This Is My Truth Read online

  I shrug her off. ‘I didn’t say you were besties. It’s just … It’s Ezra. What does he even talk about besides how often he goes to the gym?’

  ‘How many protein shakes he has,’ Huda replies.

  I can’t stop the snort that comes out. ‘How many packs he’s got. Because a six-pack isn’t enough nowadays.’

  ‘I hear he’s up to sixteen. If he gets to eighteen, it’ll be a world record.’

  I laugh as we walk out of the gates onto the main road.

  ‘Seriously though, what did he want? Was he giving you grief?’ I think back to his stupid comment from years ago.

  ‘Ezra? Nah, as if. We were just talking about the prank war.’

  ‘Oh God, is that starting already?’

  Blithe Academy has a longstanding tradition for Year Elevens. The last few weeks of school are always filled with ridiculous, stupid pranks. It usually starts off as another way to enhance the rivalry between the bands, and then somehow everyone comes together to pull increasingly wild stunts. I don’t know how long this has been going on for – as long as I’ve been at this school, that’s for sure. It’s reached the point now where the last few years they’ve started study leave early. Last year they suddenly took all the Year Elevens out of class three days before the countdown was due to finish, to a special emergency assembly – I remember hearing that some people thought there’d been a terrorist attack or a school shooter or something. They got everyone in the hall and told them that school was over. That was it. They were escorted off the campus. Like, no going back to pack up the classroom or anything – a girl I know was halfway through doing a sculpture for her art coursework and wasn’t even allowed back in to wash her hands. Teachers have just become so scared of what students will do – they’re trying anything they can to get the upper hand. And to be fair, I don’t blame them. There have been some crazy pranks. One time everyone brought in hundreds of small alarm clocks and hid them around the school – in the assembly hall, in classrooms, even in the toilets. The alarms went off randomly and everyone was frantically trying to find and stop them.

  ‘I tried to get Ezra to spill what they were planning, but he’s giving nothing up,’ Huda explains sadly.

  ‘Tell me you’re not getting involved with all that,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘I wish,’ she says. ‘Like literally. I wish. I thought that if I tried to mole out some details from the other side, they’d let me be part of things.’

  ‘Why would Ezra tell you anything though? Doesn’t that defeat the whole point of a prank war?’

  ‘I pretended it was for the end. Y’know, when everyone gets together. I so wanna know what they’re planning. It’s gotta be huge, don’t you think, to beat the clock thing?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not really that fussed. I’d rather not bother with any of this; it’s distracting.’

  Huda scoffs. ‘But this is what we’ll remember! When we’re old soggy grandmas, living next door to each other, ignoring our grandkids to sit in the garden eating samosas together, this is what we’ll be talking about. The best times of our lives.’

  ‘You really think this is as good as it gets?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘You think in seventy, eighty years, nothing will beat some alarm clocks going off at our old school? I’d like to think I’d have had a few more adventures.’

  She shrugs. ‘I guess. It just feels like a lot, y’know? There’s so many lasts – it feels like we need to recognise and celebrate them all.’

  I want to tell her there’s not much to celebrate. That the future is scary as hell. That I feel like the end of school signifies the end of my freedom in a way. Speeding down a career path I’m not entirely comfortable with.

  I’m planning to become a vet like Abbu. But the truth is that I don’t think I’m going to be any good at it. Actually, I know I won’t be. The number of times Mr Cavanaugh rolls his eyes at me during lessons is frankly quite insulting. I’m barely passing at the moment, and I need at least 7s in biology, chemistry and physics to do them for A level. I have this weird vision of me being the thickest student in sixth form – everyone laughing at me for not being able to identify an element or something. It’s inevitable though. Regardless of how shit the situation is. Of how shit I am. I have no choice but to carry on.

  ‘How did your biology test go?’ Huda asks, proving that best friends really can read each other’s minds.

  I groan. ‘Oh God, don’t.’ I theatrically throw my head back and feel a raindrop on my face. ‘I am so going to fail.’

  ‘It can’t have been that bad.’

  ‘You would say that. You’re just naturally perfect at everything. Tell me your secret, please.’

