This Is My Truth Page 4

  Ismail still hasn’t moved from the door, so I grab my phone and turn the torch on so he can use it as a lighthouse, to find his way to safety. He shuffles across the carpet and climbs in. I wrap the duvet over us and cuddle him close to me, turning my phone torch off. It’s just us in the darkness now. Us against the fighting. These rows at night put me on edge. It’s like I’m waiting for it to reach boiling point, to hear the sound of Abbu’s fists on Ammi’s face, or her body, and I’m just desperately trying to bury Ismail’s and my heads in the sand. If we don’t hear it, it’s not happening.

  There’s one teeny tiny little silver lining in all this though. Ismail is never as free with his cuddles as he is on Bad Nights. It’s horrible of me to even think that, isn’t it? Poor kid’s terrified. But at least I’m here for him. I’m here to look after him. I’m here to distract him.

  ‘Wanna watch a video?’ I ask him, forcing some semblance of cheer into my voice. I think he buys it, because he nods vigorously.

  I pull over my phone, attach two sets of headphones to the splitter and plug it into my phone. This is part of our ritual too. Our Bad Night Ritual. I open YouTube and click over to my channel.

  I started uploading things online just over a year ago, and there are already over seventy videos there. Videos I’ve made alone, ones Ismail and I have made together, and some that I’ve made with Huda. They’re silly videos mostly. Ismail’s really into Disney films so we usually recreate his favourite scenes using toys and random objects. I load up a video we made where a My Little Pony doll plays Aladdin. Ismail puts in his headphones and leans in closer; I can practically feel the smile that’s spreading across his face. We lie intertwined, my phone raised above us, the volume up high, watching as his Fluttershy doll steals a brioche loaf ten times its size. I can practically feel the tension leaving Ismail’s body, feel the sleep entering his mind. And it makes me feel teary. Not about the fact that neither Ismail nor I should have to be going through this, having to live through all this arguing and fighting and being on edge all the time. But teary for a different reason, a … good reason. I’m teary because I’m a bit glad. Glad we have this. We have each other. Our sibling bond is something that cannot be broken. When Ismail most needs a distraction or cheering up, I’m there for him. And so are these videos I make. I’m glad there’s something that can make him feel less stressed, less upset. And I’m glad I can be the one to give him that.

  I remember when Ismail was born I was sad that he wasn’t a girl. I’d been fantasising about having a little sister to treat like a human doll – one I could dress up in my old clothes and whose hair I could plait. But I think Ismail’s turned out to be way better. He’s one of a kind, and I’d protect him with my life. I keep telling Huda about this bond – well, trying to. I tell her how much fun she’s going to have with her new sibling, and try to get her to come up with baby names, or look at onesies, but she refuses. It’s like she doesn’t want to acknowledge that she’s going to be a big sister. At least Huda and her sibling won’t have to go through what Ismail and I have to go through at home. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

  I can hear Ismail’s breaths getting deeper and slower. When I know he’s properly asleep, I take off both of our headphones. There’s silence in the room now, so the shouting from downstairs comes through clearly. I have my own Bad Night Ritual, which takes place only when I’m alone or Ismail’s asleep. I open up the camera on my phone and turn it on selfie mode. I let the screen illuminate my face as I record about twenty seconds of video. Just my face, staring into the camera, as Abbu’s voice rises and rises in the background. I see myself flinch when I hear him hit her.

  I started doing this a few years ago, just filming randomly every time I’m awake and something like this is happening with my parents. I can’t explain why. Maybe just to … document it? To acknowledge it’s happening? To know it’s not all in my head. To know that, even though both my parents will pretend nothing is wrong, something is. I can’t explain it. It’s become a habit I can’t get out of. I don’t look at the videos after I film them and I definitely don’t upload them. I just keep them in a folder on my phone.

  When I’m done, I swap over to Spotify, put my earbuds back in and beg Taylor Swift to sing me to sleep.

