by Sufiya Ahmed
“Hungry today,” she says.
I nod, mouth full, and sneak a peek at Jim from under my lashes. I observe him and try to work out how far I can go with my first prank in Mission Break Up.
Alisha always taught me that it was wise to test the waters first in case the foster dad had a horrid temper. It meant starting with small rebel moves to gauge the reaction.
“Some people,” she would say, “are wired to lose control completely.”
I knew she was referring to Dad at these times. And now Mum is gone, and Dad isn’t allowed to see us.
I don’t really remember him. Alisha does, though, and with lots of hatred too.
I give my head a slight shake to forget the past and focus on the present. Earlier this evening, I made a list of pranks and ordered them from cool pink to red hot.
The first on the list is Operation Sock Drawer. Alisha played this one on Claire. Typically, she had gone bananas and ordered Alisha to rematch every pair. Then she had refused to serve Alisha dinner that night. Poo had not been very impressed when we’d told her. I think Poo removed Claire from the foster-carer list after our stay.
It’s time to put my plan into action.
I wonder how Jim and Cheryl will react as I tiptoe out into the hallway. They are in the living room watching TV.
I pause outside their bedroom and take a deep breath. This is it. I am about to break one of the top ten rules of care. No foster child is allowed to enter a foster’s bedroom without permission. But I’m about to do it to for the sake of Mission Break Up.
Opening their door, I head to the dresser. The socks are in the third drawer, all neatly balled together. My operation begins. I pull apart every pair and then ball the odd ones together. Soon there is a drawer of mismatched socks. Feeling satisfied, I tiptoe back to my room.
The next morning, I wait with bated breath for Jim to lose his temper. Or at least express unhappiness. To my disappointment, there is nothing. He leaves for work in the morning with the usual kiss on Cheryl’s cheek and a pat on my head as I eat my cereal. I try to catch a glimpse of his socks, but his trousers go all the way down to his smart office shoes.
Perhaps he has a second sock drawer that I’ve not discovered.
***
All is revealed when he returns home.
Peeping from the top of the stairs, I watch Jim remove his shoes to reveal purple and yellow stripes on his right foot and black and white dots on his left. He must be colour-blind! Or pattern-blind if there is such a thing!
Slipping his feet into his slippers, Jim walks into the kitchen where Cheryl is preparing dinner. I follow closely behind.
“Hello, Ruby,” Jim greets me over his shoulder. “Have you had a nice day?”
I shrug. “Spent it reading in the garden.”
“Darling, why are you wearing odd socks?” Cheryl asks, staring down at his feet.
“The strangest thing happened, love,” Jim replies seriously. “I think the fairies are back.”
My head snaps up. What? Fairies? Is he serious?
It seems he is not the only strange one in this house as Cheryl responds, “Really? Again? Gosh, they are a nuisance. What did they do this time?”
“They managed to sneak into my sock drawer and pull every pair apart.”
“Such mischief!” Cheryl exclaims.
I can remain quiet no longer. “Fairies? For real?”
The fosters look at me sombrely and nod.
“I’m not six you know,” I blurt out. “I’m twelve. Don’t talk about fairies for my benefit. I’m not like your other foster children who would have believed it.”
“But Ruby,” Jim says, “we believe in fairies. There’s a whole gang of them in the garden and they’re always causing mischief.”
“Yeah, OK,” I dismiss, standing up. “I’m going to my room.”
“But I’ve made chicken fajitas for dinner,” Cheryl protests.
My stomach rumbles at the thought of spicy chicken pieces with salsa, sour cream and salad. I suppress the urge to sit back down to enjoy a plate. “No,” I mutter. “I need to be in my room.”
OPERATION GLUE
As I lie in bed that night, still a little hungry from only having a cheese sandwich for dinner, it hits me that the fosters are fully aware of what I did with their sock drawer.
The “fairies” nonsense is straight out of the fostering handbook. When children play up, it is advised that attention is diverted, especially for those children that come from family homes like mine.
