This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  God, does he have to be so harsh? It’s only my dreams he’s crushing here. Well, Abbu’s dreams.

  ‘Now, go back to your desk, Amani. I still have loads of these to get through.’

  I don’t want to get up. I want to just sit here and wallow. Beg Mr Cavanaugh to give me a different grade. Wait for him to realise that this has been a mistake, or maybe he mixed up the papers. Something that will prove this isn’t real. But I can sense his agitation. I can basically hear the clock ticking, and the impatience radiating off my classmates behind me. I take my red marked paper and retreat to my desk.

  ‘What did you get?’ Stacey asks when I sit back down. She tries to look at my paper, but I slam it face down on the table.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ she says, less interested now. ‘Don’t worry. Can’t be as bad as I did. I know I bombed. I spent the last fifteen minutes literally just staring at the empty lines. I didn’t have a clue what to write.’

  ‘Stacey?’ Mr Cavanaugh calls from the front.

  ‘Pray for me,’ she jokes before walking up.

  I don’t try to listen to their conversation, don’t crane my neck to see the big red number on the front of her page. I just sit immobile in my chair, feeling my world crashing down around me.

  Someone’s phone chirps on the other side of the room. Normally Mr Cavanaugh would confiscate it, but he’s busy with Stacey. Someone else’s phone chirps. Then another. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s only the fact that everyone else is doing it that forces me to make my arms take out my phone. The simple movement makes my body ache.

  I light up my screen.

  There’s a new post on the Burn Blog.

  BLITHE ACADEMY BURN BLOG

  C’mon guys, you didn’t think last week was a one-off, did you?

  Of course not!

  You’ll be seeing much more of me …

  And everyone will be seeing a lot more of YOUR secrets …

  There’s only 17 days left of school.

  Only 17 more days we have to spend around each other.

  Before FREEDOM.

  (For those of us clever enough to pass our exams – here’s looking at you, Ezra Fitzgerald)

  And so why not make those last days the

  BEST WE CAN!

  And what better way to do that,

  than to get to know each other better?

  Today is a special edition of the Blithe Academy Burn Blog.

  Two for the price of one.

  Last week you got a very

  intimate

  look at Miss Popular,

  Shit Pants Walters herself.

  Now let’s move on to her two most loyal subjects.

  Suzie Babble

  and

  Imogen O’Donnell

  I wonder,

  do they even have a life outside of Cleo?

  What have they been doing since their leader has been off school buying new underwear?

  There’s a reason I’ve grouped Suzie and Imogen together today.

  Because that’s what Ezra Fitzgerald has been doing.

  Having it off with them both.

  Not together, obvs.

  (He wishes!)

  I know best friends like sharing things,

  but normally they both know about it.

  Might wanna get yourselves tested, girls.

  Who knows where else Ezra’s dick has been?

  (Probably in a jar of peanut butter.)

  As for the rest of you,

  keep an eye on your inbox, because

  I’ll be back.

  (Please read that in an Arnie voice.)

  I wonder

  WHO

  my next target will be?

  21

  We’re at Huda’s house. I’ve spent most of the day in a bit of a haze after the talk with Mr Cavanaugh – trying to ignore it, but failing. Huda apologised to me profusely at lunchtime, and I had to stop her mid-speech to ask what she was apologising for.

  ‘You were right,’ she told me. ‘I shouldn’t have gone on the slip ’n’ slide. It’s going against everything I wanted to do with the Perfect Daughter plan.’

  She didn’t get in trouble, as it turns out. She managed to hide in the loos as Mr Bach chewed everyone else out. I don’t think anyone got in any real trouble.

  She practically dragged me to her house after school. She’s suddenly desperate to get this Perfect Daughter plan running properly. I didn’t argue. Anything that keeps me out of my house is good. Anything that keeps me out of my house while I’ve got a biology paper with a big fat 3 written on it is even better.

  Huda really wanted to cook Ali and Nafisah dinner. She found a recipe online for biryani, which is currently one of Nafisah’s constant cravings, and wouldn’t let me do a thing to help her. I had to stand on the sidelines and force myself not to jump in to stop her adding so much salt. It’s hard being a spectator. The biryani’s keeping warm in the oven now, and so we’ve moved on to cleaning. She spent a whole fifteen minutes going through and understanding each cycle on the washing machine, learning what the buttons do. I would laugh, but she’s taking it so seriously it’s endearing. You can tell she really thinks this will work. She’s even been taking notes. Like, real life, written-in-pen notes. In a notepad. It’s adorable.

