‘Right, gang,’ Mr Voake says, clapping his hands once and disrupting my thoughts. ‘Everyone listen up.’
I turn my seat around. Maggie just cranes her neck.
‘Since it’s almost our last lesson together, I thought I’d talk to you individually about your coursework, how you’re feeling about it, and just have a chat about things. I’m gonna call you up to my desk one by one. The rest of you, I’m trusting you to work quietly while I’m doing this. Oh! And I also have a little gift for you all. You’ll have to wait for your turn at my desk to see what it is though.’ He wiggles his eyebrows comically.
While other people go up one by one, Maggie and I stay at our computers, her shopping for new Doc Martens, me brainstorming. I get so obsessed with the idea of doing my coursework on the Burn Blog that Mr Voake has to call me twice before I look up. He smiles and gestures me over to his desk.
‘Ah, Amani, how are you?’ he asks as I sit down. His table is cluttered with papers and various USB sticks with little labels on.
‘I’m good, sir,’ I reply. I don’t know what to expect from this chat, but I’m weirdly not nervous or scared. I would be if it were any other teacher and any other subject. But Mr Voake’s media studies class is almost like my safe space. The only place I really feel comfortable, and like I belong.
‘Good, good,’ he says. ‘And how’s your coursework coming along? I like what I’ve seen so far.’
If it were any other teacher, I’d lie and say it was fine.
‘Actually … I’m thinking of changing my project.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Oh?’
‘I just … I want to make something that makes people feel something. I want it to have an impact.’
‘And your apocalypse trailer didn’t make you feel anything?’
I shake my head. ‘The videos I make … they’re usually just a distraction. I never really do anything deep. But … I like deep things. I like watching emotional documentaries, exploring tragic stories.’
‘So, do you have another idea?’
‘I do. I need a bit of time to think about it, but could we have a chat once I’ve got a solid plan?’
‘Of course. It’s late in the day to be changing though. Do you think you’ll be able to create something in the time you’ve got left?’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘Oh yeah, for sure. Once I’ve got the idea down, I can work quick. I become a woman possessed when I’m passionate about something.’
He laughs. ‘That’s good to hear. I have every faith in you, Amani. I know you can do it. You’re one of my best students. Don’t tell the others though.’
I smile, and blush a little.
‘Anyway, I got you a little something. As a “good luck/well done” gift. It’s not much, but I hope you’ll like it.’
He hands me a small white envelope. I slot my finger under the flap and run it along. I pull out a piece of card. It’s black and glossy, with decorative gold writing. The top header reads RSVP. I scan the words: ‘I, Steve Voake, accept my invitation to Amani Akhtar’s film premiere.’
I look up at him, confused. ‘What film premiere?’ I ask.
He laughs a little. ‘For the future,’ he says. ‘I’m getting my RSVP in early. I know you’ll go on to do great things, Amani. You’re very talented, and I have no doubt that you’ll succeed in this field. So this is me, saving my spot at your first film premiere. I’m going to be there in the front row, cheering you on, telling everyone how I taught you about continuity.’
I look down at the card again and feel my eyes filling up with tears. ‘Oh my God, this is the sweetest thing,’ I mutter, trying to stave off a sob.
I can’t believe it. It’s hands down the best gift I’ve ever been given. So thoughtful and considerate and personal.
‘I’m glad you like it!’ Mr Voake says.
‘I … I love it. Thank you, sir. It’s … it’s so kind.’
‘I mean it though, Amani. I believe in you. I wish you would believe in yourself.’
I make the mistake of looking up at him. He’s looking right at me, with an almost sad expression on his face. It makes me feel so exposed.
‘You sure I can’t tempt you to take media studies next year?’ he asks.
I smile back at him, but only a quick flash. I can’t maintain a real one. It’s such a sore subject.
‘It’s not too late, y’know?’ he says, leaning back in his chair. ‘I know you’d do well. Class won’t be the same without you.’
