‘Ismail! Don’t snatch!’ Ammi says. ‘I would’ve given you one if you’d just asked.’
Ismail doesn’t reply, just shoves half the biscuit in his mouth.
My five-year-old cousin, Idrees, comes up to Ammi. ‘Please could I have a biscuit, please?’ he asks, in a rather adorable voice.
Ammi smiles and passes him a biscuit.
‘Thank you, khala,’ he says, again adorably, before walking off.
‘Such good manners,’ Ammi says.
Ismail returns, still chewing, and holds his hand out for another biscuit.
‘What do you say?’ Ammi prompts.
‘I want a biscuit.’
‘What’s the magic word?’ Auntie Kameela joins in.
Ismail looks from her to Ammi. Then gives Abbu a glance. He considers it for a second before lunging for the open tin that’s sitting on the table next to Ammi. He manages to grab a fistful of biscuits, knocking over Auntie Kameela’s cup of tea in the process. Auntie Kameela jumps up with a squeal, and Ismail takes the chance to slip out of the room with his snacks. I hear his and Idrees’s small feet running up the stairs.
Abbu tuts. He looks over disapprovingly. But at Ammi, not Ismail.
‘Oh my God, sorry!’ Ammi says, righting the cup and starting to wipe Auntie Kameela’s clothes and the table.
My heart thuds. This is normally where Abbu would chime in. He’d tell Ammi she spoils Ismail, and that he only acts this way because she lets him, encourages him. That he’s like this because of her. They had this exact argument a few days ago when Ismail defied Ammi’s ‘no snacks before dinner’ rule. But today … today Abbu says nothing. Even weirder, he pulls out a couple of tissues and goes over to help Ammi clean up. It’s so bizarre to me, and probably to Ammi, but not to Auntie Kameela. It wouldn’t be bizarre to strangers. To anyone official.
If Abbu keeps this up, no one will believe anything bad about him. It’ll be fine. He just needs to keep on like this. And I just need to keep telling people it was all a sick rumour. If we work together, we can continue to keep this under wraps. Despite Huda’s best efforts to ruin my family, I won’t let her.
42
I wake up to a phone screen filled with texts and DMs from my classmates. Most of them are kind messages, but my brain can only focus on the abuse, on the people laughing and making crude jokes. Still nothing from Huda though. I can’t believe she hasn’t even tried to reach out. She just throws a grenade into my life and swans off. Typical Huda, not caring about anyone besides herself. I spent ages focusing on her stupid Perfect Daughter plan, and when I need her help, she runs off in the opposite direction. Maybe I should skive today. It would be so much easier than facing up to everyone. Cleo got away with taking half a week off after her blog came out. I’m gonna need more time than that. Maybe I can just stay off until exams start. Maybe I can skip exams altogether. Surely this counts as extenuating circumstances.
I wrap my duvet around me. Maybe if I stay in bed long enough, Ammi will just assume I’ve already left. I try to force myself back to sleep, but my body betrays me – I roll around for a while, waiting for sleep to return, waiting for Ammi to go to drop Ismail off at school. Abbu mentioned he was going out this morning, so when Ammi leaves, I can hide away for a bit.
‘Amani?’ Ammi’s voice comes from the landing. She knocks and then pops her head round the door. ‘You’re still in bed?’ she exclaims. ‘You’re going to be late! Hurry up! I’ll drive you both. Get ready, now!’
So much for the skiving plan.
Walking into registration is just as bad as I imagined it would be. Everyone turns to look at me. A hush spreads. I duck my head and shuffle towards my seat. Whispers start up, trail after me. I instinctively cover my forearm with my other hand. I changed to a skin-toned bandage today, thinking it would be almost camouflaged if someone saw, but it feels like the wound is a siren, calling people to pay attention to me, even though it’s hidden under my blazer. There’s quiet laughter all around me, the sound of which makes my ears burn with shame. This was such a big mistake. I should have begged Ammi to let me skive. I could have faked cramps or the flu.