Fosters are only approved when their evaluation shows that they have a calm temperament. Of course, that wasn’t always the case. One foster carer, Steve, had pushed Alisha over when she’d emptied his alcohol bottle down the sink. It was her sixteenth birthday and Steve had offered her wine. Alisha had been furious. “Why can’t they read our care plan?” she’d raged. “We are Muslim. We don’t drink.”
Alisha had rung Poo that very day, and we were back at Sunshine House by nine that night.
What is clear to me now is that Jim is not like horrid Steve. It is going to take a lot to rock his temper.
I pull out my list from under the pillow and switch on my torch, carefully crossing off the first three pranks that are coded pink. I’m going to have to move over to the red side.
The next morning, I wake early to put my plan into action. A few days ago, I’d noticed Jim’s toolbox in the cupboard under the stairs and had a quick glimpse inside. It contained just what I needed: a big bottle of PVA glue.
Tiptoeing downstairs, I open the toolbox and pull out the glue tube. Then, moving swiftly, I slather the white goo all over the handles of the doors downstairs.
Ha! Jim will not take too kindly to this.
I don’t want to be present when Jim loses his temper, so I remain in my room, standing by the door to hear the outburst that is sure to come from downstairs.
It never comes.
The front door closes at exactly eight o’clock, the time when Jim leaves the house for work. I run to the window overlooking the drive to stare in confusion as a perfectly calm-looking Jim walks to his car. He glances up and catches me staring through the glass. He waves, then gets in and drives off.
I don’t understand.
What about the glue? Surely he’d got some on his hands.
“Ruby!” Cheryl calls from downstairs.
I sigh. I may as well have some breakfast as I am famished. I fling open the door and step out into the hallway. Reaching back, I place a hand on the grey metal handle to pull it shut. That is when I feel the gooeyness on my palm.
There is glue all over the handle!
I can’t believe it. The fosters have played the prank right back at me. Cheryl must have slathered the glue on when I was at the window. I had been so busy peering at Jim that I hadn’t heard any tiny sound from outside the door.
“Ruby!” Cheryl has walked up the stairs and is now standing on the landing . “What are you doing?”
“I uhh…” I don’t know what to say.
“What’s wrong?” Cheryl asks. “Why are you not letting go of that handle?”
Gosh, Cheryl is a good actress. Fine, I’ll play along.
“My hand is stuck.”
“What?”
“It’s stuck to the handle by some glue or something.”
“Oh no,” Cheryl cries, rushing forward. “Those awful fairies!”
Fairies! I have to bite my lip to stop the scream. Not that again.
“Here let me help you,” Cheryl offers, pulling my hand. It comes unstuck, but not without a slight sting. “You’ll have to wash that off with soap. Why don’t you do that and then come and have some breakfast?”
I nod, trying to unpick the glue from my palm.
“And then you can help me clean the handles downstairs,” Cheryl says. “The fairies have poured glue all over the place. It’s a good thing Jim’s eyesight is so sharp. He noticed the white goo before he touched it. We’ve been opening and closing t
he doors with plastic gloves.”
I spend the morning scraping off the glue from the handles. It is not an easy thing to do. By the time I finish, I am determined to finalise Mission Break Up.
Cheryl is preparing dinner when I see my chance. I sneak into Jim’s home office to change the Wi-Fi password to AlishaRules!!1.
Ha! The fosters will get increasingly frustrated when their internet won’t connect.
Feeling satisfied, I stroll back into the kitchen and ask sweetly, “Can I help?”
Cheryl looks surprised. “Erm, perhaps you could peel those potatoes for me?”
“OK.”
When the potatoes are done, Cheryl places lamb joints in two separate trays. “This one’s for you,” she says, pointing to the smaller one.
The words hit me like a runaway train right in my chest. Why foster me if all they are going to do is make me feel left out? Alisha is right. Fosters only take in kids for the care money they receive. None of them do it out of the goodness of their hearts. None!
“Are you OK?” Cheryl asks in a worried voice.
“My care plan says that I don’t eat meat,” I snap.
“What?” Cheryl looks taken aback. “You don’t eat meat at all?”
“Yes. No. I mean I do,” I stutter. “I only eat halal which is the meat that’s been blessed with Muslim holy words.”
Cheryl blinks and then lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh, I know that! It was in your care plan.”
I don’t understand. Why doesn’t she cook vegetarian food for me like the other fosters did if she knows I can only eat halal meat?
“This here,” Cheryl says, lifting the small lamb tray, “is the halal lamb for you. We’ve got a drawer in the freezer packed with meat and chicken from Khan’s Butchers. All the meat dishes I’ve prepared for you have been halal.”
I stare at her. “For real?”
She nods.
“The chicken yesterday was halal?”
“Yes.”
I am dumbfounded. Cheryl and Jim had thought of my food requirements to the point where my meat dishes were being prepared separately. No other foster had ever done that before. Well, except one Muslim family who had looked after us during Christmas. They ate halal meat themselves, so they hadn’t exactly been going out of their way for us. That stay hadn’t lasted beyond the new year. Alisha had hated Saira’s house and played a prank with creepy crawlies in a bid to get us kicked out. The sight of three big daddy-long-legs on Saira’s pillow was all it had taken to get us kicked out.
Cheryl peers closely at my face. “Is that why you’ve been insisting on cheese sandwiches on the nights I’ve cooked meat?”
I nod. “My sister Alisha said I can only eat halal.”
“Oh darling!” Cheryl leans over and pulls me into a hug. The move is too sudden, causing me to instinctively push back. She stumbles on her feet a little before recovering. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“I’m going to my room,” I snap.
The next few hours are spent staring up at the star-covered ceiling. I can’t believe the fosters have bought me my own food. It is a kindness that no one else has ever shown. Why can’t they be like all the others and just cook vegetarian food for me? Why do they have to treat me in such a nice way? I feel myself warming to them and I do not want that. I want to leave and live with my sister who is my own flesh and blood.
I am still lying on the bed, curled up into a ball, when I hear movement outside the door.
“Ruby,” Jim says. “There’s a cheese sandwich for you right here, with a glass of milk.”
He is home already? What time is it? I glance up at the clock. Dinner time. My stomach rumbles. Another meal of cheese in bread is making me feel queasy. I make up my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and nearly step onto the food tray. How did I forget that was there! Picking it up, I walk slowly down to the kitchen. Jim and Cheryl are at the dinner table. I catch Cheryl dabbing her left eye with a tissue before they notice me.
Jim shoots to his feet. “Ruby!”
I place the tray on the counter.
“That lamb smells delicious,” I say, suddenly feeling very shy. “Could I have the halal one?”
Cheryl’s chair scrapes back. “Of course you can. Come, I’ll just serve your plate up.”
I sit down at the table. It feels strange to be sitting here without Alisha. My sister would have loved the food that Cheryl places in front of me. Roast lamb, potatoes, vegetables and gravy.
“Tuck in,” Cheryl says.
I pick up my fork and take a mouthful. It is delicious.
CREEPY CRAWLIES
I feel guilty the next day.
How could I have enjoyed that meal when Alisha is probably living on instant ramen? She used to give me her share of food when I was little. And now here I am eating lamb like a queen.
I also worry about why Alisha hasn’t come to see me yet. It’s been ten days since our separation and I’ve not heard a word from her. Poo told her she could call my fosters to arrange a visit to the house. I hope she’s alright.
“What would you like to eat today?” Cheryl asks, mid-morning.
“Just a cheese sandwich please,” I reply.
Cheryl’s face falls, but she doesn’t say anything. I retreat into the garden with a book. Being near Cheryl is making me lose focus on my mission. Me and Alisha need each other, and Cheryl and Jim are standing in the way with their do-gooding idea to take care of other people’s children.
