I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  I met her eyes and received the warmest smile. I hadn’t even remembered to be the new version of myself, and she still wanted to be my friend. I could have cried.

  ‘Why don’t we sit here, in the shade?’ I asked Sarabi.

  It was Monday of the following week, and a beautiful leafy oak had caught my attention. Prime real estate.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Sarabi asked, eyes like a spooked mare. ‘That’s where Tallulah and her gang hang out!’

  ‘What kind of a name is Tallulah?’ I said, chuckling.

  ‘Hush!’ she pleaded. ‘Trust me; you really don’t wanna have her on your back. She has spies everywhere.’

  Sarabi guided me over to a patch of grass beside an aluminium fence. The mottled shade of an elm offered some protection from the sun. Being Asian girls, we’d been brought up to think tanning was all kinds of evil.

  ‘What do you wanna do after school – career-wise, I mean?’ I asked, unpeeling one of my small oranges – the ones Ami bought in bulk at Lidl.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t have a clue!’ she said, blushing. ‘I like so many different things. I like the idea of being a lawyer. And dance rocks. But overall, I think Spanish is my favourite.’

  ‘So combine them.’ I shrugged.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Defend a client in Spain,’ I said, thinking off the cuff. ‘After making your opening statement in Spanish, obviously, you could challenge the prosecution to a dance-off. You know? Best paso doble wins the case!’

  ‘That’s some imagination you have there!’ Sarabi said, giggling.

  I glanced up as a group of kids walked towards the coveted oak. Only, ‘walking’ was the wrong word for it. ‘Strutting’ came a little closer. From the way people scooted out of their way, you’d think they were actual celebs. In the middle strode a tall brunette, every bit as stunning as a Victoria’s Secret Angel. In a single fluid motion, she’d propped Chanel sunglasses on top of her head and settled into the nook of the tree. This was her throne. No wonder Sarabi had warned me off. A broad-shouldered meathead crashed down beside her, staking his claim. They shared a lingering kiss and about a gallon of saliva.

  Say hola to Falstrum’s first couple, I thought.

  ‘Shameless,’ Sarabi muttered, scowling. ‘That’s Team Tallulah, in case you were wondering.’

  But instead of feeling disgusted, something new happened. I found myself imagining snogging Arif. I coughed. ‘Do you ever wonder what kissing’s like?’

  Sarabi’s head snapped up in shock. ‘Muzna! You mustn’t think like that.’

  ‘Why not?’ I knew the answer, but in that moment, I guess I was Sasha Fierce.

  She ballooned her cheeks in frustration. ‘Because you’ll end up pregnant and break your parents’ hearts!’

  ‘What?’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘You do realize it doesn’t quite work like that?’

  Shutters came down over Sarabi’s eyes, and her expression hardened. ‘Your funeral,’ she muttered, packing away her things with prim little movements.

  ‘Oh don’t be like that,’ I said, reaching out for her arm. ‘I was having a laugh. You know? Imagining what it would be like to be the bad girl I’m never allowed to be.’

  She thawed a little. ‘I guess it must be the writer in you again. Just make sure you don’t get carried away and end up writing some god-awful romance book.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ I said. ‘My first novel’s going to be called . . . Filthy Sheets Gone Grey.’

  Sarabi jabbed me, and we both cracked up.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was time for my first English lesson with Mr Dunthorpe. I tried not to get my hopes up too much, but everyone I’d spoken to seemed to think Mr Dunthorpe was like the Jay-Z of the teaching world. A quick search on RateMyTeacher.com backed this up.

  However, things got off to a bad start when I was instructed to sit next to the Queen Bee herself. Tallulah gave me a quick onceover, then resumed sexting beneath the table. I felt like I’d been scanned for communicable diseases.

  ‘Today we’re going to practise writing discursive essays,’ Mr Dunthorpe announced to a chorus of groans.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing at Gary – the kid from my tutor group with a greasier version of the Bieber mop.

  ‘Me?’ Gary said. ‘Why me? I wasn’t the only one complaining, but you always go and pick on me! Fancy me, do ya?’

  Some people laughed nervously.

  ‘Gary,’ Mr Dunthorpe said, his face impassive. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but teachers never look at students in that way. What I’d like you to tell me is what you think a discursive essay might be.’