  ‘OK, so do I just cover everything in washing-up liquid now?’ she asks, looking into the dishwasher she’s just loaded.

  ‘I can’t tell if you’re joking …’

  She pauses for a second. ‘Um … course I am. Ha! Gotcha … Dishwasher tablet, right? Where does that go?’

  I point to the little hatch for the tablet and she puts one in, closing it with a click. I give her a light round of applause.

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she laughs, rolling her eyes.

  The dishwasher starts with a gurgle and she comes to sit on the bar stool next to me.

  ‘God, I’m knackered,’ she says. ‘It’s a tough gig being a Perfect Daughter, innit?’

  I wouldn’t know, I want to say. I smile instead. ‘If you think loading the dishwasher is hard, you’re in for a shock when you start actual cleaning. That turmeric you spilled all over the counter is going to take some scrubbing.’

  ‘Ughhhhhhhhhh,’ Huda whines, tilting her head back dramatically. ‘This better be worth it.’

  ‘You know they’ll still love you without all this, right?’ I say. ‘Like, how well you can load a dishwasher doesn’t mean anything.’ I put as much emotion behind these words as possible.

  She sighs. ‘Yeah, you said. Over and over. It’s not gonna hurt though, is it? Like, it’ll be one less reason for them to want rid.’ She puts on a gruff voice I assume is meant to be Ali’s. ‘Might not love her as much as the new baby, but the girl sure can cook and clean. Worth keeping just for a good meal.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be a Perfect Daughter, not a servant,’ I say, digging my elbow into her side.

  She doesn’t reply. I can tell she’s slipped into her melancholy self. I need to bear in mind how much this means to her. This isn’t the time for jokes.

  ‘Have you thought about talking to them about this?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ she says quietly after a few moments. ‘It’s such a … weird thing to bring up. So heavy, y’know?’

  She sounds hesitant, which shows me there’s a chance I might get through to her. I jump on it. ‘Yeah, but it’s like ripping off a plaster. Just endure the pain of one conversation and everything will be so much better. They’ll understand, I promise you.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I just don’t want them to hate me. For ruining what we’ve got. The situation works so perfectly for us all.’

  ‘Well, it’s not perfect if you’re feeling like this,’ I point out. ‘So insecure, so scared. So … prepared to wash dishes.’

  She doesn’t laugh, or make a joke, like I expect her to. She just starts talking faster. ‘You really think I should talk to them?’ she asks. ‘Tell them how everything is getting
to me. How unhappy I am.’

  ‘Yes! Absolutely.’

  ‘Should I tell them, Amani? Should I open up that conversation? You really think that talking through everything is the best answer?’

  ‘I do. I really do. I don’t think anything bad can ever come from talking through your problems. And Ali and Nafisah are so –’

  ‘You’re not getting it, are you?’ She sounds frustrated. She turns to look at me and all I can do is stare because I have no clue what she’s talking about, what caused her mood to turn.

  ‘You should take your own advice,’ she tells me. ‘Talk to your parents about everything.’

  I turn my head away from her, look down at my fingers in my lap. I can’t believe she’d bring that up, now. Use that against me.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t say anything,’ I mumble.

  ‘I won’t, you know I won’t. But you’re the one harping on about talking about your worries. You can’t tell me that’s the best thing to do and not do it yourself. That makes you a hypocrite.’

  ‘It’s not the same at all,’ I say, anger rising inside me. ‘Me talking to my parents, or anyone, about anything could make my entire family fall apart –’

  ‘Right, same,’ she cuts in.

  ‘It’s not … that’s not … You can’t be saying our situations are the same?’

  There’s no way she’s comparing her loving, caring foster parents to my abusive father.

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ she says softly. ‘I would never. Ugh, I know I’m being a brat, getting so frustrated by my situation when yours is so …’

  ‘So much worse, you can say it,’ I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood again.

  ‘No, but it is,’ she says. ‘But you can … you can change it.’

  ‘Let’s not,’ I say, cutting her off once and for all. ‘Please let’s not.’

  ‘Amani, I –’

  ‘Hey, did you see the blog post today?’ I ask quickly, knowing it’ll distract her. ‘So crazy about Ezra, Suzie and Imogen, right? Did you catch their reactions or anything?’

  ‘I know what you’re doing.’ She pauses, and I look around for the fastest route to the door, because I will straight up run out of here if she brings Abbu up again. ‘But I’ll go along with it,’ she finishes with a smile. ‘I didn’t get to see the witches’ reaction. I so wish I had. It would’ve been epic. Hopefully someone filmed it.’

  ‘First Cleo, now them. It’s weird, no?’ I ask, relaxing now that the danger of heavy conversation is over. ‘I wonder who’s behind it. Someone who hates that group, I’m sure.’

  ‘I asked all the prank people and no one has a clue. Plus, pretty much everyone hates them, so that’s no help. They’re trash people.’

  ‘Huda …’

  ‘The blog itself was a shit one today though, don’tcha think?’ she says quickly, stopping me from telling her not to be so mean about Cleo and her coven. I don’t know why my instinct is to stop her bad-mouthing them.

  ‘I was really hoping for something hilarious and embarrassing like Cleo’s. I hope whoever’s writing it steps it up a notch soon. Ooh, speaking of … Do you think they’ve updated their relationship statuses?’ Huda pulls out her phone and starts swiping away.

  I laugh. ‘You mean on Facebook? Does anyone even use that any more?’

  ‘Hmm, you’re right. I wonder if they’ve done one of those “no one understands me” Snaps, to get everyone to reply “you OK hun?” and “you’re better off without him”.’

  ‘I mean, they are better off without him. I can’t believe he was going out with them both. Best friends are never a good idea.’

  ‘Good to know you’ll never go after anyone I’m with,’ she says, still swiping and tapping away.

  ‘Find anything?’ I ask. I hate that I’m curious, but whatever came over me when Cleo’s secret was revealed has resurfaced.

  ‘Nah, not on theirs. Ezra’s posted a snap with one of those tongue-out crazy emojis though.’

  ‘It sucks that he’s getting off so lightly here,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s the one who’s been cheating. And while they’re being slut-shamed, he’s probably getting high fives from his mates. God, I hope the blog gets him again, but with something worse.’

  ‘Oh, look at you, Miss “I don’t care about this blog”,’ Huda laughs.

  I roll my eyes. ‘You got me caught up in it. Anyway, look, those lovely yellow gloves and that bottle of Flash are calling you. Get to it, Huda-rella.’

  ‘Ugh, fine.’ Huda pulls the gloves on and grabs the bottle of cleaning spray, holding it like a gun, with both hands. ‘Turmeric spills are no match for Perfect Daughter,’ she declares in a deep voice. She aims the nozzle at the counter and squeezes.

  Huda spends the next half an hour furiously scrubbing every surface in the kitchen. She even wipes the ceiling. The ceiling! I watch from the breakfast bar. We chat about everything and nothing. I even make up some fake cheerleading chants to motivate her.

  ‘Thanks for today,’ Huda says when she finally sits down.

  I know it should be me that’s saying thanks. Helping Huda has been the best distraction. Although … maybe that’s a bad thing. Should I be ashamed of escaping the house at any opportunity I can get? Oh God, what if this is making it worse for Ammi? Maybe me being home helps. Stops Abbu from …

  I’m distracted from my thoughts by the front door opening.

  ‘I’m hoooooooome,’ Nafisah sing-songs. There’s the sound of her wiping her feet on the mat before the door closes, and her keys jangle as she drops them on the table. The entrance is in direct sight of the door to the kitchen, so when Nafisah takes her coat off and looks up, she sees us standing staring at her.

  ‘Salaam, girls, you OK?’ she asks. ‘It has been a long day at work, I am desperate for some –’ She breaks off and starts sniffing the air. ‘Is that … biryani I smell?’ She walks into the kitchen, still sniffing, and finally notices the yellow rubber gloves on Huda’s hands. ‘What …? What is going on in here?’ The confusion in her voice is hilarious.

  ‘Ta … dah?’ Huda says slowly, doing some jazz hands. The gloves flap noisily and Huda takes them off.

  ‘You’re … cleaning?!’ Nafisah asks. She looks around the kitchen, her eyes opening wider and wider as she takes it all in.

  I expect Huda to make some sort of joke, to brag about her efforts, or something. But she’s just standing there silently. It’s weird. I look at her and her gaze is locked on Nafisah. Her desperation to please Nafisah tugs at my heart.

  ‘Yes, that is biryani you smell,’ I tell Nafisah. ‘Made from scratch by Huda. She wouldn’t even let me chop anything. She’s put the dishwasher on too. And a load of washing. She’s been working since we got home from school.’ Huda shoots me a quick glance, as if she’s annoyed. But I’m not going to apologise for sticking up for her, being proud of her. Showing Nafisah that she should be too. I don’t need to show her though; she already is. I can tell.

  ‘You … you cooked biryani?’

  ‘I know how much you’ve been craving it,’ Huda says quietly. ‘I don’t know if it’ll be any good or whatever … I think I added too much –’

  ‘You made biryani just for me?’ Nafisah asks, her voice catching.

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ Huda says slowly.

  Nafisah lets out a little yelp/sob and lunges towards Huda, wrapping her into a big hug. ‘Oh my God, Huda, you are the best! I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.’

  I watch as Huda’s face adjusts to the situation. Her expression relaxes from surprise into a smile. She lets herself hug Nafisah back. The sight makes me tear up. As much as I think this was all unnecessary, that this love between them would exist without biryani, it’s lovely to see Huda feeling good. Feeling loved. I have to blink to keep the tears away.

  ‘Are you just extra hormonal today?’ Huda laughs as Nafisah pulls away, revealing her face soaked with tears.

  Nafisah laughs a little and wipes her nose with the
back of her hand. ‘It’s just so …’ She pauses. ‘Biryani, Huda. I can’t believe you went to all that trouble.’ She looks around the room. ‘This place is freaking spotless. Have we unlocked a new talent?’ She looks at Huda and smiles mischievously. ‘Rookie mistake, Huds – you’re gonna be in charge of cleaning the kitchen now, you know that, right? Hang on … Did you clean the ceiling?!’

  Huda laughs once. ‘I was … happy to,’ she says quietly.

  Nafisah takes another sniff. ‘Oh God, that smell is making me salivate. Can we eat it now?’ She walks over to the oven and opens the door, taking another great big sniff. ‘Huda, this smells amazing. I didn’t know you could cook! You’re only telling us this now? Sneaky!’

  Huda’s smile drops a little.

  Nafisah takes the dish out of the oven with the oven gloves and places it on the stove.

  ‘Geez, if I knew you were this crazy over biryani, I would have made it ages ago.’ Huda pauses, watching Nafisah. ‘Are you … are you crying? What is it? Does it look gross? Oh God, I did add too much salt, didn’t I?’ Huda rushes over, gets out a fork to taste it, but Nafisah grabs her hand instead.

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ she says, full-on sobbing now. ‘It’s just … just …’ She holds Huda’s hand and pulls it to her chest, looking at Huda’s face concentratedly. ‘We really got lucky with you, didn’t we?’ she says softly.

  Surprise blooms on Huda’s face.

  ‘I’ve had such a tiring day and … to come back to this … I just … I love you, Huda …’ Nafisah tries to carry on but she’s overcome with emotion.

  Huda pulls her into another big hug, cuddling her as close as the baby bump will let her.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Huda says, a laugh and tears mixed into her words. ‘This baby is making you soppy.’

  Nafisah laughs too. I stand at the side of the room with my phone out, filming the scene, feeling emotional myself. I’m so glad that Nafisah gave Huda the recognition she so needs. I can tell that just those few words, from an overly emotional pregnant lady, mean the world to Huda (and she will deny that it made her cry, but I have video proof). There’s something else rising within me though. A bitter feeling. Watching Huda and Nafisah makes me … sad. I can’t remember the last time Ammi got so happy over anything, let alone something small like biryani and a clean kitchen. Even when we’re doing things she seems to enjoy, like filming videos or playing a new nonsense game Ismail’s created, her joy is always fleeting. Her smile always fades, replaced by worry. Nafisah has the biggest grin on her face, pure joy in her voice. When was the last time Ammi was as happy as this? More importantly, when was the last time I did something to make her smile? Huda roped me into this scheme to teach her to be a Perfect Daughter, but have I even been a GOOD daughter lately?