Being Me

by Pete Kalu

  Mikaela’s lost her rage. She sits on the bench looking sad and floppy.

  ‘Well?’ I ask her, when her breathing steadies.

  She does her cow eyes look at me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Those wet punches, Adele. You’re getting soft,’ she says, sniffling.

  ‘Well, your headlocks aren’t what they used to be, Mikay.’

  She flicks away tears.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say softly.

  We’re sat on the same bench. The showers are hissing even though there’s no-one in them.

  Mikaela takes a deep breath then it all comes out in a big gush: ‘I went to put in my tampon and while I was here, my phone rang, it was my auntie and she wants to talk to my mum, she says it’s urgent and I need to hand my phone to her right now, she’s not picking up her own, so I go to find my mum only she’s meant to be on the touchline and she’s not. That’s when I caught them behind a tree. Kissing.’

  She looks over at me like that’s the end of the world. ‘Who?’ I ask.

  She stares at me hard.

  I shrug. ‘They’ve kissed before. In the car park at Parents Evening, remember?’

  Mikaela shakes her head. ‘Not like this. I filmed it.’

  She takes out her phone and strokes up a video. I lean in with Mikaela. There’s lots of blur, then two heads. Mikaela’s mum’s shoes. The camera jumps up. They’re in a kiss, definitely a kiss. And it’s at least five seconds. With tongues. Dad has his hands cupping Mrs Robinson’s face and she’s on tiptoes, face turned up, sucking his face off. They break apart suddenly and the video goes blurred. You just hear one word, ‘Mikaela!’ shouted by her mum. Then the video freezes.

  ‘See?’ says Mikaela.

  It’s my dad alright. Unless someone coshed him on the head, stole his clothes and copied his hair cut.

  ‘Did you know?’

  I’m too stunned to speak.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Mikaela I’m so sorry,’ I say. My mind is all over the place. I remember now my dad pulling us apart. Yet he wasn’t going nuts at Mikaela for firing the ball at him. And Mrs Robinson never said anything either. Maybe they were too ashamed after Mikaela had caught them at it.

  Mikaela’s playing the video on loop, as if by watching it she can somehow change what happens. She turns to me, eyes all watery and blurts, ‘I mean, your frigging dad, Adele!’

  Then she throws her boots down in the changing room. They skid to a wall.

  I don’t know what to do, or say. I can tell, with the mood she’s in, Mikaela’s going to fight me again if she can, so I get up and leave. I don’t even turn to say goodbye.

  Dad’s outside the changing room.

  ‘Adele?’ he says, ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ I tell him, brushing past. I can see Mikaela’s mum, lurking by a floppy tree. Funny, she’s not rushing to see Mikaela, I think.

  ‘What about my birthday?’ he calls, running up beside me – making a joke of it.

  I stop. ‘Dad, leave me alone.’

  He’s more serious now. ‘Was it what Mikaela saw? It’s not what you think. You’re jumping to conclusions.’

  I don’t want to talk to him right now. I start running. Nobody can keep up with me when I run.

  He gives up. ‘Suit yourself,’ he calls out to my back.

  When I reach the checkpoint, I glance back. My dad’s huddled up with Mikaela’s mum by the floppy tree. They’re leaning into each other.

  I walk across town to the bus stop. On the way, I get asked a million things by chuggers – to go for a pizza, to sign up for a charity, to buy tickets for clubbing and to donate to orphans of Afghanistan. I brush my way past all of them.

  On the bus I think about the kiss. Was it really that bad? It is Dad’s birthday. Maybe it was a birthday kiss. Or a bit of fooling around. The two of them don’t add up. Dad is an out and out racist when he’s tired or drunk. My dad doesn’t make sense. People don’t make sense. The human species doesn’t make sense. I bring up Facebook and find out we won the match 3–2.

  Mikaela has PM’d me:

  Ms Fridge sez we bannd from Englnd trials. Hv a nice day.

  So an England scout was there.

  I get home, dump my boots in my boots bucket and check on Mum. She’s not in. Neither is my brother. Or Dad. I tidy the kitchen then go back upstairs, slam my door, flop on my bed and beat the mattress with my fists.