I finally get to my desk, where Maggie’s already slouched over the table. It’s weirdly comforting to see something that’s the same. At least Maggie is constant. Although, the way I ran away from her yesterday after the blog came out, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone weird on me too.
‘Hey,’ I say to her as I sit down, trying to keep my voice normal. The trick to moving forward is to try and pretend it’s not getting to me. That’s how someone would react if the rumour spread about them was a lie.
Maggie raises her head off the desk, sits up with a yawn. Her usual greeting. I smile.
‘Hey, Amani, how’s your dad?’ Cleo shouts from the back of the classroom. ‘Beaten up any women recently?’
I make the mistake of half turning towards the noise, before my face starts burning up.
Don’t react, Amani. Don’t react.
I wait for Miss Hoover to do something, to tell Cleo off, but she’s too busy writing at her desk. I guess I just have to get used to it. Just ignore her, ignore them all. I can do it. Well, I can’t, but I have literally no other option.
‘As if having actual diarrhoea wasn’t bad enough, now you’ve got the verbal sort too?’ Maggie retorts effortlessly.
Another wave of giggles spreads across the room, but aimed at Cleo instead of me. It should make me feel good, but the sound of snarky giggling will never not fill me with anxiety, thanks to Cleo and her coven.
The focus shifts to Cleo after that. One of the boys at the back starts making fart noises and blaming it on her. I guess her secret was more entertaining than mine.
‘Thanks,’ I say softly.
‘No worries,’ Maggie replies, slouching back down with a yawn. ‘I know it’s all lies, don’t worry. They’ll get bored soon and shut up.’
You’d think I’d be used to this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach by now, but surprisingly I’m overwhelmed by it when she says this. I just put my head on the desk and do a Maggie until the bell rings.
The rest of the day passes in the same way. In almost every lesson, people make comments that make me want to cry. It reaches fever pitch during English and I have to excuse myself to the loo. I sit in the stall and bawl my eyes out, clean up my face as best as I can and then return quietly to class. I don’t see Huda at all. I don’t know if she’s skived today or whether she’s just doing a really good job of avoiding me. Either way, it makes me mad. She’s probably basking in the misery she’s caused. How are there no repercussions for her actions? It’s not fucking fair. The overwhelming anger is rising inside me again.
I want payback.
I want her to see what she’s done.
I want her to see everyone making fun of me, to feel how humiliated I feel.
I want her to lose as much as I’ve lost.
I want her to be as miserable as I am.
I want to ruin her life, just like she’s ruined mine.
And I spot the perfect opportunity to do just that as I’m walking to class after lunch (spent thankfully being distracted by Maggie in a corner of the canteen – I even showed her some of my YouTube videos). I spot Mrs Farook walking across the quad. I saw her earlier too, but I ducked behind a bush because I was terrified that she’d have a go at me for running out of our meeting yesterday. But half the day has passed now and she hasn’t called me in, so I’m thinking my answers satisfied her, and that everything’s going to be fine. For me, anyway. I can’t say the same for Huda. That bitch is going down.
‘Mrs Farook!’ I call when I’m a few metres away from her.
She turns and gives me a warm smile. ‘Hi, Amani. How are you?’
I search for an undertone to her voice, one that might suggest she’s still suspicious, but I can’t find anything.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I blurt. My heart’s pounding. I need to get it out before I think twice.
No one would blame me for grassing on Huda. After what she’s done, her getting punished for doing the blog is right. She knew what she was getting into. She deserves it. I have to keep telling myself that. She’s ruined my life, so she deserves to be punished.
‘Ah, we were just on our way to find you,’ a voice says.
I turn to find Miss Kirtley, the receptionist, and next to her is …
‘Mum?!’
Ammi and I lock eyes, and fear strikes my chest. I look between her and Mrs Farook. Ammi’s face is stoic, expressionless, but there’s panic in her eyes.
‘I’ll leave you here,’ Miss Kirtley says to Ammi before walking off.
