This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Are you quite done there, ladies?’ Mr Hawthorne asks.

  I elbow Huda as she turns around. ‘Why’d you do that?’ I whisper, much quieter than when Cleo and Imogen whisper. I keep an eye on Mr Hawthorne, though he’s gone back to his laptop.

  Huda looks at me, confused. ‘What? They were being dicks.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re always dicks,’ I explain. As if that makes anything better.

  ‘You might be fine with them talking shit about you, but I won’t let them get away with it. No one gets to say mean things about you except me.’

  My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket. A split second later there are a couple of chirps around the room. I look up to check if Mr Hawthorne has noticed, but he’s still looking at something on his laptop. I slide my phone out of my pocket and check the screen in my lap. Whenever I get a text during school hours, part of me freaks out, thinking it’s Ammi. That she’s ended up in hospital or something. Or that something has happened to Ismail.

  It’s not Ammi though.

  Cleo Walters would like to share a photo with you.

  There’s a preview of the image. It’s small, but I recognise it immediately. I’ve seen the video it comes from so many times now. Seen that specific moment repeated over and over. I don’t even need to accept the picture to know it’s of Abbu. From that video. There’s something written over it in a bright yellow scrawl. Part of me wants to open it, to see what she’s written, but judging by the snickering coming from my classmates, it’s better I don’t know.

  Sean O’Reilly, who sits in front of me, turns around, looks right at me and laughs. Being mindful enough to cover his mouth though.

  It’s happening again. A repeat of this morning. The way my ears are heating up, the way my heart is pounding. The way my legs want to get up and run out of the room.

  Huda gets out her phone as I start to get up off my chair. I can’t deal with this. I can’t. I need to get out. I look towards the door and plan my exit route. I’ll have to squeeze past a few people, but it’ll be worth it. Before I can fully stand up, Huda grabs my arm and pulls me back into my seat. She does it so forcefully I know she’s pissed.

  ‘Sir!’ she says, sticking her hand up. ‘Cleo’s being a bitch.’

  I snap my head towards her. ‘What the hell are you doing?!’ I hiss, just as Mr Hawthorne looks up.

  ‘Language, Huda,’ he says lazily.

  ‘Sir, you need to see this,’ Huda continues, ignoring me completely. ‘Cleo is sending out bullying material.’

  My head automatically swivels towards Cleo. She’s sitting there open-mouthed. She’s as shocked as I am, as everyone is. You don’t grass. Especially not in public. Everyone knows that. I can’t believe Huda is doing this.

  ‘Huda, stop, please,’ I say desperately, quietly.

  Instead she lifts her phone in the air. ‘Sir,’ she repeats.

  Mr Hawthorne reluctantly gets up and comes over with a sigh. ‘Watch your language, Huda,’ he says half-heartedly. He takes the phone from her.

  ‘She’s bullying Amani by sharing slanderous memes about her dad.’

  Kill me now. Honestly. This is so fucking embarrassing.

  Mr Hawthorne looks at the photo, then at me. His face is red too. I see a flash of pity there, alongside helplessness. ‘Um … I … This …’ he stutters.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to do something?’ Huda asks.

  ‘I didn’t do shit!’ Cleo says from behind us.

  ‘Language, Cleo,’ Mr Hawthorne says. It really is just automatic for him. He looks up from the phone, to Cleo, to Huda, to me. Imogen’s just sitting there, speechless. She’s probably worried about getting in trouble too.

  Is this it? The moment someone puts a stop to Cleo’s reign of terror?

  The bell rings for the end of class. For the end of school. Everyone around us starts packing up their stuff. But the five of us stay still.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing, sir!’ Cleo proclaims. ‘They’re making this up. There’s no proof!’

  ‘He’s literally just seen what you AirDropped to half the class, you fucking moron,’ Huda says.

  ‘Huda! Language!’ Mr Hawthorne says. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘This is what she does,’ Cleo jumps in. ‘She’s the bully. She’s always blaming me for things I never did.’

  Even I’m shocked at what she’s pulling now.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Huda says, exasperated.

  ‘Huda!’ Mr Hawthorne says again. ‘Don’t make me give you detention.’

