I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  I nodded, though honestly I wanted to forget the whole thing. It wasn’t the first time I’d had the T-word flung at me. But what it had done was make me drop my New Muzna persona. If I didn’t want to end up as Doormat Muzna, I couldn’t afford for it to happen again.

  ‘Have a great day, girls!’ Mr Dunthorpe said, waving like an overenthusiastic kid.

  ‘He seems friendly,’ I said, as Sarabi walked me to my first class.

  The corridors were wider than they’d been at Rigsby. Less pushing and shoving had to be part of the reason the kids were behaving better. Then there were the uniforms. Nobody seemed to be pushing it – no mini ties, no rolled-up skirts. And when I spotted a boy holding a door open for a teacher, I felt like I’d died and gone to grammar school.

  ‘Trust me: the word you’re looking for is “awesome”,’ Sarabi said – the second person to describe Mr Dunthorpe that way.

  ‘Actually it’s “porn star”,’ interrupted a boy, casually slipping arms around us. The stench of BO and Lynx were toxic.

  Sarabi brushed him off with a glare.

  ‘What?’ he asked, all innocence. ‘Don’t pretend like you ain’t seen Dunthorpe doin’ his ting on the internet!’ He thrust his pelvis a few times, sniggered, then spotted someone else to torment, and was off like a bullet. I imagined cartoon clouds of dust trailing him.

  ‘Are all the boys here like that?’ I asked, trying to pick Arif out of the steady stream of students.

  ‘Aren’t they everywhere?’ Sarabi retorted.

  ‘High-five!’ I said laughing.

  But even as we clapped hands, something told me Arif was different. Aside from the fact he looked more sixth form than Year 11 (and let’s not forget drop-dead gorgeous), he had stuck up for a complete nobody and ended up in detention for his troubles. That was the mark of a true hero.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dad had the news on in the background as we gathered round the dining table. I was starved, and the tempting flavours Ami was wafting around the flat made me drool. She’d pulled out all the stops to cook us an amazing dinner. It felt like Eid. Maybe living above a two-star restaurant had brought out her competitive side?

  As we tucked in, the newsreader on TV grimly announced that another Western journalist had been beheaded in Syria. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was calling it ‘a victory for Islam’. My blood ran cold.

  ‘Saleem, turn this rubbish off!’ Ami said.

  ‘Parveen, we need to know what they’re saying about us,’ Dad replied.

  ‘But they’re not us,’ I said, eyes watering from the zing of black cardamom.

  ‘I know that!’ he said, batting away my protest. ‘But do the public know?’

  ‘Truth shines through in the end,’ I said, but I was having my own doubts. The scary girl in my tutor group, Sade, was a prime example of what Dad meant. It hurt because she didn’t even know me, but judged me all the same. Sometimes you figured people of colour would be more sensitive about stuff like that. Then you got proven wrong.

  ‘Off – at least while we eat,’ Ami said authoritatively, killing the power. ‘I’m not having ISIS-shysis spoiling my meal!’

  ‘We are not going to bury our heads in the sand like ostriches!’ Dad protested. ‘Islam was once a well-respected religion. Now these bloody Taliban and ISIS bastards come along and make it a thing to be reviled!’

  ‘How was your first day at school?’ Ami asked, pointedly changing the subject.

  I took a sip of water. ‘Yeah. So my tutor, Mr Dunthorpe, is really nice . . .’

  ‘Young man, is he?’ Ami asked.

  ‘Ancient. All his kids are at uni.’

  Cheered by this news, Ami piled more food on her plate. Sometimes it seemed the only way to keep your parents happy was to feed them lies.

  ‘What about maths and science?’ Dad asked, eyes bulging. ‘You know you need both of these to become a doctor.’

  Picturing a Well of Calm, I imagined sticking my head in it.

  ‘Everything was fine, Dad.’

  It was the best I could do. Being forced to do well in subjects you were crap at was really not helping my self-esteem issues.

  As my parents chatted away in Punjabi, I silently reviewed my first day. Unfortunately, Muzna 2.0 had turned out to be pretty much like the beta version. Bummer. Perhaps going from ‘0 to 100 (Real Quick)’ was the stuff of hip-hop dreams? People called it the ‘social ladder’, but it was more like a mountain.