  Gary shrugged like he couldn’t care less.

  ‘Well, then your reaction was completely uncalled for.’ He included us all in a sweeping gaze. ‘Anyone else care to hazard a guess?’

  I remembered my promise to myself about going all out. My hand shot into the air like a spear.

  ‘Yes, Muzna?’ Mr Dunthorpe said, giving me an encouraging smile.

  Every pair of eyes turned to stare at me as if seeing me for the first time. Even Tallulah stopped taking pictures between her thighs. It was make-or-break time.

  ‘I think it’s the kind of essay that discusses something in detail. Like showing both sides of an argument?’ I said. ‘Oh, and you have to include a conclusion,’ I added breathlessly.

  ‘Well done!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ten achievement points on SIMs, I think.’

  The deal with achievement points was that if you collected enough, they got converted into Amazon vouchers. With my pocket money situation best described as ‘tragic’, I needed all the achievement points I could get.

  ‘That ain’t fair!’ Gary complained. ‘She probably did them in her last school, while we’ve been stuck with you for a teacher.’

  Wow. Gary was a complete douche. What on earth was someone like that doing in Set One?

  Mr Dunthorpe didn’t take the bait. Instead he drew a spider diagram on the board and fired up our imaginations with a couple of killer examples.

  ‘This is the idea phase,’ he told us, when the responses slowed down. ‘If you can think it, you should write it. Separating the wheat from the chaff comes later.’ His enthusiasm spread like a mental Mexican wave. Everybody wanted in, and the suggestions came thick and fast.

  ‘OK, ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Dunthorpe whispered dramatically. ‘Let’s make discursive-essay magic!’ He caught my eye and winked. I got the feels. He made me feel like I mattered.

  ‘So,’ Tallulah said, placing her iPhone face down on the desk between us. ‘What’s your little essay going to be about?’

  That accent, though. It was like sitting next to Kate Middleton.

  Turning to face her properly for the first time, my heart skipped a beat. How on earth could her boyfriend kiss that perfect face without being burned to a crisp? Why, oh why, could I not look that amazing?

  Aware that I was staring, I shifted my focus to my blank sheet of A4. ‘I’m . . . not really sure . . .’

  ‘I’m Tallulah, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘I know. Everyone knows you!’ Realizing I was sounding like a pathetic cheerleader, I popped on the brakes. ‘I’m Muzna. I, uh, transferred here from Rigsby. It’s this small academy in Haringey.’

  ‘Cool. Want to know what my essay’s going to be about?’ she asked, arching her back like a cat. Perky breasts stuck out like ripe mangoes. I spotted at least two boys copping an eyeful. Couldn’t blame them.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, flattered that the Queen was still speaking to me.

  In a parallel universe, we could even be friends!

  ‘Cyber bullying.’ She held her hands up, as if framing a headline. ‘Should cyber bullies be sent to prison for murder if a victim commits suicide?’

  ‘That’s actually really smart,’ I said, without thinking.

  ‘For a bimbo, you mean?’

  ‘What? No. Totally not what I meant,’ I blabbered. ‘I mean compared to me. You know,
No Ideas Gal.’

  ‘You’ll think of something,’ she said with a wink. ‘Unlike him.’

  I followed her eyes to Gary.

  ‘What is he even doing in this class?’ I asked, instantly embarrassed by how bitchy it sounded. But Tallulah either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  ‘Gary has “special needs”,’ she explained, complete with air quotes. ‘Dunthorpe’s the only one that can handle that level of bad.’

  ‘Like detention-bad?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Exclusion-bad. The revolving-door kind – otherwise Falstrum gets fined, and Principal Dillinger misses out on his trip to Monte Carlo.’

  Then lightning struck. ‘I think my essay’s going to be on the hierarchy of high school!’

  ‘Cool, but where’s the “discursive” part?’ Tallulah asked, raising her eyebrows like scythes.

  ‘Well,’ I said, slightly less confidently. ‘I’m going to look at the pros and cons of joining cliques versus . . . finding yourself?’ I twisted my hands.

  ‘Impressive!’ Mr Dunthorpe said, popping out of nowhere.