I slip my Mission Break Up list from between the pages of the book. Operation Sock Drawer, Operation Glue and Operation Wi-Fi have all failed. Last night I enjoyed the meal so much that I’d actually forgotten about the Wi-Fi password change.
It was when we were sitting around the TV that Jim noticed his Wi-Fi wasn’t working.
“Did you change the password, dear?” he asked.
Cheryl shook her head, her eyes fixed on the screen.
“Hmm, let me have a look.” He disappeared from the room only to return a few minutes later, shaking his head.
“Fairies at it again,” he said. “They changed the password to heavens knows what, but I’ve overridden it. The new password is RubyLivesHere.”
“Aww,” Cheryl turned away from the TV to smile at me.
I bit my lip to hide my frustration. Well, that was a complete failure of a prank.
“Can I go to my room?” I asked. “I’d like to read in bed and then go to sleep.”
“Of course,” Cheryl said. “Be sure to brush your teeth. Goodnight!”
That had been last night. Three operations failed. And now what? Perhaps it’s time for Operation Creepy Crawlies.
I get to my feet and walk over to the green recycling bin. Lifting the lid, I peer inside. It is full of plastic containers and empty cardboard boxes. Spotting a margarine box, I reach inside to grab it. This will do.
Now what type of insects should I use for my mission? Alisha loved spider pranks, but I can’t spot any. I get down on my hands and knees to see if I can spot any worms. None.
Then I see it. A snail slowly creeping along the foot of the fence behind the raspberry bush. I move the branches to peer down. Yes! There are a few of them. Perhaps they are a family. Reaching down, I grab one around the shell and deposit it in the margarine container. Deciding that it needs a friend, I pick up a second one.
“I won’t harm you,” I whisper. “Just need you both for a mission.”
Now I need to figure out where and when to place them to frighten the heebie-jeebies out of Cheryl. Her bed? Hmm, perhaps putting them under the bed covers isn’t such a good idea. The snails might suffocate. I don’t want that. I know what it is like to be powerless and vulnerable against stronger people.
I make my way to the bathroom. That should be the perfect place as snails like wet surroundings. Yes, I will place them in the bathroom cabinet. I pick up the largest one gently, careful not to hurt it. The perfect spot is right next to Cheryl’s
face cream. The second snail can go next to the toothbrush holder.
Mission accomplished.
For the rest of the day, I can barely keep the glee off my face.
“You look very happy,” Jim comments as we eat a delicious meal of rice and lamb curry.
I nearly choke on my mouthful.
“Just glad to eat food from my culture,” I mumble. It isn’t a lie, although not the real reason for my joy.
The fosters exchange a look but say nothing.
Bedtime can’t come soon enough. Taking my position behind the bedroom door, I listen out for the screams that are sure to come from the bathroom.
At exactly twenty past ten, there is a squeal.
Yes! At last!
Barely able to contain my excitement, I count down from three for the bathroom door to fling open. It is about to happen; Cheryl will run out, terrified, and her screaming will bring the roof down.
I wait and wait.
Nothing.
Exactly seven minutes later, the door creaks open and I hear Cheryl’s footsteps on the carpet and then on the stairs. Where is she going? I creep out into the passage to listen out.
Is that… is that the back door being unlocked? Yes! Yes, it is.
Arghh! I want to scream.
Cheryl must be returning the snails to the garden. Apart from the initial squeal, she hasn’t freaked out at all. What a waste of a prank.
Shoulders slumped, I drag my feet back to my room and throw myself on the bed. Face down. Is nothing going to work with the fosters?
THE SURPRISE PRANKSTER
I creep down the stairs to the kitchen, early morning. It will be another hour before Jim and Cheryl wake. Taking my time so that I get it right, I stick the duct tape under the sink tap. Jim is always the first one in the kitchen and his routine involves putting the kettle on.
Back in my room. I wait by the door to listen out for his reaction. At exactly ten past seven, I hear him yelling.
