“Samir wants Mohammed to have refugee status like him and Naazim and Auntie Selma. Then he can’t be deported and he can stay here and work or go to university.”
Pritesh is listening to me very seriously. Perhaps I judged him and Jerry too quickly. I thought I’d stopped doing that.
“We have a lot of experience with gaining refugee status for asylum seekers,” Pritesh says, and he does sound as if he knows what he’s talking about. “It’ll be obvious to anyone that Mohammed needs safe asylum in England. We’re very confident with our lawyers.” He glances at Jerry who gives a firm nod.
That’s what Samir wants, isn’t it?
I take a deep breath and say, “Okay.”
37. Gremlins
Why isn’t it the weekend yet? I don’t want to go to school, but it’s only Thursday. I’m sure Spicer will make me do the detention I skipped and that means I won’t be able to go and see Samir straight after school. I’m desperate to tell him all about Mohammed and RROK and the lawyer, but it’ll be difficult to talk in the hospital. Will he be angry?
At least I’m running. It’s nearly eight and the morning light is spreading all silvery over the sea. I’ve done my paper route and I’m jogging across the soft sand around the yacht club and my legs are sinking in, my calf muscles aching like mad because they’re so out of practice. I’ve got to get back into training before the marathon coach kicks me off the squad. Trudy is running beside me, her ears flopping back and forth, her big pink tongue hanging out of her mouth. She started to yelp with joy as soon as we set off from the cottage. It’s ages since we’ve had a good run.
Around the point, the beach is very narrow and more pebbly but I try to keep my pace up as I head toward the Lifeboat Station. It still feels weird to think of our hut empty, and I had to stop myself from filling the hot-water bottle for Mohammed this morning when I got up. It makes me feel all shivery when I think how close he came to being discovered. How close we all came. Mrs. Saddler definitely had her suspicions but it was all over before she could really nose around. She seems to think I’ve been up to something good, not bad, at least. Unlike Mum and Dad.
Will Dad show up for bowling on Saturday morning? Not if the Gremlin has anything to do with it! That thought makes me feel so mad, I sprint all the way home.
When I get in there’s an amazing smell of frying coming from the kitchen. I rush upstairs, change for school, scoot back down to the kitchen and Mum puts a plate of bacon, egg, beans, fried bread, toast and tea in front of me. She’s even balancing on her crutches like a circus act.
“Leave the stuff in the sink,” I say through a mouthful of toast. “I’ll clean up when I get home.”
“No you won’t,” she says, and she’s got a dishcloth in her hand. “Time I pulled my weight around here.”
So she really means it, I think as I collect my backpack and saunter off down to the bus stop, early for once.
School is the pits. Everyone is talking about the stabbing and what Samir must have done to wind Terrence Bellows up.
“I heard he nicked Terrence’s skunk,” Charlie Parks is saying as I walk into class.
“Two Percent hasn’t got it in him,” sneers Lindy, and the Jayne family all laugh.
“So is he dead?” says Jess in a bored voice.
“My dad says they’re all scroungers,” sneers Charlie. “He’s probably faking it, so he gets the rest of the week off school.”
I feel myself getting really angry and I look around the class for Kim. But then I remember she and Steven have orchestra practice all morning. I turn back to Jess and the others and I’m about to speak when Mr. Spicer comes in and yells at us to sit down.
He spots me and says, “You missed your detention, Alix. You’ll do an hour tonight. Ring your mother to say you’ll be late.” Hoots of laughter whip around the classroom. Doesn’t anyone care about what has happened?
Then he says something about the principal calling a parents’ meeting after school next week about the stabbing. “You’ll get letters on Monday and I want you all there.”
No way, I think, no one seems to care about Samir, so why should I go?
I manage to snatch five minutes with Kim at lunchtime and then she has to go off to a dental appointment. The afternoon really drags by and then I have to meet Spicer back in the form room for detention.
He looks up when I come in, “Any news of Samir?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I say. “But I’m going around to the hospital later.” I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to see him but maybe Spicer will let me off early.
“Good, give him my regards,” says Spicer, “you’ve got an hour. Do the next twenty questions.”
Weasel!
I don’t escape until five and I race across town to the hospital. But they won’t let me onto the ward.
“Samir banged his head when he fell,” explains the nurse. “He’s not up to visitors.”
“What about the stab wound?” I ask anxiously.
“It was quite deep but there’s no damage to the organs. Come back after the weekend, dear.”
How can I wait that long?
Then my phone goes. It’s Pritesh.
“No cell phones,” says the nurse, and I run downstairs and just get outside before the phone stops ringing.
“What’s happened? Where’s Mohammed?” I ask, panting. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” says Pritesh. “The lawyer has been in touch with the Home Office and it’s been agreed that Mohammed can apply for asylum. So he won’t be deported, at least not for now.”
I’m shaking with relief and I tell him we’ll come and see Mohammed as soon as Samir’s better.
All I want to do is rush back into the hospital and tell Samir, but I’ll never get past the nurses. In the end I tear a page out of my math book and write Samir a note.
EVERYONE is safe. Get better soon. Alix x
The nurse promises to give it to Samir but all the way home I’m worrying about that x. What if Naazim sees it? Are Muslims allowed to write x?
Friday goes by in a blur of math tests and worrying about Samir. But finally it’s Saturday morning and Dad and I are at the bowling alley.
He’s doing his best, saying, “Pull up your pants, Alix” and “How about a cookie, doll?” but things just feel weird.
It’s been two years since we did stuff together. One seventh of my entire life.
And then I get a strike.
“Way to go, doll,” yells Dad, and we do a high five and things feel a bit more normal.
So I say, “Does the . . .” and I’m about to say Gremlin but manage to stop just in time, “. . . er, Gloria, does she know where you are?”
“Sure,” says Dad with this glittery smile but I don’t believe him.
“Mum says she doesn’t like kids. Is that why you didn’t stay in touch?”
Dad’s quiet for a minute and there’s the bumping sound of the bowling balls rolling back down the tunnel and some little kid whining for sweets.
Then he says, “We talked about it and Gloria felt that if I kept in touch it would be harder for you. All that coming and going. So we agreed I would make a clean break. Your mum didn’t want me to keep in touch either.”
They’re all as bad as each other, I decide.
“But Gloria really wants to meet you,” he goes on in this sort of eager voice. “She’s great, Gloria, she manages a little boutique in Southampton, knows all the latest fashions,” and he’s looking at me hopefully.
“Yeah, right,” I say in a scornful voice, and I can tell he’s disappointed even though I avoid his eyes. I turn away and roll my ball straight down the gutter.
Our game is over so we get some burgers and eat in silence and I’m thinking, He’s sorry he came back. He thinks I’m just a worthless teenager, with a bad attitude. He’s probably relieved he doesn’t have to introduce the Daughter from Hell to his girlfriend. I glance up at him but his eyes are on his cell phone, tapping out a message. He can’t wait
to get back to her, I decide. I’m not going bowling ever again.
Then he says, “I lost my job yesterday.”
Here we go, I think, and I push my chair back. Might as well leave now before he gives out all the usual excuses.
But he reaches up and grabs my arm and says quickly, “No, wait, Alix. Hear me out, please.”
So I slump back down in the chair and say sullenly, “You’ve got one minute.” I start to tear up the greasy burger box into little pieces, flicking them off the table as I go. The floor’s getting in a right mess but I don’t care.
“It was all my fault,” he says quietly.
“You what?” I wasn’t expecting that. He usually blames someone else when he loses his job. I stop tearing up the burger box.
“I was late three times on deliveries because I didn’t use the GPS properly,” he explains. I’m looking at him and his face is very close to mine. He has this sort of serious, intense look I’ve never seen before.
“But I’m going to get another job straightaway, Alix, and you know why?”
