I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  Between Three Stars and Outstanding, my last hope faded.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Hurry up, beyta!’ Ami called for the third time.

  I peered out of my narrow bedroom window at the green Vectra parked by the kerb. Dad was clutching the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles stood out like pickled onions. Ami stood on the pavement in her thin shalwar kameez, fighting off a breeze that wanted her dupatta.

  I stared at my small, gutted bedroom, trying to commit every last bit of it to memory. It was dank and – like the rest of the house – smelt faintly of curry. But once upon a time, it had held my hopes and dreams. And memories of Salma . . .

  I’m so sorry.

  The horn blared like a bull elephant.

  ‘Coming!’ I yelled, skittering down the stairs.

  A week had passed since I was informed we had to move, and my sadness was mostly internalized. I’d even begun to think a second chance in Ether Downs might be good for me. ‘Life is what you make it’ – someone wise once said that. ‘YOLO’ – someone less wise said that. It all means the same thing. But what I had was not a life – it was a fake life that my parents controlled.

  Somewhere along the line, I’d become a Loser. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and put myself out there. Freedom and opportunity waited behind every door.

  ‘Goodbye, house,’ I whispered, pausing in the hallway to run my fingers over the dark patches where two paintings and a mirror had once hung. ‘You broke my heart. I don’t even like you very much, but I’m still going to miss you.’

  So there we were: the Brit-Pak family Saleem, pretending to be super-excited about our new life above a curry house, and temporarily stuck in traffic on the A5203.

  Dad waited at the zebra crossing for a girl in a hijab to cross. She raised a hand in thanks. ‘Don’t thank me!’ Dad seethed. ‘Rubbish people with your hideous hijabs and your bastard beards and your hate preaching!’

  Sometimes I thought Dad should join Britain First. He had major beef with religious types. I’d asked him about it before. Dad insisted it was only the ‘ignorant’ who clung to Islamic teachings. ‘We live in modern times, so religion must evolve,’ he’d said. Still couldn’t see what that had to do with dissing someone’s beard or hijab.

  When Dad yanked the Vectra’s handbrake with the sound of a breaking bone, I knew we’d arrived. I sat up, eyes darting from window to window, checking out our new neighbourhood.

  For once, Dad hadn’t been exaggerating. Zindabad was classy as hell. Through the smoked-glass windows, I could make out an illuminated certificate on the wall. Michelin had rated Zindabad with two of the three stars Dad had bragged about.

  ‘Come, come!’ Dad said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, guiding me through the entrance.

  ‘Saleem bhai!’ cried a man in an elegant black suit, drawing curious stares from the customers.

  I recognized my uncle Tanveer at once, though I hadn’t seen him in years. He’d resorted to a dodgy comb-over, which I did my best not to stare at. My uncle hugged the life out of Dad, beating his back like a drum, and nodded politely to Ami.

  ‘But who is this charming young lady?’ he asked, his amber eyes settling on me. ‘And where is little Muzna-beyti?’

  ‘Assalaamu alaykum, uncle-ji,’ I said, shyly.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a chef’s outfit?’ Dad asked, confused.

  Uncle Tanveer chuckled and told us God had blessed him. He now employed a full-time chef and sous-chef to take over cooking duties. He only dabbled at Christmas or Eid.

  ‘You know what the English say –’ he waggled his unibrow for effect – ‘too many chefs spoil the soup.’

  Uncle took us round the back, to a concealed flight of stairs. Every now and then he patted the comb-over, as if making sure it hadn’t flipped open like a bin lid.

  ‘These humble steps will lead you to a most spacious and highly modern apartment,’ he said, winking at me.

  I grinned guiltily, hoping he hadn’t caught me goggling at his hair.

  Dad began grovelling in the traditional way, saying that Tanveer was one of God’s Own to be helping us out in our moment of need. Ami weighed in, showering him with blessings. Uncle beamed with pride.

  Turning the key in the lock, he threw open the door, and gestured like a ringmaster. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your new home!’

  Dad ushered me through the door first. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Not much, given Ami’s ‘living like refugees’ comment. But the place was dope. Open-plan kitchen, front room, and dining area, ringed in by huge picture windows. Further along lay two spacious bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. Me with my own private bathroom! But the crowning glory had to be the mini chandelier. Hanging above the horseshoe-shaped sofa, its pendants glistened like gigantic dewdrops. Staring up at it transported me to a golden ballroom, where a prince twirled me round and round until I felt like I was floating.

