A phulki shot out of Sarabi’s mouth like a bullet, as she tried not to laugh. Under the oak, Tallulah was busy teaching a group of boys how to twerk.
‘Come on – don’t act like you don’t think Arif Malik’s hawt.’
‘Actually, I don’t,’ Sarabi said primly.
I gripped her wrist. ‘She has a pulse! How can she not be bowled over by that much cuteness?’
‘Fine. He’s hot,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘That’s exactly the problem. His type are all players.’
I bristled. ‘And you know this how?’
She studied my expression. ‘Look, Muzna – I can see you like him. But let’s get real here for a second. Say he’s into you too. Then what? Do you become girlfriend-boyfriend? Would your family be OK with that?’
The girl had a point. My parents were so hands-on, I could practically feel my throat being squeezed.
In the distance, one of the boys had dropped his trousers, driving Tallulah and her crew into hysterics. He vibrated his bum cheeks like he’d been struck by lightning. The horrified look on Sarabi’s face was priceless. Then one of the teachers on duty chased him off.
That night, I lay awake in bed listening to Ami and Dad chatting about some family disaster that was going down in the motherland. Dad was about to make a long-distance call to Lahore, and was begging Ami to stick to the script. Communicating with his side of the family was like a UN peacekeeping mission. I’d get the gory details in the morning, whether I wanted them or not.
I sighed, turning over. My phone was still charging. I reached out to see if Sarabi had left me another message, but she hadn’t.
I closed my eyes, stroking Laddu’s battle-hardened fur. I thought about the way Arif had thrown himself in front of me in PSCHE. I hugged Laddu tighter, my imagination transforming him into Arif’s wandering hand.
CHAPTER 17
The following week, Mr Dunthorpe was on a mission to get us to understand responsibility in romantic relationships. Awkward!
My eyes kept drifting over to Arif. I’d look away, only to find them returning to him like homing pigeons. He was so beautiful. For his part, he was engaged in a staring competition with a magpie on the window ledge. I spotted the single Skullcandy earphone jammed in his ear and could hear the faint buzz of Stormzy.
Remembering Sarabi, I tore my eyes away from Arif, expecting an earful from my prim and proper mate. But Sarabi had zoned out too. Guess the frank discussion about love was too much for her. With sadness, I realized my parents would have preferred her as their daughter.
‘If I get a girl pregnant, yeah?’ said Gary. The boy was such an attention-seeker. ‘Ain’t my fault if the cow wants to keep it, is it? I mean, she should’ve taken contra-septic pills. Or let me do her up the—’
‘Stop right there!’ Mr Dunthorpe said. ‘Nothing gives you the right to offend others while sharing your opinion. Get your things together and wait outside.’
Gary made no attempt to comply.
‘Like any girl would even let him get that close!’ mocked a girl from the back row.
‘You and your mum didn’t seem to mind last night,’ he shot back.
The girls at the back began to shout insults.
In two strides, Mr Dunthorpe was towering over Gary. ‘Out!’
Any normal person would have gone. When Mr Dunthorpe told you to do something, you did it, whether you wanted to or not. But Gary, as Tallulah had once informed me, was an exclusion just waiting to happen.
Gary got up, squaring up to our tutor. ‘Make me,’ he said.
Mr Dunthorpe made a grab for his rucksack, but Gary, with quicker reflexes, whipped it out of reach. The surprise move unbalanced Mr Dunthorpe. As he fought to stop himself from face-planting, Mr Dunthorpe’s hand flew out, momentarily pressing against Gary’s thigh.
‘Oh my days!’ Gary boomed. ‘You touched me!’ He included us all in a sweep of his finger. ‘You all saw this fag go for my dick!’
‘Out!’ Mr Dunthorpe repeated, but now his cheeks were going bright red, and his voice was drained of power. I felt so bad for him. It was so obviously an accident. A really, really humiliating one.
‘I’m going straight to the principal and telling him you came on to me,’ spat Gary, swinging his bag high over his shoulder. ‘See ya in prison, Mr Bum-thorpe!’
He legged it out the door.
Mr Dunthorpe was shook. He kept blinking as his chest fluttered beneath his argyle tank. We all knew why. The media had made it clear that sexual allegations – even fake ones – could end a teacher’s career.
‘Don’t worry, sir!’ I said, compelled to speak out. ‘Everyone knows Gary’s a filthy liar. We’ve got your back.’
‘Tag team.’ Malachy said, smacking a fist into his palm. ‘Me and Muzna will beat him up for you.’
‘Fool’s just gassing,’ added a boy to my left. ‘No way is he going to Dillinger. Trust.’
Everyone agreed.
That’s when I noticed Arif looking my way with interest.
As I was tugging my maths textbook out of my locker (Shove it in deep enough, hope it’ll end up in Narnia!), Sarabi placed her hands over my eyes.
‘Guess who!’ she said in a gruff voice that I knew was supposed to sound like a boy.
‘Hmm, hairy, sweaty man-hands,’ I said. ‘Now who could that be . . . ?’
She thumped my back.
‘Actually it was the smell of curry that gave you away!’ I said, earning another playful whack.
‘I’ve got maths now,’ I said, hugging my fearsome book as I backed up the hallway. ‘Same time, same place?’
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘My sister’s Anand Karaj is in a couple of weeks.’
‘Anand Karaj?’ I repeated. ‘That your latest Bollywood husband?’
‘No, silly! It’s the proper name for a Sikh wedding. Besides, Arjun Kapoor is my forever.’ Suddenly she looked sheepish. ‘The wedding’s probably gonna be super-cheesy, but, um, do you wanna come?’
‘Well duh!’ I said, clapping with excitement. ‘Do I get one of those official invites?’
‘Yeah, sort you one out for tomorrow,’ she said, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Taran had them printed on textured card. She’s only giving them to people that are definitely coming.’
‘I’m so there,’ I promised.
‘Oh, by the way, it wouldn’t be the actual-actual wedding. That’s happening a day before at a Gurdwara in Southall. The banquet’s the day after. But that’s the fun part!’
‘Lit!’ Malachy said, crashing our party. ‘Count me in.’ He flashed his metallic smile, bouncing a red-and-black basketball like a yo-yo.
Me and Sarabi exchanged glances.
‘Oh come on! I can be just as desi as you two,’ he insisted, thrusting his basketball at Sarabi. ‘Watch this.’ He began bouncing up and down on one foot, while twisting two imaginary light bulbs.
‘You’re not coming to my sister’s wedding,’ Sarabi told him sternly.
‘Especially after that,’ I added.
‘Aw, why not? Is it cos I is a white boy?’ He placed a hand dramatically over his scrawny chest.
‘Yes, Malachy,’ I agreed. ‘Sarabi’s low-key racist for not inviting you to her sister’s wedding. Who, by the way, doesn’t even know you.’
‘Have a good time, girls,’ he said with a laugh, dribbling his ball down the corridor. ‘Save me a doggy bag, yeah? Some Rogan Josh. Safe!’
A creased sheet of paper fell out of my textbook. I picked it up and was surprised to find it was my ‘Britishness’ worksheet from PSCHE, complete with essay-sized answers. A message was scrawled along the top in pencil.
Swiped this for you. Not a worksheet.
It’s a test from THEM.
A.M.
Arif Malik? My heart was thrumming.
‘What is it?’ Sarabi asked.
‘Just some old worksheet.’ I shoved it back in.
As I settled down in maths, my mind was elsewhere. What did Arif’s message mean? Who was THE
M? I thought back to our lunchtime conversation in that empty classroom on a wet Wednesday.
Praying . . . big manly feet . . . kuffar . . . PREVENT.
Oh. My. God.
It was a test to see if I was an extremist.
CHAPTER 18
The next day, I was surprised to find a haggard-looking Ms Greenberg sitting in Mr Dunthorpe’s chair. She was taking the register. Or at least trying to. No one was actually cooperating with the textiles teacher.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said over the din, quickly sitting down. My eyes automatically cut to the desk by the window. Arif was missing. Then, glancing round, I noticed everyone had ditched the official seating plan to be with their friends. ‘Where’s Mr Dunthorpe?’
Nobody answered. They looked tired and a little shell-shocked.
‘Mr Dunthorpe is otherwise engaged,’ Ms Greenberg said cryptically, refusing to meet my eyes.
‘The stupid school thinks Dunthorpe’s a paedophile,’ Sade said, irritably. ‘Got the sack or summink!’
‘What?’ I asked in disbelief. I looked at Sarabi for confirmation. She nodded sadly.
‘Children, please!’ Ms Greenberg said, trying to impose order. ‘We mustn’t discuss this sort of thing in school!’
‘There’s got to be some sort of m-mistake . . .’ I stammered.
‘Gary made good on his promise,’ explained Sarabi. ‘He reported Mr Dunthorpe to the principal for . . . you-know-what. Mr Dillinger had to suspend both of them while they investigate. It’s like a rule, or something.’
‘That’s bullshit!’ I said, slamming my hand down on the desk.
‘Language, Muzna!’ Ms Greenberg snapped, before a paper aeroplane nosedived into her chestnut curls.
‘You think our school will be on the news?’ one of the boys speculated.
‘As the person with the most followers on Instagram, the reporters are gonna want to hear the details from me,’ announced a girl, giving herself a second coat of lip gloss.
‘How dare you!’ I roared, making the girl draw a line of frosted pink across her cheek in surprise.
The class fell silent and stared. Even Ms Greenberg stopped fiddling with the paper plane in her wig.
I swallowed. ‘After everything he’s done for us. We all saw what happened. We all know Mr Dunthorpe is on the level.’
‘Preach!’
I nearly passed out when I saw that voice belonged to Sade. We nodded at each other. A temporary alliance had been formed.
‘Everyone’s on Mr Dunthorpe’s side, and everyone knows Gary’s a wanker,’ said Alex, stroking her blue bob. ‘It’ll turn out all right in the end.’
‘Are you willing to take that chance?’ I said. ‘Cos I’m not. I know that without Mr Dunthorpe, I can kiss my English GCSE goodbye.’
‘Right, if you children won’t stop talking about this, I’m writing your names down and passing on the list to Ms Moon!’ Ms Greenberg whinged.
‘Dunthorpe’s been our tutor since Year Seven,’ chimed in a boy. ‘We owe him.’
‘OK, so what’s your plan?’ asked Alex.
My cheeks burned. I hadn’t thought it through. Injustice was what got Doormat Muzna yapping.
‘Doesn’t have one!’ said the girl with the lip gloss.
Anger flared inside me, and without realizing it, I tapped into the more powerful version of myself.
‘I’ll set up a petition online, and everyone can sign it,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘I’ll also go to Mr Dillinger with the truth.’
In the movie version, everyone would burst into rapturous applause, and I’d crowd-surf into the Falstrum history books. In reality? There was this big, fat, awkward silence.
The pips sounded, ending the vacuum of cringe. I waited outside for Sarabi, going over in my head exactly what I was going to say to Mr Dillinger. Maybe it would do nothing more than get me in trouble. But I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Mr Dunthorpe had believed in me when nobody else did.
Suddenly my arm was gripped so tightly, I nearly screamed.
‘Set up that petition and send me the link,’ Sade instructed. ‘I’ll forward it to my contacts.’
I nodded, wondering who this was and what she’d done with the real Sade.
‘Dunthorpe’s all right, innit?’ she said, sensing my WTF confusion.
‘What was that about?’ Sarabi asked, catching the tail end.
‘Nothing. Come on. Dunthorpe’s counting on us.’
I dragged Sarabi up to the principal’s office. With the number of reservations she kept coming up with, I was afraid if we didn’t get there fast she’d chicken out.
The principal’s secretary looked up from her computer screen. With pore-less caramel skin and lush copper curls, she could’ve doubled for Zendaya. At any other time I might have taken a moment to feel jealous. But this wasn’t any other time.
‘Um, hi,’ I said, with a little wave.
‘We’d like to see Mr Dillinger, please,’ added Sarabi.
The lady gave duck face. ‘What’s this about? Shouldn’t you two be in lessons?’
I sensed Sarabi opening her mouth, so I blurted: ‘It’s a child-protection issue.’
My reading obsession meant I’d dipped into plenty of Dad’s social-work magazines. ‘Safeguarding’ and ‘child protection’ were like magic words that made teachers sit up and take note. If not, heads rolled.
Shock flashed in her wide-set eyes, before giving me saccharine sympathy. Probably figured I’d been molested. I didn’t care. Bigger things were at stake than my non-reputation.
‘Just a moment,’ she said. She knocked on Mr Dillinger’s door and vanished inside. A moment later she reappeared, waving us in.
Me and Sarabi exchanged looks, swallowed almost simultaneously, then stepped over the threshold.
‘Hello, young ladies!’ Mr Dillinger greeted us kindly, before switching to a more serious tone. ‘Now what’s this all about? Hmm?’
‘I’d like to report a false allegation made by Gary Simmonds about our tutor, Mr Dunthorpe,’ I said, trying to remember to breathe.
‘Indeed?’ the principal said, his body language losing the welcome factor. ‘I’m afraid that particular matter is out of my hands.’
‘But he didn’t do anything!’ Sarabi cried. ‘I mean, he told Gary to get out for being rude, and Gary threatened to report him for . . . for . . .’
‘A bunch of lies,’ I interjected.
I laid the facts out for the principal, point by point.
‘How can a teacher get suspended for an accident?’
‘And how come Gary gets off scot-free?’ demanded Sarabi.
‘Oh I can assure you nobody is getting off scot-free,’ said Dillinger. ‘The school has policies in place for dealing with situations like this. Both parties stay at home while the matter is urgently investigated by the school governors.’
‘But sir,’ I protested. ‘With all due respect, how can they possibly investigate the incident when they weren’t even there? I’m telling you, every one of us saw our tutor slip. Gary’s complaint was just revenge for being told off.’
‘Yes, and as I’ve told you—’
‘The media’s always banging on about sexual allegations ending a teacher’s career,’ I rudely cut in. ‘Even when they’re false. We couldn’t bear for that to happen to Mr Dunthorpe, sir! He’s the best teacher we’ve ever had.’
Mr Dillinger sighed. ‘Everyone at Falstrum supports Mr Dunthorpe’s excellent track record. You must have more faith in the school system; let it run its course. Now hurry back to your lessons.’
Had that been a sign that we’d get our tutor back? The rumours said Dillinger was going to retire at the end of the year. Did he even care?
‘Well we’ve done everything we could . . .’ my mate said, as we headed towards Building B.
‘Did we, though?’ I said, an idea taking root in my head. ‘Dillinger wants to avoid bad publicity for the school so he can retire on a high. Probably gets a juic
y bonus for it.’
‘So?’
‘So we give him exactly what he doesn’t want!’
‘Oh Muzna,’ Sarabi complained, spotting the twinkle in my eye. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to start burning your bra and invite the local press to film it!’
‘No, Sarabi. Burning underwear is so last century.’ I shook my head. ‘What I’m planning will be epic!’
At lunchtime, me and Sarabi went to see Ms Winterborne in her art studio. Sarabi was one of her favourites, so she was only too happy to let us use her art supplies to make some Amnesty International banners. Unsupervised, Sarabi and I began painting slogans that had absolutely nothing to do with the human rights organization.
‘This is bad,’ Sarabi said.
I looked up. ‘It is a bit. Here.’ I handed her a tube of neon paint. ‘Can’t go wrong with a bit of pink!’
She shook her head, her face a tangle of emotions. ‘It’s lying! Just you watch. I’m going to end up being reincarnated as something disgusting.’
‘Sade’s bum?’
‘This is serious, Muzna!’ she cried.
I put my brush down and gave her a one-armed hug. ‘Come on, Sarabi. You said it yourself: Mr Dunthorpe’s a good man. He’s been wronged. Don’t ask me why, but the universe decided it’s up to you and me to put things right.’ I swallowed, hoping I was making sense. ‘Don’t you even want to try?’
She didn’t reply. But I must have said something right, because she picked up her brush and went back to work.
Our last stop was the ICT suite. I hastily threw together a leaflet in Publisher. Between us, we had just enough print credits for fifty copies.
BRING BACK DUNTHORPE!
We, the students of Falstrum Academy, request the immediate reinstatement of Mr Michael Dunthorpe. Mr Dunthorpe is an outstanding teacher, who gets results every time. A false allegation was made leading to his unfair suspension.
WHAT: Boycott all classes until Mr Dunthorpe is reinstated.
WHEN: Period 5–7 today and every day till our demand is met!
WHERE: School field.
Come join our massive sit-down protest and become part of Falstrum history!
DUNthorpe DUN nuttin’ wrong!
I Am Thunder Page 9