  When I’m finished with that, I look around. Everything in my room looks sad. The chairs, the mirror, the trophy cabinet, the curtains, the boots bucket, the keyboard and the toy zebra I’ve had since I was eight. Even my boots, soaking in their bucket. What use are they now? It was my boots that brought Dad to the games. My boots were how he met Mikaela’s mum. My boots have ruined everything. I can never like football the same way again ever, I decide. Everything’s spoiled. Everything’s ruined.

  I go downstairs and make toast. Dad comes in. He stands in the kitchen doorway, wordless.

  ‘Why, Dad?’ I ask him.

  He shuffles his feet. ‘You’re reading too much into it. It’s my birthday, it was a kiss.’ He says it like someone stuck a stamp on an envelope for him.

  ‘No, Dad. It was on the lips and with tongues. For ages. Mikaela filmed it. Don’t you like Mum anymore?’

  He runs his hands through his hair. ‘You’re reading too much into it, kid,’ he says again. He’s treating it like it’s all a joke. He gets out the orange juice carton from the fridge.

  ‘Are you a cheating bastard like Miss Richards says all men are?’ I say.

  ‘Get real, Adele,’ he says, still calm. He nudges a kitchen chair out with his thigh, sinks into it and glugs on the orange juice for a few seconds. Then he looks at me. I look back, waiting.

  ‘OK, I kissed her. She gave me a big “happy birthday” kiss. So what? I’m Italian. I’m hot-blooded. I need love. And I don’t mean the physical stuff that men and women do.’

  ‘Sex?’ I ask. Dad’s never been comfortable saying the word in front of me.

  ‘Yes. I’m not talking about sex. I need someone to say “Vincent, I enjoy having a conversation with you, I enjoy your company, I believe in your dreams.” You understand, Zowie?’

  ‘You just called me Zowie.’

  ‘Did I?’ Dad sighs.

  ‘Maybe you need to be having this conversation with Mum?’

  Suddenly Dad looks ancient. He rubs his rubbery forehead. ‘Listen, there was nothing going on. We are a family, Adele. OK, we’re not a “sit around a picnic in a field holding hands” kind of family, but we are a family and I wouldn’t risk that. I love you all. You, your mum, Anthony. I’d never want to leave you, you mean everything to me. I wouldn’t risk that for a quick roll in the hay with Lydia. Or anybody else.’

  ‘If you’re leaving, I’m staying here with Mum.’

  ‘I’m not leaving. Where did you get that from?’

  Dad drinks off all the OJ and tosses the carton at the bin, basketball style. It misses. ‘I just would like, sometimes, to feel like I’m not just some giant cash machine on legs. I’d like someone to understand my problems, occasionally.’

  ‘I’m not meant to understand your problems, Dad. You’re my dad, you’re supposed to understand my problems.’

  ‘I’m trying, Adele. You don’t know how hard I’ve been trying. I mean...’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m too young? Because I’m a girl? Why?’

  ‘It’s not any of that, it’s... Not everything can be solved by being talked about.’

  ‘But I want to know, Dad. I mean, do you even love me?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I do. Why do you say that?’

  ‘You don’t show any interest in me.’

  I can’t believe I’m having this heart to heart with Dad.

  ‘I’m moving heaven and earth for you, Adele, you just don’t see it.’

>   ‘You drive me to school, Dad. Big deal.’

  ‘Yes, I drive you to school. And I’ve been going to your matches.’

  ‘I’m not the reason you’re there.’

  ‘How can you say that? And you don’t know the arses I’ve licked trying to get you a sponsorship deal.’

  Dad goes to ask a question, then stops.

  ‘What?’ I ask him.

  ‘This kiss. Have you told your mum?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What kiss?’ MTB has arrived. He must have sneaked in. He throws his sports bag down on the kitchen floor in a huge wave of boy energy.

  ‘Tony,’ says Dad, hauling himself up and moving MTB’s bag out of the middle of the kitchen floor. ‘Tony, Tony, Tony, just leave it, yeah? Just leave it. Adele, come here.’

  I go over to Dad.

  He takes me in his arms and squeezes me. Tightly, like he’s never squeezed me before, then kisses me on the top of my head.

  ‘Tony, here.’

  MTB looks across at me as Dad kisses my brother’s forehead while hugging us both. MTB’s eyes are saying, what’s going on here?

