This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  Ammi and Abbu have moved into the kitchen. I don’t really want to go in while they’re both there – I like having the image of them laughing together in my head, and I’m worried things will have changed already, but I legit think I might faint from hunger if I don’t.

  ‘Hey, moyna,’ Abbu says as I walk in.

  My entire body relaxes. I look over to him, standing in the doorway to the dining room, and he’s smiling. He’s got some papers in his hands.

  I smile back. ‘I was just gonna get a snack.’

  ‘Dinner will be ready soon,’ Ammi says. I try to examine her voice, but I can’t quite judge what mood she is in by her tone. Her words are neutral too. She’s so used to hiding her feelings.

  My stomach rumbles so loud, the noise basically echoes around the room.

  Abbu laughs. ‘I guess there’s no point telling you to wait, is there?’

  ‘Just a snack, I promise,’ I tell Ammi. I see she’s placed her new bread maker front and centre on the worktop, where the toaster used to be. I smile as I open the cupboard beneath it for a snack.

  ‘So, did you figure it out yet?’ Abbu asks.

  I raise my head, thinking he’s talking to me, but he’s looking at Ammi.

  ‘I told you, I don’t remember.’

  ‘How can you not remember?’ he asks, looking at the papers in his hand. ‘You took a hundred pounds out. You must remember what you spent it on.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she says quietly. ‘Not all of it anyway. I just used it for bits and pieces. Nothing special.’

  ‘Then why bother getting cash out?’ he asks. ‘Everywhere accepts cards these days. There must have been some reason you got cash out of the account.’

  ‘Maybe I thought it was my account,’ she says, a bit flustered. ‘I probably didn’t realise it was the joint one.’

  Abbu huffs a little. ‘I still don’t see why you need your own account. Why can’t you put your wages into this account? Or better yet, quit your job altogether.’

  Oh God. It’s starting. The goodness from this morning is fading already. This subject is always one that sets off a fight between them. Abbu really wants Ammi to leave her job as a cashier at Morrisons, but it’s one of the only things she stubbornly refuses to do. Luckily Abbu doesn’t go … that far … on the topic. Normally, anyway.

  ‘We’ve been over this,’ Ammi says, her voice steeling a little. ‘I enjoy my job. I like getting out of the house. We agreed that as long as it doesn’t get in the way of anything, it’s fine.’

  Abbu doesn’t answer, just shuffles the papers in his hands. Silence engulfs the room again, but not in a good way. Now that the topic of Ammi’s job has been brought up, the air is crackling with tension. I have a feeling things are only going to get worse. I need to neutralise. I close the cupboard door, having only taken a single biscuit to nibble on.

  ‘Um, I think some of that money was for me,’ I tell Abbu. I take a bite of the biscuit so my speech becomes garbled, just in case he pulls apart the lie I’m about to tell; I can say he misheard. ‘I needed some money for school, for, um, the … prom. Yeah, I left it too late to pay by card, so I had to ask Ammi for some cash. I’m really sorry. I should have asked you, but I thought you might … I mean, I didn’t want to disappoint you. It was my fault. I’m sorry.’

  I wait. Ammi waits. I don’t look at her. I know she’ll play along. We both know this is the only way to end this argument. Abbu would never get mad if it’s something for school. I mentally kick myself for not pretending it was to do with something academic, rather than social, but hopefully he won’t ask too many follow-up questions.

  He looks up, settling his gaze on me. I feel myself starting to sweat. I try to look as genuinely apologetic as possible. Eventually he sighs and folds up the papers. ‘Next time ask me instead, OK?’

  I nod. ‘Sorry, Abbu.’

  ‘And Shirin,’ he adds, turning to Ammi, ‘if you ever need money for anything, come to me. It’s what I’m here for. I really think it’s best to close that sole account of yours. We’ll be able to keep track of our finances better if it’s just one account.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ Ammi basically whispers.

  Abbu beams, slaps the folded-up pile of papers in one palm and then moves from leaning against the door frame to standing up straight. His entire posture, his entire demeanour has been transformed by Ammi’s vague promise. ‘Great!’ he says. ‘I’m going to watch TV. Dinner smells good – can’t wait. You know how much I love your aubergine curry.’

  I look over at Ammi bent over the sink, washing some rice, and watch the smile bloom on her face from his compliment.

  30

  I’m running late for registration – Huda spent the whole walk to school telling me how happy Ali and Nafisah were about the nursery. They’re planning to build the cot together tonight. Her words made me smile, but, man, that girl can chat. I have to jog, and get to my form room just as the bell rings. As I open the door, someone bumps right into me. I instantly apologise, even though they were in the wrong. But then I look up.

  It’s Cleo.

  She’s back.

  She looks at me, fury on her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again. Quieter this time. My heart’s pounding, just being in her presence. My brain can’t help but relive all the times I’ve been in a similar situation. Standing in front of Cleo Walters, waiting for her to unleash some horrible words, to make fun of me for … anything, waiting for her to make me feel like crap. My ears start burning, knowing that the rest of the form are probably watching us, waiting for the drama to begin. God, why can’t she just get it over with?

  ‘Going to the loo, Cleo?’ someone shouts from the corner. ‘Hope you make it in time!’

  Cleo’s face heats up, the red spreading across her cheeks. She takes another look at me, and I expect her to say something. Anything. But she just … turns around and walks to her seat at the back of the room, with her head down.

  What just happened? Not once has she missed an opportunity to make a dig. It only hits me then. Is her reign of terror over? Just because of a blog post? I glance at her as I walk to my own seat. Her whole demeanour has changed. Before, she used to walk around with her head up, defying anyone to even look at her wrong; she’s now cowering. Walking like … like I do when I’m around her.

  ‘Cleo’s back!’ Maggie whispers excitedly as I drop my bag onto the floor under our desk. I’ve never seen her this animated this early. She’s actually sitting up in her chair, rather than slouching, or slumped over the table sleeping.

  ‘I saw,’ I reply.

  ‘She walked in literally twenty seconds ago and the guys have already made, like, five poo jokes.’

  I don’t respond, just sit down and get my chemistry revision book out.

  ‘Also,’ Maggie half whispers, half shouts as she leans in close, ‘did you hear about Ezra?’ She cranes her neck to look to the back of the room, where Cleo, Imogen and Suzie normally sit together. But today they’re not. Cleo sits hunched in a chair at her usual desk, but she’s alone. Imogen too is sitting alone at another desk, not looking at Cleo or acknowledging her presence. Suzie is three tables away. The coven has officially broken up.

  ‘Apparently Ezra’s chosen Imogen as his one and only.’ Maggie sniggers. ‘And that’s not even all. Suzie went batshit when he told her. She went to his house and egged it. She was so drunk she even put it on Snapchat.’

  I roll my eyes, but Maggie’s too preoccupied watching the others to notice. It’s getting to me now. All the gossip. Everyone’s obsession with other people’s secrets and their downfalls. I don’t expect us all to be best friends, but what’s the harm in letting people just get on with their lives?

  ‘It’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs,’ I say, aware that I sound like a toddler. ‘We don’t even know if any of this stuff is true. That blog could be making up shit about people, for all we know.’

  I think back to what Huda said yesterday, ab
out how no one’s denied any of the accusations so they must be true. I can’t bring myself to believe that. Just because you don’t deny something doesn’t make it true – that seems like such childish thinking.

  ‘Duh,’ Maggie replies. ‘Of course it’s all true. Who would bother making up such stupid lies? They’re probably having all the lols, while we watch on.’

  ‘I can think of much better things to watch,’ I say.

  ‘Like your media studies coursework?’ she asks, slouching down in her chair again, realising there won’t be any more drama. ‘How’s it going anyway? Can I see the final edit?’

  We chat a bit about our coursework. Though I love having her to discuss this stuff with, Maggie’s always vague about her project. The only thing I know is that it’s about her sister. Her voice goes all soft when she talks about it. It makes me wonder whether I should be doing something more personal for my coursework. Is that the way to get better grades? I’ve been considering changing things up for my YouTube channel – as much as I love making Disney re-enactment videos for Ismail, I’d like to diversify, in terms of both content and technique. I know I’m cutting it fine, but maybe this coursework is the place to experiment. After all, this project is basically the last big thing I’ll be able to do before I’m resigned to only studying science, and careening down the path to becoming a vet.

  31

  I swear to God, I’m going to destroy that countdown. The number 15 taunts me as Huda and I walk to the library for a careers fair that’s been put on for all the Year Elevens. I give the notice board a kick as Huda peers into the library.

  ‘Can we just skip?’ Huda asks, turning to me.

  I stand up straight, as if I wasn’t just kicking a piece of wood.

  ‘I mean, no one’s gonna be taking register,’ she adds.

  I stare towards the building; there are posters on the windows shouting ‘CAREERS FAIR’, with clip-art smiley cartoons carrying briefcases or wearing lab coats or fixing taps below.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I tell her. ‘It’ll be … fun?’ Our PSHCE teacher told us there’d be tests to see what careers we’re suited to. That part intrigued me.

  She cocks an eyebrow. ‘You have a warped sense of fun.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Think of this as a Perfect Daughter lesson. You’ve admitted you’re worried about the fact you don’t know what to do after school. Maybe this careers fair will help you figure that out. Didn’t you say you wanted to show Ali and Nafisah that you have ambition and whatever?’

  ‘Ugh, I hate it when you throw my own words back at me,’ Huda groans.

  ‘Also when I’m right,’ I add. I link arms with her and drag her along.

  The library has been transformed – there are stations focusing on various types of jobs, tables with guest speakers standing by to tell us about different career pathways, piles and piles of leaflets that’ll end up in the bin within hours. So much information, so much choice, just buzzing around the room. I don’t need the choice though. I already have a plan. Nothing can change that. No matter how much I wish something would.

  ‘Do you think I’m the only one?’ Huda asks as she picks up a leaflet about the army, telling her to ‘Be the Best’. ‘Who doesn’t have a clue. I mean, you’ve got your vet stuff, a bunch of people in my English class already know they wanna be journalists or authors. Everyone seems to have their shit figured out. How do you get there? How can I get there?’

  I want to tell Huda I’m almost as lost as she is, but I can’t. If I actually say the truth out loud, that I don’t want to be a vet, that really I want to get into film-making … I feel like everything will fall apart. Everything in my life is already so precarious, I can’t rock the boat. So instead I grab Huda by the arm again and pull her along, ignoring her question. ‘Come on, let’s go try those career tests. Maybe that’ll help you.’

  I drag her past the table with information about Jobcentre Plus, the one about jobs in the NHS and a display all about the different roles in the police force. We walk past a woman with a clipboard giving out free branded stress balls in return for people’s personal information. At the back of the library, there’s a bank of computers reserved for an online career test that takes into account your strengths and interests and spits out the perfect career for you. I tell Huda I’ll do the test to keep her company, because even though I’m set in my path, there’s still a part of me that’s really curious about what my result will be.

  We sit down next to each other. The tests are already loaded on the screen, and Ms Powrie is watching over everyone. I wonder if she always wanted to be a PE teacher, or whether she was pushed into it. How many teachers actually want to become teachers?

  ‘Ready to discover your future?’ I ask Huda in a spooky voice.

  ‘Someone once told me you can’t count on the future,’ she says. ‘The present’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘Well, at this present moment, your task is to work out your future,’ I say. ‘Why are you having such a hard time with this? All the other Perfect Daughter lessons worked out for you, didn’t they? You were happy to build a changing table, but God forbid you take a simple test that might actually help you.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Huda shakes her head. ‘I just … I can’t put my finger on it. Where the frustration is coming from. I just … I’m not used to the future being fixed, y’know? I think part of me feels like if I make a plan, follow a specific path, then I’ll just be a bit devastated when it doesn’t work out. When I fuck it up.’

  I pinch her arm. ‘You’re not gonna fuck it up.’

  ‘Language!’ Ms Powrie snaps from a few rows away. Supersonic hearing must be a requirement to be a teacher.

  ‘Just go with your saying then,’ I whisper. ‘Focus on the present. Focus on you wanting to create a future. Don’t think about how you’re going to get there, or all the things that could go wrong. Just focus on the fact that you want this.’

  Huda just stares blankly at the computer screen.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, just do the test, else I’ll do it for you. And with my luck, your future career will turn out to be, like, old-lady back scratcher.’

  Huda laughs, and finally puts her hand on the mouse.

  We spend the next ten minutes answering questions like whether we want to work alone or as part of a team (we both say team), whether we like working with visuals or words (I pick visual, Huda picks words), whether we want to help other people (I’m neutral, Huda strongly agrees). We compare our answers and call each other out on bullshit – like when Huda says she hates kids, I remind her of all the times she’s been with Ismail and enjoyed it. And then, after what feels like hundreds and hundreds of questions, there’s a big green button down at the bottom of the screen. Huda presses hers first. We wait anxiously for a few seconds while the wheel spins.

  ‘I bet you get something to do with writing,’ I tell her. ‘Journalism maybe.’ She’s been working on the yearbook, and taking things way too seriously. She’d be brilliant working on a real publication.

  ‘I’m sort of hoping for old-lady back scratcher, now you’ve mentioned it.’

  I give her another pinch. She laughs and twists away from me. Her page refreshes.

  ‘A dog breeder?!’ she exclaims.

  ‘What?!’ I say, leaning forward to see her screen better.

  Huda points at the list of ten careers. Dog breeder is indeed number one. I scan the list, looking for something that sounds even slightly like something she might enjoy.

  ‘Oh, there, look – counsellor. You’d be good at that. God knows you sort my life out enough.’

  ‘That’s number four,’ she points out. ‘Way down on the list. Apparently I’d make a better dog breeder.’

  ‘Well … I mean …’ I stutter. ‘Maybe you’ll breed the best dog ever?’ I mean it as a joke, but I cringe as soon as the words come out.

  ‘I don’t even LIKE dogs! God, I knew this would be a waste of time,’ Huda huffs. She angrily force-powers the
computer off. ‘What about you then? What kind of animals are you going to breed?’

  I click on my green button and we wait. ‘I hope it’s peacocks,’ I say, trying to add some lightness to the situation. I can tell Huda is really disappointed by the lack of clarity given by the test. I want to reassure her, to console her, but I also know Huda. She’s not in the mood to be consoled. If I even try to make something good out of this result, she’ll just get angry, and I can’t diss the test, because I forced her to take it.

  My screen loads.

  Number-one career suggestion: photographer/videographer.

  A shiver of something runs through my body. Excitement? Pleasure? Fear?

  ‘Huh, yours wasn’t close either,’ Huda says. ‘Unless you wanna take videos of sick animals.’

  It’s there. Number one. The thing I’m apparently most suited to becoming. What my skills are geared towards. It’s … reachable.

  ‘Although I guess yours was better than mine,’ Huda says, picking up her bag off the floor. ‘At least you like doing that shit in your spare time. Could be a good hobby to go with your actual job.’

  She stands up. I’m supposed to stand up too, but I can’t stop looking at that top entry. I can’t pinpoint what’s making me feel like this. I’ve never really dared to dream that it could be possible. That I could make this into a career. That I could do what I wanted, instead of following in Abbu’s footsteps. But this … this makes it seem … achievable.