Being Me

by Pete Kalu

  ‘That’s an hour’s wait,’ says Dad. ‘Could I...?’ He gestures to the wheel.

  ‘You sure?’ asks Mikay’s mum.

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I could of course do it myself.’

  ‘Of course. Maybe we should do it together?’

  ‘That works for me.’

  ‘OK, I’ll just get the spare and then... Can you pop your boot open?’

  Mikay’s mum looks at him a moment, then says, ‘For you only, Mr Vialli, I’ll pop my boot open.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Dad.

  They go to the boot and together heave the spare tyre out.

  ‘Roll the wheel over here, Mrs Robinson, if you would,’ says Dad, ‘while I fish around and find the jack.’

  Moments later they are both huddled by the flat rear wheel. They’ve soon hauled it off. ‘It’s teamwork,’ Dad says, as Mrs Robinson rolls the burst wheel away. ‘Don’t underestimate your own muscles, girls.’

  Dad picks up the spare wheel from Mrs Robinson. ‘You have beautiful nails, if I may say so, Mrs Robinson,’ says Dad. ‘Beautiful, and yet practical.’

  Mrs Robinson looks over to me and Mikaela. ‘Never forget there’s an Amazon inside each of us,’ she says, in lecture mode.

  ‘What’s an Amazon?’ asks Mikaela with her bored face on.

  ‘A very fit, strong woman. Like your mum,’ Dad replies.

  I get the impression that neither of the two adults are actually talking to us, they’re talking to themselves.

  Dad’s grunting as he tightens the nuts on the new wheel with the jack. ‘If the wheels come off in your life,’ he says, between grunts, ‘you just have to find the jack and slot them back on. Semplice.’

  ‘Enough with the poetry, Dad. Abbastanza,’ I tell him.

  ‘The only Italian I know is Vespa,’ Mikaela’s mum says. ‘Those little motorbikes. My first boyfriend had one.’

  ‘Mum!’ snorts Mikaela, ‘Too Much Information.’

  ‘Vespa means wasp,’ says Dad. A-pe would be better for you, Mrs Robsinson. –A-pe Regina. Queen Bee. You have bee-stung lips.’

  ‘Dad!’

  Mrs Robinson sniggers. ‘Shh. Not in front of the children.’

  The two of them then laugh together like this is the best joke in the world.

  I look over at Mikaela. She’s as bleugh as me about it.

  ‘Dad. Stop flirting. Now!’ I tell him.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Dad, although he’s still enjoying himself. ‘Just a bit of fun’.

  The new wheel is on. Dad drops the damaged wheel into the Bentley’s boot and Mrs Robinson and Mikaela get into the car. Everyone waves goodbye. A smile stays on Dad’s face all the way over to our own car.

  Then the Head teacher comes out and corners him. It’s about unpaid school fees. Dad says there must be some mistake. The Head pushes some forms into his hands. Dad’s face is lifeless when he gets into the car. He pulls out of the school grounds sharply.

  ‘You hear what Miss Jones said, Dad? I could play for England!’

  This revives him. He starts nodding to some music inside his head. He says he’s coming to the match tomorrow.

  ‘Gre-eat!’ I tell him. I wonder how much of his happiness is because of the England thing, how much is meeting Mikaela’s mum again and how much is actually seeing his daughter play. Still, I’m happy that Dad’s happy. He’s been so miserable recently.

  Later, Marcus doesn’t pick up his phone or answer my texts. I ring his landline. His mum answers.

  ‘Hiya, darling, he’s not in right now love. You alright?’

  ‘I may get on the England team,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ohmygod, Adele, magic! Well done!’

  ‘I’m not on it yet,’ I say, trying to calm her down as she oohs and aahs. She always makes me smile, she’s so enthusiastic.

  ‘You must be playing your socks off. Wait till I tell Marcus. Give yourself a pat on the back. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Adenuga.’

  I press End Call and put the phone down. I have this lovely glow in my stomach.

  Later, I get a text from Marcus.

  Wel don. Mum told me. U da supernova star. Wil bel u 2moro.

  Gotta sleep now footie 2moro x(())x

  I text him back.

