She Wore Red Trainers (13 page)

***

Later that evening, Mum came up to see me. By that time, I had recovered from my outburst and was busy working on my painting. I had told Colette that I would have it ready for Monday as the competition entry deadline was Friday. I was looking forward to getting her feedback although, secretly, I suspected that this was going to be one of my best pieces.

‘
As-salamu ‘alaykum
, Ams,' Mum said, glancing over my shoulder. ‘Oh, that looks nice. Very realistic.'

I looked up at her and smiled. ‘Thanks, Mum.' It was rare for Mum to comment on my work, even if all she said was that it looked ‘nice'. ‘I'm entering it for a competition down in Croydon, inshallah.'

‘Oh, that's nice,' replied Mum, absently fingering my hair. A trim was long overdue.

‘I heard you and Zayd arguing earlier,' she said, gathering my hair up and spreading her fingers over my scalp from the nape of my neck. I didn't say anything but closed my eyes and let her give me a head massage, something she hadn't done for months. ‘You know he only wants what is best for you, Amirah.'

I sighed and pulled away. Turning to face her, I said, ‘I know what's best for me, Mum. It's my life, remember?'

Mum smiled then, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘Amirah, as I always taught you: Allah knows best. You're only 18, y'know. You need to learn to trust Him and stop fighting, hmm?'

I pressed my lips together then, clenching my fists. And, in my head, I said bitterly,
What, like you did, Mum? No, sorry, the last thing I want to do is live by the lessons you taught me
.

24

That morning, as I made my way over to the basketball court, my mind was racing. So, I had finally seen her again. I had
spoken
to her. Not that I made a great impression or anything – stammering and stuttering like a lunatic! But it was a start. A shaky start to an unknown something, true. But a start.

I was glad that Zayd was nowhere to be seen when I got to the basketball courts. I didn't think I would be able to hold it down around him, not after I had just spoken to her. I felt sure he would be able to see it in my eyes or smell it on me or something.

As usual, Usamah gave me a big man hug and
salam
s when I got to the court and we played a quick game, hard and fast, just the way I liked it. My intention was always clear: this was a distraction, something to take my mind off unhelpful desires, something to give me an outlet. Fasting during a British summer took more willpower than I could muster, what with sunrise being around 4 a.m. and sunset after 8 p.m.. Basketball was my only alternative.

By the end of the game, I felt cleansed. Amirah didn't flash into my head every few minutes; it was all I could do to get my breath back. And that was when my phone rang with an unfamiliar number.

It was Pablo, my best friend from Hertfordshire.

It hadn't been easy and I had changed my mind about it a dozen times but, in the end, I sent him a message on Facebook with my new number late the previous night. He must have called me as soon as he saw my message.

‘Al!' He sounded exactly the same as I remembered. ‘What's up? Where have you been, mate?'

I sat down on the bleachers and, fighting to get my breath back, I told him about the house, about moving to South London. He read between the lines, just like I knew he would, and I didn't have to mention Mum, or Dad's business.

‘So, how are they treating you down there?'

I paused, looking over at the brothers shooting hoops, thinking about everything that had happened – that was still happening – and said, ‘Not too badly, mate. We're getting there…'

He said nothing, waiting for me to continue, but I really didn't know what to say. My frame of reference was now so different to his: if I mentioned the summer school, the picture in his mind would be so alien to the reality; if I mentioned a girl, he would jump to totally the wrong conclusion. Better to play it safe. ‘So, how is everyone? How are the guys? You seen anyone lately?' I could just hear his mum in the background, her enunciated vowels, her carefully modulated tones. And Vivaldi. That was Vivaldi playing. Pablo's mother's favourite.

‘Yeah, I caught up with some of them last weekend. We went to this amazing party up in Oxford. First class, man, totally.' A pause, then, ‘Amy was there.'

Amy?

‘Cool.' I didn't know what else to say.

Pablo coughed, my lukewarm response obviously making
him unsure of himself. ‘So… aren't you going to ask about her? She asks about you, mate, every time I see her.'

I shifted, my palms wet all of a sudden. ‘Pablo, you know that Amy and I broke up before the exams.'

