I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  I laughed even harder. God, I loved my Ami. She might not have been born in this country, or even gone to school, but she could make you laugh till your sides split. Pakistani village life seemed so fun. Some day, I decided, I’d write a book about her. Who knew, maybe the BBC might want to turn it into a biopic? Imagine: my humble Ami’s life on British TV!

  I wanna meet you.

  Four words that transformed my belly into a nest of snakes. I stared at the laptop screen.

  Can’t we stay virtual BFFs? I typed hopefully.

  Kasim and I had been chatting like this for days. He was kind and smart and never PMSing. Best of all, he was convinced the story I’d written for his game was a real money-spinner.

  So why were those four words splashed across my screen freaking me out?

  Don’t be scared, he typed. I told you, I’m a good Muslim boy. Besides we’re business partners now. Smarty Pants & Bossy Boots, Inc. You can totally trust me.

  It’s not that . . . My skin grew clammy.

  Then what?

  I hung my head. The thing was: I did want to meet him, but I was worried what my parents would think. He was an awesome friend but that didn’t change the fact that he was a boy.

  Only reason I came back to London was to meet the girl behind the brains of our soon-to-be award-winning game. Also to personally deliver your story fee. He’d been suggesting visiting for days now, but I figured it was one of those things you said without really meaning it. Had I led him on? I feel like you’re my actual sister, Muzna. Don’t you?

  Totally. Or maybe a hot boy-next-door would be better? Was it fair my parents wouldn’t let me hang with him just because he’d been born a boy? Surely they’d understand once I explained it to them that we were working together.

  I want you to be the writer for all my games. You’ll make easy cash. Then you got options. Buy your own house, share it with your parents, or give it to charity. Please don’t say I wasted money flying over!

  My stomach flip-flopped. Airline tickets weren’t cheap – it was just about the only thing keeping my parents from taking me to Pakistan every summer.

  OK . . .

  OMG! Had I really just gone and typed that?

  But I’m REALLY shy . . . I added, as a disclaimer.

  Me too. But if I’m right about us, we’ll be chatting and laughing in no time. See you soon, sis. xo

  ‘Best Day Ever!’ Salma chirped happily, as we rode the escalators up to Debenhams. ‘Seriously, Muzi, you had me worried there for a minute. Thought you’d gone all boring and I’d have to find myself a new BFF.’

  ‘You ever do,’ I said, ‘you know I’ll murder them.’

  We looked into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing.

  Salma stopped and squinted. ‘That eyeliner?’

  ‘A little,’ I said, shrugging it off as no big deal.

  Salma cackled. ‘Check you out, you li’l slut!’

  She wouldn’t get it if I told her. I just wanted to look nice for Kasim. Romance had nothing to do with it.

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes to go before me and Kasim found out whether we clicked in the real world. I was nervous as hell, but he’d become like family. This had to happen.

  Salma was all over the perfume testers. Barely batted an eyelid when I told her I was going to the toilet. My conscience tugged at me. Should I fill her in? No – this was my secret. Salma had put Kasim right off when she’d pretended to lick his abs on screen. She wasn’t like us.

  The coffee shop on the upper floor was where we’d arranged to meet. Kasim told me he’d be wearing a blue shirt and black trousers. But when I got there, there wasn’t a teenager in sight. I checked my watch again, compared it to the clock on the wall. Exactly on time. So where the heck was he?

  Just then, I caught a blue blur at the corner of my vision. Slowly I craned my head round for a better view: blue shirt, black trousers – check. Sipping from a cup of coffee at a table for two, he swiped away on a tablet.

  That’s not him!

  Apart from the fact he looked nothing like his pictures, this guy hadn’t been seventeen for at least ten years. The dress code had to be a nasty coincidence.

  Or was it?

  I stole behind a column just as the man glanced up. Closing my eyes, I counted away the seconds, praying I hadn’t been seen. Biting my lip, I tried to figure out my next move, struggling to hold back the tidal wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. In a flash of inspiration, I speed-dialled the number Kasim had given me.

  My world came crashing down to the theme of Game of Thrones. The man’s phone skittered across the surface of the table blaring its ringtone.

