Tender Earth

by Sita Brahmachari

  ‘Do we have the same tutor all the way up the school?’ Stella calls out, screwing up her nose.

  ‘That’s how it’s organized in this school.’ Mrs Latif smiles at Stella, who kicks against the back of the chair in front of her. ‘I think it’s a real opportunity for us all to grow up together!’

  I’m sure Mrs Latif notices the look on Stella’s face, but she focuses on the back of the classroom like she hasn’t seen.

  ‘Now, we’ll gradually go over the rules over the next few weeks, but I should tell you all straight away that I’ve got one rule in this classroom that I will not tolerate being broken.’

  She looks deadly serious for a moment, then her mouth springs into a dazzling smile. How does she make her lipstick stay on so perfectly? She takes her green marker and writes something on the board that I can’t see until she’s finished.

  ‘No matter what else is happening outside of here, in the wider world, this is what I expect in my classroom . . .’

  MUTUAL RESPECT.

  She underlines the words three times. ‘Everyone know what “mutual” means?’ she asks, scanning the room for an answer and letting her gaze rest on Stella for the tiniest second.

  A few people murmur the answer.

  ‘Each other! That’s right. Now, I’m going to send you on your way with my ethical question of the term . . . always a good one to get people going, I find! It seems that there’s a lot of talk about “truth” at the moment. Apparently there’s something called “post-truth” – a term that’s officially in the dictionary – so I think we do need to look into it. When we say something’s post-something, what do we mean?’

  She writes examples on the board.

  Post-Modern

  Post-Natal

  Post-Script

  Post-Truth

  ‘After,’ Milena calls out.

  ‘So what comes after truth?’ Mrs Latif raises her eyebrows and shakes her head.

  I’m not sure if she’s actually asking us or whether she’s just putting the question out there.

  She turns back to the whiteboard. ‘Who knows? But I always think a good way to examine something is to look at its opposite. The opposite of truth is . . .’

  She doesn’t turn around and a few people including Pari call out, ‘Lie.’

  Mrs Latif nods as she writes two questions on the whiteboard. ‘This could be viewed as the same question, but it sometimes helps to play around with an idea. To turn it on its head.’

  Is it always wrong to lie?

  Is it always right to tell the truth?

  ‘So, Seven Dials, that’s tutor time over! No easy questions, no easy answers! Exercise your minds – that’s the most important thing. Off you go now to your first lessons.’

  Is it always wrong to lie?

  Is it always right to tell the truth?

  Maybe I should just call Mira and tell her that I opened her letter.

  I spend the whole of break-time looking for Kez but it’s impossible to spot anyone with this many people wearing exactly the same clothes. The school is a maze of corridors. I wish they hadn’t done away with that block Mira told me about – it sounded kind of cosy – only for Year Sevens, like a mini school on its own.

  I don’t actually see Kez till I’m standing in the lunch queue, lining up to have my thumb scanned. She’s sitting at a table surrounded by people.

  Now that I’m here, it does feel a bit like being in a factory. Finally it’s my turn to lay my thumbprint on the reader. As soon as I do, my name comes up on the screen: ‘Laila Levenson,’ it tells me. ‘You have £20 credit.’ I walk along the canteen and choose a cheese sandwich, an apple juice and a piece of flapjack.

  At the end of the line a dinner lady scans the packets on another screen. ‘Hurry along. Next one!’ she says after I’ve scanned my thumb on the reader again.

  Altogether it costs £3.50. A light flashes up. ‘You have £16.50 credit.’

  I look around for a space somewhere near Kez, but the seats are all taken. I pause with my tray, trying to work out if she’s seen me, but she’s deep in conversation so I scan the room to see if there’s anyone else I even vaguely recognize to sit with. I spot Pari from my tutor group.

  She smiles at me with her eyes and shifts over. It’s so loud in the dinner hall with all the echoey voices and the clatter of trays that it’s hard to hear over the din.

  ‘All right? Lilah?’

  She pronounces it Lee La instead of Lye La . . . or Lie La.