  ‘Are you for real?’ Huda finally snaps. ‘You’re gonna punish me, when she’s the one making fun of …’ She turns and looks at me, probably for the first time during this whole discussion. I don’t know what my face is saying, but her expression softens a little.

  ‘Can we go now, please?’ Imogen chirps. ‘We’re going to miss our bus.’

  ‘You don’t even take the bus!’ Huda almost screams.

  ‘Yes, girls, you can go,’ Mr Hawthorne tells Cleo and Imogen. ‘As for you, Huda, I think we need to have to have a serious conversation about your language.’

  ‘That’s what you’re taking away from this?’ she says tightly. ‘I tell you she’s been bullying a student, and your reaction is to tell me off for my language?’

  ‘This is just a photo on your phone, Huda. Can you prove Cleo sent it?’

  Huda sits there, gobsmacked. As do I. I can’t believe what’s happening right now. An actual teacher fobbing us off like this. He’s right though. Cleo will always be one step ahead of me. She’ll always win.

  ‘She sent it!’ Huda screeches. ‘Ask anyone else – they got it too. Amani, c’mon, back me up!’

  ‘I’m just saying –’ Mr Hawthorne starts, trying to defend himself.

  ‘Huda, c’mon, let’s just go,’ I say urgently, tugging on her sleeve.

  ‘If you want to make a serious complaint about bullying, that’s what your form tutor is there for,’ Mr Hawthorne says. ‘I’m just –’

  ‘A fucking waste of space, that’s what you are,’ Huda says before storming out.

  I don’t give Mr Hawthorne another glance before following her, tears beginning to leak from my eyes.

  8

  Huda storms out of the school gates, and I meekly follow. I’m annoyed at her for making a scene, for pissing Cleo off like that, which is guaranteed to have made her more likely to retaliate. Part of me wants to just leave Huda to walk alone. But then … it’s Huda. I could never ditch her. I know what she did was because she was sticking up for me.

  We walk home side by side, not saying a word. It’s only when we’re near the fork in the road where we split up that I start to panic. Abbu was home this morning. He’ll probably still be there now. And he’s probably going to still be in a terrible mood. I don’t want to be around that. Especially not with the way I’m feeling after Cleo’s attacks today.

  ‘Can I come to yours?’ I ask Huda quickly. ‘You said you’d help me with maths, right?’

  I’m scared she’s going to say no. That she’s too annoyed at me for being a pushover to help me study.

  ‘We’re always at mine,’ she says. ‘Can’t we go to yours? I haven’t seen Ismail in ages.’

  My heart jumps into my throat. ‘There’s a reason we’re always at yours,’ I say. ‘Your house has better snacks.’

  Huda laughs, and I relax a little.

  ‘True,’ she says. ‘But your brother is better than any snack in the world.’ She hooks her arm through mine and drags me down the street towards my house. ‘C’mon, I’ve missed him so much.’

  I try to think up excuses in my head, but nothing sounds good enough. ‘But … everything is such a mess … Ammi won’t … She doesn’t like having people over unexpected.’

  ‘It’s only me, she won’t mind. I don’t care about mess; you’ve seen my room. W
hy are you walking so slow? C’mon!’ There’s a renewed sense of enthusiasm in her at the prospect of seeing Ismail. While that’s nice, I’m too filled with panic to appreciate it. All too soon, and before I can think of a better excuse, we’re outside my house. I breathe the biggest sigh of relief when I see that Abbu’s car isn’t in the driveway. Maybe he had a job starting a bit later.

  Suddenly I’m excited to have Huda over. She’s right, it’s been ages. Ismail freaking loves her. She’s like the fun big sister who spoils him, whereas I’m the one who shouts at him when he doesn’t tidy his toys away. I can just picture how his face is going to light up when he sees her. I open the door and walk in. There’s a tiny part of me that worries Abbu really is home, and that something’s happened to his car – stolen, broken down somewhere. But no, luckily his shoes aren’t by the door either. I should be able to relax, but now I’m wondering when he’ll be back. Although … he’s usually on his best behaviour when he’s in public. He’s never so much as raised his voice at Ammi when we’ve got guests. So maybe Huda being here will end up being a good thing. Maybe I should start bringing her round more often.

