The doorbell rang. It was the police.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’ Officer Desirée Sealy asked again, her eyebrows hammocks of sympathy. She was a short, mixed-race lady with honey-coloured eyes and a voice that made me think of coffee.
I nodded. The offer of temporary accommodation was tempting, but I knew my parents’ pride would be wounded. In spite of everything, I didn’t want to hurt them any more than I already had.
‘Well, Ms Saleem,’ Officer Paul Redman said, putting away his spiral-bound notepad. ‘I think we’re all agreed – sneaking off to pray in the middle of the night is unwise at your age. By law, you are a young person and considered vulnerable.’ He was tall and powerful with fingerprint freckles and hair like a copper brush.
I nodded apologetically. Easiest way out, I figured.
‘How long have you been wearing the hijab?’ he asked.
I nettled. How could he even know I was a hijabi? Dad had ripped my hijab up only moments ago. ‘Why? What’s that got to do with—’
‘Two months,’ Dad interjected, not realizing I’d worn it for way longer. ‘I told her not to wear it. Sends out the wrong sort of message.’
‘What made you start wearing it?’ Officer Sealy asked, with a curious smile.
I shrugged. ‘Dunno. I just thought it’d be nice to try religion for a change.’
‘Any of your friends wearing it?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand what this has to do with me coming home late. I get that I should have told my parents I was going out . . .’ I turned accusingly to Officer Redman. ‘Wait – you think I’m part of ISIS, don’t you?’
His lips formed a grim line.
‘Of course we don’t,’ Sealy said quickly. ‘But part of our job is considering all the angles. Child exploitation is a very serious matter.’ She folded her hands over her stomach. ‘When I was a youngster, there used to be a man down our street who was the very definition of happy. Irie-Stanley everybody called him. Unlike all our parents, he was never stressed, and he’d have these delicious coconut drops for us to try. Couldn’t get them in the shops for love nor money.
‘It turned out he was lacing his drops with cannabis. Called it the “wisdom weed”. Claimed it brought you closer to God. He was very convincing. If I’d got carried away, I might’ve ended up with a lifelong dependency on marijuana.’
I baulked, imagining her having to go through that horrible experience. ‘Look, I just wanted to experiment with the hijab to see if it would make any difference to the way people treat me. I don’t like ISIS, or whatever they’re called. They’ve got Islam upside down. Killing is totally un-Islamic.’
Dad caught my eye, and a smile flickered on his lips. He was still mad at me, but he liked what I was saying.
Sealy smiled. ‘Of course it is. Your daughter’s got a smart head on her young shoulders.’
Dad nodded. Ami just looked grim.
‘Would you be interested in attending a weekend club for young people like yourself?’ Redman said. His strained smile didn’t just look fake – it belonged in a horror museum. ‘All kinds of cool activities are run at the civic centre. You’d meet other Muslim kids.’
My sixth sense was tingling. I went for broke. ‘You’re a Channel officer, aren’t you?’ I turned to my dad. ‘Look, Dad – you registered me as a missing person, and they sent anti-terror police!’
‘We’re exploring every possibility,’ Redman said, looking irritated. ‘I admit I am part of the counter-terrorism unit, but Officer Sealy is not. It’s standard protocol for me to be involved in a case like this. I’m just offering your daughter a safe environment where she can socialize with other young people and develop an immunity to radicalization.’
My father shook his head. ‘This is not the sort of help I asked for.’
‘Muzna –’ Redman turned his attention to me – ‘you’d have free access to some terrific opportunities—’
‘No thank you!’ I said, cutting him off with a cold stare.
‘Well, thank you for your time,’ Sealy said, giving everyone a bright smile.
They left shortly afterwards. Surely a missing kid with a ‘funny’-sounding name wasn’t enough to trigger this level of paranoia. It had the stink of Falstrum all over it. Ms My-door-is-always-open Pawsey had reported me to the cops.
What a joke. I was in love with Arif, and the whole world was against us. Even Romeo and Juliet never had it so bad.
‘Sorry you had to go through that,’ Arif said, after I’d told him about the drama with the police the night before. He offered me another Jammie Dodger.