  Me 2 xx(())xx

  That glow in my stomach gets warmer. I think about Marcus. Why do I like him? Mikaela will say because he’s poor and black and that bumps up my street cred. Actually, I like him because he’s stronger and yet more vulnerable than other boys. I don’t know if that’s his blackness too. He’s my first boyfriend and so how can I compare? His being black irritates Dad which is great, and me going out with him annoys MTB, which is even better. Marcus happens to be a star footballer. He even has a football nickname, The Silent Striker. He won the Manchester United apprenticeship over MTB, which made Dad furious. MTB begged me to not go out with him, but what girl ever takes dating advice from a stupid brother? There’s something sad and unknowable about Marcus that makes me love him and want to be with him. Yes, every girl fancies him a bit. But he’s mine, I bagged him. I know black boys take more shit than white boys from the police and that. Mikaela says that I’m stealing their men dem, that black boys are always checking white girls and it ain’t right. Is it my fault though? And anyway, there’s plenty of other black boys out there. She can check them, can’t she? She shouldn’t be going to war with me over my one boy. I flick through all the texts he’s sent me and count the number of his kisses till I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  LEAVES & SHOWERS

  It’s Saturday morning at Hough End Playing Fields and as soon as I step out of the car, rain smacks my face. I look at the pitch. It’s a lake. We’re late. Dad shoves me into the changing room. Inside, everyone’s moaning, nobody wants to play.

  ‘My hair’s going to be ruined!’

  ‘I’ve got asthma!’

  ‘I can’t swim!’

  ‘I wanna go home!’

  Miss Fridge is fighting on all fronts. ‘Mud? Mud is good for your skin,’ she tells the wannabe Miss Worlds. ‘And remember, it’s the equivalent of two Detentions, but only if you play!’ she tells the conscripts. Asthma? Stick your inhaler in your gob, girl, that’s what it’s for!’ she tells the sick-notes. ‘Think of the England places, girls!’ she yells to everyone, finally.

  As there’s no escape, everyone starts to get their kit on. The gale must have got worse because from outside my dad shouts, ‘I’m getting drenched, is everyone decent? Can I come in?’

  He gets screams as a reply.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I’m starkers!’

  ‘Aaagh!’

  Drama queens, all of them, I think.

  ‘Poor thing!’ Mikaela’s mum says of my dad. She’s been sitting in a corner of our changing room. She takes out a little silver compact, checks her lipstick, then leaves the dressing room to ‘look after’ my dad. I think, yuk.

  The referee comes in. Everyone pleads with her to declare the match abandoned but she’s having none of it: ‘If eleven players are not on that pitch in two minutes I’ll award the match to the opposing team! I’ve got a hundred essays to mark after this!’

  The referee turns away. Mikaela calls out to her, ‘Will you be issuing paddles, then, bitch?’ Everyone cracks up at this. It’s so not Mikaela.

  The ref turns back. ‘Who said that?’

  We’re all suddenly busy adjusting our socks. The ref looks to Miss Fridge. Miss Fridge shrugs that she didn’t hear. The ref glares at Mikaela, but leaves.

  We troop out. Dad dashes to the car park. When he comes back he’s holding this huge golf umbrella that advertises his bank. Some touchy-feely argument starts up between Dad and Mikaela’s mum about the umbrella. She’s doesn’t like the umbrella so she’s attacking it and Dad’s trying to fend her off. She catches the umbrella, points to the logo and wags her finger disapprovingly. Dad tugs the umbrella out of her grip.

  Mi
ss Fridge gives us a quick blast from the touchline. ‘Mikaela, Adele, remember you’re on the same team! Think England!’

  She couldn’t have made it plainer. Cooperate or she won’t write us up good. We’re best friends again, as it happens.

  Mikaela’s mum is standing in the rain with an arm out to ward off Dad, who’s spinning his umbrella, teasing her with it, inviting her to come under it. There are a few other parents on the touchline.

  I get this flashback. My mum stumbling onto the pitch. Trying to attack the referee. I shake it off.

  The referee holds the match up briefly while a bloke in a boiler suit tries to corner a stray chicken that has run onto the pitch. It flutters and squawks and soon has twenty four school girls chasing it across the field. Miss Fridge yells she wants to sign it up, which has us all laughing like crazy. It’s a fast chicken, nobody can catch even a feather of it. Finally the boiler bloke dives and grabs it by a leg. He hauls it off upside down, still squawking and flapping. The chase has warmed us all up. Suddenly the conditions don’t seem so bad. The match starts.