‘That's not what she said… she asked me to give you a message if I spoke to you: to tell you that she misses you. That you should get in touch.'

The conversation ended soon after that. I was shaken, to tell the truth.

Pablo had been my best friend at senior school – we were close, did everything together. Hearing him talk brought back memories of all our crazy adventures, all the wild things we had done together: my old life.

Now that I was living in South London, trying to practise my
deen
, with other brothers who were all on the same journey, I could see how astray I had been for so many years, how oblivious.

I had been far away, so much further than either Mum or Dad could have known. For a while, I didn't even call myself Muslim – I wasn't absolutely sure that I believed anymore. Allah was a distant concept for me, a being I couldn't relate to, much less understand. And school made me ask so many questions, questions I didn't have the answers to, questions I was afraid to ask at home. So I floated away into philosophical debates, rugby and house parties, schoolboy pranks and puppy love. I was a boy with a Muslim name, lost in the world.

Of course, when the world came crashing down around me, when Mum succumbed to the cancer, nothing could ever be as distant as it was before. I had confronted death – my fantasy life had to end and real life had to begin. Because, as it says in the Qur'an, ‘Every soul shall taste death', and that is
the one reality than no philosopher can deny.

But I wasn't so sure about London either.

Now that Hertfordshire was really behind us – something I was still struggling to accept – nothing was clear. What would Umar's future be? And what about Jamal? Every day, I saw the kids Jamal's age in our youth group, and I got upset. Their attitudes, their manners, their aspirations (or lack thereof) – was this what lay ahead for my little brother?

Was running with gangs and getting arrested what lay ahead for Umar? A thought that occurred to me when I caught sight of Mahmoud coming around the corner. He looked pretty awful, to tell you the truth. Mahmoud was a reckless guy, and he partied hard, but I had never seen him looking so rough.

He greeted us, listless, rubbing his stubbly chin. ‘What's up, guys? How's it going?' he croaked.

Usamah burst out laughing. ‘You sure you should be here, akh? You look like you should still be in your coffin, staying out of daylight!'

‘Nah, didn't you know? Mahmoud is the Daywalker!' We roughed him up until he starting grinning and a load seemed to lift from his shoulders.

‘Did you go out on a bender last night?' I quipped, as I jogged around the court.

Mahmoud groaned and mumbled something about Edgware Road and shisha.

I laughed. ‘Definitely a bender, Muslim style.'

If Mahmoud had been out the night before I wasn't surprised that he was having a bad morning. I had been out with him and his mates, just the once.

Mahmoud's friends had been loud, they'd revved the car
a thousand times every time they passed a pretty girl on our way to Edgware Road.

I remembered this girl, Zizou, and her friends coming over to our table to chat and laugh and flick their hair about. One of them had taken a bit of a shine to me but Mahmoud told her that I was a good Muslim boy who did not need to be corrupted by girls like her.

I remembered the argument about whether shisha was haram (they decided that it wasn't), and whether smoking cigarettes was worse (they decided that it was).

When I turned down the shisha pipe Mahmoud had said, ‘hey, don't be such a neek, man. You can still have fun without being a total ho, like me.'

But that hadn't stopped him from dropping me at the gates of Seville Close at one o'clock in the morning, reeking of tobacco and shisha. Needless to say, Dad hadn't been impressed the next morning.

‘You better slow down, Mahmoud,' Usamah said, ‘the fast life's got a way of catching up to you, if you know what I mean.'

Mahmoud glanced at me guiltily. ‘Yeah, I know, no need for a lecture, bro.' Then his face changed and he bit his lip. ‘Ummm, dude, what would you do if… if a girl… if a girl told you she was… y'know… expecting?'

Usamah's eyes narrowed. ‘Expecting what? A birthday present?'

‘No… expecting a baby.'

‘Whose baby?'

‘Your baby, man, what do you think?'

Usamah started laughing then. ‘Bro, that could never ever happen. You know why? I keep myself tight, you know what
I'm saying? I ain't got time for no
zinah
in my life.'