‘I wish I could live with you instead.’ I twisted apart the two halves of the biscuit, and licked the filling.
‘Yeah, but we can’t get legally married without your parents’ say-so till you’re eighteen.’
I sagged.
‘Hey,’ he said, lifting my chin so our noses touched. ‘I really love you, Muz.’
‘I love you too,’ I replied, losing myself in his brooding eyes.
‘Would you die for us?’
The question made me start. ‘Morbid much?’
‘But seriously, if my life depended on it, would you?’
‘Course I would. Do you even need to ask?’
‘Same,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s how we’re supposed to feel about Allah, and the ummah too.’
I loved Allah more every day. Why not – he’d given me Arif, right? But it was more than that. My faith gave me the power to defend myself against all the voices that tried to control me. Once upon a time, I’d feared the hijab; now I felt like it was armour.
But loving the ummah . . . loving the entire Muslim community . . . ?
‘Need to work on that, Muz,’ Arif said, reading my expression before kissing my forehead. ‘Only way we’re going to be together forever is if both of us end up in Heaven. That ain’t happening unless we’re both massively pious.’
‘But how?’ I said, swallowing the last piece of biscuit. ‘How can I love over a billion people I don’t even know?! And what about selfish Muslims, or Muslims who commit crimes?’
‘I know where you’re coming from,’ he said, rubbing my arm. ‘But you gotta train yourself, yeah? If you start off pretending, eventually it’ll become real. I’d lay my life down for the ummah, me. Like, if I had a gun, and I saw someone trying to shoot a brother – I’d shoot ’im first. Even knowing that the police’d take me out later, I’d still do it. Otherwise, I’d be questioned in the grave about why I let my brother down.’
I nodded, but I didn’t get it. Guns, violence and dying were not things I even wanted to think about.
‘Hey, lovely people!’
We looked up as Latifah came towards us beaming like the sun.
‘’Sup, Latifah?’ Arif said, lifting his chin.
‘I come bearing gifs,’ she said, holding up her tablet. On the screen was a page of animated Lolcats doing all kinds of crazy stuff.
‘Look at that one!’ Arif said, pointing.
A shaggy ginger cat crashed through a window of the White House, snagging a bowl of jelly as it slid down an extra-long dining table, before dumping it in the president’s lap. The president leaped up and jiggled like a mad man with the cat hissing on his head. The camera zoomed in to the president’s crotch and went to slow motion. The words ‘Make America Gyrate Again’ flashed, before the animation looped.
I covered my mouth, laughing. How had they managed to make it look so real?
‘So, I’m planning on doing another assembly,’ Latifah announced, putting the tablet away.
‘Yay!’ I said, clapping.
She winked at me. ‘And this time, the theme is . . .’
Arif gave her a drum roll.
‘Islamic History,’ she finished. ‘Dun, dun, dun!’
‘Oooh,’ Arif said, placing a hand over his heart. ‘Brave choice, fam.’
She frowned. ‘With all the disrespectful nonsense going on in this crazy, c
razy world, I think our faith could do with a li’l PR injection.’
‘That would be totally amazing,’ I said. If anyone could change public opinion at Falstrum, it would probably be someone like Latifah.
‘It’s time to shake up the idea that all Islam has ever done for the world is oppress women and spread terror.’ She shook her head, gold hoop earrings flashing in the sunlight. ‘For instance: do you know who set up the world’s first university?’
‘A Muslim?’ I guessed, though I doubted it.
‘A sister named Fatima from Africa,’ she confirmed, nodding her head. ‘Imagine, that bold Muslim woman in ancient times coming up with this revolutionary idea and being supported by the masses.’
It blew my mind. ‘I’m sold. So what’s the favour?’ I asked.
She squinted as if defusing a bomb. ‘I need a show-stopping poem. And a little bird called Dunthorpe told me you’re the Go-To Girl.’
Arif nodded. ‘Fam, Muzna’s got skills. I seen her stories.’
Seeing my look of horror, she placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Literally all you have to do is tell them how it feels to be a Muslim girl in Britain.’
‘I’ll write it,’ I said. ‘But you read it out. Your voice is way better than mine.’
