She Wore Red Trainers (21 page)

I had never heard Auntie talk about Rania's dad. I kept quiet, thinking about her words.

‘What you're experiencing right now, Amirah,' she said, turning back to me, ‘is not the end of the world. It's not the end of your dreams, either. It's a temporary setback, one you will surmount. One you will get over and move on from, inshallah. Don't cry anymore. You need clear eyes to look to your future and decide what to do.'

I nodded, tears rolling down my cheeks. Everything she had said, all the things she was telling me, they were just what I needed to hear, right at that moment.

***

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about what I really wanted to do with my life, in terms of study and work, and I ended up sharing just how much I loved art. I told her about my work with Abdullah, and Collette's art therapy course. We checked out courses online. I realised that there were other degree courses I could take with the grades I had – ones that would allow me to make my art into a viable career. Art and Design. Illustration. Graphic Design. Art Therapy. That last one really resonated with me and I made up my mind to talk
to Collette about it at our next class.

I left Auntie Azra's house a different person.

I had hope again. All was not lost. This was all part of Allah's plan.

40

3 As.

3
As.

‘Mashallah, Ali, you did it!' Dad's smile had been huge, his eyes bright with tears. ‘Your mother would be so proud of you, son, so proud.' And he'd hugged me, holding me to him for a long time. ‘The world is your oyster now, inshallah.'

And I just felt amazing, absolutely amazing.

To think that, through all the upheaval and heartbreak, I had managed to step up at exam time and get my predicted grades! Mum would have been over the moon.

The drive home from Hertfordshire was like a warm, fuzzy dream. We talked about Mum and other trips we had taken as a family. We sang songs Mum had taught us for long car journeys. We remembered Mum together, openly, without reservation, for the very first time. And it was wonderful.

‘Fancy a meal out, boys?' yawned Dad as he unlocked the door. ‘Or should we order something?'

‘I think it's going to be instant noodles and bed, Dad,' I replied. ‘I'm exhausted!'

‘Yes, it was quite draining, wasn't it,' said Dad ruefully. Then he grinned. ‘Still, all's well that ends well. Oh, and you were right to insist that we go to see Umar. I feel so much
better after seeing him, alhamdulillah.'

‘You see,' I chided. ‘You should listen to me more often.'

‘Yes,' mused Dad, ‘maybe I don't give you enough credit, eh?' He stood in front of the freezer, poked around inside, then turned to me. ‘I feel bad, Ali. We should be celebrating tonight, shouldn't we?' His eyes went misty. ‘Your mum was always the one to organise our family celebration dinners, wasn't she? I just turned up and waited to be told what we were celebrating!'

I smiled and opened my mouth to add my memories of our celebration dinners when the doorbell rang. Dad's eyebrows shot up. He still wasn't used to living so close to people. The constantly ringing doorbell set his nerves on edge.

‘I'll get it, Dad,' I said, scooting to the front door. I didn't want anything spoiling his mood, not after the day we'd had.

I opened the door without looking through the little spyhole. I was sure it was Usamah – he was the only person who would turn up unannounced.

But it wasn't Usamah.

‘Al… Ali?'

It was Amy.

Just the sight of her was difficult.

Of course I hadn't forgotten her, not a single inch of her, no matter how hard I'd tried. But now, here she was, in the flesh, at my front door, looking straight at me with those big blue eyes. The light above us was bright. It bounced off her hair and, for a moment, I was dazzled. I felt my senses betray me – the smell of her perfume, the memory of her skin, those eyes. Lowering my gaze was proving to be hard work.

A'udhu billahi min ash-Shaytan ir-Rajeem,
I said to myself. Only Allah could protect me from myself, I knew that.

Dad's voice came from inside the kitchen, ‘Who is it, Ali? It's late…' And then there he was behind me, staring at this golden-haired girl standing on his front doorstep.

‘Amy?' He must have remembered her from a school show or something. ‘Amy McIntyre? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?'