  There had to be some mistake. Kasim was seventeen. Seventeen.

  ‘Hello?’ said the man at the table, though I heard his voice clearer through my phone. It was as if he’d pressed his lips to my ear. I ended the call – heart pounding, tears pricking.

  I’d been catfished by a paedophile. How could something like this happen to someone like me? I was too smart, too wise, too careful. I hadn’t even been looking for a boyfriend . . .

  News stories about missing teenagers rampaged through my head. Girls found dead, mutilated, or not at all. I felt physically sick.

  Run! my mind screamed at me. Run, because in a moment he’s going to ring you back, and your phone will give you away.

  A sob escaped my throat as I broke into a sprint. I threw myself down the escalators. Had to get out of there. Had to put as much distance between myself and HIM as possible.

  Scalding tears and rib-racking sobs. That’s what Kasim had done to me. Good thing the Debenhams toilets were completely deserted. I punched the walls and screamed and cried. Then my stomach groaned and, before I knew it, I was throwing up. Last night’s spaghetti sprayed on to the wall like silly string. I gasped for breath, stumbling over to a stall, before a second wave hit. I just wanted to curl up and die.

  By the time I’d got myself cleaned up and gone to find Salma, it was ages later. But she was still enjoying herself up on the third floor. Only she’d moved on to cosmetics. I touched her hand, letting her know I was back.

  ‘Oh-em-gee!’ she said, smelling of a thousand different testers. ‘You just have to try this colour.’

  I filed the whole Kasim Iqbal thing under ‘Never-to-be-Spoken-of-Again’. Thinking about it made me feel dirty and used. Salma would laugh at me. My parents would confiscate my laptop. The only reason I had a laptop in the first place was because Uncle Tanveer had given me his old one. No – sharing was definitely out.

  I still couldn’t understand it. Kasim had almost seemed like a twin. Of course he had. The paedo had lured me in by pretending to be on the same wavelength and bigging up my stories. Man, was I lucky to be alive.

  Back at home, I managed to locate the spyware on my laptop and deleted it. I followed that up with two full-system scans. No such thing as overkill where paedos were concerned. Only after I’d stuck a square of masking tape over my webcam lens did I start feeling like myself again. Less dirty.

  Still – couldn’t hurt to take one more shower . . .

  PART 2

  YEAR 11: AUTUMN TERM

  CHAPTER 5

  By Year 11, crème bleach had lost its edge. My facial hair had turned into bramble, and a minefield of acne littered my T-zone. As if this wasn’t soul-destroying enough, the hairiness had spread to the rest of my body too. Neither knuckles nor toes were spared. Oh well, I thought. Dad always wanted a son . . .

  Joking aside, I was not in a good place emotionally. Rigsby Academy boasted more bullies per square centimetre than the comments sections on social media. I felt like I’d landed on Planet of the Super Models or something. Seventy per cent of the time, I got through by keeping my head down. Salma was there for the rest, zapping bullies with disses that could make a gangsta weep.

  I was grateful for Salma’s support. Really, I was. I just wished I could stand up for myself. I was ‘articulate and able to make k
een logical arguments’ – at least that’s what my last English report said. But at fifteen, I’d arrived at a discouraging conclusion. Life favoured the white and the pretty. Salma got by on the latter. Me? I was neither of those things.

  ‘We could try wax strips?’ Salma suggested at break-time, epilating the leaves off a hedge. ‘I mean, if you want?’

  Though it was mid-October, the sun had missed the memo. Global Warming, probably. Sun-worshippers were scattered across the school field, working on their tans. In my world, good weather equalled bad news. The sun made my beard glow like a fricking fibre-optic bush. No wonder Salma was banging on about wax strips.

  ‘I’m not allowed to, OK?’ I said, scowling. Why did she have to keep bringing up my embarrassing problem?

  ‘God! I was only trying to help!’ she snapped.

  ‘Well you’re not. Just because you lucked out, doesn’t mean we all did.’

  ‘Everybody’s got problems,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Really? Let’s compare. You’re pretty; I’m butters. Your mum was born here, so she gets you; mine can’t even read. And I’m sorry your dad’s gone, but at least he wasn’t a control freak like—’

  ‘My dad was a violent bastard!’ she bellowed.

