Being Me

by Pete Kalu

  ‘I promised that nice policeman I’d drop you home into the custody of your parents,’ Mrs Adenuga says, finally breaking the spell, ‘what’s the address?’

  She stabs my post code and house number into the car’s satnav while she’s driving and drives through two traffic lights on yellow. I take my cue from Marcus and say nothing all the way. We arrive at my house.

  I hold my breath. If it’s Mum and she’s not drugged up, there’ll be wailing, tears as a show for Mrs Adenuga, then she’ll build herself a huge spliff and forget about it. If it’s Dad, he’ll probably rant then drive off.

  Mrs Adenuga gets out of the car and rings the buzzer by the gates. She’s ringing and ringing. Nobody’s in. I try ringing the house from my phone. Nobody picks up. Mrs Adenuga gets back in the car and hesitates.

  ‘You really live here?’ she asks me. She’s impressed by the size of it.

  ‘The top left one is my room,’ I say, pointing.

  ‘How are your windows?’

  ‘Mum!’ groans Marcus.

  ‘They’re fine,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t leave you here on your own. I’m not driving you back to the police station. You’ll have to stop at ours until your mum or dad get back.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. I’ve never been inside Marcus’s house before, though I’ve sneaked him in mine once.

  Mrs Adenuga drives us off. I feel the sweat drying up in my armpit. Marcus has my hand again. We’re soon on an estate of small houses with no space between them. There’s a park in the middle with one set of slanting goalposts and a pack of roaming dogs. A man is playing golf there and seems to be aiming his golf balls at the dogs. Mrs Adenuga pulls up at a house facing the park and nudges the car onto the short drive.

  We go in. There’s a sound like a cat has got its tail stuck in a food blender but neither Marcus nor his mum look concerned. Mrs Adenuga pushes open the living room door. A man is sitting in a swivel chair at a desk in a corner. He’s got headphones on and is swaying to some music while making the cat sound.

  ‘I just sprung your son’s girlfriend out of the nick!’ Mrs Adenuga calls out to him.

  He half turns, gives her the thumbs-up, nods to Marcus, then me, then turns back, still wailing.

  She might as well have told him she had just come back from the supermarket. It’s cool with me.

  ‘How’s Leah?’ she asks him, holding a remote that I assume she’s pressed to cut off the sound to his headphones.

  Marcus’s dad swivels fully. He shows off a baby, asleep in his lap. ‘New nappy, new bottle, what’s not to like?’ he says, then he taps his headphones. Mrs Adenuga blips the remote again and the wailing restarts.

  ‘What he puts poor Leah through,’ Mrs Adenuga mutters. She tells us to come into the kitchen. Marcus says he is starving but I’m not hungry. Mrs Adenuga makes a baked beans and ham omelette. She gives us half each. Marcus nods for me to follow him with my plate.

  ‘Where are you going?’ his mum calls out to his back.

  ‘Mars,’ he answers without missing a beat. His mum does a dramatic sigh. Marcus ignores it or doesn’t hear it. He steers me through the living room and upstairs. On the landing we turn left into a room. He flicks a switch. It’s his bedroom. We sit on the bed, eating. His room is nice. It has that boy smell. Lots of bar-bells and weights on the floor. Pictures of hip hop stars on the walls. A roll-on deodorant is on the floor next to a heap of clothes. School books next to the clothes. The floor is his shelving. Only when he’s finished eating his half of the omelette and then mine does he ask a question, except it’s not really a question.

  ‘Not hungry?’

  I shrug.

  He shuffles up next to me on the edge of his bed and puts an arm round me. Which is nice.

  ‘What was you robbing?’ he asks, curious.

  ‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Here,’ he says. He turns his face into mine and kisses me. I kiss him back, a little. Then one of his hands starts roving.

  I trap it under mine. ‘Marcus, don’t bother.’

  He shrugs, but there’s still mischief in his eyes. I realise I’m in his bedroom, on his bed, and he’s probably got ideas. I fish out my phone and try the house line again. My brother picks up.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ my brother says, disappointed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is Mum or Dad in?’ I ask.

  ‘Both,’ he says. He puts the phone down before I can say another word.

  Meanwhile, Marcus is leaning in for another kiss.