  Mikaela collects the ball. She speeds away from two tacklers and passes it to me. I trap it under my foot, zip across the goal mouth and smack the ball to Sorayah who whacks it between the posts. There is no net so the ball sails all the way to the brambles by the disused railway line. Both teams and parents spend ages scrabbling around. When we finally find it, it’s punctured and useless.

  The other team starts yelling for us to abandon the match and half our team agree. But the referee marches off into the swirling rain and comes back with another ball.

  I notice Dad has found a different, smaller umbrella now, one without his bank’s logo, and Mikaela’s mum is huddled under it with him, even though the rain has stopped. It looks like they’ve linked arms.

  Various parents are shouting encouragement from the touchline, making comments that only stupid parents with no idea how the game is played make:

  Awesome boot, Jemima!’

  ‘Aim for the sticks, Helen!’

  Only my dad shouts out anything that makes sense, mainly at me and Mikaela. My dad’s got coaching badges in football.

  Mikaela’s on form. She’s swinging herself into every tackle fearlessly.

  Dad’s abandoned his umbrella to Mikaela’s mum and is running up and down the touchline, shouting at me. I love it. He usually saves all his hopping about on touchlines for MTB’s games.

  I score a beauty. With my back to the goal, I shoot it over my head. It flies into the bottom corner of the net. I do a gorilla chest-thumping slide into the mud that ends right at Dad’s feet. Dad loves it, everyone loves it. The killjoy referee gives me a yellow card for time-wasting.

  By the final whistle, all the players look like they’ve spent all week in a mud spa, but we’ve won 4-1 and I’ve scored twice. Mikaela gets Most Valuable Player Award from the referee and a warning that if she mouths off in a changing room at a referee again she will be banned for three matches.

  Mikaela may have won Most Valuable Player, but yet again it’s my name everyone’s singing in the showers. I bow as the chants get going:

  ‘Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Adele!’

  ‘One, two, three, four who do you think we’re shouting for? Adele!’

  ‘We are blue, we are white, we are fucking dynamite!’

  That one gets out before Miss Fridge can stop it. She laughs and lets it go.

  ‘Three, five, seven, nine. Who do we think is really fine? Adele!’

  ‘One, two, three, four. It’s your mum cos she’s a whore!’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Miss Fridge says over all the laughter. She’s happy though. Mikaela runs around for a bit showing off her Player of The Match medal. Then she comes up to me. ‘You can have it if you want. After all, you got the goals.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ I say, ‘I’ve got loads already.’

  ‘Nah, take it.’ Mikaela shoves it into my hand. Then she yells, ‘Power To The People!’

  Everyone joins in, yelling, ‘Power to the People! Power to the People! Power to the People!’ We’re all so fired up we’ll yell anything at all.

  Mikaela’s mum comes in and pinches her cheeks.

  The showers have stopped working so everyone who didn’t get in early has to go home in their kit, unwashed. I don’t mind. When you’ve won, going home caked in mud is the best feeling ever. Mikaela is by my side as I finish packing.

  ‘You want to hang out with me tomorrow?’

  ‘What will we do?’ Mikaela asks.

  Her mum calls her over before I can answer.

  Outside, my dad pats my back. ‘You’re incredible! Brilliant! England Team’s written on your forehead!’ He plants a kiss on my forehead to emphasise this.

  Sometimes I love my dad. After a couple more pats and a bit of a shoulder rub he says he has to head off to a meeting. Mikaela waves to me from her car as her mum drives her off. I catch the bus home. The drying mud feels good on my skin.

  I get home, drop my boots in their bucket then check on Mum. She’s awake, sitting in a chair in her room, with a giant, homemade cigarette in her hand. Curls of smoke drift round the room. She’s gazing at the bedroom floor, which has leaves scattered on it.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask.

  She raises an eyelid at me slowly, choosing her thoughts. The three lemons finally line up in her brain and she looks up triumphantly. ‘I am contemplating Nature,’ she declares.

  ‘Have you made me anything to eat?’

  ‘You’re fourteen, darling, you can cook.’

  ‘Bring back Mia,’ I mutter.