  6

  No alarm mishaps today. I come down the stairs, putting my tie on, and stop short when I hear the TV in the living room and see Abbu sitting in his armchair in front of it. He doesn’t turn to look at me, but I can see his face clearly. I can’t describe his expression. Not happy, not sad. Not even angry. Just … defeated, maybe?

  Seeing him throws me. I’d forgotten he’d finished filming the latest series of Creature Clinic. His schedule had been predictable for the past few weeks; he’d always be out of the house by the time we were getting ready for school and come home quite late. But now things are going to be up in the air again. There’s usually a gap between filming, and Abbu tends to do random freelance jobs in that time. This means that there’s no way of knowing when he’s going to be around.

  Morning Afters are always weird. Abbu is always overly cheerful, helping out with house stuff, being nice to Ammi, asking her about her day. But not asking how she feels. He never mentions the night before. No one ever does. When it’s a weekend, I keep Ismail occupied with me in my room, to avoid having to deal with it, and partly hoping that giving my parents privacy will help them … fix things. But now that I’ve been accidentally faced with it, I don’t know what to do. I can’t go into the kitchen and see Ammi, can’t go in and try not to let her notice me examining her body for new bruises, can’t see that look on her face that says she’d rather be anywhere but here. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  I grab my backpack, quietly open the door and sneak out. No breakfast, no packed lunch. Anything to get away as quickly as possible.

  I text Huda as I rush down my street, asking if she can leave any earlier because I ‘just happen to be ready really early’. I cross my fingers she buys the excuse, and luckily she texts back saying she’s been up for ages anyway and can leave right away. I wait for her at our usual spot.

  ‘Did you see the stuff online yesterday?’ she asks in lieu of a hello.

  My chest constricts. She’s been looking up the stuff about Abbu. She’s seen all the memes, knows that the video of him has over 100,000 views. She knows how much people are laughing at him.

  ‘Someone’s put the school up for sale,’ she says, her face alight with amusement. ‘As a prank. And what’s funnier, someone’s actually bid on it!’

  Oh. So she wasn’t fixating on Abbu. I repeat her words from yesterday. It’ll pass. Today, no one will remember. They have better things to focus on. Like this prank war.

  ‘Surely eBay would have realised it’s fake?’ I ask. ‘And isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘Oh my God, Amani, chill.’ Huda laughs. ‘No one’s going to jail over a silly prank. Gotta admit, it’s pretty hilarious though, right? Backpack is gonna be so pissed.’

  Backpack is what we call our headteacher, Mr Bach. The nickname started when he was new to the school and came in every day wearing a backpack. He’s stopped doing that now, obviously.

  ‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘It sounds pretty lame.’

  Huda swings her head round and gawps at me. Her expression makes me laugh.

  ‘I just think it’s a bit superficial. No real impact.’

  ‘Oh, just you wait till we get to school and you see all the teachers freaking. I hope someone puts up one of those “For Sale” signs at the front gates. That would be amazing.’

  Unfortunately, there’s no sign when we get to the gates. There is, however, a sour-faced Backpack himself. Although, to be fair, he’s constantly sour-faced. Huda squeezes my arm and begs me to hang out around the gates in case there’s some drama.

  ‘Get to class, girls,’ Mr Bach says when he notices us loitering. ‘Now.’

  I don’t need to be told twice. I drag Huda away.

  ‘Make sure
you keep an ear out about prank stuff,’ she reminds me as we split to go to our form rooms.

  I just roll my eyes as I walk off to registration. Maggie Chan is sitting at our usual table, saving the chair next to her with her bag even though everyone knows that’s my seat. Her jet-black hair is up in a very messy bun today, her eyeliner already a bit smudged, as if she went to sleep wearing it. She’s slouched over the table, ready for a nap. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sit upright.

  ‘Wassup?’ she says, moving her bag so I can sit down. She yawns right after.

  ‘Not much, how ’bout you?’ I ask.

  ‘I miss my bed.’

  ‘Nothing new then,’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘Twenty-one more days and then I can just stay in bed all I want.’

  There’s a twinge in my chest. Three weeks exactly. The panic that comes over me every time I think about exams, and what comes after, has returned. You’d think by now I’d have come up with a better way to deal with it than denial, but there’s a reason why people say ignorance is bliss.

