Being Me

by Pete Kalu

  I have a sudden vision of myself in the middle of a cemetery at midnight heaving spade after spade of soil up, bones and skulls everywhere, with Auntie Astonished standing over me. It’s pouring with rain and Auntie Astonished is saying, ‘Dig, liar! Dig!’

  ‘Until you write the letter, you will stay in Isolation. If you haven’t written it by the end of today, your parents will be informed and you will be back in Isolation tomorrow.’

  ‘But why should I write an apology for something...’

  ‘Stop,’ the Head snaps. ‘This is how this ends, Adele. The letter. Write it. Now get to Isolation and write. I will phone through to tell them to expect you and provide you with pen and paper.’

  Isolation is a boring room with books, a rattling radiator and one window. There’s some Year 7 kid who smells of wee in one corner, but nobody else except the Teaching Assistant. I take a desk by the window. I can’t believe Mikaela has done the dirty on me like this.

  I watch the playground through the window. People point at me and hold their hands up to their mouths, whispering. I realise I am The Racist. My mind starts spinning. The way the playground works, by the end of the day the whispers will be saying I called Mikaela every racist name under the sun. From most popular girl in the class, I’ll be the one nobody picks to do anything with. Mikaela will be loving it.

  The tears start. I turn away from the girl who smells of wee. I don’t want her to see I’m upset. I won’t give in though. They can keep me in Isolation for the rest of the year before I write the letter.

  Time drags.

  The Teaching Assistant comes over just before lunch and asks if I need some help or a dictionary or maybe I would like some tips on how to phrase some words of regret. I slump onto the desk with my eyes closed. He gets the message and goes away.

  I count the flower pattern on the wallpaper and the number of floor tiles in the room.

  If Mikaela wanted to hurt me, she’s doing a good job.

  Lunchtime is hardest. A dinner lady brings dinner to me. She smiles at me so nicely.

  In the afternoon, a Year 11 joins us in Isolation. She’s got a bandaged arm. She leans on the wall and pulls down the bandage. There are fresh cuts all along her arm. She smiles at them, then pulls the bandage up again. It’s the “in” thing to cut yourself in Year 11. I imagine lifting a knife at lunchtime while in Isolation, then doing a small cut. Watching the blood bead. Maybe leaning against the wall with the goth girl as I do it. I show her. She then shows me her own forearm, criss-crossed with longer, deeper cuts, smiles loftily and moves away from me. I shrug the thought off. I don’t fancy cutting myself.

  Twice Mrs Duras comes in to check whether I’ve written anything. Twice she goes away disappointed.

  I look at the paper. I pick up the pen. The Teaching Assistant’s shoulders twitch.

  I write the date. Then “Dear Mikaela”.

  I can’t bring myself to write any more. I won’t write something that’s not true.

  Time passes slowly. A Teaching Assistant strolls over, glances, and then strolls back to his desk again.

  I remember when I was eight, bouncing on a trampoline at a friend’s birthday party. We all sat down afterwards in one big row and plaited one another’s hair. Mum and Dad were sitting around a patio table chatting. The sun was streaming through tall, wavy trees. After, there were pillow fights, torches, karaoke and prawn cocktail crisps. I want to be that girl again.

  I stare at the page. “Dear Mikaela”. I’ve added doodles of tall, wavy trees under that.

  The Teaching Assistant picks the paper up at the end of the day and tut-tuts.

  At home time, they make me wait till the playground has cleared. I leave school blinking back tears.

  I write a text to Mikaela: u stpd btch y u doin this 2 me. But I click Delete instead of Send. I’m not allowed to have any contact with her. I get home and there is an answering machine message. It’s from the Head. She’s “seriously concerned by a racial incident involving your daughter” and asks that someone phone her back ASAP. I delete it.

  Mum’s in bed, sleeping. She looks OK.

  I phone Marcus. He picks up on the sixth ring. I can tell from his tone that he doesn’t really want to listen to me. It’s all ‘um’ and ‘yeh’ and ‘you do whatever you think is right.’ Maybe it’s a bad line and he’s not hearing me well, but more likely he’s in the middle of his homework and he can’t be bothered with my problems. I end the call thinking maybe even he doubts me because when I said to him, ‘I never said “black bitch”, I said “sad bitch”’ he hesitated before saying, ‘of course’. Why did he hesitate?