  ‘Really?’ Tallulah said. ‘Sounds like the plot from Mean Girls to me.’

  I sank in my seat, exposed as a fraud.

  ‘Mean Girls was a satire, not a discursive essay,’ Mr Dunthorpe pointed out with a smile. ‘In the intervening fifteen-ish years, I’d say the world has become a very different place. If you get it right, Muzna, it’s just the sort of thing examiners are looking for.’

  ‘I’ll probably make a complete mess of it . . .’ I said, feeling my cheeks burn.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of writing a run-of-the-mill piece, which we both know you could do in your sleep? Far more interesting to stretch yourself a bit.’

  My mouth dropped open.

  He nodded, confirming my suspicions. ‘Yes, I read your last report. Your previous teacher and I both have high hopes for you.’

  Boosted by his praise, I put pen to paper, ready to take on the world.

  Nothing happened.

  Crap!

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t think of anything. I had way too much. Each time I tried to focus on an idea, another would drop, distracting me with its major potential. My poor head was a hive on fire, idea-bees zigging and zagging just out of reach. I was about to give up, when one idea suddenly outshone the rest. The bees quickly settled, bowing before royalty. Slay queen! I thought, as I started my opening paragraph.

  Twenty minutes later, I got that feeling. When you know you’ve got something special on your hands. It wasn’t great – not yet – but it could be. Only when I slipped out of my crazy writer’s haze did I register Tallulah. She was staring. I smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Are you a lesbian?’ she said, grey eyes flecked with steel.

  ‘N-n-no,’ I stammered, welling up with alarming speed.

  ‘Not that it matters,’ she blithely went on. ‘I’m a regular fag hag, ask anyone. Just curious about your butch-dyke look, is all.’ She pitched forward, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘Oh my God, you’re a boy, aren’t you?’

  I shook my head, now struggling to breathe. What a fool I was to think someone as popular as Tallulah could resist crushing me beneath her fashionable Vans.

  Waiting a full three minutes, so it didn’t look like a reaction, I raised my hand and asked if I could go to the toilet. Mr Dunthorpe studied my expression, then signed my diary, giving me permission to leave.

  I locked myself in a cubicle. The air came whooshing out of my lungs. I choked and coughed and cried. I looked down at my shapeless uniform. Was it my fault Ami wouldn’t let me pick a more flattering size? With a sinking feeling, I realized Tallulah might have caught me staring at her massive boobs. Or was my beard to blame? Was that why she thought I was a legit boy? I buried my face in my hands and sobbed my heart out.

  The pips went as I returned to my seat. I’d planned it that way. The sound of chairs scraping back and people making lunch plans rose like a storm.

  ‘No one is going anywhere until I have silence!’ Mr Dunthorpe warned, hands on hips.

  Nobody wanted to be late for lunch, so he promptly got his wish.

  ‘Thank you. The first draft of your essay is due next week Monday. Muzna, can I see you for a minute? The rest of you go and enjoy a healthy meal, please!’

  I sighed, stashing my stuff in my bag, then dragged myself over to Mr Dunthorpe’s desk. He was going to read me the riot act for my ridiculously long toilet break. Girls were always texting each other to meet up in the loos for a gossip, and he looked like the kind of teacher who called you out on it.

  ‘Take a seat, please,’ he said.

  Uh-oh, this was going to be serious.

  Mr Dunthorpe removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his elegant nose. Weird – he was actually pretty good looking for an old guy. I hoped his partner appreciated him.

  ‘Muzna, I’m not here to tell you off or judge you,’ he finally said. ‘As your tutor, it’s part of my remit to ensure your wellbeing at Falstrum.’

  Great. But I couldn’t relax. I was picking up those lull-before-the-storm vibes.

  ‘Tallulah was unkind to you.’ He said it as gentle as a whisper.

  ‘That?’ Oh my God – he must have the classroom bugged. No way did Tallulah’s voice carry that far. ‘Psh, total non-issue!’ I lied.

  His eyes burned brightly. ‘At Falstrum we celebrate diversity in all its forms. After lunch, I’m going to pull her out of class to remind her of this. Would you also like her to apologize to you?’

  My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. ‘No!’ I shook my head firmly. ‘I mean, I’m fine, sir. Really.’