  Sarabi had seemed nice. But did she want to be mates, or was she just being polite? Guess the jury was still out. My mind turned back to Sade. With one insult, she’d reduced me to a victim. But Arif’s takedown had been epic. His dark eyes had smouldered, just like Heathcliff’s from Wuthering Heights. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to think it was because he fancied me. Buff boys like Arif didn’t notice bottom feeders. Just looking out for a ‘sister’, I guessed . . .

  I jerked my head, dissolving Arif in a puff of mental smoke. Thinking about boys was asking for trouble. High GCSE grades: that was goals.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next day, I found out I’d got nicknames: ‘Red Riding Hoody’ and ‘Sarabi’s Friend’. Not that I minded. I was just grateful no one had been mean about my facial-hair problem. Yet . . .

  By lunchtime, any delusions of being mates with Sarabi were laid to rest. I’d been ditched – well and truly. I got it, having the new kid tag along wasn’t exactly the must-have fashion accessory of the season. Plans of becoming Ms Congeniality were indefinitely put on hold.

  I smelt him before I saw him. Musk and cedar, and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it was, it got my heart thumping.

  ‘A’ight?’ Arif said, sounding like he’d been running a marathon.

  I turned round and stuttered a ‘hey’. He might have sounded like he’d been running a marathon, but he looked like he’d been pumping iron. A grey ribbed vest cupped unbelievable pecs, hugging every bend and curve of his corrugated abs. Tubular veins ran the lengths of his arms, and his smooth vanilla skin glistened with sweat.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, misunderstanding my goggling. ‘Me and the lads been playing a bit o’ footie.’ Tall white teeth gleamed between kissable lips.

  ‘Are you Pakistani?’ he asked abruptly.

  For the first time I picked up on his Mancunian accent. It was cute. I nodded, still unable to find my voice. He must have liked my answer, though, because his wonderful smile reappeared.

  ‘Me too, fam. Pakistan zindabad!’ He punched the air and chuckled. His friends yelled at him to get his head back in the game. He looked at me and rolled his eyes. ‘Where’s your mate, then?’ he asked, glancing over my shoulder as if Sarabi might be hiding there.

  ‘Sick,’ I lied, instantly regretting it. But admitting I’d been dumped was so embarrassing. Arif had only been at Falstrum three days longer than I had, yet he’d already made friends. A whole mandem of footballers.

  ‘Need anything, you come to us, yeah? Even if it’s just to sort out that miserable cow Sade.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling sweat trickle down my back. I racked my brains for something cool to say. A joke. A one-liner. Anything.

  I had nothing.

  He nodded as if sensing this, then headed back to his game of football.

  Suddenly a dam burst in my head, and my mind overflowed with all the cool things I could’ve said. I sighed watching Arif head the ball. Please don’t injure that beautiful face! None of the other boys came close to his level of hotness.

  ‘Hi, Muzna,’ Sarabi called, bringing me down to earth with a bump.

  ‘Oh, hey!’ I cried, a little too hyper. Had she caught me gawking at Arif?

  ‘Sorry, had an orthodontist appointment,’ she explained.

  I realized how silly I’d been imagining the ‘abandonment’ was some kind of karmic payback for the way I’d treated Salma. The way my parents made me treat Salma.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked, checking her watch. ‘About Fa
lstrum, I mean.’

  ‘It’s . . . overwhelming,’ I confessed, bumping my fists together nervously. ‘Waaaay bigger than my last school.’

  ‘Why’d you switch anyway?’ she said, offering me a sweet.

  I gladly accepted a couple of Skittles. Sugar was energy, and seeing Arif in that vest had worn me out. ‘My dad got a job down here. Do you know Zindabad’s on the Broadway?’

  ‘What, the big, flashy restaurant?’

  I nodded. ‘Uncle-ji owns it. He invited my dad to come and work for him.’

  ‘Cool. Does that mean you guys get free curries and kebabs?’

  I chuckled. ‘Sometimes. Mostly we let Mum handle the cooking. Otherwise she sulks. And when Asian women sulk, plates start breaking—’

  ‘Get to your lessons, please, ladies!’ barked a PE teacher.

  I looked round and instantly regretted it. Those bicycle shorts were so NSFW. Or Planet Earth, for that matter.

