Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  But post birthday party, this sequence would only be the beginning of a process. She’d then shut the bedroom door behind her, switch on the gray lamp, lie back on her bed, and just hate herself. Consumed with a feeling of “badness,” of “wrongness,” she used her forefinger to tap on the base of the lamp, even numbers only as those raw feelings continued to play out in her mind. Guilt. Fear. A cauldron of emotion mixed in her head and tipped into every crevice of her body. Guilt for being such a horrid little girl and fear of what may happen if she didn’t count. She kept a running commentary in her head of how worthless she really was, as she tried so hard to think of anyone on this earth who really loved her and who truly gave a damn about her. In those moments of blurred reality, Mum and Dad would never pop into her head; there was just a void with no one and nothing in it. An intense feeling of loneliness. Of being utterly worthless. Unlovable. Pointless. Bad. Rotten.

  Once the counting stopped, she’d lie on her bed until those thoughts also stopped whirling around her, by which time she’d feel a little better and Mum would call up the stairs yelling it was time for dinner. Of course, on the odd occasions that thoughts of Mum and Dad did manage to break through the barrier of negativity, Lara merely questioned their apparent love for her, not truly believing they actually felt anything for her at all, except perhaps pity. The same way Mum would sigh when yet another news report from Africa regarding hunger and war popped up on the screen—that’s how they felt about her.

  And one day, a moment of beautiful clarity finally reached her. A moment, which turned into a collection of words that Lara decided would define her for the rest of her life. Words she would live by, turn to, and believe in wholeheartedly. Words that would protect her in times of trouble and confusion.

  It was only ever clever to trust yourself.

  Never rely on anyone.

  That way no one can ever, ever hurt you.

  The first time Lara heard the N-word, it wasn’t surprising. In fact, it seemed the most likely successor to “alien.”

  She’d been walking the short distance to the sweetshop, across a small road, which led to the back of the railway station, past a baker’s and tiny barber’s shop adorned with pictures of men with sideburns. Lara’s young mind was brimming with contemplation—whether to buy a bar of chocolate or perhaps some cola cubes with the last of her pocket money, wondering if she would make it back home in time for the start of her favorite television program. Then it all happened so quickly. The man, looking as if he hadn’t washed in a week, was cloaked in rags and a strange, strong odor that followed him like a dusty cloud. He uttered or slurred one word with the power to stop Lara in her tracks and shift her thoughts to something a little bit more serious than sugar-coated cubes.

  A word that began with “N.” Two syllables. Nigger.

  The humiliation felt strong as the “bad man” stumbled off into the distance, leaving in his wake a little girl wishing she’d at least sworn at him or said something horrid about his mum—done anything but stand in the mute shock that had accompanied his performance.

  As she walked back home, forgetting the purpose of the original journey, Lara played back alternative endings in her mind. They all began and ended with her being victorious and not the silly little girl who went back to her room and blinked sixteen times in sets of four, until she felt a little better. Less humiliated. Less angry.

  Lara really wanted to tell her parents about the smelly bad man. But Dad was at work and Mum was in the kitchen, poking the top of a slab of meat she’d just retrieved from the oven.

  “I can never get the crackling right. Not like Mum,” she mumbled, slicing a knife in between the grooves of the belly of pork, surrounded by bubbling oil in the large oven dish.

  “Mum…” began Lara.

  “Just a sec, sweet pea,” she said, bending down to slide the dish back into the oven.

  Mum wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Lara. “What is it, my love?”

  Lara was unresponsive but felt Mum could suddenly tell something was wrong. They both sat down at the table.

  “What is it?” asked Mum again, and Lara relayed the story, leaving out the part of the perpetrator being a man, slightly fearful Mum would never let her out on her own again. Instead she focused on the word and the fact that someone had used it against another person in the street.

  “Oh, sweet pea…” said Mum, shifting her gaze, as if she didn’t know what to say next—which in Lara’s eyes was a ridiculous notion, as her mum and dad knew everything and should always have a correct answer for everything. “I am so, so sorry you had to hear that despicable word. Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Mum’s fussing continued. “Let me tell you a story,” she said as Lara prepared herself for the obvious words of comfort and understanding that were sure to continue.

  “When I was a little girl… I had ginger hair.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “That’s right. And I’d get teased about it all the time. Even my own brothers would have a go—especially as I was the only red-head in the family.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I was born with ginger hair and that is who I am. No one has the right to say bad things about it. I’m just the same as everyone else really—just with different-colored hair. Okay?”

  “I think so…”

  “Just like you or anyone of any color is beautiful. Do you understand? And if anyone ever tells you any different—you just let me know.” And with that last word, Mum grabbed Lara into a hug, almost suffocating her and staying in that position for longer than usual.

  “Now you go and wash your hands for dinner—it’ll be ready soon.”

  Lara leaped off the chair, headed for the door, and then turned back around again. Something didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel any better—in fact, she may have felt a little worse.

  “But Mum…”

  “Yes, Lara.”

  “You dye your hair.”

  As Mum stared blankly at her, Lara suddenly realized her mother wasn’t the all-knowing being Lara had once perceived her to be.