  The rest of the form starts trickling in, and I get out my biology textbook to try to do some revision. I keep my head down.

  Just because I don’t see them come in doesn’t mean I can’t hear them. Cleo and her coven. They’re giggling, as usual. There’s something about their giggling, or just giggling teenagers in general, that makes the hairs on my neck rise up. As if they’re talking about me. They must be talking about me. Saying bad things, making fun of me. That’s what they love to do. It’s just my shitty luck that they’re all in my form and Huda isn’t. I force my eyes to focus on my textbook.

  Cleo and her coven normally sit at the back corner of the room. Almost diagonally opposite to me (I didn’t choose this seat at random), but for some bizarre reason today they’re breaking the socially established seating plan and walk right past their normal desk. Girls like them get to do that, break the rules. I watch from the corner of my eye as they walk between the tables and choose their seats … right behind me.

  Oh shit.

  They sit down with rustles of their bags and, of course, muted giggles. I turn to Maggie, to see if she finds this as weird as I do, but she’s got her head on the table, using her blazer as a pillow, and is maybe genuinely asleep. Panic bubbles inside me, but I keep my head down. If I ignore them, they can’t hurt me. I focus on revision.

  Cell wall. Enzymes. Chloroplasts.

  ‘Miss,’ Suzie pipes up in the fake sweet voice she reserves for teachers, ‘can you come and help me with this? I don’t understand.’

  Miss Hoover gets up and comes over. I relax a little. They can’t do anything if a teacher is here. I don’t hear what Suzie asks Miss Hoover for help with, but I hear a chair scrape and Cleo says, ‘Here, miss, take my seat. I just need to get something from the cupboard.’

  I tense up as Cleo brushes past me. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or legit just an accident, but she knocks my pen off the desk with her hip. I wait until she’s over at the cupboard by Miss Hoover’s desk before I bend over to pick it up.

  I keep repeating the mantra in my head. Registration is only fifteen minutes long. Just ignore them for fifteen minutes and it’ll be over. Maybe they’ve forgotten about yesterday, or maybe they’ll remember how Huda always makes them look stupid when they insult me. Maybe just the threat of her could be my protection. As pathetic as it is, I sort of hope they think that if they try anything in registration, I’ll go to Huda and she’ll get back at them. Like I said, pathetic. But it’s what gets me through.

  I remind myself that registration is almost over and go back to struggling with biology.

  Photosynthesis. Cellulose. Flagella.

  A small giggle moves its way through the rest of the class, and my cheeks heat up. I look up and see Cleo fiddling with Miss Hoover’s laptop. Probably going to change one of her grades or something. It’s bold trying something like that with Miss Hoover in the room. I just roll my eyes and get back to my book. The giggling intensifies, and I’m surprised Miss Hoover’s attention is still on Suzie. I raise my head a smidge and see Cleo run from behind Miss Hoover’s desk over to the chair next to Katya Jackson (who she’s probably never spoken to in her life). A second later, music starts playing around the classroom. Loud music. It’s the melody that’s played in comedies when people are being chased – a piss-take type of tune. I look up at the whiteboard, which is connected to the laptop, and …

  It’s Abbu.

  The viral video Cleo showed me after school yesterday. The video I was hoping no one else would have seen, or at least they’d all have forgotten about. But no. It’s right there in front of me. In front of everyone!

  This is a nightmare.

  The video plays out, the music running in the background. The bit when Abbu falls over the sofa is on loop. Over and over and over.

  The class erupts into laughter. I sit staring at the screen, mouth open. Not able to believe that this is happening. That Cleo is this cruel. What am I talking about? Of course she is. This is the girl who took photos of me when I once had a piece of loo roll stuck to my shoe, and plastered them all over the internet. She’s still sitting over with Katya, acting all shocked and surprised, as if everyone (except Miss Hoover) didn’t just see her fiddling with the laptop.