  ‘Aw man, that’s nasty!’ commented a boy, snapping a pic on his phone. The poor woman’s crotch was guaranteed ten seconds of Snapchat fame.

  As if on cue, raucous laughter erupted all around us as camel toes and moose knuckles were discussed.

  ‘Too much freedom-sheedom,’ I muttered, with a shiver.

  Friday rolled around, and I was glad to find I shared my textiles class with Sarabi. This was my last chance to earn the mate tag. Next week I’d be expected to find my own way round Falstrum. I definitely liked her – everyone did. But as far as I could tell, she didn’t have a specific friendship group. So, unless I’d read the signs wrong, there was an opening.

  Unfortunately, friend-making was my Kryptonite. Salma and me only happened because our mums were friends. All my other mates lived between pages on shelves. Joining the human race was a move that was long overdue.

  Cautiously I pulled up a stool next to Sarabi. She flashed me a smile. Good sign. Meant I hadn’t entered stalker territory yet.

  Ms Greenberg, our textiles teacher, was a curly-haired woman with large watery eyes and a permanently confused expression. She spoke in whispers, like she was at a séance or something. ‘Embroidering wallets,’ she murmured, was today’s task. This got a massive groan, which I thought was a bit of an overreaction.

  ‘Did it last year,’ Sarabi explained.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  Four baskets of coloured thread were spread across the classroom. I headed for the least popular one. A lanky boy stood in front of me, carelessly tossing the skeins about. I recognized him from my tutor group. Couldn’t remember his name for the life of me, but his blond topknot was unforgettable. Suddenly he turned around and thrust his hands at me.

  ‘Which one do you reckon’s best?’ he asked.

  I blinked in surprise, not used to being asked for my opinion.

  ‘Um, that one sort of matches your hair,’ I said shyly, pointing at the golden skein in his left hand.

  ‘Yeah, man. Big up my weave,’ he said, connecting it to his topknot and whirling it round like a propeller. ‘I’m Beyoncé!’ He gave a tone-deaf burst of ‘Formation’ while krumping.

  I laughed out loud.

  Ms Greenberg snatched the skein from his hand, glaring like a resentful owl. ‘If you can’t be trusted to behave sensibly, Malachy, I will have you copying out of a book!’

  Malachy – that was it.

  Nabbing a baby-pink skein, I booked it back to my stool.

  ‘Sarabi,’ I began conversationally, trying to thread my needle. ‘Remember how you asked me earlier in the week if I liked it here?’

  ‘Made up your mind?’

  I nodded. ‘Falstrum wins the “Muzna Saleem Seal of Approval”.’

  ‘Is it?’ Malachy asked, en route to his seat. ‘Even with Slim Sade mouthing off the day you come?’

  ‘That part sucked,’ I admitted.

  ‘Some people,’ he said, kissing his teeth, ‘ain’t got no manners!’

  I shifted about uncomfortably. ‘Guess stuff is going on in the world. Gotta roll with it.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ he said, pointing a finger at me. ‘Don’t be taking shit from Sade or anyone. My G Dunthorpe’ll sort it. Dude’s mint.’

  ‘Malachy!’ hissed Ms Greenberg. ‘Language.’

  He swore under his breath, then ducked back over to his seat. I liked Malachy, he was funny.

  I glanced over at Sarabi. The tip of her tongue was poking out of her mouth as she worked on her wallet. I tried to figure out what she was embroidering, but soon gave up.

  ‘So is Sade the only one I have to watch out for then?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean bullies? Oh there’s a few. But if you mean Islamophobia – I think Sade’s Queen.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the girls wearing hijabs, then,’ I said.

  ‘Guess they must be dedicated to their faith,’ Sarabi said simply.

  I didn’t want to argue the point. Dad told me wearing a headscarf was never part of Islam, just an extremist add-on that came later. But then Dad said a lot of things – not all of them were true.

  My eyes roamed the classroom, taking in an emo’s electric-blue hair, a black girl’s corn rows, finally settling on Sarabi’s long plait. Whether wearing a headscarf was part of Islam or not, I couldn’t see why it got singled out for hate at school.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d pricked myself for the twentieth time. Knots like tumours hung off drunken stitching. My wallet basically belonged in the bin. I stole a glance at Sarabi’s work.