Latifah shook her head. ‘I don’t wear the hijab. Rightly or wrongly, it’s important that it come from you.’
I glanced at Arif.
He nodded. ‘Think you’d do great, Muz.’
I grinned as my creative juices simmered, ideas bubbling to the surface.
‘OK, I’m in. But on one condition.’
Latifah raised an eyebrow. ‘Conditions? This one’s a regular businesswoman.’
‘Let Arif be in your assembly too,’ I finished.
Arif’s jaw dropped as he sat up in surprise.
Latifah pointed at him. ‘This peng ting? Sure, but what’s the Arifster going to do?’
I smiled confidently. ‘He’s going to blow you away with his street dancing. He can do backflips and—’
‘Quiet, man!’ he said, slapping a hand over my mouth.
‘Your secret’s out,’ Latifah whispered. ‘Impress me, and I’ll write a special rap to go with it.’
He shook his head.
‘Come on, Arif!’ I pleaded. I’d seen him dance both Bhangra and street. He had this. ‘End the year on a high. Just imagine the look on Sade’s face.’
He tilted his head sideways, a smile spreading over his lips. Me and Latifah held hands waiting for him to say yes. But suddenly his smile snuffed out.
‘I can’t. My brother . . .’
‘As if he’s going to find out!’ I snapped.
‘Breaking down stereotypes would really help the cause,’ Latifah suggested. ‘Come on, my man. Say yes. Adding “assembly performance” to your personal statement’s going to look seriously impressive.’
‘Pleeeeease!’ I said, piling on the pressure.
Arif was silent for the longest time. Then he took his phone out. Was he going to text Jameel for permission?
He leaped up. ‘OK. I’ll show you what I got, but don’t blame me if I flop.’
Latifah cried in delight as the intro for ‘Juju on That Beat’ blared out of his phone.
Arif performed the dance that had gone viral. Slow moves, fast moves, robotic moves, moves of liquid smoothness. He knocked them out, growing in confidence and finesse. Within seconds, a crowd had gathered round and were clapping and bouncing to the beat.
Then the pips went, and teachers broke up our little party. But Arif had smashed it.
‘You guys!’ gushed Latifah, fanning herself. ‘I can’t even!’
Arif shrugged off the praise. But the delight in his eyes was unmistakable. Students from every year surged forward to bump fists, pat him on the back, or muss up his hair.
Imagine, I thought, taking in the scene. Imagine how awesome my Arif could be if Jameel would go away and never come back . . .
On Thursday, the final pips went, and I beat a hasty retreat. The day had been long and pointless, and I really needed to go home and revise. It wasn’t fair – rich kids could afford tutors, so it was no big deal if they ended up with crap teachers. Poor kids like me had no one to turn to but YouTube. I’d subscribed to a channel where a very nice teacher went through past papers. If I ended up with a 6 in maths, I swore I was going to leave her the biggest, cheesiest ‘thank you’ comment ever.
As I headed towards my locker, I slowed down to a crawl. I’d recognize that plait anywhere, I thought. Only now I’d come to think of it as a scorpion’s tail. Moving seats in tutor group so she wouldn’t have to sit next to me was low-key insulting. But snaking me out to Pawsey? A betrayal like that was against the sisterhood, even if she’d been crazy enough to believe she was saving me from ‘radicalization’.
Sarabi chatted happily to Jadwiga. I could imagine the expression on her face: eyes wide; manic grin; slurping away at the excess saliva brought on by two sets of braces. I was actually glad she’d gone and found a replacement mate. Still, what I wouldn’t have given for an Invisibility Cloak right about then . . .
As I drew closer, I heard Jadwiga telling Sarabi that Bollywood was big in Poland.
‘I go Bollywood dance class every Friday,’ Jadwiga revealed. ‘Our dance teacher say we can bring friend for free taster session. You wanna come?’
‘Me? Seriously?’ Sarabi was practically foaming at the mouth.
I speeded up, hoping they were so engrossed in their plan-making, I’d slip by unnoticed.
‘Wasn’t that your friend?’ I heard Jadwiga say.