  She laughs. ‘How about I help you study?’

  ‘Oh God, yes please. Thanks, Huda. You’re the best.’

  ‘What was that?’ she asks, cupping a hand around her ear.

  I laugh; this is peak Huda. ‘You’re the best!’ I shout. ‘HUDA FARQUHAR IS THE BEST IN THE WORLD!’ I scream it out loud, with her full name, because I know she won’t stop until she gets me to that point.

  ‘And don’t you f—’

  Huda is cut off by a voice behind us.

  ‘Oh, look, girls, Amani is publicly declaring her love for her girlfriend. Isn’t that cute?’

  I turn around, but there’s no mistaking that voice. I’d know it anywhere. Cleo Walters. She’s surrounded by her two minions – Suzie Babble and Imogen O’Donnell. Those three are inseparable. You know those teen films where the mean girls make everyone’s lives hell? That’s them. Huda and I call them The Coven behind their backs. Well, Huda says it to their faces too actually.

  ‘Don’t be jealous just because you’ll never have someone say they love you,’ Huda retorts, without even batting an eyelid.

  Here’s another thing I’m insanely jealous of Huda about. She always has the perfect comeback. The wittiest remark – the best response – to anybody. Regardless of what they’ve said to her. Nothing fazes her. Me, on the other hand, I’m already filled with anxiety, wanting Cleo and her sidekicks to just move on, to go as far away from us as possible, because it’s legit making me feel on edge just being near them.

  Cleo rolls her eyes at Huda, then turns her sights back onto me. It’s like she has night vision, but instead of seeing in the dark, hers pinpoints the weakest link. And that’s always me.

  ‘Saw that video of your dad, Amani,’ she says, a smirk tugging at her mouth. Her groupies giggle.

  ‘What video?’ It slips out.

  ‘God, I know your people are from a different land, but surely they have social media there?’ She gets her phone out and taps away on it. After a few seconds, she turns it around to show me, and there’s Abbu. His TV appearance from this morning. My heart stops and my vision blurs with tears, but I can still hear Abbu’s voice screaming, ‘Get this fucking piece of shit off me!’

  ‘My favourite part is when the cat gets stuck to his chin,’ Suzie laughs. ‘Everyone’s calling him cat beard, you know.’

  Huda moves in front of me and pushes Cleo’s hand away. She glares at Suzie. ‘Better than being called Boozie Blabbermouth, which is what everyone calls you behind your back.’

  Suzie says nothing back. I think she’s scowling, but I can’t tell. My vision has gone funny. Everyone was at school when Abbu was on air – how did they find this video?

  ‘Oh, like you can talk,’ Cleo says to Huda. ‘You’re so ugly that your own parents couldn’t stand to keep you.’

  ‘Right, yeah,’ Huda says. ‘Your parents kept you, the pretty baby, and look at the witch they’re stuck with. They probably wish they’d given you up as a baby.’

  Cleo starts to respond, but Huda cuts her off.

  ‘C’mon, Amani, let’s get away from these bitches. Oops, I mean witches. No, wait, bitches is also true.’ She grabs my arm and drags me away.

  I don’t know if Cleo and her friends say anything else as we walk off. I’m not paying attention any more. All I can think
of is that video. How on earth did Cleo find it? And how many more people have seen it? I pull out my own phone from my pocket as Huda moans about what a bitch Cleo is. My phone barely charged this morning, so I’ve been avoiding using it all day. There’s only five per cent battery left now. My screen is filled with notifications. Twitter, Instagram, even Facebook. You know it’s big when people are using Facebook. I flick through my notification screen quickly, just to make sure there’s nothing important I’ve missed. I try not to focus on any comment in particular, but I catch the odd word – ‘omg’ and ‘lol’ and of course ‘your dad’. There’s no way I can just skim this. I open Twitter first, but instead of pressing the notification icon, I accidentally click on ‘Trending Topics’. A photo appears with the top trending story and … Holy shit, it’s Abbu.

  Abbu is trending on Twitter. There’s a photo of him at the top, the cat clutching on to his beard. My thumb hovers over the hashtag – #CatBeard – as I try to decide whether it’s better for me to see what they’re saying about him, or ignore it all, pretend none of this is happening. I wonder if I can report this to Twitter for bullying. If Abbu catches wind of how big it’s got, hears that people are making fun of me for it, he’ll go ballistic.

  Luckily – or maybe unluckily – the decision is made for me, as my phone runs completely out of battery. The screen turns black, blocking out Abbu’s face, his humiliation, taking away all the people making fun of him. It’s all gone.

  ‘Did you know?’ I ask Huda. We sat together at lunch today, and even in third period. She hasn’t said a word to me about it. But she’s constantly on Twitter, so she must have seen it, right?

  ‘Know about what?’ she asks, all innocent. ‘I know about a lot of things. Like, did you know that to stop hiccups, you just need to press a finger to your –’

  ‘About my dad,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘About the video.’

  She doesn’t reply straight away, which says it all. ‘I didn’t know if you’d seen it,’ she says softly. ‘I just … I didn’t want you to feel … well, like you do now, I guess.’

  ‘I saw it live,’ I tell her. ‘This morning, when we were running late, Ismail was watching on the iPad.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your dad since?’

  I shake my head. I can’t think about talking to Abbu about this. Or seeing him. He’s probably home right now, sitting in the living room, seething. Abbu in a bad mood is not something anyone wants to encounter.

  We’ve reached the fork in the road where Huda and I split. The rain is coming down a bit heavier now. Huda’s put her blazer over her head.

  ‘Were you serious about the tutoring?’ I ask her quickly. ‘Can you do right now?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, I guess so. I can come over –’

  ‘No, no, let’s just … Can we go to yours?’ I stare at her intently, trying not to seem too desperate, but desperate enough that she feels she can’t say no to me.

  It works.

  ‘Sure, let’s go.’

  3

  Huda’s foster mum, Nafisah, is nowhere to be seen. She’s left a sticky note on the fridge saying ‘Popped out to get some baked beans – having cravings! Will get you some Reese’s cups! x’. I smile when I see it – Huda’s foster parents are the absolute cutest. If you met them, you’d think they were right out of a picture book – that’s how well they treat Huda. And if you saw them together, you’d think they were part of some cheesy rom-com – that’s how much they love each other. And they’re not afraid to show it. I remember the first time they kissed in front of me. It was just a peck, but I was so shocked. No one’s parents had done anything like that in front of me before – well, no Asian parents anyway.

  Huda reads the note, rolls her eyes and scrunches it up into a ball before dropping it into the bin. She turns to me, and her sour look has been replaced by a smile. I don’t think she knows I saw her reaction.

  ‘Crisps and hummus?’ she asks.

  ‘Only if you’ve got the good stuff,’ I tell her. ‘None of that weird beetroot crap you had last time.’

  ‘Oh God, that was Ali’s fault. He wouldn’t know good hummus if it hit him in the face.’

  ‘When’s he back from work? He’s not gonna mind if I’m here, right? I know you usually check …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Him and Nafisah love you. You’re basically like the furniture here. Just a bit less scuffed.’ She takes a couple of cans of Sprite from the fridge and throws them to me, then grabs the big tub of hummus and closes the fridge. She gets out a giant bag of Kettle Chips from the cupboard and heads towards the stairs. I follow.

  I stick my phone on charge as soon as I get into Huda’s room. I sit cross-legged on her floor, take off my blazer and lean back against her bed, waiting for the Apple logo to come up on the screen. Huda busies herself opening the crisps and starting up a Spotify playlist on her laptop. When I finally get onto the internet, I feel sick. Abbu has gone proper viral. Like that guy whose cute kid came dancing into the room when he was on the news. Everyone is talking about him. UNILAD has the video up on there, the Metro too. There’s so many edits of it all over Twitter, YouTube. So many comments, so many laughing-face emojis.

  ‘I feel sick,’ I say. I thought I’d muttered it, but Huda hears and ambles over.

  She snatches the phone out of my hand and replaces it with the large packet of crisps – she’s already made a decent dent in them. How long was I even looking at my phone?