  ‘Ammi?’ I call out, as I always do when I get in from school. It’s partly to let her know I’m home, and partly because I want to make sure she’s OK.

  ‘In the kitchen!’ she calls back.

  ‘Maaaaani!’ Ismail calls from the kitchen too. I hear a chair scrape and next thing I know he’s bounding down the hallway towards me.

  ‘Maani, we made biscuits at school!’ he yells.

  He comes to a stop when he sees Huda standing next to me. ‘Huda!’ he squeals, voice full of glee. He races over and envelops her.

  ‘Hey, you!’ Huda says, a giant smile on her face.

  OK, yeah, this was definitely worth it.

  ‘What, no hug for me?’ I tease.

  Ismail tries to move from Huda over to me, but she grabs him.

  ‘No. No hugs for Amani. She always gets your hugs. I’m gonna steal all your hugs today.’ She holds Ismail under the armpits and lifts him up into her arms, cuddling him tighter.

  He laps it up, giggling away.

  ‘Not fair.’ I pout. I start fake crying. ‘I’m going to tell Ammi. Ammiiiii!’ I wail, running into the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s get her!’ Huda exclaims, swivelling Ismail around onto her back. She holds on to his legs and gallops after me like a horse.

  Ammi jumps as we barge into the kitchen. She drops the bowl she was holding and presses back against the worktop, her face stretched to a panicked expression.

  Shit.

  ‘Sorry!’ I say. ‘We didn’t mean to scare you …’

  I feel awful. Ammi is cornered, looking terrified. The plastic bowl rolls around on the floor.

  ‘Ammi, look who’s here!’ Ismail says, kicking his heels into Huda’s sides to make her be his horse again.

  ‘Salaam, Auntie,’ Huda says, galloping on the spot.

  ‘Huda, it’s so lovely to see you,’ Ammi says, switching from vulnerable to the face she puts on for everyone else. Her public face. ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘Huda, will you help me and Maani make a video?’ Ismail asks as Ammi picks up the bowl. I notice her wince slightly as she bends. ‘We’re gonna do my fave scene from Frozen. I’m gonna be Olaf!’

  Damn. I forgot I’d promised to do that with him today. He’s gonna be upset if I choose studying with Huda over playing with him.

  ‘Really?’ Huda asks, switching into her kid-friendly amazement voice. She drops Ismail to the ground. ‘That sounds super fun. Can I be Kristoff? I do a really good reindeer impression.’ She demonstrates.

  I always find this transition in Huda amazing. Normally she’s feisty, no-nonsense. But when it comes to little kids, she’s a whole other person. I think it’s from having such a muddled childhood.

  ‘Kristoff’s not the reindeer. That’s Sven!’ Ismail dissolves into a fit of giggles.

  ‘Huda’s come over to study,’ I tell Ammi. I feel the need to explain, because I can guess that although she loves Huda, she’s not over the moon to have company.

  ‘That sounds like a good plan. How are you finding all the exam stress, Huda?’ Ammi asks. ‘I hear you’re planning on taking four A levels.’

  Huda smiles and shrugs. ‘I just can’t choose between all the subjects I like best, and I haven’t got a clue what I’m gonna do after. Thought I might as well enjoy what I’m studying, rather than pushing myself into something I’m not sure about. You know what I mean?’

  Ammi laughs a little. ‘That sounds very wise.’

  This is another thing about Huda that I admire: how she can remain calm, not needing to map out her entire future, while I’m scared shitless by all the lectures telling us that whether we succeed or fail in life comes down to our GCSEs.

  ‘C’mon!’ Ismail says, tugging on Huda’s arm. ‘We need to go make the video!’

  ‘Go on up,’ Ammi says. ‘But only half an hour. You two have got serious studying to do, and Ismail needs to learn his spellings.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ I ask Ammi. ‘We’ll need some snow monsters, if you can think of a way to make some.’

  Ammi considers it, but then looks back at the bowl on the counter. ‘Your dad’ll be back from meeting his boss soon … I need to make dinner.’

  ‘Half an hour. That’s all. I promise.’ I know how much fun she has when we do this. I want to see that smile on her face again.