Then I was out in the fresh air, beelining for the school gates. I’d almost made it too when a husky voice wrapped itself around me, lassoing me to a halt.
Perched on the wall to my left was a petite Asian girl. Only she had to be a figment of my imagination.
‘You forgot me?’ she said, rising to her feet.
Though the smile was welcoming, the voice was like a paper cut. She looked different. Longer hair dyed silver-grey, and knee-high boots that glistened like tar.
‘Oh-em-gee!’ I cried, surprised by the lame expression that rolled off my tongue so easily. Hadn’t used it in years. ‘Salma!’ I threw my arms around my original BFF.
‘Air hug!’ she joked, echoing another crappy line from our childhood together. She smelt like somebody else. Couldn’t get Versace down at the pound shop. I’d loved the scent of her cheap mango perfume – it brought back so many happy memories.
And then one seriously awkward one . . .
‘Oh man,’ I began, feeling my throat tighten. ‘An apology is waaaaay overdue.’
‘You think?’
I swallowed. ‘I thought I’d get found out if I contacted you!’ I babbled, eyes watering from shame. ‘My parents had me running scared. Then GCSEs got in the way and—’
‘Don’t sweat it,’ she said, making a flippant gesture. ‘You moved on; I moved on. It’s all good.’
Why did hearing that hurt? I’d been the one to turn my back on the friendship.
‘Hey, how’re things with you and . . .’ I tried to catch his name out of the air. ‘What’s-his-face . . . Tariq?’
‘It ended. His mood swings were doing my head in.’ Her plum-painted lips curved up in a wicked smile. ‘Plus he was nasty-fugly.’
‘Regrets?’
She looked at me as if she thought I was mad. ‘Hell no! My experience with Tariq gave me Freak Radar. Dodged enough bullets since.’ Her voice softened, fingers curling round my wrist. ‘Getting kicked out of the Pakistani community was like the best thing ever. Once those bastards turn their backs on you, you’re free to live your life the way you want.’
I stared at her, dumbfounded. I’d never thought of it like that; I’d always figured you were doomed to walk the earth alone, cursed for the rest of your days.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, a flurry of acrylic nails and excitement, ‘I’ve been with my current boyfriend going on three months now!�
��
‘Cool.’ I wanted to ask her if he was Muslim, but somehow I doubted it.
‘Sometimes you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.’
I kept my mouth shut.
‘You became a hijabi,’ she noted, gazing up at my scarf. ‘What’s up with that?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’ How could she if she thought it was OK to go round kissing boys on a quest for The One?
‘What I do understand, girlfriend,’ she said, leaning in, ‘is that your parents are straight-up dictators, and this hijab business is some kind of whacked-out rebellion. You wanna know how I found you? My cousin goes here. Told me about you the day you set foot on Falstrum turf—’
Her phone went off. She ignored it.
‘. . . But I figured: give Muzna her space. She’ll look you up when she’s good and ready.’
For a moment she seemed distant, almost vulnerable. My toes curled with guilt.
‘After a while, I gave up and moved on with my life,’ she said, sighing. ‘Only reason I came back now was for your sake. My cousin tells me you’ve been radicalized by some idiot who knows you got anger in your belly and a shit home life.’
I goggled at her. ‘This your idea of a wake-up call? It’s cute. Look, I’m gonna be totally honest with you even though you’ve been super-rude to me. You’re right. My parents are dictators. They had no right to end our friendship. And I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to hook up with you once things blew over. But you’re wrong about radicalization.’ I hooked a finger in my scarf, and tugged. ‘I discovered God, not grenades.’
I faltered, remembering the last talk I’d attended. The speaker had been Grenade Central.
‘I’ve got the most amazing man in my life!’ I said, switching tack. ‘Everyone fancies the pants off him, but he chose me. So you see, girlfriend, life is better than good!’
If I was gloating, it was only because her sassier-than-thou attitude had provoked it.
‘You think Allah wants to separate you from the world?’ she asked, worry pushing the sass out of her voice. ‘Cos that’s what I’m hearing, Muzi. You and this Arif guy live in an Islamic bubble, and that ain’t healthy! Especially when you keep bunking to go radicalization meetings.’
I Am Thunder Page 20