  ‘Pardon?’ she says.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I won?’ I ask her. I’m standing in front of her in full football kit, caked in mud and she still hasn’t noticed.

  ‘Careful where you step,’ she replies. ‘Those leaves are in a pattern.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Yes. And I scored two.’

  ‘Well done you. Was your father there?’

  ‘Yes. Flirting rotten with Mikaela’s mum. Who was there as well. Supporting her daughter. Like mums do.’

  ‘Go shower, Adele,’ mum snaps at me. ‘You stink.’

  I walk right through all her leaves which gets her yelling at my back.

  In the shower I’m thinking, I drew the short straw for mums. Everyone says ‘my mum is my best friend, we do our make-up together, we go shopping, we go to concerts, I help her choose her clothes, we go on holiday together, we do our Wii exercises together.’ My mum does none of that. We do nothing together.

  I go downstairs. Mum’s come down and is watching TV. I go to lie on her. She pushes me off, saying she’s too hot. I can smell vodka on her. She thinks vodka has no smell, daft cow.

  ‘You ruined my leaf arrangement,’ she says, slurring.

  ‘It was a pile of mouldy leaves, Mum.’

  ‘They weren’t mouldy, they were green.’

  ‘Right. Whatever.’

  I get up and go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

  Later that night I’m lying in bed and I think, my mum can dance. It’s not very cool how she dances because her moves come from donkey’s years ago, but she can move. I could teach her enough moves so she wouldn’t embarrass me, then we could go to a concert together. What’s the use though? She would probably say no. Her dancing partners (her partners in everything) are Lady Ganja and MC Vodka. Marcus’s mum is more a mum to me than my own mum. And Mia was. I called Mia ‘Mum’ accidentally once, and Mum went mad. Some days it gets so bad, I want to scream at my mum but nothing comes out of my throat, like my windpipe’s been cut. I just stand there, and she asks, ‘what do you want?’ And I say nothing.

  CHAPTER 10

  MC BANSHEE & HER GANG OF THIEVES

  I text Mikaela early in the morning, then sneak out of the house before Dad can ask any questions. I know Mum will still be zonked from all her smoking.


  At the Cheadle Park bus stop Mikaela gets on. She’s wearing scruffy jeans. Her hair’s flicked out into a full-on Afro again. She slides in next to me.

  ‘What you laughing for?’ she says.

  ‘No, I love it, Mikay.’

  ‘This fro’s sexy like Beyoncé’s backside. It’s a black thing – you white folk won’t understand.’

  ‘My nana used to say that all the time,’ I say. ‘I be pinned tween her knees, and she sit there twisting her dreads and chewing hair grips between her lips, then sliding dem into mi head, going, “Black be God’s colour. Slide slide. It be the sexiest, beautifullest. Slide Slide. Dopest colour in the rainbow! Slide slide. White people stupid what don’t get that. Slide.”’

  Mikaela laughs. ‘What was that nonsene?’

  ‘It’s how my nana spoke.’

  ‘Your imaginary nana! Who speaks imaginary bad patois!’

  ‘She’s dead now,’ I say.

  Mikaela shakes her head at me and pulls on her headphones, and I think, Why did I just say that? My nana was black, but I never met her. And she must have spoken Italian, not Jamaican. Sometimes I don’t understand myself. I feel bad, like somehow I’ve done my nana wrong by pretending about her.

  The bus fills up with the Saturday crowd of mums with kids, skateboarders and Goths. One guy gets on with a small plastic chair. He’s the Statue guy that stands on Market Street in a big white blanket and white face paint.

  ‘Look, the Statue guy,’ I say, nudging Mikaela, who slides her headphones down to her neck. ‘He stands dead still on a box. Then stretches an arm out and makes you jump. Like a beggar, but in a costume.’

  ‘I got no time for beggars,’ Mikaela says.

  ‘You think you could stand on a lickle box all day?’

  ‘I know you couldn’t,’ Mikaela says. ‘You’re attention deficit!’ She laughs.

  ‘Proper ASBO!’ I agree. ‘It’s an easy rob though, Statues, if you think about it.’

  ‘They’re in the fuckin mafia. They’d break your legs, girlie.’

  ‘Mafia don’t travel on buses.’

  Mikaela slides her headphones up again.