  ‘C’mon, Auntie, please!’ Huda begs. ‘I want the full Akhtar-family film-making experience.’ She smiles at me, and everything feels right again. Like nothing happened at school today. Like she’s not angry at me for being a pushover, and I’m not angry at her for making things worse with Cleo. It’s like us again.

  Ammi laughs. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  Filming with Huda, Ammi and Ismail is honestly the most fun I’ve had in forever. Ammi makes snow monsters out of cotton wool and toothpicks, and Ismail draws scary faces on them and gives them deep voices as they attack Sven the reindeer, as voiced by Huda playing with Ismail’s Rainbow Dash doll. It’s nothing like the actual scene from Frozen, and I’m laughing so hard that the camera shakes, but it’s the perfect filming session. Ammi enforces the half-hour thing though, and drags a crying Ismail away from my room as Huda and I tidy up and get our textbooks out. We spend the next hour sitting on the floor and studying. Huda explains Pythagoras to me three times before I start to get it. After that, I can actually complete some of the questions on our homework sheet.

  ‘God, Huda, you’re a miracle worker. I might actually pass maths now, thanks to you. Seriously, why aren’t you going into teaching?’

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘Have you thought any more about it?’ I ask. ‘What you wanna do after A levels.’

  She shrugs, turning away from me. ‘That’s two years away. I don’t plan that far ahead.’

  ‘I know, but they keep asking at school, don’t they? Have you had your pastoral meeting yet? Mrs Farook grilled me for ages about what I wanted to do, how I was going to get there, what subjects I needed to do at A level. It was intense.’

  ‘How did you decide?’ Huda asks. ‘That being a vet was what you wanted to do. Like, how did it become … so … fixed … in your head?’

  I panic a little. The teachers always ask how you’re going to get there, but they don’t ask why you want to go there. Or even if that’s really what you want. Say something with enough conviction and anyone will believe you.

  ‘I dunno,’ I say, fiddling with the edge of my hijab. ‘It’s just always been in my head, I guess.’ Planted, and nurtured, by Abbu of course. ‘I guess my dad had a lot to do with it.’ I don’t tell her the full truth. That I’m terrified about this being my future. That I feel trapped. I can’t tell anyone that.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, to divert attention from myself. ‘Are you worried about your meeting?’

  She sighs a little. ‘I’m worried about my life,
Maani.’ She drops the textbook on the floor and leans her head back so it hits the bed. ‘Everyone else seems to just … know … what they want to do with their life. You’ve got your vet shit, Sarah has acting, there’s Kim with her police-officer dream. Everyone seems to be able to see the future clearly. But for me, it’s just … blank.’

  ‘Blank?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were OK with that? What you said downstairs to Ammi, about having the time to figure stuff –’

  ‘It was all bullshit. It’s the stuff I keep saying to myself, to other people, hoping I’ll start to believe it. But I’m freaking out, Maani. I had my pastoral meeting the other day. And she was not happy with me saying I had no fucking clue what I want to do with my life.’

  ‘But … I mean, it’s not really a big deal …’ I say lamely. ‘You’ve got … You’re so good at so many things. You can make a career out of something you enjoy doing?’

  ‘Like watching Netflix?’ She gives me a sad smirk.

  ‘No, come on, we can work this out. Let’s do like that episode of Friends – make a list of jobs and see which one you like.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I did that with Mrs Farook. She gave up because nothing seemed right to me.’

  I want to tell her that I’m feeling the same. That I’ve locked in this future for myself, knowing it’s wrong. Like a puzzle piece that I’ve hammered into place. But maybe there’s something else I’d be better at doing. Maybe something like … making videos.

  ‘I wouldn’t care,’ Huda continues sadly, ‘but it just emphasises the fact that there’s something wrong with me.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ I ask.

  ‘Everyone else knows, Amani. Everyone else can picture their future. I grew up moving between homes, never sure how long each place would last, always being yanked away just as I got comfortable. I learned not to expect anything. Not to make long-term plans. Once, one of the carers I was living with promised to take me to Thorpe Park in the summer holidays. I looked forward to that for months. And then one of her own kids got really sick, and I got moved homes. I asked the new lady if we could go, but she didn’t give a shit.’