  Uncle Tanveer had splashed the cash, and no mistake.

  ‘Vah, vah!’ Dad said, taking it all in. ‘First class!’

  ‘Look at her face!’ Uncle said, nearly poking my eye out. ‘She’s like a kid in a sweet shop.’

  Hands down, this was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for our family.

  ‘Uncle, this place is amazing!’ I said, folding my hands over my heart. ‘Thank you so much. How can we ever repay you?’

  Too late, I caught Ami’s chastising glare. Oops. If Uncle Tanveer asked for rent, it would be entirely my fault. God, I was such a liability . . .

  ‘Muzna, beyti,’ he began, patting my head like I was five instead of fifteen. ‘Your good father took care of me when I first came to England. I am only returning the favour. Besides, I know some day you will be becoming a big doctor and cure cancer. On that day I will come to live with you at Buckingham Palace!’

  My parents burst into obligatory laughter. Another voice pressuring me into becoming a doctor – #BrownGirlProblems.

  I left them to it, eager to explore every inch of the amazing flat. It was fully furnished. Just as well, since our jumble-sale crap would’ve looked so wrong here. A switch above the sink caught my attention. I flicked it on and heard a ferocious growl.

  ‘Waste disposal unit,’ Uncle Tanveer called, making an OK hand signal. ‘From Amreeka!’

  ‘Why do Americans put a chopper in the sink?’ Ami asked, horrified by the idea.

  Uncle laughed, clapping his hands. Then he explained it to her.

  I gazed out of the massive window on the east side. Traffic whizzed by on the main road, controlled by a red-amber-and-green god. I wondered if it would be just as busy at night. Sleeping through that much noise didn’t seem possible. But I supposed I’d just have to adapt.

  I tried to spot my new school. Dad had claimed it was one of the best.

  An outstanding school, I thought. With outstanding bullies?

  That’s when it hit home that for the first time in my life, Salma wouldn’t have my back.

  That evening, my family sat at an exclusive table down in the restaurant, with a prime view of the water feature. Uncle boasted it had cost two thousand pounds. Looked a lot like rain hammering against a window to me. Maybe I was just too ghetto to appreciate it?

  ‘So when do you start here?’ I asked Dad, picking up my knife and fork.

  My father sucked the marrow from a chop bone with relish. ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you going to be a –’ I stopped. If I said ‘waiter’, Dad would probably be offended. ‘Manager?’ I finished weakly.

  ‘I will be the maître d’hôtel!’ he said, lifting his head high.

  ‘Better not speak French, or they’ll think you’re serving frog’s legs and snails!’ Ami quipped.

  My parents laughed loudly.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, princess,’ Dad said, noticing my discomfort. ‘Save that for tomorrow.’

  I stopped eating. ‘Why? What happens tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be d
ropping you off at your new school – Falstrum Academy!’ The way he said it, you’d think he was on about Eton.

  My face dropped.

  ‘Leh!’ Ami chided, jerking her hand at me like a spade. ‘You thought you could have a holiday just because your dad got fired?’

  Dad hushed Ami, throwing furtive glances over the privacy panels. My parents believed the Asian community was an information highway of gossip, and misfortune was the news that fuelled it.

  ‘I can’t go tomorrow!’ I said, really panicking. ‘I mean, what about stuff like uniform and . . . and equipment?’

  ‘All settled,’ Dad said, smiling smugly.

  ‘The nice principal told us you won’t have to wear uniform until next Monday,’ Ami said.

  Fantastic. I’d stick out like a dork on my very first day.

  I was silent for the rest of dinner, idly picking at my food, lost in gloomy thought. Ami and Dad managed to polish off seconds. I wished I could be as optimistic as they were about our new life in Ether Downs. But honestly, I was bricking it. Now that I had this perfect opportunity to redefine myself, I was afraid I was going to mess up.

  That night, I lay awake in a bed that was far too big and way too comfortable, listening to cars rushing by in the night. I turned over, hugging Laddu: my teddy bear. Once upon a time, he’d been as bright yellow as the Asian sweet I’d named him after. Now my cheap teddy’s fur was a miserable shade of ochre and rougher than a doormat.

  You can take the girl out of the ghetto . . .

  I hoped to God Falstrum Academy wasn’t a school for rich kids. Being a brown kid was tough. Being a poor brown kid was way harder. But no matter how things swung, I promised myself this time would be different. I would stand up for myself.

  PART 3

  YEAR 11: SPRING TERM FALSTRUM ACADEMY

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Wake up, Muzna!’ Ami cried brightly, fluttering round the room like an insanely cheerful canary. ‘Wake, oh wake, oh wake!’

  She tickled my palm like sweet torture. I hid it under the covers. So she tickled my ribs instead. I groaned, desperate for more sleep. But one glimpse at the clothes Ami had laid out for me was enough to wake the dead.

  No way was I going to school in a hot-pink shalwar kameez.

  Once I’d finished in the bathroom, I fished out a pair of jeans that didn’t make my bum look big (not easy), and paired them up with a slouchy red hoody. The only make-up I ever wore was spot-control related. That, and a sneaky bit of eyeliner.

  ‘I want you in the car in fifteen minutes,’ Dad said, pointing at his watch.

  ‘Mmmf!’ I agreed, guzzling down my Coco Pops at the kitchen table.

  Ami made a face. ‘Oh-ho! I ironed your pretty pink suit, and you wear this English rubbish?!’

  For once Dad came to my rescue. ‘Parveen, she’s going to school not a mela. I don’t want her catching young boys’ eyes with that alluring suit.’

  Blinding them, more like, I thought. I wished my parents would just trust me to uphold the morals I’d been brought up with. But since Salma-gate, trust was in short supply.

  Oh Ami and Dad, I thought ruefully, don’t you realize my face is all the contraception I’m ever gonna need?

  Falstrum was shiny and new. Four years ago the academy had been funded by the National Lottery to be renovated and updated. I was going to a school that gambling had paid for. Maybe they’d have extra classes to teach me how to be a croupier.

  The school complex was made up of five gigantic tomb-like buildings. They were called things like ‘Building A’ and ‘Building B’. If I’d been in charge, I would’ve given them dope names and added a splash of colour. After all, wasn’t learning supposed to be fun?

  Me and Dad followed the bold signs round to reception, and after an extended goodbye that was straight out of a Bollywood weepy, I waited nervously in reception for a student to take me up to my new form room.

  Be cool, I told myself, like some bargain-basement life coach. Things sucked at Rigsby because you let them. This is your last chance to shine. Use everything Salma taught you. Use the friggin’ Force, if you have to. But BE COOL.

  ‘Hi! My name’s Amie,’ announced a girl, making me jump. She wore her rust-coloured hair in a tight bun. Beneath her maroon blazer was a slate-grey uniform. The school crest was a stag leaping in front of a flaming torch. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Muzna,’ I said, trying to smile, only my lips kept twitching. God I hoped I wasn’t having a stroke.

  Be cool! Be cool! Be cool!

  ‘That’s a nice name,’ she said, checking out the timetable I’d been given by the receptionist. ‘Used to go out with a bloke called Mustafa.’

  A Muslim boy? ‘What happened?’ I asked, biting my lip.

  Her forehead creased. ‘Huh? Oh, you mean with Mustafa! Er, nothing really. We just sorta drifted apart.’ She gave me a naughty wink. ‘He had a really big one, though!’

  I covered my mouth and giggled.

  ‘Is that why you dumped him?’ I ventured.

  ‘No, you dirty cow!’ she shrieked, cackling with laughter. ‘Some of his habits were bare nasty. I’m not even lying! Listen to this, yeah! He used to pick his nose, then try touching me with the same finger.’

  ‘Who does that?’ I asked with gleeful disgust.

  ‘I know, right?’ she said, swatting my arm gratefully. ‘I weren’t having none of it, so I dumped him!’

  I nodded, imagining what it might be like to have a boyfriend – even a gross one. Then I remembered Salma’s boyfriend and how that had worked out for her. Fantasy over.

  ‘There you go.’ Amie pointed to a classroom. ‘You’ve got Dunthorpe as your tutor. He’s, like, so friggin’ amazin’! Come on, I’ll introduce you and stuff.’

  I needed to take a moment to figure out how New Muzna was going to act, but Amie had already thrown open the door. Conversations evaporated, and everyone turned to stare at me. I sank deeper inside my hoody.

  ‘Why’s everyone gone quiet?’ some wise guy asked, getting a round of laughs.

  ‘Hello, you must be Muzna Saleem!’ said my new tutor, a guy in his thirties. Argyle tank, nerd glasses and wavy, sandy-blond hair – he was working the geek-chic look like nobody’s business. ‘My name’s Mr Dunthorpe. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, with the charisma of a wet sponge. I cursed Amie for not giving me time to get into character.

  ‘Oh Lord, it’s a terrorist!’ bellowed a large mixed-race girl in the front row.

  BE COOL switched to DON’T CRY.

  ‘Sade!’ Mr Dunthorpe snapped.

  ‘Well make it take its hood off, then!’ Sade said, flapping a hand at me. ‘How’m I supposed to know it ain’t Anjem Choudary under there?’

  ‘You need to shut your face!’ growled a boy by the window. Kicking back in a black hoody, manspreading with the latest Nikes, you could just smell the ‘Rude Boi’ vibes coming off him. I glanced up at his face.

  OH. MY. GAWD.

  He looked like a marble statue from the V&A. You know the type: angular brow, dominant nose, noble cheekbones. His hair was so intensely black, and his complexion seemed to glow. The goatee hugging his square chin killed it. One hundred and ten per cent Guy Candy.

  Sade glowered, but the look in her eyes told a story of fear. ‘Wish you’d never come to this school,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Aw, but Arif’s so beautiful!’ squealed a girl in the back row.

  ‘Beautiful terrorist, more like . . .’ muttered Sade, though I don’t think anyone else heard.

  ‘I’d do him,’ volunteered another girl, setting off a wave of sniggering.

  Arif stayed focused on Sade, turning his death-glare up to a solid ten.

  ‘Sade and Arif, you both have ten-minute detentions with me at break-time,’ Mr Dunthorpe announced, his green eyes suddenly piercing. ‘Everyone else, be quiet.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the hot boy said, looking like a naughty puppy. ‘My third day at Falstrum, right?’ (Which e
xplained the lack of uniform.) ‘Definitely not looking for trouble, me. But Sade’s got no right to bully the new girl, innit?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it at break,’ Mr Dunthorpe said firmly. ‘Now Sade, apologize to Muzna so we can get on with the day.’

  ‘For what?’ she boomed.

  He ignored her question. ‘Quickly, please.’

  ‘Sor-ree!’ she said, glaring at me. ‘Not sorry.’ she muttered under her breath.

  My tutor turned to me with a smile. ‘Muzna, I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to remove the hood, please. It’s school rules here at Falstrum.’

  Oh God, how I wished I’d entered the room with my hood down in the first place. I felt like a bride at a wedding – one with a Halloween surprise lurking beneath her veil. And for some mad reason, the fear of disappointing Arif made me feel like I was going to puke.

  I ripped the hood off like a plaster. Twenty-two pairs of judgemental eyes gave me epic vertigo. ‘Hey, guys!’ I said, giving a cheerful little wave.

  ‘Hey, guys!’ mimicked a boy with Justin Bieber’s old hairstyle.

  ‘Afraid you’ll be seeing an awful lot of me, since I’m also going to be your English teacher,’ my new tutor said. ‘Congratulations! You’ll be in Set One.’

  As the teacher of the subject I cared about most, I was going to make it my mission to impress him. Download one of those word-of-the-day apps, devour past papers, read an intimidating classic like War and Peace or Anna Karenina. Whatever it took, I was on it.

  The pips sounded, signalling the end of registration.

  ‘Sarabi, could you join us here for a minute, please,’ Mr Dunthorpe said.

  A petite Asian girl with a mile-long plait walked over, ignoring the taunts from Sade telling her to run for her life.

  ‘Could I get you to look after Muzna for a week? Do a good job, and I’ll stick a whole load of achievement points on SIMs for you.’

  ‘It’s fine, sir,’ Sarabi said, giving Mr Dunthorpe a really pretty smile. ‘I’ll show her the ropes.’

  ‘OK, Muzna? And I want to apologize again for Sade’s poor behaviour. If anybody upsets you, please inform me right away. We operate a zero-tolerance bullying policy at Falstrum.’