I peered at Mahmoud. ‘Why do you ask, Mahmoud?' My curiosity got the better of me.

That was when Mahmoud clammed up. ‘Nothing, man, nothing. Just giving Usamah a taste of his own medicine, innit?'

And he was off to shoot hoops with some other guys who had just arrived.

After he'd left Usamah said in a low voice, without looking at me, ‘a brother's got to be careful, y'know. One false move, one moment of weakness, and you could be living with the consequences for the rest of your life. Keeping your chastity ain't no joke but guys like to think that the rules don't apply to them. But when they spill their seed and ruin a sister's life, and have a child that they won't raise, they wonder why there ain't no
barakah
in their affairs. Brothers got to fear Allah and stay strong.'

‘And fast,' I murmured, lost in my own thoughts. ‘Just like the Prophet said.'

‘Or get married,' chuckled Usamah. ‘Whichever's easier.'

‘Well,' I said, getting up from the bleachers, ‘I know which one I'd prefer!' And I went to join the basketball game that was just starting up.

25

Between looking after Mum and the kids at home, art school and hanging out with the girls, I made myself too busy to think of Mr Light Eyes. My conversation with Zayd had pretty much put the fear of God into me: if I wasn't ready to have a meeting with Hassan, why on earth was I even thinking about my Mottie neighbour who probably just saw me as his friend's little sister anyway?

Madness, clearly.

So, life went on, pretty much as it had done before. OK, so my heart skipped a beat when I stepped outside my front door, because of the slim chance that I might bump into him. But I didn't see him for ages. Either our schedules were completely different or he was deliberately avoiding me.

So it was easy for me to pretend that he didn't exist. I had also managed to convince Rania not to say anything about him to the girls so I could avoid their teasing – a mammoth task, I assure you.

When I got to Rania's house, everyone was helping Auntie Azra prepare for her Urban Muslim Princess event. We'd always helped her with preparations for the various functions and fundraisers she was involved with as an event co-ordinator, but even I could see that this Urban Muslim
Princess show was going to be bigger and better than any she had done before.

Today, it was a real family affair: not only were all her daughters' friends there (i.e. us), but Auntie Azra's sister, Caroline, was there too, helping out. ‘You've got some amazing sponsors this year, Auntie,' I said, eyeing the makeup samples, glossy magazines and gift vouchers for the goodie bags we were packing.

‘Yes, we've had fantastic support this year, mashallah. And Caroline got some of her clients to chip in, too. Yasmin, I understand your brother's bike club, Deen Riders, has pledged the proceeds of their next rally to our cause?'

Yasmin nodded. ‘Yeah, the Deen Riders are trying to get more involved in charity work and I mentioned our event to my brother…'

‘I'm sure they didn't need much convincing, what with all the yummy stuff you make for them, mashallah!' Yasmin beamed and ducked her head.

Auntie Azra sat down at the table, a wistful smile on her face.

Rania looked over at her. ‘What're you thinking about, Mum?'

Auntie Azra smiled at her. ‘Oh, just thinking of how proud your father would be of us,
rahimahullah
.'

Rania gave her mum a hug. ‘Daddy always knew you could do it, Mum. He always knew the business would be a success.'

Auntie Caroline laughed. ‘He was the one who pushed you into it!'

Auntie Azra smiled and nodded. ‘He told me I was wasting my time, twiddling my thumbs at home when you lot
finally went off to school.' She took a sip of her coffee.

‘He was a good man, sis,' sighed Auntie Caroline. ‘No doubt about that. They don't make them like that anymore.'

Auntie Azra turned to face her girls. ‘He always believed in me, your father did. Even though I didn't go to college or uni, he always encouraged me to pursue my goals.'

‘Did you really never go to uni, Auntie?' I still couldn't believe it, after all these years. Auntie just seemed so confident, so knowledgeable about all sorts of things. It didn't make sense that she had left school with just a handful of GCSEs.

‘Only much later on, when my kids had gone to school,' she said. ‘I just read a lot of books and became a self-taught expert on kids, homemaking and homeschooling.'

Auntie Caroline laughed. ‘You did everything the wrong way round, didn't you, sis?'