I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  Sarabi added an eye-catching emoji border.

  ‘Emojinal blackmail,’ I said. ‘Yaaaassss.’

  ‘Massive sit-down?’ she queried.

  ‘We will be, hon,’ I replied, feeding off my own nervous energy. ‘All for a good cause, eh?’

  ‘You keep telling yourself that . . .’ Sarabi said, her eyes full of misgivings.

  Our fliers were snapped up like celebrity nudes. Text messages went pinging back and forth, and we even got #BringBackDunthorpe trending thanks to a celebrity who unexpectedly took up our cause and retweeted for us. Within a short space of time, word got out in a big way.

  By two o’clock, the school field was teeming with students. Half the school must have turned up. Whether it was out of loyalty to Mr Dunthorpe or an excuse to bunk, I wasn’t sure. A couple of boys grabbed one of our banners and danced about demanding Mr Dunthorpe be taken off ‘death row’. Alex and her mates waved an eye-catching placard with a focus on LGBT rights. Five girls were performing one of Drake’s songs, having changed the lyrics to something about Mr Dunthorpe’s betrayal at the hands of ‘lying hoes’. Everyone seemed to have warped the message to fit their own agenda. But it didn’t matter – they were here.

  I caught myself trying to spot Arif in the crowd. Still hadn’t turned up. His attendance was all over the place. I hoped things were OK at home.

  Then I saw Mr Dillinger, and my insides shrivelled. He scurried across the playground like Saruman the White, flanked by a couple of senior orcs.

  ‘OK, I’m gone!’ yelped a boy, starting a crowd panic.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ I shouted, jumping on to a tree stump.

  Sarabi looked up at me in surprise. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Who the hell did I think I was?

  But it didn’t matter. I had about three seconds to rally everyone behind Mr Dunthorpe before the whole thing fell apart and I probably got excluded.

  ‘An innocent man’s career is at stake!’ I hollered. ‘Mr Dunthorpe is the best teacher this school has ever known. It’s not right that some fool should be allowed to take him away from us!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said a girl I vaguely recognized. Then it came to me. Amie: the girl who’d taken me up to my tutor on the very first day. I threw her a grateful smile. It was all the encouragement she needed.

  ‘Bring back Dunthorpe!’ Amie sang, punctuating the words with little punches. ‘Bring back Dunthorpe!’

  ‘BRING BACK DUNTHORPE! BRING BACK DUNTHORPE!’ the crowd chanted back.

  Sarabi nudged me and smiled. We joined in, adding our own fists to the air.

  Amie’s chant went viral. And by that I mean it just kept growing and growing until it seemed like the very foundations of the school started to tremble.

  The principal and senior teachers arrived looking flustered. We chanted even louder. Power-tripping for sure, but all for a good cause. Mr Dillinger suddenly spotted me and Sarabi, and moved in for the kill.

  ‘I suppose you two are behind this debacle?’ he said, waving one of the leaflets in our faces.

  My life flashed before my eyes.

  ‘No!’ boomed Amie, linking her arm with mine. ‘We’re all in this together. Give us back our teacher. He didn’t do nothing dirty, and you know it! You bung all the worst kids in his class cos he’s the only one that can handle ’em!’

  I could have hugged Amie. She spoke words I’d never dare to. The chanting began again, increasing in intensity. Mr Dillinger glanced wearily at his colleagues, who were muttering, shaking their heads. Just then a news van pulled up by the school gates. Guess that celebrity retweet had really pulled in the big guns.

  ‘All right! You’ve made your point!’ shouted Mr Dillinger, while one of the senior teachers went to tell the news crews to clear off. Dillinger might have had one foot in the grave, but the old guy still had a decent pair of lungs on him. The chanting subsided. ‘If you’d like to help Mr Dunthorpe, then I will need your complete cooperation.’

  Some students cheered; others told them to shut up and listen. It took another twenty seconds for Mr Dillinger to regain our attention.

  ‘You are all to return to your lessons immediately and to behave sensibly . . .’

  This demand was met with jeers. You couldn’t just pull the plug when people got themselves this worked up. Water cannons were invented for a reason.

  ‘. . . while we attempt to expedite Mr Dunthorpe’s return,’ finished Dillinger.

