Black Sheep (16 page)

“OK, everyone, enough talking!” said Leona, sitting down. “Let’s eat!”

“You’ll see,” said Mark, while we were all tucking into his ital stew. “In a few years’ time, I’ll have my own line of sauces and seasonings in Tesco, like
that guy off Dragons’ Den. Mark’s Vital Ital – I can see it now!”

“Well,” I smiled at him, “I know many people would pay a lot of money to be able to take home stew like this!” We all agreed that this was the way we were finally going
to get the Reynolds name into the papers. Trust my little brother Mark to have it all figured out.

“Leona,” growled Dad, with a lopsided smile on his face, “this is food for the mind, body and the soul!”

Leona smiled back at him and I noticed with a pang how Dad’s eyes went soft when he looked at my stepmother. They were just so compatible – it was clear that they were totally on the
same wavelength. I found myself wondering whether he had ever looked at Mum like that but I pushed the thought away. It felt wrong to think like that, especially in Leona’s house. He was
still my dad: nothing could change that.

Imani was talking about her project for her weekend school for Afro-Caribbean kids and Joshua tried to sing us the song he had learned at nursery.

“After lunch, Josh,” said Leona. “We’re eating now.”

After lunch, the kids went out into the garden to play. I helped Leona clear the table, then went to sit down in the front room with my dad for some father-daughter time.

“How’s your mother?” asked Dad. “She’s happy about the offer from the school?”

“Of course she is, Dad, what do you think?”

“She’s worked hard to get you where you are today,” he replied thoughtfully. “She expects a lot from you... sometimes too much, I think.”

I frowned. I hated to hear either of my parents criticise the other.

“Dad...” I began, but he held up his hand.

“No, I’m not going to start, but I’m just saying: it can be dangerous to expect so much from your children. They are their own people and, one day, they may choose a different
path, one you didn’t plan for them. And then what will you do?”

I looked at Dad, his kind, intelligent green eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his long face framed by a mane of silver-peppered dreadlocks, and wondered whether I should tell him about
Dwayne. Would he approve? Would he be angry? He had never broached the subject of boys with me before, except to say that all boys were after one thing and none of them could be trusted.

I decided to give it a try. “Dad, how do you know whether you can trust a guy or not? Like, how do you know if they’re being straight with you?”

He raised an eyebrow at me and said gruffly, “Hmm, you’re sixteen now. I guess it’s time to start asking those questions, eh?” He folded his arms, jutted out his chin and
growled, “You are a queen, Misha. That is what I have always taught you. And you must insist that anyone who wants to be with you treats you like a queen, respects you, honours you. Without
respect, no relationship can work. But I have to tell you, there’s not many lickle boys nowadays that know how to treat a queen. So my advice to you is to leave all that foolishness and
concentrate on your schooling. There’ll be plenty of time for all that drama later, trust me.”

“But what if you think you’ve found someone... and you like them but you’re not sure whether he’s the right one, or whether you have a future together. Look at you and
Mum: you were both so different...”

“Yes, we were totally different... she was a student from a strict Christian house and I was a carefree Rastaman doing my music... we were crazy to think it could work. But then you came
along and made it all worthwhile. So your mum may hate me, she may blame me for ruining her life and doing her wrong, but she can never deny the gift that our relationship left us with:
you.”

“Oh, I love you, Dad,” I said, hugging him. He always knew just what to say. “Thank you.”

He stroked my hair gently and murmured, “I love you too, baby love. And I always will, y’understand?”

“No, Dad,” I smiled. “I don’t understand, I
over
stand, seen?”

Dad laughed and gave me a push. “Go help Leona,” he said, turning up the volume on the stereo. “And make me a herbal tea while you’re there, OK?”

“OK, Dad.”

Just as I got up to go to the kitchen, I heard my mobile phone ring. Thinking it must be Dwayne, I picked my bag up. “I’ll just take this call, Dad...”

Dad nodded and flicked on the TV. It was time for Match of the Day.