  ‘Happy birthday, Dad,’ MTB says. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Yeh, happy birthday,’ I say. ‘I love you no matter what.’

  ‘Love you both,’ he says. ‘Now I’ve got to make some phone calls.’

  Dad leaves the kitchen.

  As soon as he’s gone, MTB laughs. ‘A kiss? You mean he doesn’t know about you and Marcus? And he thinks Mum doesn’t know? He’s so out of touch, isn’t he? He should be checking you two are using condoms.’

  I throw the empty orange juice carton at MTB and run upstairs to my room.

  My phone goes off. It’s Mikaela. I take a deep breath then answer.

  ‘My dad says it was just a kiss,’ I tell her, before she says anything.

  ‘They probably talked about it and that’s what they’ve decided to say to us. I know your dad’s aftershave, Adele, and I’ve smelt it on Mum before.’

  ‘Just because your mum smells of Armani doesn’t mean it’s my dad.’

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I mean, is she getting any from your dad? I’ve heard that if they don’t get it from their partner they go elsewhere.’

  ‘Who is “they” and what is “it”?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘...I can’t believe you, Adele!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Mikaela. Wait! Mikaela! It came out wrong.’

  More silence.

  ‘You’re like a sister to me, Mikay. I don’t want to lose you as a friend. Mikaela?’

  Finally she speaks. Her voice is ice. ‘This situation is very fucked up, Adele. Just try and keep your dad away from my mum, OK? My dad has just moved back in and I want it to stay that way.’

  I go to speak but she ends the call.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m losing my best friend ever and I can’t do anything about it. And what’s this about her dad moving back in? Does that mean her mum and my dad are, like Dad says, just friends? Nothing makes sense. I’ve managed to pummel a great big dish into the middle of the mattress when my phone bleeps. This time it’s Marcus.

  Wot u doin

  Nuffin much

  Why dnt u call rnd mine

  If u ask nicely

  Pls

  Maybe. wait & c

  CHAPTER 17

  TATTOO YOU

  I phone a taxi and ask the driver to get me to Marcus’s as fast as he can. I’m about to tap on his front door when his mum bursts out with Leah in her arms and two bulging bags in her hands. Leah’s wailing. She sees me, stops wailing long enough to break out a big smile, then goes back to wailing.

  ‘Hi love, just grab that other bag for me will you?’ Marcus’s mum, says, ‘the one in the hallway. My box of tricks.’

  I pick the bag up and follow her to her car.

  ‘Hold her a moment,’ she says. She pours a wailing Leah into my arms then goes to open the driveway gates. Leah grabs hold of my thumb and pushes it into her mouth. For about two seconds she’s quiet as she sucks desperately. Then she starts wailing again.

  ‘If she has any more she’ll throw up,’ Marcus’s mum says, peeling Leah off me. She straps Leah into the car seat then puts the car in gear.

  I wave them both off. The front door is open. I go in.

  Marcus comes galloping down the stairs. He’s wearing about half a bottle of after-shave.

  ‘Your mum let me in,’ I explain.

  ‘She’s off to Magic Circle,’ Marcus says, shaking his head. He nods for me to follow him inside.

  From the living room I can see his dad in the back garden hanging out washing. I sit on the sofa. The clock says ten past one.

  ‘Don’t get comfortable, Dad wants me outside,’ Marcus says. ‘He’s got a guy coming round showing him how to set up an Ebay shop.’ He shouts this last bit from the kitchen where I can hear him opening the fridge door.

  ‘What’s he gonna sell?’ I call out.

  There’s no answer. It doesn’t surprise me. Marcus’s ears aren’t good and he won’t have heard me.

  He comes back in. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What’s your dad gonna sell on Ebay?’

  ‘Stuff,’ Marcus shrugs. He grabs his jacket from the coat hooks under the stairs. ‘Right, we’re off.’ He pats his pockets. ‘One sec.’

  He spins out into the back garden. He comes back two minutes later with a twenty pound note in his hand and a grin on his face. ‘Now we’re rolling!’