‘No, Mr Jordan, I just came to speak to Ali.'

Dad gave me a look, then scanned the dark outside the house, the neighbour's house opposite. ‘Well, you'd better come in, Amy. We can't have you standing there like that.' And he opened the living room door and then wedged it so that it stayed like that: open. I was grateful for that. I really didn't trust myself around her.

We didn't say anything for a few minutes.

Then, ‘How are you doing, Ali?'

I remembered her voice so well – like liquid honey. It brought back so many memories of feelings, times and places I had tried hard to forget that, for a moment, I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say, where to look, how to act.

‘Amy…' My voice came out all croaky and I cleared my throat. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I was talking to Pablo and he… he told me that you were in South London. He got me the address. And I came to see you…' She was looking right at me and I knew that I didn't have to ask her why she had come to see me. Her face, her voice, her body language all spoke louder than words. But she could see that she had rattled me. She looked down, embarrassed.

‘Look, Ali, sorry for just turning up like this but I didn't know how else to reach you. Your old number isn't working anymore, you closed your Facebook page, you didn't leave me
an address. None of the guys knew how to contact you – it's like you disappeared once school was over!'

‘Yeah, I know,' I mumbled. ‘Sorry about that… It was hard, you know, coming to terms with everything…'

‘Yeah, I heard about your mum. I'm really sorry.' She bit her lip. ‘But why didn't you talk to me, Ali? Why didn't you let me be there for you? I thought we had something special. I even thought…'

Don't,
I thought.
Don't say the words…

But she didn't. She knew better than to do that. ‘I thought we had something special, you and I…'

I looked down. I couldn't lie to her. I had never been able to lie to her, not in all the years we had known each other, the time we had been together. ‘We did, Amy, we did. It's just that a lot of things changed for me when Mum died. Too many things. And I couldn't make those changes without pulling away from my old life.'

‘Is that how you see me now, as part of your old life?'

The hurt in her voice seared my brain. Hadn't I promised her always and forever? What useless promises.

‘No, Amy, it's not like that. It's just that Mum's death made a lot of things clear to me. One of them was the fact that I had to learn about Islam. I had to start practising my religion, the one my mum taught me. It was too hard to do that with everything that was going on so I had to get away. And now… I've got a new life, different priorities.' I shrugged. That was it in a nutshell: I had different priorities now.

‘I know, Ali,' she said, looking down. ‘I know that you've rediscovered your faith and I'm really happy for you.' She looked back up at me. ‘I just wanted to know whether there was any space in your new life for me.'

My heart stopped beating for a moment and I looked at her in confusion. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you back. I'm even ready to convert, if it means we can be together…'

I laughed out loud. I just couldn't help it. This was Amy the beauty queen, Miss Popular herself, the fun-loving, outgoing envy of all my friends, offering to accept Islam, just to be with me? The whole idea was ludicrous.

Or was it?

‘You can't convert just for me, Amy, I would never want you to do that. Islam isn't like that – something you can use just to get what you want. It's a genuine spiritual commitment, a way of life…'

She reached out and put her hand on my arm then, right where I had covered up my tattoo with my shirt. I flinched at her touch. ‘Don't you want me, Ali?' she asked, her voice husky. ‘Don't you miss what we used to have?'

I couldn't say anything. My only defence was to pull my arm away and look behind her – at my red Converse trainers standing by the door.

And, just then, the image of Amirah popped into my mind. In her hijab and
abaya
, her dark features and no-nonsense attitude, she was the complete opposite of Amy. And yet, there was something about her, something deep, something vulnerable under all that bravado, that made my heart soften when I thought of her.

No, Amy wasn't the one I wanted. She was too perfect to suit me anymore. I had once been a wealthy student at a private school, poised to go to university to study Law, earn loads of money, buy houses and cars, have a glamorous wife on my arm, but all of that was nothing to me now. I knew
what I wanted to do with my life now – it had been becoming clearer and clearer with every passing day – and I knew that this was a distraction.