I answered the phone as soon as I had stepped into the dining room. “Dwayne?” I whispered, my heart fluttering in my chest.

There was a pause on the other end. A sharp intake of breath.

“Misha?”

It was Mum.

MISHA

“Where have you been?” Mum’s face was tight, her jaw set, her brown eyes blazing.

“I was at Dad’s!” I opened my eyes wide, trying to look as innocent as possible.

“
Before
you got to your dad’s, Misha! And don’t try and tell me that you were with Effie because I have already spoken to her
and
her parents!”

For a split second, I considered insisting that I’d gone straight to Dad’s but one look in Mum’s eyes, and I knew I couldn’t lie to her. Not again. She had always been
able to see right through me. “I was with Dwayne.”

I would have given anything not to have seen that look in Mum’s eyes: a mixture of disappointment and disgust. It was almost unbearable and I felt shame and regret burn my insides like
acid.

Mum kissed her teeth and turned away abruptly, growling, “Just get inside; you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

I stepped into the hallway after her and turned away to pull off my jacket. I tried to breathe normally, to steady my nerves, but inside I was trembling. I had never seen her so angry in all my
life. But what would she do? What was the
worst
she could do?

I would soon find out.

“Sit down,” said Mum curtly as I stepped into the living room. Everything about the room looked dark and menacing, nothing like the comfortable, welcoming space it usually was.

I sat down on the edge of the sofa, chewing my bottom lip. Mum took a deep breath. “OK, Misha, this is how it’s going to work: I’m going to ask the questions, you’re
going to tell the truth. Do you understand, Misha?
The truth
. No more lies.”

I nodded. What else could I do? There was nothing to say.

“Right. Firstly: have you been seeing that boy, Dwayne?”

“Yes.”

“Even after I told you to end it with him?”

“Yes.”

A pause. I decided it would be safer to avoid Mum’s eyes and look at the floor. That way there was a chance I would be able to delay the tears that were already threatening to fall.

“So you’ve been sneaking out to see him behind my back?”

“Yes.” What kind of tears were these? Unfamiliar as they were, I could name them: these were tears of shame mixed with regret.

Mum took a big, shuddering breath. “All right, Misha, I don’t need to tell you what a terrible disappointment this is to me. I trusted you – and you betrayed my trust. Did you
think I wouldn’t find out? What kind of fool do you take me for? You think I don’t know when my own daughter is lying to me?”

“Mum, I...”

“No, Misha, there can be no explanation for what you have done, no excuse. I invited that boy into my home and gave him a chance to prove himself. He failed miserably, on so many levels.
And out of my love for you, I told you that it was best that you didn’t see him again. Haven’t I always done what is best for you? Haven’t I always sacrificed everything for your
happiness?”

“For
my
happiness?” I was incredulous. Mum didn’t really expect me to agree with her – did she?

“Yes, Misha, for
your
happiness! Everything I have worked so hard for over the last few years has been for you...”

“Mum, all that has had nothing to
do
with my happiness! It’s always been about what
you
want, not what I want!”

Mum kissed her teeth and shook her head in irritation. “Oh, Misha, grow up! I’m not talking about you being happy for a few weeks because some boy is sending you a thousand text
messages! I’m talking about your future here, your life – what’s best for you ...”

“But how would you know, Mum?” I felt anger build up inside me at last. “How would you know what is best for me? You’ve got no idea who I am, Mum! You may think you do
but, really, the only Misha you know is the one you expect me to be...”

“Misha, I know you better than you know yourself, believe me.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I am your
mother
!” Mum’s voice was high and she got up abruptly, pacing the floor in front of me. “Because I gave
birth
to you! Because nobody
else in this world has sacrificed as much for you as I have...”

“Stop saying that!” I shouted suddenly, jumping up, my hands over my ears. I just couldn’t stand to hear her say that one more time. “Stop beating me over the head with
that every time I disappoint you, every time I don’t live up to your expectations! It’s like you’re making me pay you back for giving birth to me, for you and Dad splitting up,
for bringing me up on your own – I didn’t bloody ask to be born!”