‘Ah, hello, Mrs Akhtar. Thank you for coming in at such short notice.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Ammi says.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ Mrs Farook reassures me. ‘I’ve asked your mum in for a little chat. Nothing serious. Please don’t stress.’
DON’T STRESS?
How can I not stress when she’s brought Ammi in to face her with Huda’s stupid blog?
Fuck.
‘Please, Mrs Akhtar, come with me. Amani, you’d better get to class.’
‘Wait!’ I say without thinking. I need to stop this, need to make sure she doesn’t get Ammi alone before I speak to her, before I warn her. I should have told her everything last night. God, why wasn’t I just upfront with her? Maybe together we could have prepped for this. I need to speak to Ammi before Mrs Farook does.
‘Mum, can I talk to you about something? It’s important.’ With my desperate eyes I try to communicate what’s going on.
Ammi opens her mouth to reply, but Mrs Farook cuts her off. ‘Amani, you can speak to your mother later. After school. Now go to class, before I write you up for detention.’
That’s it.
It’s over.
I can’t stop it.
All I can do is watch as Mrs Farook leads Ammi off towards the same room she interrogated me in yesterday. Ammi doesn’t even turn around so I can mouth a warning to her. They just walk off, chatting. Ammi has no idea. She’s going to be so mad. This is all my fault. I’m the one who let this secret loose, who put our family in jeopardy. Yes, Huda was the one who spread the word, but I let the cracks show enough for her to see in the first place. We’ve gone so many years with no one finding out. I should have kept Huda at a distance, should have insisted we always hang out at hers. It’s all on me. Our whole family is going to get broken apart because of me. Social services will probably put me and Ismail in care. And Ammi … how is she going to cope with all the gossiping aunties?
Although …
There’s a tiny idea growing in my head. Mrs Farook said she’s trained to deal with stuff like this. What if …? What if she knows a way to handle it? Like, properly handle it. If she’s the safeguarding lead, she must have dealt with things like this before, right? I can’t be the first student this has happened to. What if … Ammi tells Mrs Farook the truth? The real truth. Things that even I don’t know. If Ammi told her … maybe Mrs Farook would know what to do, how to save our family. That’s basically her job, right? She’s one of the kindest teachers; she would totally help. What if … Ammi uses this opportunity to put a stop to it? To put a stop to Abbu. Maybe … maybe we could even leave. Mrs Farook could help with that. She’d find a way to make sure that we don’t get split up, that Ismail doesn’t get taken away. She’d know how to keep us safe. Away from Abbu. My heart jolts at just the thought of it.
43
I’m waiting for Ammi.
But obviously I have to hide because I’m supposed to be in biology right now. So I’m loitering by her car. Specifically, crouching down on the ground next to the passenger door so I can grab her as soon as she gets here. Not weird at all. This is the only way I can do it though. There’s no way I can go until the end of the day to hear what Mrs Farook said. God, Ammi is going to be so blindsided. I hope she’s OK.
There’s a loud click and I almost scream from the suddenness of it, but then I hear footsteps close by and realise it’s Ammi, unlocking the car. I peek up over the edge of the window to make sure it’s her. My legs are cramping from crouching, and I will her to walk faster. When she finally reaches the car, I open the passenger door at the same time she opens hers. I slip in as quick as I can and slouch in the seat.
‘Amani, oh my God you scared me!’ she says, still standing outside, hand on her chest.
‘Get in, quick,’ I hiss, like one of those TV spies.
‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you in class?’ Ammi hisses back as she gets into the car. She slouches down slightly too.
‘I’m so sorry, Ammi. I didn’t mean to … It wasn’t my fault … I tried to stop it … What happened just now … Mrs Farook, everything. I didn’t know it was going to go this far. It’s all gone mental, Ammi.’
She turns to face me. There’s thunder on her face.
‘And exactly what has been going on?’ she asks, pinning me with her stare. ‘I’ve just had your teacher in there asking me … all sorts.’
I sigh. ‘It was all … all Huda. After what happened the other day at ours, she got … I dunno … scared or whatever. She thought she was doing the right thing by telling everyone. God knows where she got that idea. What did Mrs Farook …? What did she ask you?’