  ‘It’s Laila,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, OK – it’s just my mum’s name is pronounced differently,’ Pari explains. ‘What do you think of Mrs Latif? She seems really on it, doesn’t she?’

  I nod. Though I’m not that sure what ‘really on it’ means. ‘That was good that thing she got us doing to get to know each other. I’ve never done that before.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Pari says.

  ‘Do you know anyone else in our class?’ Pari has to almost shout over the din of the lunch hall. It’s strange how the noise builds up in waves and then calms down again for no reason that you can work out.

  ‘No!’ I mouth and shake my head.

  ‘Nor me! Want to sit next to each other in class?’ she shouts back, pointing to how we are now – side by side.

  I nod and smile and we give up trying to compete with the noise and get on with eating. Pari takes ages to finish her sandwich. Her empty packet’s got a big red sticker over it saying the sell-by date.

  ‘You should take that back. It was best before yesterday. Did it taste all right?’

  I’m not sure she can hear me. I point to the label, but Pari shrugs.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s not from here. They never go off on the actual day.’

  She hasn’t got anything else to eat so I split my flapjack and hand half to her.

  ‘It’s a bit weird this money-on-your-thumb system, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not doing that. My mum doesn’t like the fingerprint thing. That’s why I’m going packed lunch.’ Pari turns the packet over so I can’t see the date any more.

  I wish I hadn’t made a thing of it now, so – as it seems a bit quieter in here, and I suppose I need to cover my embarrassment somehow – I find myself telling my ‘Money on Your Thumb’ story, even though I’ve always got really annoyed when Krish and Mira tell it about me.

  ‘When I was little I used to hear my brother and sister coming home and complaining about having no money on their thumbs. I kept trying to kiss their thumbs better and they could never understand what I was doing until one day I told them and then my brother scared me to death saying how at secondary school they insert a little chip under your skin, just like with a dog or a cat . . .’

  Pari laughs.

  Two older girls, maybe in Year Nine or Ten, turn and smile at us with a ‘bless!’ look. ‘Did we ever look that tiny?’ I hear one say to the other.

  Pari slides a bit closer to me so we’re shoulder to shoulder and lowers her voice.

  ‘My mum gets worried about security cameras everywhere and stuff like that. She thinks they’ll take your prints and then share them around with everyone. I told her they’re not allowed to do that, but she doesn’t trust them.’

  I feel sort of excited. I’ve only been talking to Pari for a few minutes but there’s already so much I want to ask her, to find out about her. Just for a bit I actually forget about Kez completely. On the way out of the hall I spot her again. The first thing I notice is that she’s got make-up on, even though you’re not allowed to wear it – black eyeliner and mascara. And as well as dying her hair – it’s a mass of wine-red waves – she’s pinned it up high in a beehive. She must have been practising new looks from that vlog she follows.

  ‘Hi, Kez!’ I call to her. She turns around and smiles her most confident ‘I’m all right, please don’t fuss over me’ smile. She’s in Super-Kez mode. Some people might see her new motor wheelchair first today, but with the way she carries herself about the plac
e she’s making sure it’ll only ever happen once.

  ‘This is Becks . . . Rebecca,’ Kez tells me, introducing the girl beside her.

  ‘Hi!’

  ‘Laila’s my best friend . . . from primary,’ Kez tells her.

  ‘Hi!’ Rebecca smiles, and I try to smile back but something about the way Kez added ‘from primary’ makes me feel like I’m her ‘used to be’ best friend, though maybe I’m reading too much into it. Even if I am, I’m so happy Pari’s at my side and I’m not standing here on my own.

  ‘This is Pari – she’s in my tutor group,’ I say, and regret it straight away because Kez colours up like I’m trying to make a point. She’s definitely feeling guilty about something.

  ‘What’s your tutor like?’ Rebecca asks.

  ‘Clever, funny, stylish, Muslim, beautiful!’ Pari answers, holding up all the fingers on her left hand and wiggling the little one on her right hand. ‘And she’s got an extra finger!’