The slap came so hard and fast that it took me completely by surprise. The fire of Mum’s hand spread across my cheek like a hot, red stain.

“Don’t you
ever
,” choked Mum, her chest heaving, “speak to me like that again. I am your
mother
. And I always will be. And don’t ever go thinking
that you will be able to pay me back for that because you never will, do you understand?”

All I could do was blink, as my cheek throbbed. I was stunned. She had never hit me before. “Why did you hit me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

I saw Mum falter and her eye flickered. Maybe she regretted it. Maybe she would apologise now.

But no.

“Misha, you need to come to your senses. This life is not a game; you can’t just go gambling your future on some lickle...”

“No!” Tears were streaming down my face now and I wouldn’t let her finish, couldn’t let her have the last word, not this time. “No – why did you hit me? Why
did you
hit
me?”

Mum tried to ignore my tears, tried to keep talking, talking about my future, about the challenges I would face, how I couldn’t allow anyone to hold me back. But I was way past listening
to all that.

In my mind, memories were crowding together: our house on Coldharbour Lane, cosy afternoons spent at Gran’s place, Rachel and other friends I had ditched because Mum said that they
weren’t good enough for me; taking Science instead of French because Mum said more black girls needed to excel in Maths and Science; growing my hair when I had wanted to keep it short,
relaxing it because Mum said braids looked common; and Dwayne, of course. Years and years of doing what made Mum happy, what she approved of, rose up to choke me.

“How could you? How could you hit me for telling the truth? How could you
hit
me?”

She tried to reach out towards me but, just then, something inside me snapped.

“Don’t you touch me,” I shrieked. “Don’t you come near me!”

“Misha!” barked Mum. “Get a hold of yourself!”

But it was too late for orders. I stumbled from the room, everything a watery blur in front of me. Escape, escape, escape. The word built up to a crescendo inside my head and, before I knew it,
I had wrenched the front door open and was running down the path towards the gate, the early evening air cool against my burning cheeks.

“Misha!” Mum’s furious voice echoed in the deathly quiet of the Sunday night street. “Come back! Come back right now!” And she rushed to stop me at the gate. But
she stepped back when I whirled to face her. I wanted the neighbours to hear; I wanted her to be unable to face them the next morning.

“All my life,” I shouted, “I’ve tried to live up to your expectations! I’ve been everything you’ve wanted me to be, tried to make you happy. And now that
I’ve found a happiness of my own, a happiness you don’t understand, you want to take it away from me...”

“Misha, love, it’s got nothing to do with that...” Mum tried to take my arm, to lead me back inside where the neighbours couldn’t see us, but I shook her hand off.

“No, Mum, I’m not coming back inside! Not until you can learn to listen to me, to what I think, what I want. You say Dwayne isn’t good enough for me? Maybe the truth that you
can’t face is that
I’m
not good enough for
you
.”

“
Misha
!”

But I was already running, running down the street, escape, escape, escape pounding its own rhythm inside me.

DWAYNE

After Misha left, I went home to change. I had planned to stay home, maybe give Tony a call, play some Playstation, basically lay low.

I was about to call for pizza when my second phone – my ‘work phone’ – rang. It was Spoonz telling me that they had scored some top class weed and a bit of crack cocaine.
He asked me if I wanted to come get some.

The deal was too sweet to resist. Avoiding Jukkie and Trigger, going to after-school maths class and spending time with Misha all meant that I was seriously broke. I needed to refill the coffee
jar of cash I kept in the lining of the sofa in my room.

I knew that, in a couple of hours, the crackheads would be coming to the wheelie bins underneath St Paul’s to score their nightly fix. I reckoned I could make some quick dough without
getting into beef with anyone, as long as I left the house tidy and was home before Mum got back.

Just as I left my room, I caught sight of Malcolm X’s autobiography, lying face-down on my sofa next to my copy of the Qur’an. I bit my lip and thought for a minute.

‘Do you really need to do this, blud?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Go sell some crack to feed a junkie’s nasty habit. I thought we were past that...’