I shake my head and we’re so close my hair flicks over his forehead but he doesn’t move away.
“Because of you.”
“What do you mean?”
And we’re sort of whispering as if we’re afraid to talk too loud in case this moment just disappears.
“Because you need things for school, and outings to the bowling alley with me and American DVDs to keep up your vocabulary.”
He stops and I’m staring right into his eyes, which are brown like mine, and he’s not even blinking, like Kim does when she wants to mesmerize. I want us to stay like this forever. Because he’s chosen me. Not Mum and definitely not Gloria, his girlfriend, the Gremlin. He’s chosen to get a new job because of me!
He wants to go bowling with me and buy me stuff like other dads and it feels like there’s a hopeful little frog jumping about inside me.
I can’t help grinning and then he tilts his head forward and kisses me on the cheek. That feels good.
Let’s hope he means what he says for once.
38. No Regrets
It rains all day Monday. Kim sits sneezing in class next to me until finally the teachers send her home. We only just have time for me to fill her in about Mohammed.
“He’s safe, Ali, isn’t that a relief? And no one guessed, it’s quite funny really. Once Samir’s better we should have a party. My sister’ll get some cans for us.”
“Muslims don’t drink,” I tell her, but it feels good to be laughing about something again.
After school I decide to go around to the hospital and insist on seeing Samir but when I get there they tell me he’s been discharged. I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t have his phone number and Naazim probably won’t let me in. But Samir might not be back at school for weeks. I just can’t wait that long.
So I take my chances and go around to Samir’s flat. When I get there I ring the doorbell. The Chinese lady from the takeout comes out and looks me up and down slowly.
“Too late,” she says. “He not want girlfriend now.” She kicks a bit of rubbish into the gutter and goes back into her shop.
I can hear someone coming downstairs slowly and then Auntie Selma opens the door and throws her arms around me. “Alix, habibti, darling, come, come.”
We go upstairs and into the kitchen and Naazim is there with his back to me, swilling something around in the sink.
Samir is sitting at the table and I stand there thinking, Should I give him a hug like Kim and Steven always do? But I’m pretty certain Naazim would throw me out so I just say, “Hi.”
“Hi,” says Samir, and he gets up.
He’s looking really different and then I realize he’s wearing new clothes. He’s got a new blue sweatshirt on with Lions of Mesopotamia on it—where did he get that?—and new jeans, and when I look down at his feet, he’s wearing brand-new Nike sneakers.
“You look cool,” I say.
“Naazim got them for me,” he says with a shy smile. “He had the shirt made specially.”
Naazim is fiddling around with the cutlery and I’m expecting him to say something like, “English football’s rubbish,” or something else mean but he stays silent.
Auntie Selma insists I stay to dinner, which I have to admit isn’t my favorite idea as Naazim’s sitting about six inches from my nose. It’s a very small kitchen.
She’s cooked up a storm and she piles our plates high with rice and chicken and foul, which are like big brown beans in a thick sauce.
I’m too nervous to eat and Auntie Selma is laughing and saying, “Plenty rice, Alix, eat,” and she’s pushing my plate toward me but I’m just waiting for Naazim to kick off. I know he’s going to blame me for everything.
And then he starts to speak.
“Samir has said to me everything on Mohammed.”
Oh God, I think. Now there’ll be fireworks. I stare across at Samir and for once I’m the one pleading with my eyes. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s glued to his brother and he doesn’t even look worried. Maybe Naazim has turned him against me.
I suddenly feel like crying because that would be so unfair. It wasn’t even my idea in the first place to hide Mohammed. Not that I regret it now. Whatever Naazim says, I know we did the right thing.
“I can’t believe what you and my brother have did,” Naazim goes on.
His eyes are drilling into mine. I think, What if he hits me? I’m sure he’s got a real temper and he’s been a soldier. He’s probably killed people; slapping a fourteen-year-old girl is nothing. Why don’t I ever have anyone on my side?