I was damaged – but damaged in a way Amy would never be able to understand. Of course, she would sympathise, but it wasn't sympathy that I needed. I needed healing. If once I had been that perfect golden boy, I was him no longer. I had sinned, I had erred, I had made
tawbah
and I had been through trials and come out of them with stronger
iman
and a clearer purpose. Somehow, I knew that Amirah had walked that same journey. She was my true partner, not Amy.

‘I'm sorry, Amy, but this isn't going to work. We're too different, you and I. You've got your great life in Hertfordshire, where you belong. I'm sorry…'

I opened the door to let her out and she paused on the threshold and looked up at me.

‘Are you sure this is what you want, Ali?'

I wasn't looking at her when I answered. I was looking out onto the driveway at a figure with a beard and a white
thobe
, a figure that had stopped short, made eye contact with me, glanced at Amy and shaken his head, hurrying past without saying a word.

Later, when I was brushing my teeth, I looked into the mirror – and saw the shocked, accusing eyes of Zayd staring back at me.

41

For what felt like the one hundredth time, I opened my phone up to look at the picture I had taken of Amirah's painting. My hand.
My
hand.

What were you thinking when you were painting this? What were you feeling? Did you ever think that I would see it? Will I ever know?

I slid the phone shut when I heard the doorbell ring. I was feeling irritated with myself. Since when did I sit staring at pictures of inanimate objects, having one-sided conversations with indifferent girls in my head?

Usamah had come over to taste my legendary pancakes.

‘I'll be going back home soon, at the end of the month,' he said as he sat down.

I stared at him. ‘What?'

‘Yeah, my year is up. I gotta get back to school in New York, back to my family. They're fixing for me to be married after I finish college so they've got a few sisters lined up for me to meet when I get back.'

I leaned back against the stove, too stunned to speak. Usamah? Going back to the US? Getting married? ‘Bro, do you really feel ready to get married? Like, really ready?'

Usamah chuckled. ‘What would I be waiting around
for? You know my online business is doing well, better than I thought it would, so I got money coming in. My folks always said they would support me when I got married but I figure I won't be needing their help for much longer, inshallah, as long as things keep going good.' He shrugged. ‘Besides, I ain't getting any younger, n'a mean? And lowering your gaze 24/7 gets real old, real quick.'

I laughed. ‘I hear you, man, I hear you…' I thought for a moment, then said, ‘So, these girls that your parents have lined up, do you know any of them?'

‘Yeah, I remember some of them from back in the day at the
masjid
– all the girls liked me back then, man!'

‘So, you got your eye on any one girl in particular?'

Usamah rubbed his beard and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, there is
one
… but I gotta meet her first, y'know, see if we still cool, get to know her for myself a little bit. I'm sure she's changed since we were kids and if you're gonna marry someone, you gotta be sure that she's the one.'

‘Easier said than done, isn't it?'

‘Yeah, it is, but my momma always said that, when you meet the girl you're meant to marry, you'll know.'

‘That is so crazy!' I said, shaking my head. ‘That's just what my mum used to say!'

Usamah took a gulp of orange juice. ‘Moms know, man. They know. You better believe it.' Then he put the glass down on the table. ‘So, you still feenin' on Zayd's sister?'

‘
What
?' Usamah's candour knocked me off balance. Where was all that cultivated cool, all that studied nonchalance? Had I been that transparent? I tried to make a joke out of it, ‘What're you talking about, man?'

Usamah chuckled and looked out of the window. ‘That's
what I love about you, man: you've got all these fancy British manners – what do y'all call it again? Stiff upper lip?'

I nodded sheepishly.

‘Yeah, you got all that stiff upper lip going on, but you're just as transparent as everybody else around here. You think I haven't seen how you look at her every time you meet? How you have to fight to lower your gaze? How you wanna talk about her all the time – even with Zayd? You don't do that about
anybody
else!'