  Everyone’s looking at me. They’re laughing at me. Not just laughing; cackling. My ears are ringing, heart racing, head pounding. Everything is closing in; I feel the desperate need to be anywhere but here.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Miss Hoover asks, standing up. ‘Who did this?’ She rushes over to her laptop.

  The video continues. On and on and on. Miss Hoover faffs. I pick up my bag and race towards the door, as the laughter gets deafening.

  7

  I spend the morning not saying a word. No one even notices. Except Huda. Huda always notices. I told her everything at break, couldn’t say it without crying. She was so pissed. She wanted to find Cleo and attack her. But I persuaded her that wouldn’t make a difference. Cleo would probably get her revenge or get Huda in trouble in return.

  Luckily Huda’s been in the rest of my classes for the day. Unluckily, now we have maths – one of the few classes where we’re with Cleo too. And of course she has once again chosen to sit right behind me. I’ve been coiled tight for the last fifty minutes, waiting for her to do something.

  ‘Are you getting any of this?’ I ask Huda. I’ve had a headache ever since Mr Hawthorne started talking about Pythagoras two minutes into the class. Although that could be another Cleo effect.

  Huda turns and looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘It’s all revision – we’ve been studying this for weeks,’ she says. Maybe a bit condescendingly.

  ‘Not my fault I’m not a brainbox like you,’ I say, a little spitefully. This is one thing about Huda that bugs me. She’s so clever, it’s as if she was born knowing everything, and what she doesn’t already know, she grasps straight away. But she doesn’t get that not everyone is the same as her. In fact, most people aren’t the same as her. We’re both in top set, but I am hanging on by a thread. Part of me wishes they would just move me down, all the way down to foundation level; at least that way I’d have half a chance of passing my maths GCSE, but a bigger part of me enjoys being in this class, enjoys people thinking I’m on the same level as Huda at something.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Huda says. ‘Pythagoras’s theorem is just saying that with any right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides.’

  I stare at her. ‘I did not understand a word you just said.’

  She sighs a little. ‘OK, think of it like this. If you draw a square on each side of a triangle, the square along the longest side always has the same area as the two smaller ones added up.’

  I frown at her. ‘Was that you trying to dumb it down for me? Because, if anything, that was a worse explanation.’

  Huda groans. ‘Argh! Forget it. Just do what you can for n
ow. I’ll help you study later.’ She starts scribbling on the worksheet we’ve been given. The one that looks like it could be in hieroglyphics.

  Screw Huda and her condescension. I’ll show her. I’m going to get all the answers right on this sheet and beat her score. I put my head down and start with the easier questions.

  There’s a loud giggle behind me. Cleo and Imogen are whispering, but I catch the odd word.

  ‘Can you believe … headscarf …?’

  My ears grow hot. Without thinking, I reach up and adjust my scarf to make sure it’s covering my hair fully. As I do, they let out another round of giggles. Louder this time. It makes me want to curl up and disappear completely.

  Huda’s heard it too now. She lifts her head and looks at me. I begged her earlier to leave Cleo alone, to not retaliate. I’ve always thought that if you ignore bullies for long enough, they’ll eventually get fed up and move on. I give Huda a look, telling her to leave it. But she doesn’t listen. She turns around in her chair and looks right at Cleo and Imogen. I want to turn around and look too, just to see what Huda is about to do, but I also want to hide away, knowing that this isn’t going to help things at all.

  ‘I know it must be hard to not laugh when you look at each other’s stupid faces,’ Huda says at full volume. ‘But keep the hyena noises down, yeah? Some of us actually have a chance of passing our GCSEs.’

  The whole class titters. I still don’t turn around, even though I’m dying to see how that’s put Cleo and Imogen in their places – whether they’re feeling as red and hot as I do when they laugh at me.

  I wish I could be like Huda, have that confidence. I’ve never known Cleo to pick on Huda (unless it’s a comeback). She’s never made comments about her headscarf. Why is it just me? Because I’m the weak one. The easy target. I’d love to show them that I’m more than that. That I can rise above their taunts. A part of me just wants to fast-forward five, maybe ten years. To show them that what they’re saying now will have no effect in the future. That their words mean nothing.