  Chapter 16

  Little Lara had been dreaming again.

  Laughing with and stroking a succession of wild but friendly animals ranging from giraffes to hippos and tigers, she lived in a large mud hut with an Indesit washing machine in the middle of a jungle where everyone knew one another’s names and the animals could sometimes speak.

  “Lara, wake up or you’ll be late for your first day at your new school!”

  Rubbing her eyes open, she swung out of bed as soon as she heard Mum’s footsteps approach the door.

  “I’ve been calling you for ages,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Sorry, Mum. I was having a dream.”

  “Don’t apologize for that. Dreams are good. What was it about?”

  “Just stuff…” replied Lara, not wanting Mum to know she’d been dreaming of Africa again. It would only upset her. Or perhaps it wouldn’t, but Lara couldn’t take the risk. Besides, Africa wasn’t where she wanted to be, so she wasn’t actually sure why she kept thinking about the place. It was only a country, a place on a map, a place seen in some old movie like Tarzan. A place teachers sometimes spoke about at school but not very much … not enough, actually, because she was curious. Just a little bit curious about the country she was born in.

  “Perhaps you’re just nervous about your first day at secondary school today,” said Mum.

  That part was true. At junior school, things weren’t so bad for Lara. Connie Jones had soon tired of calling her names after Lara had smacked her on the side of her cheek, outside the toilet cubicles. And after discovering Connie’s dad worked for immigration, the whole “alien” thing had taken on a whole new meaning anyway.

  Lara really should have been excited about the prospect of secondary school, but apart from everything else, it would mean slowly and gently “introducing” her unusual setup to new classmates just as every
one in junior school had gotten used to seeing her walk in with a blond-haired mum with ginger roots. Now she would have to anticipate an unorderly queue of questions bound to be thrown her way.

  “I remember my first day at secondary school. I was so nervous…” began Mum as she handed Lara a fresh towel. “But my mum, she soon put me straight… Said I was being silly…”

  “You don’t talk about your mum, my gran, much.”

  Mum’s smile straightened. “It’s a long time ago now.”

  Lara sat up. “What happened? Why don’t you see her anymore?”

  “Sweet pea, I told you, they live far away.”

  “Mum—”

  “Lara, drop it, okay? Just … leave it. We’re all fine without them, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “There you go then. Now get ready for school. You can’t be late on your first day!”

  Lara slipped into her boring gray school uniform, tapping the white fabric of her socks as she slid them up her legs. Running downstairs to grab breakfast, she was horrified to see Dad also getting ready.

  “Hurry up, love, you don’t want to be late on your first day,” he said.

  Lara turned to Mum in quiet desperation, message received.

  “Barry, she’s eleven now … perhaps she’ll want to go on her own?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s not safe out there—I mean, what if something happens?”

  Mum dutifully moved over to Dad and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Barry, she’ll be getting on a bus and going to school with Kieron, who will stay on the bus and watch her get off and then go to his school, farther up. We’ve already done the route—everything’s okay.”

  “A bus? That means it’s quite far.”

  “Just a few stops.”

  “I’m not sure about this.” Dad’s forehead wrinkled.

  “I’ll be okay, Dad.”

  “How about I walk you to the bus stop, then?”

  Again, Lara didn’t want to upset Dad, but she also didn’t feel ready for everyone to see them together just yet. Secondary school was a clean break and Dad was about to ruin everything. If she wasn’t already eleven, she’d have cried herself into a tantrum and demanded to be left alone to go to school in peace. Instead she heard herself say, “I suppose it would be okay if we walked to the bus stop together.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant, Laralina love. I’ll just eat this last piece of toast and marmalade and we’ll get going,” he said, beaming.

  Mum smiled at Lara warmly, rubbing her back, in her own way letting her daughter know she’d just done a good thing.

  As they walked up the familiar street, Lara gently pulled her hand away from Dad’s as he attempted to hold on to it.

  “Too old for me to hold your hand, right?” laughed Dad. And Lara was pleased he thought this the only reason for her refusal.

  “Now you be good on your first day, okay?” said Dad as Lara’s eyes searched the street for anyone in an identical uniform. Kieron was walking way up ahead, giggling at her “stupidity”—a big word for him. Her heart began to increase in BPM as they approached the bus stop and she saw two sets of gray-and-white uniforms.

  “This is okay, Dad. I’ll be okay,” she said hurriedly. Lara could only hope the girls wouldn’t turn around and see them.

  “See you, love!” said Dad, stooping down for a kiss. She pecked him on the cheek quickly, one eye on the backs of the girls and with a wave she said good-bye and he was off, just as the two girls in gray turned to face her.

  Then she exhaled.

  The first day of secondary school was a breeze for Lara, especially when she’d spotted two girls in the upper years who looked more like her than any of her junior schoolmates had. Then, she’d been the only “one”; now there were others! Such recognition felt unfamiliar, yet pleasant, and she was determined to at least become their friend. Perhaps they could even stick together, so as to be armed and prepared the next time an older version of Connie Jones materialized or someone decided to use the N-word. They could form an alliance and become close friends. Perhaps they were from Africa, too?