‘That’s … nice of you to say, sir. But I’ve missed the deadline.’ I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say that my future is fixed. That Abbu would go crazy if I even suggested taking media studies. If I diverted from the carefully prepared life plan he’s made for me, to do something I enjoy and am good at.
‘If it’s something you really wanted to do, we can make exceptions,’ Mr Voake says. ‘There’s still space in my class for next year, and like I say, it won’t be the same without you. Something to think about.’ He smiles at me one last time, and that’s my cue to leave.
I walk back to my computer, clutching the RSVP in my hand. I am so overwhelmed right now. Mr Voake’s words, his faith in me, it’s … it’s so new to me. His words have opened up a door I’d been keeping locked in my mind.
It’s not too late to change.
It’s not too late to do what I want to do.
46
As it gets closer to study leave, people have been paying less attention in classes. As if they’ve checked out already. But every class fills me with dread. Well, every science class anyway. Today Mr Cavanaugh makes us work in pairs to create revision cards on certain topics. He’s going to put them together and make a full set for everyone. I’m working with Stacey Lineham. I haven’t spoken to her since the blog about her mum went out. I can’t make eye contact with her, knowing it was Huda who did it. Should I tell her?
Mr Cavanaugh hands out the index cards then retreats to his desk. Looks like even the teachers have checked out.
Stacey and I sit in awkward silence, while everyone else gets to work or just chats.
‘You think everyone’s talking about us?’ she asks.
‘Huh?’ I ask, turning to look at her.
‘The two Burn Blog girls. People have been making comments at me non-stop. Can they resist the both of us being together? How will they cope?’
I laugh. ‘Nah, they’ve got better things to talk about,’ I say. ‘Like mitosis.’
She smiles at me, then quickly drops her gaze.
Awkward.
‘Listen, Amani,’ she says quietly, softly, ‘I’ve been meaning to catch you for the last few days. I thought maybe you’d want someone to talk to. Someone who’s been through the same thing.’
‘Oh …’ I say. I don’t know how to respond.
‘It’s shit, isn’t it?’ she asks when I don’t reply. ‘Everyone talking about your parents, making fun of them, when they’ve literally never met them.’
I look down at my textbook, wishing for this conversation to be over.
‘That blog made such a mess of my life,’ she continues. ‘They called social services on my mum, did you know? Of course you know. Nothing stays a secret in this school. Not when it’s such juicy gossip. Anyway, they interrogated my poor mum. She’s already … She was … she was sad, OK? She misses my dad and she was sad. So she had a few drinks on the anniversary of his death. I’m so pissed that someone would take that – something private – and turn it into something for everyone to gossip about.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s such … it’s such bullshit. All of it. It’s messed up how much people are enjoying this.’
‘Ugh, I was one of those people though! When it first came out, I was so into it. I enjoyed Cleo’s humiliation, did exactly what everyone is doing to me. I hate myself for that.’ She shakes her head a little. ‘That piece-of-shit blog exists just to tear people down, make everyone take things the wrong way.’
I try to
think of what to say, but inwardly I’m praying for her to move the conversation on, so she can’t ask whether there’s any truth to my secret. I pull out an index card and write ‘Mitosis is …’, hoping she’ll get the hint.
‘Anyway, you just gotta hang in there,’ she says, pulling her textbook towards her. ‘There’ll be another poor victim soon, and you’ll be old news. Well, older news. I’m still getting the odd comment. But it’s not as bad as it was. You just gotta wait for the next one.’ She starts flicking through her book, thankfully ending the conversation.
But something she said sticks with me. I wonder whether Huda is going to carry this on. She said she started the blog to get back at people she hates, to get revenge for things like some comment Stacey made literally five years ago. And even though Huda said she regretted what happened with that, I wonder whether she regrets it enough to stop. Or whether she has more people on her hit list.
Stacey and I focus on making the revision cards. It’s weird. We’ve sat next to each other all term, yet we’ve barely spoken to each other. Though I cringed at the conversation we just had about the blog, it makes me think of Maggie’s idea for my media studies project.