  Tuesday morning arrives and I force myself to get ready for school. Dad drives me. Another eight hours of Isolation. To think Dad’s paying for me to sit in an empty room staring at walls, listening to silence, sniffing wee. Or maybe he isn’t. He had that strange conversation about school fees at the match, I remember. I thought Dad was loaded. What’s going on there? I look across and almost ask him, but Dad’s still thunder-faced. His hands are clenching the steering wheel. Water eases down my cheek from my eyes. I don’t bother wiping it away.

  ‘Serves you right for being such a stupid girl,’ Dad says.

  Dad thinks I’m crying about the shoplifting. He never has a clue what I’m upset about. At least that hasn’t changed. I stop crying.

  We’re at a traffic light.

  ‘You’ll get over it, Adele,’ Dad says. And I realise he’s crying a little bit too.

  My phone buzzes. Mikaela’s sent me a text. I don’t open it.

  Dad drops me a street away from school so he doesn’t get stuck in traffic and I walk the last hundred metres. When I get there, Mikaela is at the gates, waiting. She’s with her mum, who starts waving. I walk up to them, scared. Mikaela’s mum’s got this intense look on her face. Mikaela’s studying her shoes.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Robinson,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Good morning, Adele,’ she says. ‘Looking forward to school?’

  I shrug. She obviously doesn’t know I’m in Isolation all day.

  There’s a pause. I’m about to start walking again when Mikaela’s mum nudges Mikaela. ‘Mikaela, do you have something to say?’

  It’s an order, not a question, from her mum.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Mikaela.

  ‘Say it louder,’ her mum demands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Adele.’

  ‘Why? Look her in the eye and say why.’

  Mikaela drags her eyes up to look at me. ‘I should never of let them accuse you of being a racist. I knew you didn’t say those words. I was just upset and I wanted to hurt you.’

  ‘That’s better,’ her mum tells her. ‘It’s unforgiveable, Mikaela. We black people fought for so long against racism. We went to jail, even died for that cause. How dare you use racism as a weapon, just because you were upset. Doing something like that damages not just Adele, it damages the entire cause, black people everywhere. Understand?’

  I almost say, yes, but it’s Mikaela who says yes. She’s crying.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, mainly to Mikaela. ‘We all do things when we’re angry.’

  ‘It’s no excuse,’ Mrs Robinson says. ‘It’s not acceptable. Hand her the note, Mikaela.’

  Mikaela rummages in her bag.

  As Mikaela looks for it, Mrs Robinson says, ‘I heard the Head was asking you to write a note of apology. We have no secrets, me and Mikaela. She told me. A note of apology has been written. But by the correct person. Mikaela?’

  Mikaela hands me a piece of paper. It has her handwriting on it.

  ‘Will you accept this apology, Adele?’

  I nod. Mikaela is bawling. I stroke her arm. ‘Don’t cry, Mikay,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’

  Mrs Robinson herself sniffles. ‘You girls... Now one last thing, Adele.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Robinson?’

  ‘Mikaela tells me everything, you follow?’

  I nod.

  ‘And I know you were caught s
hoplifting. And that you had invited Mikaela along that day.’

  It’s my turn to look at my shoes.

  ‘There are some rumours that Mikaela was involved. I’ve listened to her and I have taken the advice of a criminal lawyer. She may have been with you during your ...’ Mrs Robinson searches for the right word. ‘Activities,’ she finally decides upon. ‘But as far as the evidence shows, she never took anything outside of the store and she had no knowledge that such a thing was going to be attempted. That is a fair conclusion from the evidence available. It would absolutely ruin her prospects if anything to the contrary were to gain ground and I will not allow it. Did you see her steal anything, Adele?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Are you certain she was aware of what you were planning to do?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I am certain, but it’s also clear that Mrs Robinson wants me to say no.

  ‘Thank you, Adele.’ Then, ‘This new Head had better watch out making wild accusations. I don’t know where she got the notion from. Mikaela and I have an appointment with her this morning. You may be called in. I will expect you to say the same thing you have just told me.’