  ‘Oh that’s so cool!’ I cried, smiling. Sarabi had embroidered henna patterns all over her wallet. They swooped and swirled like dancing wisps of smoke. ‘I’d totally buy one.’

  ‘Thanks!’ she said. Then her eyes fell on my wallet and her smile faltered. ‘I, er, could help you with that, if you want?’

  ‘Yes please!’ I said, shamelessly thrusting my work at her. ‘Let me guess: you were a sewing machine in a previous life?’

  Sarabi snorted. ‘I’m surprised you can’t embroider. Or maybe my parents are just traditional-traditional? Mum insisted we learn all those embroidery, crochet and knitting skills while we were practically still in nappies.’

  ‘Aw, ickle babies embroidering their nappies!’ I said, clasping my hands together.

  Sarabi laughed at the mental image.

  ‘How many sisters do you have?’ I asked.

  ‘Just one. Older than me, and soon to be married.’ A sigh escaped her lips. ‘I’ll miss Taran, but inheriting her massive bedroom is going to be sweet! I’ve also got an older brother, Sukhdev, who works in IT.’

  ‘Man, you are so lucky. I’m an only child.’

  Her look said it all. Asians had to have large families.

  ‘I know, right? This is brown paint,’ I said, patting my cheek and making her laugh. ‘Mum had an emergency hysterectomy a few months after I was born,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh,’ Sarabi said, touching my shoulder. ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘Yep, you’re looking at the Saleem family’s sole “pride and joy”.’

  Sarabi grinned. ‘Bet they spoil you rotten.’

  I stared at her like she was from a different planet. ‘I wish! Mostly I get mile-high expectations dumped on me.’

  ‘I hear you,’ she said. ‘Let me guess. Could they, by any chance, want you to become a doctor?’

  I placed my forehead on the table and groaned.

  ‘And medicine doesn’t float your boat?’ Even without looking, her needle continued to move back and forth through the cloth like it was enchanted.

  I sat up. ‘Try sinks my boat! I love English, Sarabi. Writing – painting pictures with words – it’s everything. I know it sounds dumb—’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ she said quickly. ‘So what would you do with an English degree, then?’

  ‘Novelist!’ I said, making jazz hands. I hadn’t told anyone about my dreams for the longest time. Little bubbles of excitement fluttered in my belly.

  ‘What do you want to be a novelist for?’ The wa
y Sarabi looked at me, you’d think I’d said ‘killer clown’.

  I shrugged. ‘Hard to explain. I just have these stories inside me. Clawing away, trying to get out.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘I guess it kind of is,’ I said, smiling. ‘But man, nothing beats the buzz you get when you type those magical words “The End”.’

  Sarabi raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ I said, flushing with embarrassment.

  ‘Not judging,’ Sarabi promised, raising a slim hand. ‘It’s just . . . well, you don’t hear about many Muslim authors, do you?’

  I remembered Salma saying the same thing once.

  ‘You don’t hear about Muslims period. Unless it’s to do with something bad. The media’s got the world believing we’re a bloodthirsty cult or something.’

  ‘Groups like ISIS don’t help either,’ she replied.

  ‘Truth,’ I agreed. ‘We definitely need to fire whoever’s in charge of our PR. I want people to read my books and go, “You know what? Muslims are all right.”’

  Sarabi’s face darkened. ‘My dad got beaten up one time because a group of thugs thought he was a Muslim.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I said, covering my mouth.

  She nodded. ‘Hope your books get turned into movies. Something tells me thugs aren’t massive readers.’

  We sat in comfortable silence: Sarabi nimbly unpicking my crappy stitching; me watching in awe.

  ‘So your parents know nothing about your plans?’ she asked, sewing claret circles.

  I propped my chin up on an elbow. ‘Nope. No matter how many times I try breaking it to them, it’s like they’re fixated on this stupid idea of me becoming a doctor. When I was younger, Ami was my number one fan. Now it’s almost like she and Dad have become the same boring person.’

  ‘That sucks,’ Sarabi said.

  ‘Focus on your projects, please, girls!’ Ms Greenberg warbled. ‘And why is Sarabjit decorating your wallet for you, Muzna?’

  I tried to dream up an excuse. Sarabi beat me to it.

  ‘I’m not, miss. Just helping out, cos that’s what friends are for.’