  ‘None of that crap,’ Huda tells me. ‘Eat this crap instead.’ With one hand she holds out the pot of hummus for me to dip, while closing down all the social-media pages on my phone with the other.

  I take a crisp and submerge it completely in the dip before bringing it out and sticking it whole in my mouth.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ she says. ‘This stuff always does. There’ll be something new to talk about tomorrow.’

  ‘Today’s news, tomorrow’s chip paper,’ I mumble, repeating something my media studies teacher says a lot.

  ‘Huh?’ Huda asks.

  I shake my head. It’s not really the reactions of strangers I’m worried about. Just Abbu’s. How’s he going to react to people laughing at him, telling him he’s an embarrassment to TV, that he should just quit his job? One person even went so far as saying he should … kill himself. God, people on the internet are cruel.

  ‘How about I distract you with something?’ Huda says, all mischievous-like.

  I raise an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Something fascinating and exciting …’ she teases like a circus entertainer.

  ‘I swear to God, if you say science …’

  ‘Not just any kind of science … cell biology!’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You have the same sense of fun as a forty-year-old teacher.’

  She grabs a cushion from behind her (her bed is covered in them – literally like ten cushions just sitting there for show) and knocks me over the head with it. ‘Do you wanna pass your science GCSEs or not?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Good. So make sure you pay attention. You won’t get to be a vet if you don’t know about cell biology.’

  I don’t reply. I just dunk another crisp in the hummus. It breaks as I go to pull it out.

  Huda and I do our prayers together before settling down to study. An hour or so later, the front door opens.

  ‘Huda?’ Nafisah calls from downstairs. ‘Can you come and help with the bags?’

  Huda huffs a little. She hands me the pad she’s been neatly writing notes for me on and stretches before grabbing her headscarf and leaving the room. I’ve been sitting down for so long my bum has gone numb, so I decide to go and help out too.

  When I get downstairs, the front door is open and there’s a cool breeze coming through. There’s no sign of Ali, but Nafisah is standing in the kitchen opening a tin of baked beans.

  ‘Salaam, Nafisah,’ I say.

  She looks up from her tin and gives me the biggest smile. ‘Salaam, sweetie. How are you?’


  ‘Yeah, good, thanks. Uh … want any help?’

  She turns back to her beans, spinning the tin opener with ease. ‘Huda and Ali are just getting the shopping. You can help put things away if you want.’ The lid snaps off and Nafisah stares down into the tin with such adoration it makes me smile.

  ‘Cravings still going strong then?’ I ask.

  She laughs. ‘Oh, Amani, it’s ridiculous. This baby, I swear.’ She pauses to rub her very large bump. ‘The other night, at 3 a.m., I was desperate for biryani. To the extent that I got progressively more nauseous the longer I went without biryani in my mouth. And so what could I do?’

  ‘You got up and made biryani at three in the morning?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Um, no,’ Ali says as he comes in through the door, arms loaded with shopping bags. ‘I had to get up and make biryani at three in the morning.’

  Huda traipses in behind him with a few more bags.

  ‘Baby wanted him to make it,’ Nafisah explains with a smirk.

  ‘Baby wants, baby gets,’ Huda says.

  ‘Exactly!’ Ali enthuses. ‘Only the best for my lil bump-erina.’ He walks from the pile of bags he’s dumped by the door over to Nafisah and gives her a hug from behind, caressing her bump. She smiles big and raises a hand to stroke his cheek.

  I feel a blush rising up my face, watching them be so openly PDA. Affection, especially in public, is not something my family does. It’s not something I’ve grown up with. When I was a kid, I used to assume my adult relatives just didn’t get on very well with their spouses. I thought that’s what marriage was – not being happy. As if Bengali people weren’t allowed to be happy with their relationships, or not in public anyway. And then I came across Ali and Nafisah. They’re so not the usual Bengali parents. They’re quite young, for starters. Nafisah wears her scarf turban-style, adding jewellery to make it pop. They’re so laid-back too – Huda has it so easy with them. And like I said, they’re very touchy-feely. It was such a strange sight at first, but of course completely and perfectly normal – why shouldn’t they show their affection for each other? I just hope they never do it in front of my parents, because I think they’d die from shock.