‘She brought me in to discuss your slipping grades. Which we need to have a proper conversation about, by the way.’ She stares pointedly at me. ‘But we didn’t talk much about that. She told me about the blog, what … what it said about you … about us. She told me they have to look into the accusations, and asked me if there was any truth to them.’
‘And … and what did you say?’ My heart is hammering, waiting for her answer like it’s the only thing I’ve ever waited for in my life. I watch her face, watch for any signs. Her eyes aren’t red and puffy, so there haven’t been any tears … yet.
‘I said no, of course,’ she replies finally. She looks at me as if I’m crazy for expecting otherwise. She’s acting like the whole thing is a lie. She’s pretending. In front of me. As if I don’t hear their fights almost every night, as if I haven’t witnessed Abbu’s anger in person on multiple occasions now. As if I don’t have a ten-minute-long compilation video of my face from the Bad Nights. Her answer makes me angry. She’s thrown away perhaps the only chance we’ll ever have to make things better.
‘Ammi, you could have … you could have told her the truth and ended all of this! The school is already suspicious because of the blog. You could have taken the help. Mrs Farook said she’s trained to deal with things like this. She’s probably helped someone like you before. She’ll know what to do. She could –’
‘Amani, you have to promise you won’t go to any of your teachers about this. We don’t need their help, you hear me? This is a … private family matter. I don’t want you talking to anyone about it.’
‘They’re trying to help,’ I tell her. My body is full of nervous energy now. I was so convinced. So convinced she was going to tell them, that Mrs Farook was going to get the truth out of her, that something was going to change. I just can’t understand why Ammi wouldn’t take that chance.
‘How is poking their nose into our private life trying to help?’ she asks.
‘It’s better than us all just burying our heads in the sand,’ I say, trying to put on a grown-up voice, one that Ammi might respond to, might listen to.
She glares at me again. ‘You’re a child, Amani. You have no idea about any of this. You think you know everything, but you’re so young … You don’t … you don’t get it. We can’t … I can’t say anything. To anyone. This is something that’s supposed to stay within our home. This is something … Amani, please trust me on this. No one can find out.’
‘Huda already knows,’ I mumble. ‘She was there the other day, remember? When Abbu almost broke your arm, twisting it behind your back because you wouldn’t tell him what he wanted
to hear?’
‘Amani, please … just … don’t, OK?’ Ammi lets out a big sigh. ‘As for Huda … can you please ask her to keep her mouth shut? Let people think she’s spreading lies. We’re just lucky Mrs Farook believed us.’
‘What do you mean? How do you know?’
‘She said she had to forward it on to some MASH team, to show they’ve looked into it. But she seemed satisfied by what we said. She thought your grades were a red flag, but I told her you just weren’t studying enough, and that would change. I told her the burn … I told her you did that yourself while making tea, and since I’m trained in first aid we managed it at home. Does that match your story?’
I nod silently.
Ammi breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I think … I think we’re in the clear.’
‘Except for when we get home, and this all starts again?’
‘Amani, stop. This is your father we’re talking about. How can you want people to say bad things about him?’
‘Because he’s a bad person!’ I finally explode. ‘You’re so under his thumb you don’t see it. You don’t see that he’s never going to change. He’s never going to stop. You don’t see how much of an effect this is having on all of us. Did you notice how you jumped just then when all I did was open the car door? How can you want to go on putting up with this? You can stop it, right here, right now. Look, we can go back in and find Mrs Farook again. She’s really nice. I –’
‘Amani, we’ve had this conversation before. It’s just not that easy. There’s so many things to think about. First, where are we going to stay? How are we going to live? My job isn’t enough to support us all. Your father pays all the bills, earns all the money. Everything is in his name. Even if I got a better-paid job, who’d look after Ismail? And more than the practicalities, what are people going to say? This isn’t … this isn’t something you act upon. You just … you have to just put up with it. Carry on.’
This Is My Truth Page 21