  Toward the end of the first week, one of the said girls shrugged past Lara, almost causing her to drop her carefully picked-out tray of mash, sausages, and soggy semolina onto the dining room floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” said the girl, sarcastically. The girl had multicolored beads dripping from tiny little plaits in her hair and Lara had longed to ask her about them. Did they hurt? How long did it take to do? But it was now clear that any chance of a friendship was out, and she may have just earned her first enemy in that school.

  “I bet you were!” Lara countered, determined not to be “the bullied one” yet again. The girl edged toward her, all neatly pressed uniform and baggy socks, fists resting on each hip.

  “You wanna say that to my face, new girl?” she challenged.

  Before Lara could think of something as equally menacing to say back, a girl with a shorter skirt and straighter socks shoved herself into the space between them.

  Sandy Smith.

  “Unless you want some trouble today, you’d better go about your business. You know I ain’t scared to bring it to you.”

  The girl with the beads rolled her eyes, contemplating her options. Even Lara had already heard about Sandy, a notorious London girl who knew anyone worth knowing in the fourth and fifth years. Clearly, the girl with the beads had no options.

  “Like I’m scared of you!” said the girl defiantly anyway, stomping off and leaving Lara clutching her tray and feeling more than flabbergasted at what had just happened. Sandy Smith, the most connected girl in the school, who up until that moment had never given Lara a clue she even knew she existed, had just stuck up for her in the most public way. Oh. Mi. Gosh.

  “Thanks,” said Lara, which didn’t sound anywhere near as thankful as she’d liked.

  “It was nothing; she’s an idiot,” replied Sandy as the two girls placed their trays on the table and sat down.

  “Still—”

  “She knows not to mess with me. I know people who can kick her ass with their eyes shut, if I ask them to. Essex girls like her wouldn’t last a minute in London.”

  Lara surged with admiration as Sandy spoke. Easily the prettiest girl in school with her perm and red lipstick, she was also the toughest, and listening to her had to be the most exciting thing Lara had ever done.

  “What are you doing after school?” asked Sandy as they spooned the last dregs of soggy semolina into their mouths.

  “I have netball practice.”

  “That’s okay, coz I’m off to meet my social worker. After that moment of pure joy and enlightenment, we could meet up.”

  Sandy may not have looked much like her, but she and Lara became good friends in a very short space of time. When they were together, Lara didn’t remember to tap things as much. Or have to keep going in and out of a room six times. She seemed to flow quite easily into the mold of a happy soon-to-be twelve-year-old girl as they browsed the shops together, tried on clothes, or hung out at Lara’s house. Even Kieron would pop over from next door more often than necessary, perhaps nursing a secret crush on Lara’s new friend.

  Lara and Sandy understood each other like no one else could while the other girls at school couldn’t work out why they were so close. But they knew. They felt it whenever they were together—like two little street urchins no one wanted, thrown together by the winds of fate and circumstance.

  Plus they both adored Color Me Badd.

  In between conversations about music and clothes, they’d talk a lot about a future they both foresaw for themselves—one that involved needing absolutely no one and never having to trust anyone except themselves, not even each other, just themselves. Their conversations may have seemed dark, a bit too negative, and perhaps untrue to others, but they were perfectly normal for two girls who at that point didn’t feel they actually belonged anywhere in the world or to anyone. Lara even confided to Sandy about the night
of her tenth birthday party, with Sandy spouting off a tirade of abuse that included, “Fuck everyone! See, you don’t need anyone, Lara. You only need you!”

  In and out of children’s and foster homes, Sandy had lived the type of experience Lara felt she could relate to. Even though to the outside world their circumstances were completely different, to each other they were just the same.

  Plus Sandy never judged Lara.

  Once, as the two of them were about to watch Pretty Woman on video, Sandy must have noticed Lara tapping the VHS recorder four times, just after pushing the tape inside.

  “I don’t mind, you know,” said Sandy.

  They waited for the video to start.

  “Mind what, exactly?” replied Lara, trying to sound older, experienced, brave.

  “The tapping and stuff. I don’t judge.”

  “What are you talking about? Nice one for getting this video; Mum would never let me watch it. Probably got loads of dirty bits in it, too. It’s about a prostitute, you know,” waffled Lara, desperate to change the subject because she knew exactly what her friend was referring to.

  It was hard to pinpoint the very moment in time that Lara began to tap things, only it had increased around the time of her tenth birthday. The urge to do it was so strong, at times she’d indulge before starting something important like homework, as if by not doing it, she’d get low marks or worse—Mum and Dad being carted away from her and she being shipped back to Africa. Sometimes she was aware of just how silly she was being; other times it felt like a matter of life and death. Ironically, these urges to count, or walk in and out of a room multiple (always an even number) times, had started to increase as she and Sandy got closer. Lara feared that by not obeying her urges, her friend would most definitely be taken from her.

  During a boring bit in the movie, Sandy spoke again. “I’m serious. I mean, it’s pretty weird, all that tapping, but I’m cool with it. I’ve seen all sorts in the children’s home.”

  Lara opened a bag of toffee popcorn, determined to hold on to her denial.