  ‘Shut up and do it!’ Amie said in a voice like a foghorn. ‘Otherwise we’ll never get Dunthorpe back!’

  With reluctance, people began drifting back to class.

  I ran up to Amie. ‘Thanks, hon!’ I said, hugging her like mad. ‘If you hadn’t come through for us when you did, I would’ve passed out.’

  ‘Your idea,’ she said, smiling. ‘Besides, I weren’t letting them Tory bastards take Dunthorpe away. He should be running this friggin’ school!’

  ‘Well done, Muzna!’ someone shouted, thumping my back.

  ‘Yeah, got some wicked selfies!’ said another.

  I looked around for Sarabi. There she was, holding the door of Building C wide open with an even wider grin on her face. I went over, and we exchanged high-fives and burst out laughing. A teacher hushed us from her classroom door. It only made us laugh harder.

  Mr Dillinger was true to his word. The very next day, we got Mr Dunthorpe back, cheering him like a celeb as he walked through the door. He blushed profusely, but we knew he was touched. It was out of mad respect for the guy that we simmered down quickly to listen to him.

  ‘I’ve been told I’m not allowed to discuss it, but, well, you’ve made me the happiest teacher in Britain!’ He held up a large tub of Quality Street. ‘My little way of saying thanks.’

  More cheers. Couldn’t go wrong with chocolate.

  ‘What happened to Gary?’ Malachy asked. He was miffed he’d missed the whole thing through flu.

  Mr Dunthorpe just shrugged. He was way too professional to divulge a thing like that. Word on the street was that Gary had been shipped off to the local PRU. Good riddance. Dillinger had come good.

  Mr Dunthorpe came over to Sarabi and me last. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, his eyes full of meaning.

  I felt myself blush. He backed off immediately. That’s why I liked him so much. Mr Dunthorpe understood us way better than any other adult ever had.

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘Ami,’ I said, skewering an onion on the steel spikes of a holder to chop it. Ami had got it down at the pound shop, and it was worth its weight in gold. ‘Would it be OK if I bought one of those readymade suits off the internet? For my mate’s wedding, I mean.’

  Ami was in the lounge. You could still have a conversation, since everything was open plan. I’d stuck Ami in the recliner, having smeared a ninety-nine-pence mud pack over her face and placed a couple of slices of cucumber over her eyes. Much as I liked to pamper Ami, I’m not gonna lie: there was an ulterior motive here.

  Ami lifted up a slice of cucumber to shoot me a reproachful look. ‘When you already have a beautiful shalwar suit Kulsoom tailored to your exact measurements?’

  OK, now I was going to lie. ‘You’re right, Ami. That suit is beautiful.’ I suppressed a shudder. ‘Better save it for an actual family wedding, eh? And let me go to this one in a cheap—Ow!’ The onion spat in my eye. Was God punishing me for my lies? They were becoming a bit of a habit . . .

  Ami replaced the cucumber slice over her eye and sank back into her trance. ‘And how much is this “internet suit”, huh?’

  ‘Thirty quid,’ I replied. Honestly I had no clue, but it sounded about right. The green abomination Auntie Kulsoom had created belonged in the London Dungeon, right next to the torture rack and the iron maiden. No way could I face Sarabi dressed like that.

  ‘Are you mad? Do you not realize your daddy has become a servant?’

  ‘Ami . . .’ I whined. ‘I’ll pay for it out of my own money, OK? Please. I promise I won’t get
anything shameless.’

  ‘I’ll ask your father,’ she relented.

  It was the second-best response I could have hoped for. Just one level below an outright yes. Dad was always so exhausted from work, he was unlikely to make a fuss. Especially since Ami would be on chaperone duty.

  Tuesday morning, we were herded into the hall for the weekly assembly. A couple of chancers from my tutor group tried to sit with their mates from other classes. Bad call. The year curriculum coordinator blasted them in front of the entire school.

  Just as I was about to sit next to Sarabi, I got told to fill a gap from a previous line. Sarabi made Sad Face, complete with finger tear. I shrugged. But my disappointment was short-lived.

  ‘Careful, fam,’ Arif said as I was about to sit down next to him. ‘These chairs been designed by that psycho from the Saw movies.’

  I laughed. The YCC shot me down with a finger to her lips. It was true though: the chairs were bum-blisteringly bad. As she moved off – Malachy firmly in her crosshairs – Arif pushed a stick of Juicy Fruit into my palm. A hush fell over us as Mr Dillinger’s bald pate rose above the lectern like a giant speckled egg.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen the posters around school, and it’s been mentioned in your lessons. Just in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past week, we are proudly celebrating Black History Month here at Falstrum.’

  There were whoops of joy and stamping feet. ‘Black Lives Matter!’ someone shouted. A ripple of laughter travelled through the rows.

  ‘If there is any silliness today,’ Mr Dillinger said, shutting us down with a savage tone, ‘mark my words, I will have your parents in school.’

  The senior teachers backed him up with their best glares.

  ‘So without further ado, I welcome . . . er . . . Latisha to the stage,’ he said, hobbling back to his seat.

  People clapped and cheered as a tall girl with a beautiful smile stepped forward. You could tell she was a nice person just from her vibes.

  ‘Good morning and welcome to our assembly. For those of you who don’t know me, my name’s Latifah.’ The irony seemed lost on Mr Dillinger. ‘Everyone involved worked so hard putting this assembly together. So sit back and relax as we BHM you, Falstrum style!’

  The stage faded to dark before spotlights descended on a couple of boys.

  ‘My mum says Black History Month is dumb!’ said the first boy. ‘There’s no White History Month. There’s no Gay History Month.’

  ‘What you on about?’ said his mate. ‘Every month’s White History Month.’

  People cracked up. Even Mr Dillinger smiled.

  ‘This is dope!’ whispered Arif, his fruity breath giving my ear chills.

  ‘You never heard of LGBT Pride Month? June’s where it’s at,’ said the second boy.

  ‘For real? Guess Mum’s a tool then.’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing. I seen your mum. She gimme licks!’

  Laughter swept through the hall.

  ‘So what’s this Black History Month about anyway?’ asked the first boy.

  His mate gave an exaggerated shrug. His acting was on point.

  ‘Boys, I’m so glad you asked,’ Latifah said, as she placed her hands on their shoulders. ‘Now listen up while I break it down.’

  The boys dapped then, raising microphones to their lips, began to beatbox. Latifah bobbed her head a few times, then started to rap:

  Now this is our history, Time to get woke.

  Black Power be born. Ceiling got broke.

  Movements for improvements, Not for amusements.

  People get stoked. This ain’t no joke!

  Media bo jangling: Guns and crime,

  Slang and gangs, RnB and grime.

  Illusion and confusion, Blasting through delusion.

  ’Member the time, when Little Rock’d Nine?

  Wisdom and Passion will free your soul.

  Sports and Music? What the dilly, yo?

  Doctors and Teachers, Scientists and Preachers.

  Know thyself! Achieve dem goal!

  Senior teachers be white; All the cleaners be black.

  Security guards Asian, Yo wassup wi’ dat?

  I know I’m a queen, cuz my daddy told me so.

  I ain’t no gangsta rapper, Addict. Yo!

  Police brutality, insanity. Messed-up mentality.

  Diagnosis of psychosis, Crazy-ass reality.

  Don’t say ‘immigrant’. You goddamn ignorant!

  Think you own air? You crazy-ass militant!

  Yo! I have a dream where race be dead.

  No black, no white: We all bleed red.

  Christian, Muslim, Hindu or Jew.

  It ain’t about ‘I’ and it ain’t about ‘you’.

  It ain’t about melanin or who you know.

  Cain & Abel, big labels. Actin’ all ghetto.

  Opportunity, community. Seeking out unity.

  Whatever yo’ past, You still my bro.

  Latifah pierced the air with her fingertips like an Amazon warrior. The rap was fire.

  Now my rap is done, I’mma hit the quan!

  The crowd went wild as she bust out the viral dance craze. The boys mimicked her like shadows, bringing an extra dimension to the act. I’d never been to a live concert, but I couldn’t imagine it topping this. The energy in the hall was electric.

  ‘Peace out!’ Latifah dropped her microphone, blasting us with raw feedback.

  Everyone was mad applauding, whooping up a storm.