  ‘Random!’ Rebecca laughs. ‘But lucky you . . . Ours is –’ she pulls a strict face, giving herself a double chin, and mimics a low, gruff voice – ‘I expect one hundred per cent Attendance, Attention and Attainment. At the end of the day you’re here to learn! There’s nothing flighty and silly about an oak tree, is there? So you’re Seven Oaks and I expect you to live up to your name!’

  I bet Rebecca’s really good at acting, the way she slips into that voice.

  ‘He didn’t quite put it like that!’ Kez laughs. ‘But yeah . . . that’s him all right! Did you count how many times he said “at the end of the day”?!’

  Kez purses her lips and puts her head on her chest to get a double chin.

  ‘At the end of the day, Kezia, it’s not a beauty pageant! Make-up is not allowed to be worn in school! If I see it again you’ll be on concern! You’re all aware of the system we have here, aren’t you? You get a warning . . . and just to be clear, this is your warning, Kezia. If you don’t heed it you’ll be on concern, and if you don’t pay attention to the concern . . . it’s a detention.’

  ‘He did say that! You were told!’ Rebecca laughs.

  Kez shrugs. ‘I think he’s all right in a solid sort of way.’

  I bet Kez actually likes the fact that he’s treating her the same as everyone else. She hates it when teachers treat her differently. She has her iPad on her knees and she’s checking out her timetable.

  ‘Can you believe this new app they’ve asked me to trial? ‘Seems like I’ve got my own personal satnav!’ They’ve loaded in my timetable. All I have to do is log in my room number – see!’ Kez shows us the screen. She types in ‘DT room twenty-four’, and a map and instructions spring up.

  There’s a red arrow pulsing our ‘present location’, then another arrow pops up for DT twenty-four with a list of instructions:

  • Turn right

  • Take lift 3 to floor 2

  • Turn right

  • DT is second on your left.

  ‘We better get going then, Vimana!’

  ‘Who’s Vimana?’ Pari asks.

  Kez taps the side of her power-chair. ‘I thought I’d give my chariot a name!’

  ‘Isn’t that the name of the charity you’re raising funds for at your bat mitzvah?’ Rebecca asks.

  Kez nods.

  I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t work out where.

  ‘This app’s smart. If they change classrooms, the teacher has to register a change of room and it redirects you. Good, isn’t it? But the “golden pass to the lifts” is a bit OTT.’ She says it like ‘HOT’, dropping the ‘H’ and adding a ‘T’.

  I laugh.

  ‘What’s “ott”?’ Rebecca asks.

  It’s a bit pathetic how happy it makes me that she doesn’t know what Kez means and I do.

  Kez raises her hand towards her blazer pocket where the golden lift pass sticks out of the top.

  ‘This is! OTT,’ she says. ‘Over The Top! When people go a bit overboard – as in making me a gold lift card like I especially need one.’

  ‘I get that sometimes!’ Pari says.

  Kez pulls a bit of a ‘that’s unlikely’ face.

  ‘Not because of me . . .’ Pari stops short like she forgot to be on her guard for a moment. ‘I mean, it’s different . . . but I still get what you mean.

  Kez looks at Pari like she’s trying to work her out.

  ‘Oh, yeah! Well, it’s a bit crap, isn’t it?’

  Pari nods.

  Kez is acting really confident, but it doesn’t fool me. I can see by the tension in her leg and arm how stressed she is.

  She sees me seeing, and I get it. Kez doesn’t need someone in secondary school who knows her like I do . . . who can tell when she’s covering things up.

  ‘See you later!’ Kez waves over her shoulder as she heads off through the crowded hall.

  No fuss. This is exactly what she wants, and I wouldn’t be her best friend – or at least her old best friend ‘from primary’ – if I didn’t listen to her.

  I catch sight of Kez and Rebecca before the lift doors close. She twiddles the bit of hair that’s coming loose from a clip and smiles my way. I twiddle a strand of my hair too. Then she holds her golden lift pass up and pulls a face at it. The twiddle-hair thing is our code – mine and Kez’s. It means . . . well, it used to mean: ‘I know who you are and you know who I am, no matter what anyone else in the world thinks.’

  I want to run over to Kez and take Rebecca’s place. I want to say to Rebecca, ‘You can go now. I’m the one who knows Kez best.’ But that isn’t what Kez wants. The lift doors close, and Rebecca and Kez are gone.

  Pari looks from me to the lift and smoothes her headscarf.

  ‘I like the colour of her hair,’ Pari says. ‘Is it dyed?’

  I nod.

  ‘It suits her.’

  It’s true. It does. But it feels too weird to be talking about the person who has been my best friend forever with a girl in my tutor group I hardly know anything about . . . yet. It’s strange how it feels like I’ve known her for a lot longer than half a day. The only other person I’ve ever felt like that about is Kez when I met her on the first day of nursery.

  What is Dad doing walking towards the school gates wearing that beret and holding his arms out as if he’s going to try and lock me in a bear hug?

  ‘Hi, Lai . . .’

  I shoot him a warning look. I can’t be Lai Lai here.

  ‘Hi, Laila,’ he corrects himself. ‘You look so smart! I hardly recognized you.’

  ‘That’s because I’m identical to everyone else!’

  ‘Not to me you’re not!’ Dad laughs and tries to kiss the top of my head, but I duck and he ends up kissing air.

  ‘Do you have to wear that beret?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it? I bought it in Glasgow with Mira. She thought I looked OK,’ Dad says, touching the top of his head. ‘Anyway, it keeps my head warm!’

  I shoot Dad a you-are-totally-embarrassing-me look.

  ‘Oh yes . . . the memory is indeed merciful. I forgot about the total-rejection stage!’

  ‘Dad!’ I laugh and bash him on the arm. He grabs my hand, then links arms with me. I let him.

  ‘So Krish and Mira are all settled in. Two down, one to go!’ He starts going on about Mira’s new flatmate with her purple hair, ripped jeans, red braces and more piercings than skin: ‘Ah well, that’s art school for you! Expression is all!’ Dad flings his free arm about like a dancer, so I break my arm-link with him.

  ‘Dad! Just walk normally!’

  ‘You’re not allowed to find me this cringe-worthy yet,’ Dad jokes. ‘I need you to give me till Year Eight at least.’

  ‘Please, Dad!’

  Eventually we put some space between us and the stream of uniforms, and I let him link arms with me again.

  ‘How was it then? Your first day?’ Dad asks, as we pass the Unfriendship Bench.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘There’ll be a fine for every time you say “fine”!
Money-on-your-thumb operation go all right?’ He does a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Yes, Dad!’

  ‘And how did Kezia get on?’

  ‘I only saw her at lunch. She seemed fi . . . OK,’ I tell him.

  ‘“OK” is banned too! I thought you and Kez were going to be in the same tutor group.’

  ‘Me too, but we’re not.’ I shrug like it’s no big deal.

  Dad looks at me as if he’s checking that I’m really all right about it.

  We cross the road and walk past the tree outside our house.

  ‘Ed says he’ll keep the poster up until someone claims it,’ Dad says, tapping the trunk.

  ‘I was thinking, if no one does, maybe—’

  ‘Not a chance, Laila! Mum’s not keen – and to be honest, I’m not either. You have to feed them chopped-up mice and things, you know!’

  Gross! I hadn’t thought of that. ‘What will happen to it if . . .’

  But Dad’s not listening; he’s staring at the deep crack that’s running all the way along our front wall. The wall that stops our bit of front garden from falling on to the pavement looks like it’s about to collapse.

  ‘When did that split apart?’ Dad asks. ‘The last time I looked it wasn’t much more than a hairline crack.’

  ‘Want a cup of tea, Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Thanks, Laila.’ He looks a bit surprised.

  I come to the table with two mugs and take a sip of mine.

  ‘When did you get a taste for tea?’ Dad laughs.

  ‘Since I did!’

  ‘Everything all right with Mum? She should be back from work soon. Funny! Mum starting work at your old primary and you starting secondary at the same time!’

  Dad sips his tea and looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Hang your blazer up, Laila.’ Dad picks up the plates and cups from breakfast that are still on the table, puts them in the sink and starts unloading the dishwasher. ‘We’ll need to help out a bit more around the place.’