  I nod. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Apologise once more to Adele, Mikaela.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mikaela mumbles.

  I am counting the number of ants retrieving bread crumbs from Floor Tile Twenty Seven in Isolation when the Teaching Assistant tells me the Head wants to see me in her office. I can’t help a slow smile as I walk along the corridor.

  The green light is already on. I knock, open Auntie Astonished’s door and go in. Mikaela and her mum are sitting there already. Auntie Astonished has the same stuff on her desk as last time. The atmosphere is different though.

  ‘Take a seat, Adele,’ the Head simpers.

  I sit. The Head looks likes she’s been beaten up badly by Mrs Robinson, who, even though she’s sitting down, looks like a boxer on her toes, ready to lay into anyone who steps out of line.

  ‘I have just received this note from Mikaela,’ the Head says, through gritted teeth.

  I look dutifully curious.

  ‘And it exonerates you completely, Adele, of the racist remark Mikaela had previously accused you of.’

  ‘She didn’t accuse her,’ Mikaela’s mum intervenes, ‘She simply did not correct what others said.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ the Head says, irritated. ‘Of course, you two girls could have concocted this note to get Adele out of trouble.’

  Mikaela’s mum is about to say something but the Head presses on quickly:

  ‘However, the school has a thorough process when we investigate these things. I have received written statements from the children who witnessed the incident and, although there are some contradictions, those statements suggest that the word used was “sad” and not “black”. Is that right, Adele?’

  I nod. Finally the truth is out.

  ‘In that case, Adele has been wronged,’ the Head says, ‘not least by myself, and I ... I apologise to you, Adele.’

  I enjoy watching the Head squirm. She wrings her hands. ‘...And I will ensure that your class and the whole school know that the allegation was simply not true.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  After a few more lemon-sucking statements from the Head, including that I no longer have to be in Isolation, I am dismissed.

  At lunchtime, Mikaela comes running up to me in the playground. She says the Head apologised to her and her mum for thinking she went shoplifting.

  I feel guilty that I snitched on her to the Head, but since Mikaela doesn’t know I snitched, and she got away with it, it doesn’t count, I decide. Me and Mikaela sit together in the dining room. People point and whisper. Me and Mikaela tell anyone who asks it was all a mistake, and we’re best friends again.

  On Wednesday morning the Form Teacher tells the whole class I said ‘silly sad bitch’ and not ‘silly black bitch’. Everyone then has to join hands and listen to a Martin Luther King speech. Someone objects they are not allowed to listen to religious speeches but the Form Teacher says it’s not religious, it’s spiritual and there’s a difference. So the whole class joins hands and listens to Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have A Dream’. It’s OK, though it’s a bit long. We end with a compulsory group hug. The school day ends with PE and the team sheet for Saturday’s semi-final with St Cuthbert’s. At last, there’s some good news. Both my name and Mikaela’s are up there at the top of the sheet.

  CHAPTER 16

  FIVE SECONDS, WITH TONGUES

  It’s Saturday morning and Dad is driving me to St Cuthbert’s, a Catholic school in the city centre. It’s his birthday. His presents were cufflinks (MTB), bow tie (me) and two tickets to a rock concert to see Mum’s favourite band (Mum). He’s humming along to the radio.

  ‘Dad, I love it when you’re happy.’

  ‘So do I. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit grumpy. Work’s been tough.’

  The air con is on max. At first I think that’s why Dad’s grimacing, but then I notice it’s the jaw-lock grimace he does when he’s about to say something difficult. I wait.

  ‘I’ve checked and the school can’t expel you for the shoplifting. Under their own rules, they can only judge you on how you behave at school.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I reply. It’s a weird thing for Dad to say and I’m impressed that he actually cares about me enough to hunt down the school rules and find all that out. People are confusing. You want to hate them and then they say or do something that makes it impossible.