  I go downstairs and Marcus’s mum phones me a taxi. ‘Are you alright, darling?’ she says.

  That has me crying again. Mrs Adenuga holds me in her arms. ‘We’ve been a very silly girl today, haven’t we?’ she sighs.

  I nod and sniffle. ‘I let you down.’

  ‘You let yourself down,’ she says.

  Marcus has turned on the TV and he flicks to the football results.

  Twenty minutes later I’m back at home. Neither Mum nor Dad ask any questions. They can’t know, I decide. I make it to my room, lock the door and lie back on my bed. I’m trembling. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen next.

  I check my phone. MC has texted me:

  Did u grass us up?

  Course nt

  Thnx. My cuz says thnx too

  Finally there’s something I can feel proud of. Adele Vialli did not snitch. And for that, all three of them owe me. Especially Mikaela. Suddenly I resent her. Nothing ever went wrong until she joined us. I remember her face when she saw me caught. Horror. Yet she hasn’t contacted me since, not even a text. She’s probably hiding under her bed, deleting my number from her phone so she can say she doesn’t even know me. She should have rung. A true friend would have rung.

  I’m a criminal now, I realise. I’ve been nicked. I imagine a poster like the Wild West ones with my face on it.

  CHAPTER 14

  QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS.

  My alarm clock says Sunday, 8.21 am. The house is asleep. MTB spent Saturday evening at the gym inflating his biceps and is probably recuperating. Mum’s snoozing after a late night binge. Dad was out all night entertaining Iraqi Government Bankers. What entertainment does he lay on, I wonder, as I paint my big toe nails pink. His impressions of Italian-American film stars take up all of two minutes. What’s after that? Maypole dancing? The hokey cokey? Pass The Parcel?

  I check on Mum to make sure she hasn’t vomited or anything. She’s curled up and snoring. Dad’s sleeping with her. He’s stretched out like a high board diver before they plunge. He’s got a death look on his face. I pull a bit of the duvet off Dad and over to Mum because Mum’s got no quilt at all. Then I tiptoe out.

  Bacon can wake the dead so I boil eggs first. Within two minutes of bacon hitting the frying pan MTB comes down. He’s grumpy, smelly and bed-headed. He’s followed by Dad who’s like a dozy bear, all scratching and farting and puzzled, like he’s not sure he’s in the right house. Then comes Mum who flicks her tongue out like a lizard tasting air and scratches herself in all areas. Mum and Dad have both got this vacant look in their eyes and don’t give each other any eye contact, so they may even have been at it this morning. All in all, it’s not a scene that helps keep your breakfast in your stomach, so I flip all the bacon onto one huge plate, then leave them to their scratchy, smelly, tongue-flicking, smutty selves.

  I’m back in my bedroom painting my toenails green this time to see how they’d look, when Dad shouts me to come downstairs. I go down. He’s in his PJs still, and he’s got his phone in his hand. Mum’s leaning against the fridge. MTB is smirking into his cornflakes. There’s two rashers of bacon left.

  ‘Adele,’ calls Dad, in his annoyed voice, ‘I’ve just had the most bizarre phone call. From the police. Allegedly. Have you been setting up prank calls again? Adele? Did you set this up?

  ‘It is not a prank call!’ Mum grumbles at him.

  ‘How do you know?’ Dad says. ‘One pound fifty f
or the pleasure of winding up your parents. You know our Adele.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the police? Maybe it’s the private detective I’m paying to follow you. The Infidelity Expert.’

  ‘Adele?’ says Dad, ignoring Mum.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply. (“Adele?” is not actually a full question, so I don’t say any more.)

  ‘They’re telling me you were apprehended for shoplifting. Is that true?’

  There’s a pause. Everyone’s leaning in.

  ‘What does “apprehended” mean?’ I ask.

  MTB’s smirk takes over his entire face.

  ‘Caught. Adele?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ I blurt.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl!’ shouts Dad. He kicks a chair. ‘Shoplifting? Really? I mean why? There’s no percentage in it. Rob a bank I can understand. But a shop? Give me strength!’

  ‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ I snap back, ‘before I get to your bank-robbing level!’

