Home Girl

by Alex Wheatle

  I didn’t respond. I stared at my meerkat beside me.

  Colleen tried to smile. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “It might help to talk.”

  I thought of Nan, Mum, Dad, and the rest of my fam. “She’s gonna die soon, innit?” I said.

  Colleen moved closer to me.

  “Nan hasn’t got much time left, has she? I haven’t got anybody after her. I don’t know where my dad is . . . or they’re not telling me.”

  Colleen wrapped her arms around me and I placed my head below her chin. I had to go into fight mode to stop my tears.

  There we stayed for the next half hour. I liked that. Sometimes grown-ups always think they gotta say something.

  “I wanna go to sleep now,” I said.

  “Okay,” Colleen said. “Call me if you need me.”

  She got up and switched off the hallway light. I grabbed my meerkat, pressed it tight to my chest, and bawled my little red cotton heart out.

  chapter eight

  Ancient Disco

  “Tavares? Chic? Sister Sledge?” I read, sifting through Tony’s disco CDs. I was crashing on his bed, flinging away CDs that were just all wrong. Framed photographs of Pablo and Sharyna smiled down from the walls. Books on childcare, stories about sad kids, and thrillers about killers filled the shelf overlooking Colleen’s half of the bed. Books about black people—I recognized Martin Luther King from school when we studied Black History Month—rested on the opposite shelf. “This is ancient,” I moaned. “Haven’t you got anything that was made after I was born?”

  “You said you wanted dance music,” said Tony. He leaned against the bedroom door.

  “You’re a black bruv, right?”

  Tony looked at his hand. “Obviously,” he replied.

  “Then how come you haven’t got any new stuff? Have you heard of the Grime Doctors? The Gutter Band? The Road Block Three? Or Medieval Sue? You must’ve heard of her?”

  “Er . . . no,” Tony shook his head. “I like the old stuff. Haven’t you heard of Nile Rodgers?”

  “Who’s he when he’s smoking rockets in the forest?” I wondered.

  Tony shrugged.

  “This is gonna go all Titanic,” I said. “Nats and Kim will be at our gates in half an hour. If I play your stuff their toes will get proper bored and they won’t stay too long. I couldn’t blame ’em.”

  “Naomi, you gave us just two days to sort out this little do,” said Tony. “Colleen’s done wonders in the kitchen. Sharyna and Pablo are blowing up balloons, so at least you can pretend to be grateful.”

  “I’m well grateful, Tony . . . it’s just the music. I mean . . . even pharaohs would say your stuff is too old. I should’ve told Nats and Kim to bring some of their tunes. Maybe Kim will have something on her phone—she’s got a smart phone.”

  “Oh come on, Naomi! My music’s not that bad.”

  “I don’t wanna drop a slab on your feelings, but you need to take a day off, cremate your CDs in the back garden, and step into the fresh millennium.”

  Tony couldn’t block his chuckles.

  “It’s not funny!” Reluctantly grabbing a handful of disco CDs, I made my way down the stairs.

  The smell of spiced fried chicken steam-bombed my nostrils as I entered the kitchen. Plates of crisps and peanuts were on the table. A pot of rice simmered neatly on the cooker. Colleen sprinkled black pepper over the salad that included slices of avocado, cucumber, baby tomatoes, homemade potato salad, and beetroot. There was a plate full of chocolate digestives on the counter near the bread bin. Holding a balloon, Pablo was looking at them as if they were the top-ranking treat in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Colleen had her back turned to him. He looked at the chocolate and glanced at her. He gazed at the snacks again. He licked his lips and sucked in a breath. Suddenly, he Olympic-toed to the plate, jacked two biscuits, hot-stepped out, and bounced up the stairs.

  “What did I say?” Tony said as he came down the stairs. “Don’t put out the biscuits until we serve the chicken and rice.”

  “I wanted to get everything ready,” Colleen answered, then looked at me. “Did any of the CDs tickle your fancy?”

  I gave Colleen a really look. Louise would’ve been proud of me. I took my phone out from my tracksuit pocket and dinged Kim. “Have you left yet?” I asked.

  “Just about to,” she replied. “Nats is putting some stiffening gel in my hair.”

  “Bring some music with ya,” I said. “It’s a 9-9-9. If you can’t, my liccle party’s gonna go down like a fart in a hot lift.”