  The air seemed to ripple, and a couple of sparrows flew out of the hedge in alarm. I stared.

  ‘My dad was ten times worse than yours,’ Salma added quietly.

  I shook my head, struggling. He’d passed away during our first term at primary school.

  ‘I remember uncle-ji,’ I said. ‘He was always smiling.’

  ‘That was his Outside Face,’ she said. ‘We got the other one. He bare beat on Mum for acting like a white-girl gori.’

  I gawped. ‘I can’t . . . How come I never knew this?’

  ‘Cos Dad wanted it that way,’ she said darkly. ‘Said that if we ever told anyone, he’d kill Mum and me first, then drown himself in the Thames.’

  My breath came out in a dull whistle. No wonder she’d always been so loud and practically lived over at our place. Probably trying to drown out her home life. I felt ashamed for never having noticed.

  ‘There are worse things than not being allowed to wax,’ Salma said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, hating that I’d shouted at her.

  She shrugged. ‘Ten years ago, mate. Me and Mum survived.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder why our parents came over here,’ I grumbled. ‘I mean, all this “don’t forget your roots” stuff is so extra.’

  ‘Dumb and dumber,’ Salma agreed, chucking leaves into the air like confetti. ‘Learned one thing, though. I ain’t letting nobody push me around ever again.’

  That afternoon, in the spooky way you sometimes know it’s going to rain before it actually happens, I sensed trouble brewing. Ami and I stood side by side at the sink, washing the dishes. Steam rose off the wet plates, making my acne itch, and a rotten smell seeped out of the drain. Mental note to self: chuck half a bottle of bleach in later.

  ‘Beyta,’ Ami said, popping the awkward silence like a soap bubble. ‘I don’t want you becoming like Salma, OK?’

  Never minced her words, my Ami. So she’d finally picked up on all the subtle changes in Salma’s style and attitude.

  ‘Ami!’ I said, nearly dropping a dish. ‘She’s my twin. You said so yourself, remember?’

  ‘Once upon a time, yes. But her mother didn’t take our advice.’ She twisted the sponge sharply, draining it of filth. ‘She gives Salma too much freedom-sheedom.’

  ‘Freedom? Are you serious? Her father was stricter than Dad!’ I said, barely holding back on telling Ami what he’d really been like.

  ‘Yes, but that good man died,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Salma’s mummy is so busy trying to fit in with her white friends at work that she has little time to see what her daughter is getting up to.’

  ‘You mean like you and Dad?’ I said with bitterness.

  Ami gave me a slighted look. ‘You act like we do you a great disservice. When we came to this country, we came for a better life. But not everything here is better. Kissing in the streets, nakedness on TV, girls lying drunk in the gutter!’

  ‘Yeah, but Salma’s not like that!’ I said, nearly scrubbing the pattern off a dinner plate. ‘She’s a good Pakistani, just like us.’

  Ami studied me coolly for a moment. ‘Let us hope,’ she replied.

  Though she kissed my forehead, there was a stiffness to her lips.

  The weirdness continued into the rest of the evening, with Ami keeping to herself, muttering under her breath as she counted onyx prayer beads. Even Dad raised an eyebrow though he knew better than to question her unless he wanted to spend the night on the couch.

  I was furious at Ami. If it wasn’t for Salma, I’d still be playing with my Barbie. Sure, Salma had a naughty sense of humour, but that’s all it was: jokes. I was lucky to have her as a friend.

  ‘I want you to meet someone,’ Salma announced, her lips shimmering with coral lip gloss.

  Someone? My heart sank. The thing I’d long been dreading had finally happened.

  Until now, I’d always wondered why Salma stuck by me when she could have her pick of any of the pretty, popular girls. Last week she’d confided in me that her dad was violent behind closed doors. That would give anyone trust issues, for sure. But hanging out with Gorilla Gal had to be a strain too.

  ‘You’ve made a new friend?’ I said, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice.

  ‘Yes!’ she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. ‘Just promise me you’ll be nice, OK?’

  Ouch. Was that how little she thought of me?

  As if reading my mind, she threw her arms round me. ‘Oh God, Muzi! You’re my bestie, right? Of course I can count on you.’ She flashed me a smile then skipped towards the drinks machine.

  ‘Come on, you!’ she said, grabbing her friend’s hand and tugging playfully.

  Why on earth was my replacement acting so shy? Could she be even uglier than me?

  A skinny boy with a nose like a shark’s fin stumbled out. ‘Hey,’ he said, tipping his shaggy head. Then he snorted, eyes blinking slightly out of sync.

  A boyfriend?

  No wonder Ami had been warning me off. Mum Radar had been activated. Make-up, sexy clothes, secret desires. If you were hiding something, Ami’d know about it – sometimes even before you did.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I said, shooting quizzical looks Salma’s way. ‘Is this your cousin?’

  The boy laughed. ‘Just cos we’re both Asian, don’t mean we’re related!’

  Definitely a boyfriend, then. Though not like any I would’ve imagined. Salma loved flicking through magazines, gloating over every hooked nose, blemish, or Photoshop Fail she could find. Something that always made me way uncomfortable, though I never let on. But out of all the boys she could have had – and trust me, there were tons who wanted my beautiful mate – she’d picked him. Really? Maybe love was blind . . .

  ‘Tariq, Muzna’s like my evil twin,’ Salma explained by way of introduction.

  Why was she putting on that fake voice and making all those girly gestures? It ticked me off. She was brilliant just the way she was.

  ‘So . . .’ I began, racking my brains for something to say. ‘Do you go here?’

  He exchanged a look with Salma and burst out laughing. ‘Nah, just climbed over the gate when I saw the titties on this one!’

  I gasped.

  ‘What Muzna’s trying to say,’ Salma cut in, ‘is she’ll mess you up if you ever cheat on me. Don’t let the good girl look fool you. She’s like Jackie Chan and Malala Yousafzai rolled into one.’

  Tariq laughed so hard, he showered us with spittle. The best I could manage was a lukewarm smile.

  ‘Oh man, that is classic!’ Tariq said, wiping away imaginary tears. He glanced at his watch, pinching the dial to stop it from hula-hooping round his skinny wrist. ‘Shit! Gotta go detention.’

  ‘Rude boi! What you getting detention for?’ Sa
lma asked, batting her eyelids.

  Her fake lashes were cringe.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, throwing a couple of punches at an imaginary person. ‘Stupid teacher! Gives detentions for no reason.’

  He pressed his open mouth to Salma’s as if sucking out her soul. I stifled a gasp, cutting my eyes away.

  ‘He’s gooooooone!’ Salma shouted in my ear, half scaring me to death. ‘So, what’d ya think?’

  ‘Amazeballs!’ I gave her a thumbs-up. What else could I do? Tell her I was afraid of ending up a third wheel? Salma was my first and only mate. The thought of losing her to a boyfriend was more than I could bear.

  ‘Ew, no one says that any more!’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘But yeah, got myself a man. With actual man parts.’

  I covered my mouth and giggled. ‘Does your mum know?’

  She scowled, raking her hair back. ‘Mum’s too fussed trying to hold down a job to keep tabs on my private life!’

  I winced. I hadn’t meant to sound judgemental. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Glad my mum can’t poke her nose in. Think it’s natural the way your mum and dad control every inch of your life?’

  ‘They care about me,’ I replied automatically.

  ‘Care?! That’s a good one!’ Her sarcasm sliced and diced. ‘Your dad decides you have to be a doctor, and you’re too scared to tell him what you’d really like to do. How is that caring? Your mum won’t let you wax, so you go round looking like a friggin’ yeti! How the hell is that caring?’

  ‘My parents do care!’ I said, glowering. ‘They just don’t want me ending up pregnant at fifteen and ranting about my “baby daddy” on Jeremy Kyle!’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘all they care about is you not embarrassing them in front of the bitchy-arse Pakistani community. Meanwhile you’re so damaged, you think dating is perverted.’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘Oh shut up! I saw it on your face.’ She snapped her fingers inches from my nose, making me flinch. ‘Bitch, you’re gonna need years of therapy!’