  But Dad doesn’t hear a word, he’s still in his rant. ‘Shoplifting? Of all things. Just plain stupid!’

  ‘Ohmygod!’ says Mum, arm-fainting onto the fridge door. ‘Someone’s taken my vodka again!’

  ‘Can you shut up about your vodka for just one day in the week?’

  Dad chucks his phone at a kitchen wall. It breaks into the usual pieces. MTB sneaks another piece of bacon.

  Dad turns, calmer (chucking things always calms him). He looks puzzled. ‘Have you not got enough things? Don’t we give you...?’

  Mum’s clinging to Dad’s throwing arm and is pressing him down into a kitchen chair. Dad looks lost and I’m not sure what he’s going to do next. He could cry, dance or rant again.

  MTB cackles.

  ‘Anthony, go to your room!’ Mum says.

  ‘Why?’ he complains.

  ‘Because,’ says Mum.

  ‘Am I the criminal here?’ he moans. ‘Am I the one robbing shops or banks? Why am I the one who has to get locked in his room?’

  ‘Nobody’s locking you in your room,’ Mum says. ‘Just go upstairs for a while. Your father and I need to have a conversation with your sister.’

  Mum’s icy politeness is well scary. I’ve never heard her more sober.

  Mouthing swear words, MTB swipes the last bacon rasher and leaves the room.

  I sit down, spread my fingers across my face and wait. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It was a bit of fooling around that got out of hand.’

  ‘This is all your fault,’ Dad says to Mum. ‘If you paid her more attention...’

  ‘She’s a Daddy’s Girl,’ says Mum, ‘and she’s only doing what you do for a living, but on a smaller scale.’

  ‘Can you please stop grinding away about that? I am not like all bankers.’

  ‘It’s the only grinding I get to do nowadays,’ mutters Mum.

  ‘I thought this was about me?’ I say to them both.

  ‘What?’ they both turn and say.

  I realise I’m not needed, I’m just an excuse for them to argue again really. I bury my head in my hands. I’m not crying. I’m just tired.

  ‘What was it you were stealing?’ Mum asks.

  Robbing is not about what you lift, it’s about running with friends and the thrill. But what’s the point of explaining? I think.

  ‘Jewellery,’ I reply to Mum.

  ‘Jewellery?’ she says, like it’s some astonishing new invention that she has to get her head around. ‘Don’t you have jewellery already?’

  ‘Fashionable jewellery.’

  ‘What is fashionable jewellery?’

  ‘You know, brand names.’

  At the pace Mum’s questions are going, this could take weeks. I’m still sitting at the table.

  ‘Don’t you have brand name jewellery already?’

  I’ve nicked loads, but Mum doesn’t know that.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Umm,’ says Mum, ‘You’re becoming a woman. Every woman likes jewellery, preferably as a gift from her partner to show her he loves her.’

  Dad ignores this dig and says, ‘The police said it was an iPod, not jewellery. Unless you took jewellery as well and they don’t know?’

  MTB has tiptoed down again and is lurking in the door frame, making prat faces at me.

  ‘Well, did you?’ says Mum, curious.

  ‘No. Dad’s right.’

  ‘Then why are we talking about jewellery?’ Mum sighs.

  They’ve got it all tangled up now, but I can’t be bothered.

  ‘iPods are like jewellery,’ I say.

  ‘I need a drink,’ Mum says as she walks out.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ concludes Dad.

  No shit, Sherlock, I reply to Dad in my head.

  ‘This could have repercussions,’ he continues.

  I imagine Sherlock Holmes passing Dad his pipe and saying, “Puff away, Mr Vincent Vialli, you’re far sharper than me: hats off to you.”

  ‘They said they might send a support worker or something around.’

  Mum does a little yelp from inside the garage where she’s gone to look for her drinks stash.

  ‘If they can find one,’ Dad continues. ‘This could stop you playing for England. The sponsorship deal would be off.’

  ‘What sponsorship deal?’ I ask.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Dad. He shakes his head a bit then repeats, ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’

  Mum comes back with a full bottle of vodka. ‘Stop hiding my things!’ she says to me with venom. ‘I know it’s you!’

  She pours some vodka into a glass and takes a gulp, then necks the whole glass and refills it in one smooth action. Even if I don’t get to play for England, Mum could drink for England, I think to myself.

  Dad looks at me and we both know. Third glass and she’ll lose it.

  Sure enough she throws back the third glass and she’s wailing. She flings herself into Dad’s arms. Dad peels her off. She staggers over and falls on me. She’s hugging me from behind, around the neck. One of those hugs that might easily slip into a bit of strangling. She strokes my hair. ‘Oh, Adele,’ she says, ‘Oh, my baby.’

  I know she’s feeling sorry for herself, not me. Nevertheless, I burst into tears. Mum bursts into more tears. Dad shakes his head and chokes a sob. It’s a tear fest. MTB rolls his eyes and ducks away from the doorway. I hear his footsteps up the stairs.

  I let Mum stroke my hair a little longer then I untangle myself from her and get up from the chair. ‘Is it OK if I go to my room, now, Mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she snaps. She stares at Dad. He’s picking up the pieces of his phone. ‘But don’t steal anything on your way up!’

  When I reach my room I catch my brother rifling through my undies drawer. ‘Get out of there, idiot, that’s where I keep my tampons!’ I rush over. He turns before I reach him and in his hand he’s clutching the bracelets. He holds them high above his head. I beat him on the chest but he’s built like a horse and it has no effect, so I kick him in the nuts. He buckles and drops the bracelets.

  ‘What did. You do. That. For?’ he gasps.

  ‘It was a favour,’ I say. ‘You should know not to mess with my things. I’ve told you before, big brother.’

  ‘How is. This a. Favour?’

  ‘These are hot property.’ I gather the bracelets up. ‘Get your fingerprints on them and the police might lock you up.’

  ‘Get rid of them then,’ MTB says. Cursing me softly, he limps off to nurse his assets in cold water.

  I can hear Mum and Dad arguing downstairs still. Something crashes against a wall. Mum doesn’t scream though, so I don’t go down. MTB puts 50 Cents on loop, at max. I dance along a bit with all my bracelets on. I check the mirror. I look mega-blinged, though my PJs look crusty. I hide the bracelets in a bra cup in my laundry basket. The laundry doesn’t get done much since Mia left and MTB won’t think to go rummaging in there. I find a towel from my wardrobe, pluck my football boots out of my boots bucket and wipe the rest of the mud off them with the
towel.

  Mum is shouting at MTB to ‘take that off’. 50 Cents is replaced by that Xmas song, “Walking In The Air” (MTB’s idea of a joke). She yells at him to turn that down too because it’s doing her head in. I hear Dad’s car spray gravel outside, so I know Dad’s done a runner. That’s going to make Mum even more miserable. Later, she will go and sit with MTB in his room for a while and have him talk about whether he will become a doctor, a lawyer or a professional footballer (‘or maybe all three!’ Add giggles here from both MTB and Mum). Then she’ll test him on his homework and they’ll end up downstairs on the sofa together watching some Musical. My brother plays Mum so well. He presses all her buttons just the way she likes, then at the right moment he taps her for twenty pounds to buy protein shakes and waltzes off to meet up with his gym buddies.

  I find my phone and glance at it. There’s nothing from Mikaela. But Marcus has texted me.

  Bored. Can u come round?

  Can birds fly? I tell Mum I’m off to do my homework at a friend’s house. She’s in MTB’s room, absorbed by his yawn-inducing story about a wasp in his classroom (a story which is probably untrue since he skips school so much). She gives me the taxi fare and smiles me away. Not long after I’m outside Marcus’s house .

  Marcus opens the door and I follow him into the lounge. The smell of dirty nappy hits my nose. Steam is billowing in from the kitchen. Some reggae track is playing. Marcus’s dad is rolling around on the floor with little Leah. Leah’s face is all glee. The TV is on in the background. Marcus’s mum is at the coffee table with three identical steel tumblers, talking to herself while trying some magic trick.

  She waves me over. ‘Take a seat, Adele, darling.’

  The only empty seats are either side of her on the sofa. I sit to her left. She says to Marcus:

  ‘One more time, sweetie.’

  Marcus is standing in front of her. ‘Mum, you’re hopeless,’ he says, ‘Give up.’