  We wander through Marcus’s neighbourhood. He has a ball at his feet. I’m calming down from the fight with Mikaela and being kicked off the England team and Dad and his stupid kiss with Mrs Robinson. Marcus does the flip-flap then the step-over. Some kids gather to watch. He’s such a show-off. He kicks the ball over to me. I do a few moves, nowhere near as smart as his. People gasp, mainly because I’m a girl. I whack the ball back to Marcus. He peels off some headers then drops the ball into his arms. ‘Show’s over!’ he says to the local urchins. They slope off.

  We walk on, Marcus juggling the ball low. For a moment I want him to stop juggling and hold my hand, but then I don’t care. I think about how life is and I decide I don’t care about not being on the England team. Why should I, when no-one else cares? Mrs Richards is right. It would only matter if I was a boy. Nobody really cares about girl’s football, nobody comes knocking on your door trying to sign you up for Manchester United or anything. Compare that with boys. Boys are instant heroes the moment they can do a few tricks. I tell this to Marcus. Then I tell him about the fight with Mikaela and how we’ve been banned from the England trials.

  He finally stops juggling. ‘What were you fighting about?’

  ‘She thinks my dad’s having an affair with her mum. She saw them kissing.’

  ‘A kiss is not an affair.’

  ‘A five second kiss, with tongues?’

  Marcus shrugs. ‘When my dad was a club singer women used to come up to him and snog his face off every night. Mum didn’t bat an eyelid. It was just part of the job. Show business.’

  ‘My dad’s a banker, not a singer.’

  ‘Yeh,’ he agrees. ‘True.’ He thinks a bit. ‘A five second kiss?’

  I nod.

  ‘But no ... roving hands?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘That’s more than a kiss. And yet...’

  My phone rings. I shush Marcus.

  It’s MC. I mouth ‘MC Banshee’ to Marcus. He frowns.

  MC’s buzzing.

  ‘I’m with Cakes. You coming lifting? It’s a hot day for it. A rob for one is a rob for all!’

  Marcus is shaking his head.

  ‘I can’t go. I’m with someone.’

  ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me, Adele. You’ve got a pretty nose, it won’t look good squashed into your face.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re
chicken aren’t you? Just ’cos you got caught.’

  ‘I’ll ring you back.’ I end the call.

  Marcus is right in my face. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he says.

  I break free of him. ‘What are we going to do then?’ I ask. ‘I’m bored. And wet.’

  There’s been a sudden gale. It’s blown off now but it’s left us soaked. We’re in a corner shop doorway.

  ‘Not thieving,’ Marcus says. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  He takes us to a high street. It’s a sound mashup of car horns, road drills, Bangla CD’s blasting out of shopfronts, and ‘Buy your phonecards’ shouts from the phonecard stall guys. We pass restaurants and take-aways and stop outside a furniture store that’s selling gold-sprayed bed frames. Marcus points to a sign hanging above the shop. Tattoo You it says, with an arrow pointing upwards. I look at him.

  ‘Nooooo!’

  ‘Let’s do it!’

  He grabs my hand and we race up a creaky staircase. It’s lined with print-outs of tattoo designs. Swords. Snakes. Dragons. Devils. Microphones. Eyes. Eagles. Virgin Marys. Naked Ladies. Butterflies. Hearts. Lions. Anchors. Everything leaps out at once. Marcus pulls me up the last flight of stairs.

  The studio doorway is framed by two silver skulls and a Jolly Roger flag. There’s a plastic bead curtain and behind that a waiting room the size of a telephone box. We squeeze in and this triggers a bell. We wait. We’re so close Marcus is giggling because our bellies are rubbing together. Someone draws a bolt back and the upper part of a door in the wall facing us opens. A woman with straggly black hair and breasts laced into a sleeveless black dress that shows off weird pattern tattoos on her shoulders appears from behind this half-door. She looks us up and down, then says, ‘Piss off!’

  ‘We’ve got money,’ pleads Marcus. He flashes his twenty pound note.

  ‘Underage,’ she says, ‘not worth my licence. Go on, do one.’

  ‘We’ll pay double,’ I say. Marcus nudges me. I nudge him back. He forgets I’ve got money too.

  ‘And don’t come back, Romeo and frogging Juliet, or my foot’s gonna tattoo your arses.’

  We are so close to the tattoo lady that we smell each word she says. ‘Arses’ smelt of hard-boiled eggs. Marcus brushes aside the bead curtain. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘fuck her.’