‘Different how?’ Bharti demanded, interrupting my thoughts.
‘Well . . .’ I began, but I had no idea how to get out of this one.
I stopped when I saw two boys from St Mark’s heading our way. They looked familiar, and as they got closer I could see it was Mr DJ and his friend Stephen from Mel’s party.
‘Ohmigod, Bharti!’ I hissed, grabbing her arm. ‘That’s him!’
Bharti looked at me blankly.
‘The one from Mel’s party? Mr DJ!’ I added.
‘Oh right! There are two guys, so which one?’ she said.
‘The tall, good-looking one, of course!’ I hissed at her. Bharti never really listened to me.
‘Ooh I’m glad you said that. The other guy really isn’t your type. I’ve seen less spots on a Dalmatian . . .’
‘Bharti!’
‘Sorry, but he has. I don’t know if I can even look at him,’ she continued.
I gave her my ‘don’t go there’ look.
‘What?’
‘Well, remember when you had that allergic reaction? You were covered in spots and didn’t want to leave the house,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but that was different.’
‘Please, I’m begging you, don’t mess this up for me. I have enough trouble being myself around this guy, without you being all weird with his mate,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t do that!’ Bharti replied indignantly.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ I began, but I stopped when I realised they were less than ten metres away from us. ‘Ohmigod, they’re about to walk past us. I can’t find my lip-gloss!’ I said, frantically searching my bag. ‘Oh maaan!’
‘Here use mine,’ Bharti said, handing over hers.
I quickly turned away from them and applied it, whilst tugging my hair free of its band. I knew I owed her an apology, but I still thought that she was being mean about Stephen’s spots.
‘All right?’ said Mr DJ.
‘Hiya,’ Bharti said, smiling.
I snapped my head round and nearly blinded him with a stray braid.
‘Ohmigod!’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Um . . . yeah, I think,’ he said, clutching his eye.
I looked over at Bharti who was trying desperately not to burst into laughter. I shot her a look.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I was devastated. I’d already lost any chance of going out with this guy.
‘Braids sometimes have a mind of their own,’ Bharti said.
That caused the biggest grin to come on to his face. I flashed a smile at Bharti.
‘I’m fine. My sister’s hair does the same ,’ he said, grinning.
At that moment I couldn’t have loved Bharti more.
He wasn’t much taller than me, but he towered over his friend. He had a black polo neck on under his school shirt and his hazel contacts looked almost natural against his ebony skin tone.
‘They should come with a health warning . . .’ I added.
‘Hey aren’t you Tejas’s sister?’ asked Stephen.
‘Yeah,’ Bharti replied hesitantly.
‘I thought so! What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Bharti.’
‘I’m Stephen.’
That was the only part of their conversation I caught, as Mr DJ began talking to me. I stared at him, too stunned to listen properly.
‘Makeeda?’ Bharti said, raising her eyebrows at me.
‘Yeah?’ I said, coming out of my daze.
‘She’s only just changed networks,’ Bharti said and rattled out my mobile number.
‘OK, I’ll text you about the party then?’ Mr DJ said to me.
‘Sure,’ I said, watching him and Stephen walk away.
I knew there was no way my parents would let me go to a party if they’d never met the person holding it. I was just pleased he had my number.
‘Bye, then,’ he said, turning to smile at both of us.
‘When did he mention a party?’ I hissed at Bharti. ‘Wouldn’t mind going if he was there though,’ I said dreamily.
‘Oh boy, you’ve got it bad!’ Bharti said with a grin.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ohmigod, your hair! What was that all about?’ Bharti was almost shaking with laughter.
‘I know. Talk about embarrassing!’ I said, laughing too. ‘Thanks for . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway, what’s his name again, Makeeda?’
I looked blankly at Bharti. I didn’t remember giving him mine either. This was a disaster! I was so glad Bharti had been with me.
‘I’ll tell you his name if you buy me a nice, expensive hot chocolate,’ Bharti said giggling.
‘Deal,’ I said. ‘Bharti?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks for not making me look a complete idiot,’ I said and I hugged her.
‘Well, it’s not easy, but when you’ve got a job to do . . .’
‘Hey!’ I said, whacking her across the head.
‘That’s it, I’m going home!’ Bharti said jokingly. ‘You hit me!’
‘What? Come on, Bharti, please? You haven’t told me his name yet . . .’
‘Blimey, you really do have it bad! Beg some more and I’ll think about it,’ she said, rushing down the road as I began chasing her.
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but she was right. I did have it bad. My biggest problem was working out how to see him again.
Chapter 4
The Bookworm Wannabe
I stared at the stairs ahead of me. It was four-fifteen and I had a maths lesson with Nick at five p.m., so I had forty-five minutes to sort out my history project. The threat of a letter being sent to my parents was no way for anyone to live. I was beginning to get stressed out. For some reason, I didn’t want to just hand in an essay plan based on the first female biography I found in the library. Mrs Hipman said we had to find an inspirational individual. It would be easy enough to just write a paragraph at the end saying why I chose this woman, but I actually wanted to mean it when I said this person inspired me.
I climbed the stairs to the public library and was surprised by the number of posters for Black History Month. I walked in and saw more posters and a display of African artefacts alongside a piece of ntoma cloth that was acting as a backdrop to books written by mainly African American authors alongside novels by Black and Asian British writers and biographies of Black and Asian footballers and actors.
As I flicked through a book about the Transatlantic Slave Trade, I began to wonder if Aunt Grace was right. She said Black History Month was like Carnival: the one part of the year when it was cool to be Black. Mum said that Aunt Grace could be bitter at times, and that things were no longer as bad as twenty or thirty years ago. When I asked her what she meant, she told me how they used to cheer when a black person was on television, then how that changed to hoping that the black actor in the detective programme wasn’t playing a criminal, as usual. I was really shocked as I thought actors got to play different parts regardless of their race. At school no one ever made a big deal about stuff like that and we’ve always had multicultural performances, although in nursery Auntie Angie had to come in when Mel was told she couldn’t play Gretel in Hansel and Gretel because she didn’t look like the girl in the book.
I found a desk and dumped my coat and bag on it. I headed for the history section but got bored looking for the perfect material, so I returned to my desk and flicked through a book on the Crimean War. I was about to make notes on Mary Seacole for my history project, when my phone rang.
‘Switch it off!’ screamed a librarian, as I ran out of the library.
‘Hello?’ I gasped.
‘It’s me!’ Mel said. ‘Why are you out of breath?’
‘I’ve been running.’
‘That’s why you should be on a school team, with Laura and me.’
‘Mel!’
‘Seriously, after a month of training you’d be so much fitter!’
Great, I had Mel going on about my lack of exerci
se and Laura agreeing in the background.
‘Mel, I’m freezing my butt here, what’s up?’ I asked, irritated.
‘I needed to know if you wanted to come bowling tonight.’
‘I can’t. Mum would kill me if I went out on a week night.’
‘Ahh maaan! Makeeda, you don’t have to tell her everything, you know!’ Mel said, sighing. ‘I’m about to hand that DJ to you on a plate!’
‘Seriously, Mel, I can’t, not even for Nelson.’ Bharti had told me his name after two low fat hot chocolates. They were expensive but worth it.
I hadn’t told Mel that he had already sent me a text. He said he was just checking he had the right number, but it was a start.
‘Laura thinks you’re mad to give up on seeing that guy.’
I wanted to scream that I hadn’t given up on anything, but I didn’t want Laura knowing my business.
‘Look, I’d better go,’ I said.
‘Where are you anyway?’
‘The library.’
‘B-O-R-I-N-G!’ Mel intoned.
I could hear Laura giggling in the background.
‘Whatever!’ I said, cutting her off.
Sometimes Mel was mean. She had probably already done her homework, but I still had Mrs Hipman’s project, on top of everything else. I stormed back into the library and fished out a magazine from my bag. Mum hates me reading too many magazines, so I hide them. Gradually I began to calm down, especially when I saw an article on ten ways to tell if a boy fancies you.
Step one: Does he ignore you or pick fights with you? Hmm . . . Nelson did pick a fight at Mel’s party, when I said he liked Fairytale.
Step two: Does he hit you playfully? This is a boy’s way of achieving physical contact. Yes, he definitely did that when I . . .
‘Ouch!’ I said, looking up to see Nick.
‘All right?’ he said and slid into the seat opposite me.
Nick is tall and skinny (despite his ability to eat more joloff rice and fried plantain than anyone I’d ever met). His mum is Ghanaian and his dad is Polish, so Nick has brown ringlets he wears like a mop, Caucasian skin and green eyes. Mel thinks he is fit but all I see is the boy who threw up on me when I was eight, and gave me chickenpox when I was ten. The only time I’ve ever been grateful to have him as a family member was when José Santos bullied me in primary school. Nick was in the year above me, and that was a year below José. Despite this and his skinny little frame, when Nick saw me being pushed around in the playground during lunch break, he pushed José so hard that he fell backwards and ended up with a sprained wrist. When the teachers arrived, José was too embarrassed and in too much pain to tell them Nick had pushed him. Since then, the legend that is Nick’s strength has meant that no one has even breathed too hard in his direction. He never talks about it. Even now when I tease him, he just changes the subject.
‘Do you mind?’ I said, rubbing my head.
This was his usual way of saying hello: I get whacked across the head with his latest reading book, and he just smirks at my discomfort.
‘No,’ he said, pulling one of my braids loose.
‘Keep the noise down,’ said a library assistant, shelving books to our left.
‘Ohmigod, how many times? Don’t. Touch. The hair!’ I said angrily.
‘Whatever. Shall we start?’ he said, removing the scariest looking maths text book from his bag.
‘Er . . . we’re not using that are we?’
‘Makeeda, you can barely add. Why would I use an AS-level book to teach you? It’s for me to use while you’re doing some of the exercises in here,’ he said and took a smaller GCSE textbook from his bag.
‘I knew that! I was just mucking around,’ I lied.
Nick already thinks I’m dumb: I don’t want to give him any ammunition.
‘Yeah?’ He had a smirk on his face.
I really wanted to know his opinion about Nelson, but Nick and I never really spoke about relationships. He even looked embarrassed when I bumped into him and his ex-girlfriend Maria last month. They weren’t kissing, but he went the shade of a bus (well, a red one) and all I said was hi.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said.
‘Seriously, Makeeda, we have to get on with the lesson. I’ve got revision to do after this. You do know this is my GCSE year?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If I fail, I’ll have to do retakes and my first choice for sixth form goes out of the window . . .’
‘Nick, you’re not going to fail! You’re already way beyond GCSE level.’
‘If you two don’t keep the noise down . . .’ began the librarian.
‘Sorry,’ we chorused.
‘OK, but in here it says that if a boy likes you . . .’ I began in a whisper.
‘Give me that!’ he said, snatching the magazine from me. ‘Makeeda, you’re meant to work this out for yourself!’
‘I . . .’
‘It’s simple. Just add up the points to see which one of the four sad categories your love life falls into.’
I switched off at that point. I wasn’t sure what was worse. The fact that I had just confirmed how thick I was, or that Nick was enjoying making me look that way.
‘Makeeda?’
‘I know, I know. Sad.’
‘Yep and it’s stupid, so can we just get on with the lesson?’
‘Fine. Here are the exercises from last week,’ I said, handing over my work for him to mark.
‘Great. We’re doing quadratic equations today.’
‘But I don’t need to know that till next year!’ I protested.
It’s one thing to force me to have lessons, but when he starts messing with the topics on my syllabus I get annoyed.
‘Makeeda, that’s the point. I’m tutoring you for your GCSEs? Duh?’
I decided there was no point in arguing.
Over the next forty-five minutes Nick taught quadratic equations as well as Pythagoras’ theorem. Just as I was finishing off some exercises, my mobile phone beeped with a text message from Nelson.
Nelson:
All right? W R U?
‘Makeeda, this is a lesson?’ Nick said, annoyed.
‘Hmm,’ I said, mesmerised by my phone.
Ohmigod, what do I say? I mean, if I tell Nelson I have a tutor then he’ll think I’m thick, but if I tell him I’m at the library he’ll think that I’m a geek.
‘Hello, anyone in there?’ Nick said finger-flicking my forehead.
‘Ouch, what was that for?’
‘Maths lesson – ring any bells?’
‘What?’
‘Who is it?’
‘No one,’ I said, attempting to put my phone away.
I was too slow; he grabbed the phone.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Er . . . a guy from Mel’s party.’ I wasn’t sure how much to tell Nick. It was too embarrassing.
‘Oh, a guy you fancy from Mel’s party.’ He smirked.
‘Yeah, yeah. OK, so I like him.’
‘So what are you going to say?’
‘I dunno. What do you think?’
‘You could tell him the truth, but then he might think you’re a geek, or really thick.’
‘I know.’
‘Or say that you’re somewhere else?’
‘Brilliant!’ I replied, and typed my reply.
Me:
I’m out with my parents.
‘Ah huh! Lying to a partner. Isn’t that some kind of major issue in your magazines?’
Ohmigod. I’ve just lied to the guy I want to go out with. This makes us candidates for every daytime chat show, before we’ve even gone on our first date!
‘Makeeda? Makeeda, I’m just messing about. Are you OK?’ Nick said, worried.
‘Yeah, I’m fine!’ I realised I must have had an odd look on my face or was breathing erratically.
‘You’re not going to cry or anything? I would’ve sent the same text message as you,’ Nick said.
Nick hated to see me c
ry. Tears just seemed to embarrass him. I stared at him and saw his face getting redder with concern for me.
‘Listen, let’s finish up. You don’t have to do all that page as homework, just the first two questions,’ he said.
I guess he wasn’t that concerned after all.
‘Do you want me to walk you home?’
‘Er no, why?’
‘Don’t look at me like that! I thought . . . never mind, just text me when you get in.’
‘Yes, Uncle Nick,’ I sang back.
‘Shut up, it’s dark and stuff out there,’ he replied, hastily packing up.
‘Bye.’
‘Yeah, see ya,’ he said and walked away.
A minute later I looked up and he was watching me from the double doors.
‘What?’ I silently mouthed, but he just waved goodbye.
Nick was like the older brother I didn’t want, or need. I began to pack up my things when my phone beeped again.
Bharti:
I hope you’ve started that history project!
Ohmigod, I completely forgot!
Me:
No worries I’m in the library.
Bharti:
U 4got didn’t u?
Me:
I wouldn’t say that exactly. Chat later. x
I unpacked my things again and headed back to the history section again. I had to find someone I found inspiring. A woman who fought against the odds like Mary Seacole but wasn’t Mary Seacole – everyone seemed to write about her. I wanted to find the right heroine and the more I thought about it, there was no reason she couldn’t be Ghanaian or at least African, was there?
Chapter 5
Tanisha’s Experiment
I opened the front door, threw my bag against the wall, hooked my coat in the cupboard and slipped off my school shoes. I heard laughter coming from the kitchen and noticed Tanisha’s red coat on the next hook.
Growing Yams in London Page 3