  We leave the car in a multi-storey car park, walk across a square and arrive at the St Cuthbert gatehouse. A security guard lets us through. It’s a seriously religious school. The front gardens have a statue of the Virgin Mary and there’s a huge wooden cross hung above the school building entrance. A nun in a grey uniform crosses the garden and shepherds us through the school building to the field at the rear where the changing rooms are. At any moment I expect to come across a host of levitating nuns. Dad is amazed the school owns a football pitch in the city centre and says the land value must be through the roof. He spots Mrs Robinson at the pitch edge and, with a little kiss, shoos me to go and get changed.

  Everyone in our dressing room is quiet because the home team are reciting the Lord’s Prayer next door. It’s weird. Nobody wants to interrupt. Even Miss Fridge, who is a devout atheist, gazes quietly at the ceiling fan.

  Finally, we trot out. I study the touchline. Faye White isn’t there. Miss Fridge said they don’t always send the same scout and we should all play like there is an England scout out there somewhere.

  The match starts. Maybe the nuns got rugby and football mixed up. St Cuthbert’s come flying at us with arms, legs and knees. I get hauled down twice as I race for the ball. Mikaela gets pushed over. The referee blows twenty times in the first five minutes. I look over at Dad. He’s standing with Mrs Robinson, gobsmacked. He does the sign of a cross at me from the touchline. Sometimes my dad’s funny. Just sometimes. Finally the referee calls the coach nun over. The two of them huddle for a minute, then the coach nun calls her team to her.

  The match restarts and this time they don’t foul us. Mikaela floats a beautiful ball high up. I bounce it off my shin and wallop it into the net. 1–0. We get our second goal from a corner kick that Mikaela takes. It bends all the way into the net without anyone touching it. Our third is a crazy own goal when their defenders pass the ball back too quickly for their goalkeeper. I look over at Dad. He’s laughing, so is Mikaela’s mum who is steadying Dad’s shoulders because he’s laughing so much. The two of them stagger away from the touchline, laughing together.

  Mikaela runs to the side of the pitch near me. I ask her what’s up. She says she needs a tampon. The referee runs over and Miss Fridge explains Mikaela’s problem. I expect to see Mikaela’s mum in the huddle but she’s nowhere on the touchline, neither is Dad. The ref nods to Miss Fridge and lets Mikaela chase over to the changing room with her bag.

  I drop back
into midfield, taking Mikaela’s place there for a while. St Cuthbert’s start to fancy their chances. Against ten, they are almost good, in a kick-and-rush kind of way. We’re clinging on, throwing ourselves at the ball to stop them getting a shooting opportunity.

  Finally, Mikaela’s back. She flings her bag down at the touchline and comes running onto the pitch. Something’s wrong. She slams in a high tackle, upending a St Cuthbert’s midfielder. The referee waves a yellow card at her. Miss Fridge shouts, ‘Mikaela! Mikaela!’ but Mikaela’s doesn’t hear her. I go over to her. Her eyes are full of hate and she pushes me away. She charges into a tackle again and wins the ball. Instead of passing it to me she belts it high into the sky. I look over at Miss Fridge. She’s on the touchline, livid. My dad’s there as well, standing with Mrs Robinson. It’s weird neither of them are saying anything to Mikaela. Mikaela elbows me in the ribs as she runs past me.

  ‘Hey!’

  She ignores me. The ball is at her feet. She’s looking over at the touchline. Suddenly she smacks the ball low and hard, straight at my dad. It hits his goolies and he crumples up in agony. I tear over to her.

  ‘What was that?’ I shout at her.

  ‘Bring it!’ she dares me.

  Fine. I grab her. She’s got a knee in my ribs and I’ve sunk my nails into her neck. Then my dad and Mrs Robinson are pulling us apart. I’m panting. The ref waves two red cards. Mikaela’s still wind-milling her arms and lashing at my dad with her feet. Miss Fridge wrenches her off the field by the waist. I realise then that Miss Fridge is not fat, she’s all muscle – she flips Mikaela so easily. Miss Fridge frogmarches us to the changing rooms. She’s ranting and raving as she hauls us away, but I’m not listening, I’m wondering what came over Mikaela and whether we’re going to lose the match now. It’s the semi-final. I wanted a medal. And what if the England scout was there?

  In the changing rooms, Miss Fridge sits us down. She takes a deep breath then says she has to get back to the match, and don’t we dare fight again, because she will personally kill us if we do.