  He nodded. ‘She’s intimidated by you.’

  What had the man been smoking? Tallulah was a goddess. Even Taylor Swift would feel a little insecure around her.

  ‘Your ability to consider multiple viewpoints in your writing and the speed with which you do it is uncommon in most students,’ he finished.

  I blinked. He’s only trying to make you feel better, said the voice in my head.

  ‘Your discursive essay,’ he continued. ‘“Hierarchy of High School” – you’re on to a winner there.’

  I smiled sheepishly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One more thing. In her report, your tutor described you as “extremely shy” and “unwilling to contribute to class discussions”,’ he said, eyes crinkling.

  I cringed. Me and Mrs Gideon had never got on. She’d had her favourites, and I hadn’t been one of them.

  ‘But everything I’ve seen of you this week tells me she was mistaken,’ he continued. ‘When you feel passionately about something, you transform into a powerhouse. It’s amazing to watch! Don’t let anybody knock your confidence.’

  I began to see that Mr Dunthorpe wasn’t trying to cheer me up after all. Strange as it seemed, the dude was speaking from the heart.

  ‘Can I go, please?’ I said, fearing I was going to ugly-cry and embarrass us both.

  ‘Of course. Thanks for the company!’ And with that, he whipped out a Spider-Man lunch bag.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Muzna!’ Sarabi called as I hurtled past her in the corridor. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but not here,’ I said, side-eyeing the randoms that were hanging around.

  I followed Sarabi to our private place by the aluminium fence.

  ‘So spill,’ she said, leaning forward, as if she could inhale the story out of me.

  ‘Sarabi, do you think I look like a butch dyke?’

  ‘Huh?’ Sarabi looked baffled.

  ‘How about a boy, then?’

  Sarabi laughed.

  ‘It’s what Tallulah said.’ I sniffed, the pain made new.

  ‘Oh don’t listen to her. She’s a bad person.’

  ‘But she’s so pretty . . .’ I said.

  ‘Not on the inside,’ Sarabi said matter-of-factly. ‘Sure: she sings in the chamber choir, goes on all the trips, and ge
ts a free pass from most teachers. But Dunthorpe sees right through her.’

  I tugged at a daisy, remembering what he’d said to me earlier: She’s intimidated by you.

  Could it be true? Because, honestly? Anyone would rather be her than me.

  ‘What got her triggered?’ Sarabi asked, tucking into a pie.

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Dunthorpe said he liked my work. Then she was staring at my . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘. . . beard,’ I finished, in a small voice. ‘And she went off on one. Like totally unprovoked.’

  Sarabi looked at my chin with sympathy. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  ‘How could you?’ I snapped. ‘Your face is more hair-free than a shaved egg!’

  ‘Not me,’ she admitted. ‘My aunt. Compared to her, you’re lucky. Her beard was lo-o-ong. And she’s religious-religious, so no plucking either. Her family thought they’d never get her married. But then her doctor prescribed some tablets.’

  ‘Tablets?’ I repeated. What was she on about? Having a beard wasn’t the same as having a headache. ‘Like antidepressants?’

  Sarabi shook her head. ‘Tablets that control hormones and facial hair, I think.’

  ‘Did they work?’ I asked, with naked desperation.

  ‘I think so. She’s married now, at any rate.’

  Polishing off her pie, she changed the subject. Apparently some Bollywood star was going to be filming a scene for his new movie in Southall. Sarabi was on a mission to get a selfie with him for her Instagram. I squealed for her. But really I was obsessing over the wonder pills.

  All my life I’d wanted to look pretty but I knew my parents would freak and think I was hooking up with a guy, but lately, every time Arif walked past, hashtags swam around in my head like little bubbles of inappropriateness: #DesiHunk, #MrSexyPex, #MuznasFutureHusband. I had no control over it.

  If Salma was around, I knew she’d tell me to go for it. And if I never took risks, then complaining about the Tallulahs of the world was just plain bitching.

  My gaze shifted to the spot beneath the great oak. The ice queen was in residence, getting handsy with a flock of male admirers. It still boggled my mind how someone that beautiful could be so evil. Disney lied. Tallulah was slutty and cruel, but she lived the way she wanted and made no apologies for it. In spite of everything, I could actually respect that.