‘Hey, so, I wanted to ask for your help with something …’ I tell Stacey about wanting to do my coursework on the Burn Blog, to show people how much mayhem it caused. I ask her if she’d be willing to talk about the emotional trauma it caused for her family, but make sure to emphasise that she won’t have to do anything she’s not comfortable with.
‘That sounds amazing!’ she says in response. ‘I get to be the star of a film? Hell yes!’
We spend the rest of the lesson planning the video while pretending to work on the revision cards. I don’t know why Huda hates Stacey so much; she’s actually lovely. As we walk out of school together, we swap numbers.
Abbu’s not there when I get home. Ammi says he’s out doing work stuff. I don’t ask for details, don’t even point out that he doesn’t technically have a job since he quit Creature Clinic. Part of me wonders if he really did quit, or if he was fired. I’m on a high from everything that happened at school, and I don’t want that to be ruined. Since it’s just us three at home, Ismail begs Ammi to play Monopoly. He doesn’t understand the rules very well, but he loves being the banker, being in charge of the money. I normally don’t let him because he cheats, but today I don’t argue and just set the board up.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Ammi says to me a few turns in.
I smile at her. I want to tell her about my coursework idea, but she would no doubt warn me off it, tell me to go with something safer. I rationalise that only Mr Voake will watch it. Oh, and the external examiners. And Stacey, probably. It’ll be fine. It’ll be good for me to get my feelings out on video.
‘Just a nice YouTube comment,’ I tell Ammi instead, looking down at my phone, where I’ve got the comments section for my latest video loaded up.
‘You know you need to be careful with doing those videos, right?’ she says quietly, as she moves her piece. ‘If your father ever found out …’
‘I know, I know,’ I say quickly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not under my real name. And I only work on stuff when he’s out, or when I know he’s busy.’
She frowns at me.
I babble desperately. ‘I know you said … that it’s best to stop, but, Ammi, I … I can’t. It’s like the only thing that makes me –’
She reaches across the sofa and touches me on the wrist. ‘No, moyna, it’s OK. If you … if you enjoy it that much, keep doing it. Don’t stop because of … because of him. I don’t want him to suck the passion out of you too. Just … careful, yeah?’
I nod. ‘You … you can do the same too, y’know?’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Now that Abbu’s arranging that art course, you can … you can do what makes you happy too.’
She gives me a smile, which in turn makes me smile. It’s nice to see her excited about something. I’m about to ask her more about the course, but Ismail cuts me off.
‘Maani, it’s your go!’ he says. ‘Ammi’s in jail.’ His voice is filled with glee.
Half an hour later I’m bankrupt, thanks to Ismail’s made-up rules. I sit there on my phone while Ammi tries to gather enough money to unmortgage her properties. My battery’s about to die so I rifle through my school bag for my portable charger. Tucked into the side pocket, I find the RSVP card from Mr Voake. Just looking at it makes me smile. I can’t get over what a thoughtful gift it was. I also can’t get his words out of my head.
Before I know it, I’m googling ‘how late can you change your A-level choices?’ A weird feeling starts up in my stomach as I read about people who changed their choices just before exams, and some who changed them a week into A levels. A butterfly-like feeling. Excitement. The possibility of changing my choice, of studying the subject I really want to study, doing what I really want to do, is making me feel so excited I honestly feel a bit sick.
I have to do it, right?
I need something in my life that isn’t just misery. Ammi’s even given me her blessing. Kind of. Abbu doesn’t even have to know. I could just … pretend I’m still doing all the sciences. I could maybe keep biology and chemistry and only change physics to media studies. Physics isn’t essential for becoming a vet. I could so get away with it.
A car pulls up outside. Ammi’s head whips round, and we both see Abbu getting out of the car.
‘Ismail, pack this up right now,’ she says hurriedly. She sweeps all the houses and pieces off the board and throws them into the box.
‘No!’ Ismail cries. ‘I was winning!’
