinking,’ I say. ‘How comes Melanie got a week off school? All you did was punch her in the mouth.’
‘Apparently she was in therapy. Hashtag first-world problems.’ She gives me an ironic grin before slathering her waffle in chocolate syrup. ‘Soooo, does Imran have a girlfriend?’
‘New one every day!’ I say with a chuckle. ‘Man’s a regular thirst trap.’
‘What sort of girls does he go for?’
‘Hot, stacked, braindead!’ My laughter falls flat when I catch a flicker of disappointment on her face. ‘Hey, Kelly, you do not want to be taken in by that fool. Trust.’
She pokes holes through her waffle. ‘Jade hates him because she’s classist. Melanie, because she’s racist. Nicole absolutely loathes him because he turned her down. Why do you hate him enough to mess with him?’ she asks curiously.
I frown, stubbing my toe on the base of the table. ‘Cussed my mum,’ I say in a quiet voice, all those feelings threatening to overwhelm me again.
‘Ugh! Why do boys always get so triggered when someone insults their mum? Do you think your mum even cares what some teenager she doesn’t even know thinks of her?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s ain’t that. Amma – my mum, yeah – she’s like the sweetest person ever. She’s the type to love you before she even knows you. Cuts me up to hear Imran saying sexual stuff about her.’
Her eyes widen at the mention of ‘sexual stuff’. ‘Well, you know what? He’s a dick, and karma came calling.’
Hearing her diss Imran makes me feel unbelievably happy, and I hurriedly cram three forkfuls of waffle in my mouth to hide my smile.
‘Do you think Melanie will forgive you or …?’ I want to add, can we be friends instead?
‘It could go either way, I guess. But hey – what I can’t control isn’t worth worrying about.’
Solid advice, but she doesn’t look like she entirely believes it herself. The truth is I can’t help worrying about Imran. But with final exams not that far away, at least there’s an end in sight.
‘Can I ask why you hit your girl Melanie?’
She sighs, putting down her fork. ‘She kept harping on about Uncle Fiz’s boots being ugly and embarrassing. She was pressing all my buttons, and I let slip why I wear them. “Newsflash!” she said. “Wearing dead gay boots is so not cool. What did he die of anyway – AIDs?” I lost control.’
My eyes widen, then I shake my head. ‘That was low. Know what’s funny, Kelz? You and me both got suspended for standing up to bullies. We shoulda got medals.’
‘I know, right? What’s up with the world?’
‘Amma, can I talk to you, please?’ I ask, with Sparkle nestled in the crook of my arm, pink nose twitching.
It’s Saturday morning, and Amma’s monthly weekend shift at the library.
‘Later, beyta,’ she says, adjusting her hijab in the mirror. ‘We’ve got a tai chi instructor coming in, and Chantelle’s just texted to say she can’t make it.’
‘Just while you’re doing your hijab then?’ Sparkle’s ears perk up, hearing the tension in my voice. I tickle her fluffy cheek till she settles down again. ‘I just wanted to let you know, I wrote that letter of apology to Imran, and Mr Gilchrist is making me read it out to him on Monday so we can put it all behind us.’
Amma nods. ‘Mr Gilchrist called me yesterday asking me to accompany you.’
‘I’m really trying, Amma.’
‘I know. I just wish you were sorry in your heart.’
I frown, looking down at Sparkle. ‘He said stuff about you, Amma. Proper filthy stuff.’ My cheeks burn with shame recalling Imran’s crude words.
She looks at me. ‘You silly, silly boy. Do you think you’ve “saved my honour” by hitting that boy? Do you have a
ny idea how embarrassing it is to have other mothers offer me sympathy for raising my son wrong?’ The tears lining her eyes are like acid in my throat. ‘This is all Osman’s fault.’
‘What is?’ Dad says, emerging from the sitting room with the sports section of the newspaper in his hand.
Amma waves her hijab pin at him. ‘The reason your son got suspended was because of this stupid code, this masculinity, that you are so desperate to instil in him.’
‘Our son finally shows some balls, and you want to castrate him?’ he asks in horror.
‘I don’t have time for this!’ Amma grabs her bag and storms out the front door, slamming it behind her.
‘Oi,’ Dad says, making a whistling sound. ‘You putting me in the dog house with your Amma, lad?’
I shake my head.
‘Real men don’t grass.’ He gives me a warning look. ‘Next time you wanna shoot your mouth off, remember that.’
I nod.
‘And why are you carrying that rabbit around like a bloody handbag?’
‘Her claws need trimming …’
‘You gonna be painting its nails too?’
I shake my head, flushing.
‘Go on – give it to Shaista.’
‘I can’t. She doesn’t want Sparkle any more, remember?’
Dad clucks his tongue looking from me to Sparkle, making me feel like a deviant.
‘Um, I’m gonna be over at Daevon’s for most of the day. Studying.’
‘Studying made Amir into a selfish git. Careful it doesn’t happen to you.’ He thumps my back and heads to the kitchen to grab the blood-pressure-reducing cocktail Shais cooked up in her cauldron for him.
Kelly lives in a detached house on the south side of town, somewhere I’ve never been before. The pavements are so clean, they practically sparkle. The Matthews’ property is three Tudorish buildings whacked together – all shingled white walls with dark half-timbering. There’s a massive tall one with a steeply pitched gabled roof, a thinner one to the left with its own wooden porch, and a much smaller, single-floor building beside it. I gently close the front gate behind me and walk up the long stone drive. Two cars are parked outside – a turquoise Mini and a four by four. Off to the side, I spot a garage, where I reckon her mum keeps the silver hybrid, though there’s probably room for a couple in there.
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