  “I’m not bringing my CDs, Naoms,” said Kim. “They always go missing when I take ’em out. I haven’t got anything on my mobile but I’ve got my MP3 player.”

  I turned to Tony. “Can you play an MP3 through your laptop?”

  “Er, yes,” he replied. “Think I can manage that.”

  “Thank fruck for that!” I breathed again.

  “Language!” yelled Colleen.

  “You saved my life,” I said to Kim. “Get your ass here in flashtime and make sure Nats comes—she’ll go all toxic on me if I leave her out. It’s my last day here before I fly to the Hamiltons for the weekend.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kim said. “Wherever I go, Nats follows . . . Who are the Hamiltons when they’re blowing their noses in the morning?”

  “I’ll find out tomorrow, innit.”

  “Be careful, Naoms,” warned Kim. “Don’t trust no one. Especially the man of the house.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Kim and Nats arrived. I opened the door and was shocked by Kim’s face. Her left eye looked like a wet slug with big teeth had been nibbling at it and her left cheek had swollen to the size of one of Pablo’s balloons.

  “What pissed-off mother bee sat on your face?” I asked.

  “Oh, some bruv who I crashed into in JDs,” Kim responded, all casual like. “I was just scoping the latest Nikes and brands. He bullshat me about how he’s an apprentice for some top-ranking soccer team, told me I had gorgylicious eyes, and then asked me out. I didn’t give him the reply what he wanted so he started to get all wifey-beater on me. Trust me, he looks more frigged up than I do. I bit his cheek, his shoulder, and his hand. If he didn’t hot-leg it away I would’ve fanged his balls.”

  Nats stared at her feet and was silent behind her.

  I led them into the house.

  Wearing blue leggings, a micro denim skirt, a Marilyn Monroe T-shirt, and a red beret over her multicolored spiky hair, Kim did a proper inspection of the house. “Kinda cool,” she said. She kicked a balloon out of her path. “They could do with one of them house stylists though. But I like the pics on the wall. It’s all very Black History Month. Even Cass should give you ratings for staying here. Maybe I’ll ask my social worker if I can be fostered out to a black fam.”

  Nats followed us into the front room. She smiled when she spotted Sharyna and Pablo swapping insults. “Hello,” she said. “Has Naoms been bossing you around?”

  “Yeah!” laughed Pablo. He watched Kim as if she had arrived from one of them Star Wars planets.

  “No,” said Sharyna, covering her brother’s mouth with her hands.

  “It’s nice to meet you two,” greeted Nats.

  “And nice to meet you too,” said Sharyna.

  Okay. So far so good. Even Nats is being sociable. Kim must’ve had a one-on-one with her.

  Colleen served plates of fried chicken, rice, and salad to everyone. Kim sat next to me at the dinner table. Nats decided to sink her meal standing behind Kim. Pablo plonked himself next to Kim and scoped her up and down with Disney-cartoon eyes. Meanwhile, Tony was having issues linking up Kim’s MP3 player to his laptop.

  “You want some help, Dad?” offered Sharyna.

  “Er, yeah,” Tony admitted. “That’ll be appreciated.”

  Half an hour later, Tony and Sharyna had managed to bully the laptop to play music. Rihanna’s “Man Down” dropped from the computer speaker as Colleen and Nats moved the dining table tig
ht against the wall to create dancing space.

  “The floor’s yours,” said Tony to Sharyna.

  Glancing at Nats, Kim, and me, Sharyna covered her mouth with her palms and blushed. “No, Dad. Not today.”

  “Go on!” Tony shouted her on. “You’re a great dancer.”

  “Yeah, come on, Sharyna,” I said. “I saw you popping moves the other day in your room. You’re the living dancehall queen.”

  Still with her hands covering half of her face, Sharyna shook her head. Kim and Nats turned to me.

  “Naoms, why don’t you pop a move?” Kim hollered at me. “Go on, sistren! You know you want to.”

  I didn’t want to.

  “Yeah,” said Nats. “Take a step, sistren!”

  “You can dance?” Colleen asked me.

  Monkey up a tree with lions below. My heart woke up and started a mad argument with my ribs. All eyes were on me. I didn’t reply.

  “Yeah, she’s bad,” said Nats.

  “Rewind that track!” yelled Kim.

  Sharyna pressed a key to restart the song and flicked up the volume. “Show them your moves, sistren!” shouted Nats.

  I folded my arms and stared at the floor. The fire in my cheeks was so intense I coulda sizzled buffalo wings on ’em.

  Kim grabbed my arms and pulled me up to my feet. “Show ’em what you’re made of, sistren!”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you can dance?” asked Colleen. “Go for it! The floor’s yours.”

  Running into the center of the room with his balloon, Pablo performed his own wild steps. He completed his routine with a Michael Jackson–­­­­like spin, a mad rollover, and an attempt at the splits. He climbed to his feet in a daze but the grin he showboated would’ve won untold sticky stars from Nan. Everyone clapped and roared their approval. Sharyna clicked the restart icon and Kim and Nats started to chant, “Dance, sister, dance! Dance, sister, dance!”

  I flexed my toes and stretched my arms. Monkey in a circus. I haven’t danced for the longest time. I gave an anxious side-eye to Kim. She nodded and blew me a kiss.

  I tried to relax. My first steps were proper nervous but then I went into my Beyoncé mode. Kim and Nats clapped. The others joined in. I performed a couple of spins and a street-dance move before jumping back to land on my feet.

  “Wow!” yelled Tony.

  Confidence Strictly-Come-Danced through me. I did a Beyoncé thing with my hips, performed a high-kicking move, and twirled like a mad ice-skater. Monkey Night Fever.

  “She’s brilliant,” said Colleen.

  “I told ya,” said Kim. “She loves Beyoncé to the max. Her favorite video’s ‘Baby Boy.’ She’s always watching it on YouTube.”

  Kim wasn’t wrong.

  The track came to an end. My lungs told me to sit my ass down. Kim wiped the sweat off my forehead and hugged me tight. “You see!” she said. “No one laughed. Sistrens like us are good at stuff.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Nats flashed envy. Why’s she raging? She was clapping me on.

  “I keep telling her she should do something with her dancing,” Kim said. “But will she listen? No, she doesn’t! She’s got Teflon ears! Nothing sticks.”

  “She’s not lying,” added Nats. Her side-eye jealousy went missing. “Naoms’s dancing has always been on point.”

  “I think she should take it up,” said Colleen. “That was so good.”

  Tony nodded.

  The music stored on the MP3 player only lasted forty minutes.

  “Got anything else?” Kim asked, still sitting beside me.

  “There’s that old disco stuff I told you about,” I said. “Your great-great-grannies might wake up from the dead and boogaloo to it.”

  “Slap it on!” yelled Kim. “Better than fruck-all.”

  “Language!” barked Colleen.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Golding,” Kim said.

  Kim apologizing? That’s a new one.

  Tony pushed the CD into the stereo. He smiled as Sister Sledge’s “Lost in Music” discoed out from the speakers. He did a little dad-dance before total humiliation slapped upside his head. Clapping, Colleen got up and performed the Bump dance with Sharyna. Pablo spun around on his back with two balloons. Nats laughed at him. She couldn’t resist picking him up and dancing with him. Kim sprang to her feet and performed this weird robotic dance where she imitated karate chops, kicks, and punches. She scoped me the whole time. Is she trying to impress me?

  Overdosed on excitement, Pablo ran out and squirreled up the stairs. Moments later he returned carrying two Afro wigs. He flung one at Colleen and threw the other at Tony. “Do the Car Wash!” he screamed.

  “Oh no!” Colleen shook her head. “I’ve embarrassed myself enough already.”

  “Car Wash! Car Wash!” Pablo insisted.

  Dusting off his wig, Tony inspected it before pulling it on; his head was a couple of sizes too big for it. “I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” he said.

  Pablo jumped and cheered. Kim and Nats clenched their right fists and waved them in the air like they just didn’t care.

  Tony looked at Colleen like someone had uploaded pics of them making out for the first time. “Are we really going to get down?”

  “If we do,” Colleen replied, “you better make sure I get up again.”