I can’t hold the tears back any longer. I feel so stupid as they run down my face and I try to brush them away. But they just keep pouring down.
Then Naazim speaks again, only in a really quiet, gentle voice, “No, please don’t to cry. You did a good thing, Alix. A very good thing.”
“Very good, habibti,” nods Auntie Selma, piling more rice onto my plate.
“You give to me and my family something very special,” Naazim goes on.
Have I just landed on a different planet? I can’t believe this. I try to catch Samir’s eye but he’s swirling his fork around in his rice.
Naazim is struggling with his English and he mutters something in Arabic to Samir, which sounds like “leisure” and Samir says, “Refugee.”
“Yes, refugee, we are refugee. I come to this country when I sixteen. Nobody care. Nobody help us or talk to us,” says Naazim. He’s leaning toward me as he talks in this urgent voice as if it’s really important I understand him.
“My little brother he is all alone, he is sad boy. No mummy, no daddy, I am mummy and daddy now.”
“Inshallah,” says Aunty Selma.
Naazim suddenly looks so young and vulnerable, like you could just push him over, and he’s nineteen, way older than me.
“You are the first one to make us feel somebody care,” he goes on. “You hide Mohammed and you don’t tell nobody. You make us feel somebody want refugee for the first time since we run away from Iraq.” He looks down at his plate and shrugs. “I don’t know nothing more to say.”
It goes very quiet in the kitchen except for Auntie Selma running the water in the sink, which is soothing, and I suddenly realize how I misjudged Naazim. He’s not mean at all, just very protective of his brother and weighed down with too much responsibility.
Well, I know what that feels like.
Samir wants me to tell them all about Mohammed and when I’ve finished he says, “That’s just what I would have done.” Then he leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I go bright red and glance at Naazim. He doesn’t meet my eyes but he doesn’t say anything either. For a few seconds the room is very quiet, just the sound of a tap dripping in the sink and the Chinese lady calling out in the shop below.
Then Samir gives a loud burp and I look over in surprise. He says, “In Iraq it is a compliment to the cook to burp.”
&nbs
p; “Zank you,” says Auntie Selma, and her face splits in a huge grin.
“Shukran, Auntie Selma,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
Everyone laughs, even Naazim, and starts to shout in Arabic and English and pass the food around again.
39. Out of Hiding
Samir has to take all the next week off school to recover and it feels so empty every day without him sitting at the back of the class. There’s so much to catch up on I don’t even have time to go around after school. I ring him and say I’ll definitely come over on Saturday. Hopefully Naazim will still be friendly.
I’m way behind in my course work so I spend all my lunchtimes in the library and after school I’m back in training. The marathon coach is giving me another chance. Kim is practicing hard for the orchestra too so we hardly see each other.
Every evening, however cold it is, me and Trudy are on the beach. When I’m running by the water and the shrouds are jangling on the boats and the tide is swishing over the pebbles, I forget about everything else—Mum, Dad, Mohammed, the smugglers and the racist bullies. It’s only alone in my bedroom at night listening to the foghorns in the dark that I remember Samir’s face as he dropped to the ground, the blood, Terrence’s ugly laugh.
When I get home from school on Thursday there’s a strange car parked outside the house with a huge striped drinks can sticking out the roof. I let myself in and Mum appears in the living room doorway.
“We’re going out in half an hour, I’ve made some tea.”
I look at her blankly. “Out? Where? I’ve got homework and marathon training.”
I follow her into the living room.
Dad is sitting on the sofa with Trudy on his lap. “Hey, doll,” he says with a big grin. “How’s your friend Samir?”
Mum is fussing around pouring tea and cutting cake. I sit down and say, “He’s getting better. So what’s going on?”
“It’s the meeting tonight,” says Mum, and she’s holding up a letter from school. She must have fished it out of the trash. The principal called a meeting of Year 10 and their parents because everyone was so upset about the stabbing. Well, the parents were. Me and Kim had decided to go on our own. We didn’t want any more fuss at home.
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