  ‘Look at them,’ Arif said, narrowing his eyes.

  I didn’t know who he meant until he nodded in the direction of the senior teachers. They looked a little stunned, like they were still trying to figure it out. But Dillinger and Mr Dunthorpe were clapping like homies.

  After the amazing opening, the assembly became the gift that just kept giving. Poems, comedy sketches, and a couple of YouTube videos projected on to the massive screen about people of colour who’d broken glass ceilings. First up was Jessica Watkins: an African-American astronaut. She was so smart, I was low-key fangirling, even though the idea of going into space gave me PMS. The other success story featured a Sri Lankan self-made millionaire. Someone booed and shouted ‘You ain’t black, bruv!’ The voice belonged to Sade.

  There was mad love for the assembly. Latifah was a certified genius. She and her talented crew got a standing ovation that even the ear-splitting pips couldn’t drown out.

  ‘Latifah’s Muslim. Did you know that?’ Arif asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Yeah, Nigerian sister. Man, is she gonna get it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Girl just pointed out how the kuffar like to keep us in our place: “Senior teachers all white. All the cleaners be black.”’

  I blinked. Now he mentioned it, that was exactly how it had been at every school I’d ever gone to.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘This is great stuff, Muzna!’ Mr Dunthorpe said, tapping my discursive essay.

  Out of the window, the sky appeared the colour of a bruise. I’d had to stay late to discuss my work with Mr Dunthorpe as he’d had an A-Level class to teach first.

  ‘Then why have you scribbled all over it in red pen?’ I whined.

  I’d poured my heart and soul into that essay. Weeks and weeks of researching, sifting through evidence, correcting my grammar, pimping my vocab. And for what? To have my hard work graffitied?

  ‘Oh, don’t feel discouraged,’ he said, flapping an elegant hand like a fly swatter. ‘I’ll let you into a secret: teachers hate marking. And dialogue marking is surely the bane of every teacher’s existence. I only put notes all over yours because it deserved the extra attention.’

  ‘Really?’ I turned hopeful eyes to him.

  ‘Muzna, it was so good, I let my partner have a read of it. Hope you don’t mind,’ he added, looking slightly sketchy. ‘He’s a journo. And let me tell you, he called you a “talent in the making”.�
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  ‘Seriously?!’

  ‘I think,’ he said, stubble crackling like electricity beneath his nails, ‘you’d make a terrific journalist.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a journalist,’ I told him honestly. ‘I mean it’s flattering and all. But, from as early as I can remember, writing stories has always been my number one.’

  ‘A novelist?’ he said, stroking the back of his head. ‘There’ll be fierce competition. But why not? You’ve certainly got talent. All we need to do is nurture it.’

  ‘I want to write books about people like me,’ I said, wringing my hands. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love reading literally everything. I just wish there were more stories where the main character was a Muslim . . .’ Acid whooshed up my nose, making my eyes water. ‘Is that bad?’

  He chuckled. Then realizing I was dead serious, he shook his head. ‘No, of course not. That would be like having books with only male characters, or always writing straight romances. Representation is incredibly important.’

  Dunthorpe was woke. He understood.

  CHAPTER 21

  The day of Sarabi’s sister’s wedding finally arrived. Even though Ami had a what-not-to-do list as long as her dupatta, I was determined to kick back and have some fun.

  I’d picked up a two-in-one hair straightener/curling tong at Lidl for a tenner, and was trying my luck with it. Back and forth my eyes flitted, between the mirror and the laptop screen, comparing and adjusting, adjusting and comparing. Gigi Hadid looked like a total goddess. Me? Not even. Still, the look I achieved was loads better than my usual frizzy mess.

  Next, I stripped naked and stared at myself in the full-length mirror. Big mistake. Especially after eyeballing Gigi online. Stretchmarks, pot belly and cellulite. Who would ever want to have sex with that? Maybe one day I’d grow into my body. And if not, turning out the lights would always be an option, right?

  A sudden breeze brought me out in goose bumps. Turning away from the mirror, I started to get dressed.

  ‘What’s all this make-up, shake-up?’ Ami asked, summing up my appearance with a sweep of her hand.

  ‘It’s a wedding, Ami. And I’m only wearing a tiny bit,’ I said.