Ammi frantically collects up the cards and shoves them into the box too, not in their designated slots, which I know she hates. She keeps flicking her gaze back to the window.
‘Ismail, you already won!’ I say, trying to stop his impending meltdown. ‘Well done, you made Ammi bankrupt too. You know what winners get, don’t you?’
‘A prize?’ he asks.
‘Yes! And today’s prize is … ice cream! C’mon, I’ll get you some.’ I leave Ammi hiding the game box away under the sofa and take Ismail to the kitchen. The front door opens.
‘Everything OK?’ Abbu asks as he walks in. He smiles at Ammi. A proper smile.
Ever since Ammi’s conversation with Mrs Farook, Abbu has actually been in a good mood. Not just OK, not just passing for normal. But, like, over-the-top good. Much better than his usual good days. It’s been both weird and brilliant. I genuinely think this is the beginning of change. The thing that he feared most has happened – the truth is out there. In a tiny form that Ammi made sure no one is really going to pay attention to, but it’s out. And he knows that now that it’s out like this, it could travel into the ears of the wrong people. And that’s brought about the change in him that me and Ammi have been waiting for. He’s actually changing for good. Permanently. I believe it. And, if that’s happening, maybe he’ll be more understanding about me? Maybe I could finally tell him I don’t want to follow his career path, that I have literally zero interest in becoming a vet.
A little bud of hope blooms within me.
So much has been changing recently. I think … I honestly believe that Abbu would be open to this. If I could just gather up the courage to talk to him. To tell him that I want to drop the sciences and take media studies … If I show him some of the videos I’ve made. (He’s never even seen one – when he found out about them, he was too mad to even bother watching one. I really think he might like them.) If I tell him how passionate I am about film-making, tell him that even Mr Voake thinks I’m talented … It could … it could happen. I wouldn’t have to live like this any more.
I could change my future.
I could be in charge of it.
47
When I come down for breakfast, I find Abbu sitting at the head of the dining table, with Ammi and Ismail on either side. Before I can turn to leave, he calls me over to sit and eat with them. He says it so sharply I know I can’t re
fuse. I pour myself some Shreddies and sit there eating in silence.
‘Keep the phone line free today,’ he says to Ammi. ‘I’m due to hear back about that job. They didn’t say whether they’d email or which number they’d call, so best to not use the phone.’
‘OK,’ she replies.
‘It’s just a formality,’ he continues. ‘I got strong feelings from the interviewer that the job is mine. Let’s just hope their background check wasn’t … too thorough.’
This makes me look up. Surely he can’t be … referring to the Bad Nights?
‘I know she’s your friend, Amani. Well, ex-friend, I hope. But if Huda ends up being the reason I don’t get this job, I will be furious.’
Ammi and I exchange a look. We both know that if he doesn’t get this job, there’ll be hell to pay.
Abbu stares at me, waiting for an answer, so I respond. ‘I’m sure they won’t look that deep,’ I say. ‘The blog was only sent to people in my year. No one else would care about seeing it.’
‘And if they did find it,’ Ammi jumps in quickly, ‘they’d know it’s just a pack of lies, right?’ She looks at me intently, so I have to nod.
‘I just can’t believe she’d do something so stupid.’ Abbu shakes his head and forks his scrambled eggs. ‘Does she have no respect? Well, I guess not, with the way she’s been brought up. There’s something about her parents – her foster parents, I mean – that’s never sat right with me.’
I stare at him, gobsmacked. I know he wants to trash-talk Huda, but now he’s slagging off Ali and Nafisah too?
‘They’re so … inappropriate,’ he expands, with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Kissing, hugging, in public. It’s just wrong. Some things should stay private.’
Like the bruises all over Ammi’s body. Like how we’re all so fucking terrified of Abbu. Like how sometimes I wish he was dead.
‘Ismail, hurry up and eat your Weetabix. You’re going to be late for school,’ Ammi says, thankfully ending his monologue.
This Is My Truth Page 23