  To more cheers, Colleen pulled on her wig. Sharyna slapped in the CD. Rose Royce’s “Car Wash” funked out from the speaker. Colleen lined up in front of Tony before stepping to the left and stepping to the right in time to the beat. Three paces back, two steps to the right, three steps forward. Tony followed Colleen in not-so-perfect sync. Another two strides forward while shaking their chests. Tony’s Afro, with a tear near the hairline, slid off the back of his head. Pablo giggled out his ribs. Sharyna cringed in embarrassment, hardly able to watch the Titanic in front of her. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed so hard. I bopped my head while Nats and Kim pumped their fists. “Go, Daddy, go, Mummy!”

  The song faded and we all gave Colleen and Tony a mad ovation.

  “Again!” screamed Pablo. “Again!”

  “No,” said Colleen. “If I do that once more you’ll have to carry me up the stairs or drop me on the sofa.”

  Grabbing another balloon, Pablo ran up to Sharyna, smacked her upside her head, and escaped up the stairs.

  Twenty minutes later, Pablo got bored with the music and played in his bedroom while sinking his looted chocolate biscuits. Colleen started a convo with Kim, Nats, and me in the lounge while Tony was on washing-up duty with Sharyna.

  “I know Naomi’s social worker is trying to place her with adoptive parents,” said Colleen. “How about you two?”

  Kim looked at me. “Good luck with that one,” she said. She switched her beams to Colleen. “Once you’re a teenager, no one’s interested. That’s the low-down truth. People want cute little babies with cute little dimples to adopt.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Nats. “For real. I’ve been on the adoption list since I was twelve. They might as well have put my name down for the first space rocket to Mars. I don’t wanna be adopted now. I keep telling my social worker and my key worker that, but they’re not hearing me. We’ll find someone for you, they say. Don’t worry, they say. There’re parents out there for everyone. No peeps want to adopt teenagers, so bomb that shit.”

  Colleen threw her an I’m not accepting that kinda language look.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Golding.”

  “I don’t care what they say or promise anymore,” said Nats. She gazed at Kim. “As long as I’ve got Kim with me, I’m good. I don’t need them anymore. If they try and separate us, I’ll go to war on them.”

  Colleen nodded. “I see.”

  I think at this point, realization slapped Colleen on her forehead that Kim and Nats were an item. She rode it well.

  “People used to come around to the home and look at us like we’re something in a zoo,” said Kim. “And then they’ll spend the rest of the day reading about ya fr
om some big file. Fruck ’em!”

  “Language, Kim! Come on, girls, I have two young children.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Golding.”

  “Naoms stands more chance of doing a dance video with Rihanna than being adopted,” said Nats. “Why would they promise something when they know they can’t deliver?”

  Kim looked at me hard. “You don’t wanna be adopted, do ya, Naoms? Can’t trust any of these adopting peeps anyway. A lot of ’em are prick fiddlers.”

  I looked at the floor and shrugged.

  “You’ve got these rich people who can’t be bothered to have kids,” said Kim.

  “Some can’t have kids for other reasons, Kim,” Colleen jumped in. “Whether they’re rich or poor.”

  I glanced at Kim. She had that look. She wasn’t gonna let this one go. “Their asses are too stoosh to push,” she said. “But when the fancy takes ’em, they wanna adopt a nice little baby to show off to their rich sistrens. They send messages on their WhatsApp group: Look what we picked up from social services! Aren’t we good people? They push the baby around in a mega buggy in some first-class park and their rich sistrens go oooohh and aaaahh. Then they buy a load of crap for the baby at Christmas that the baby don’t need. Trust me on this one. I’ve seen it. My mum’s friends with a few of those first-class women.”

  “That’s the living reality,” put in Nats. “They’re like designer babies.”

  “They have birthday parties so they can buy more crap and invite their stoosh sistrens around so they can show how much they love their new baby,” resumed Kim. “They text their high-end girlfriends who couldn’t make the party, I bought my baby this and I bought my baby that! Then when they get home they order the nanny to change the baby’s nappy, fling a dummy in its mouth, and make its bottle. That’s what it’s all about. It’s all fru—”

  “Kim!” Colleen raised her voice.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Golding, but it’s true. They don’t give a wet dummy about you when you get big enough and you can speak for yourself.”

  “She’s not lying,” put in Nats. “Those stoosh women should be banned from adopting babies, especially foreign kids.”

  Kim switched her gaze to me. “In this game, our kind have gotta look out for each other. Too many foster carers are too interested in how they look rather than thinking about the kids they say they wanna look after.”