She Wore Red Trainers (6 page)

After the
salah
I sat making
dhikr
. Dad had said that Umar would soon calm down and fall into step with all of us but, from where I was standing, he seemed to be getting more and more rebellious, more resistant to us.

‘Oh, Allah,' I prayed, ‘please guide him to the straight path. Don't let him forget who he is, what Mum taught him.'

I was worried about Umar. After Mum's death, he had withdrawn into himself. I was hurting so much myself, I didn't have the emotional energy to try to break down his walls. So he barricaded himself behind hostility, resentment, and silence.

He resented everything: losing Mum, renting out the house, moving from Hertfordshire. And he resented our efforts to revive Islam in our lives. He wanted to ‘live free', in his words, ‘find his own way'. And every time Dad told him to pray, or accompany us to the mosque, or take off his headphones, he bristled.

‘It's my life!' he would scream and then he was gone, out of the room, out of the house. There were times when I thought he would storm through that front door and just not come back again.

So, every time he did come home, no matter what state he was in, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Because Umar was Mum's favourite, I had always known that. No matter how much she tried to hide it, I could tell that she had a soft spot for him. And she made me promise to always look out for him.

‘He needs you, Ali,' she would say in the aftermath of another row. ‘And he does look up to you, even though he doesn't show it. He's a good boy. Don't you give up on him, OK?'

So I had to hang in there. For Mum's sake.

Unpacking our things was the start of a new era for us. Besides, Dad had assured us it would only be until the start of the new school year. After that, we would be able to move back home to Hertfordshire. I was sure we could manage until then.

10

Sunday was our shopping day. The girls and I agreed to meet up to go shopping for clothes to wear to the Urban Muslim Princess event. But we couldn't agree on where to go: would it be further south to Croydon, east to the sparkling new shopping centre in Stratford or west to Westfield? In the end, logistics and finances won the argument and we headed to Tooting, home to our beloved TK Maxx. I'd been saving up for months and was more than happy to spend my cash in cheap ‘n' cheerful Tooting, rather than upscale Westfield.

Now, when it comes to shopping, different people have different styles. Take Rania, for example. She is Miss Hijabi Fashionista so, for her, shopping is a real investment. She is always on the lookout for clothes that are stylish yet modest – long skirts, tunic tops, scarves and jackets, always jackets. I swear, last time I took a look in her wardrobe, I thought I had stumbled into the designer womenswear section of Selfridges: she clearly has a jacket fetish in addition to an addiction to shoes and bags. So, in short, shopping with Rania was always serious business: everything needed to be tried on, matching outfits put together, accessories sourced. A total look, no less.

Samia was a different story: for a start, she was never into fashion, even before she became Muslim and started
wearing hijab. Samia, formely Sam, became Muslim in high school when she was that random white girl who used to hang around with the Asian girls, learning Urdu and wearing a dupatta with her school uniform. She attended one class at the
masjid
and that was it, she was hooked. She took her
shahadah
just before her GCSEs. But Muslim or not, she was always more of a tomboy, more interested in tracksuits, trainers and footie than heels and accessories. Now she nearly always wore a scarf and an
abaya
.

‘I
love
my
abaya
!' she always said. ‘Better than PJs, I tell you! No more fussing, no more stress.'

So you can imagine that shopping wasn't her favourite thing to do. But she came along that Sunday because the last thing she wanted was a telling off from Rania's mum. If there's one thing Auntie Azra can't stand, it is when people ‘don't make an
effort
!' So she would have to get her glad rags on, just like the rest of us.

‘Ooohh, these are soooo cute!' Rania had found herself a pair of sequinned pants and looked like she was about to have a heart attack – joy and elation all over her face. She clutched at the sparkling trousers on the rack and held them to her chest.

She grabbed at least four pairs of trousers and ran off to join the queue for the changing room.

I shook my head and smiled, then looked over at Samia. As usual, she was squinting at the screen of her iPhone, a green jumpsuit dangling from the hanger in her hand. Only Allah knows how she managed to actually live life between Tumblr blog posts, Facebook statuses and Twitter feeds, but Samia's relationship with her iPhone was a bit of a mystery to all of us. The girl had an app for absolutely everything, even
calculating her carbon footprint or the
true
cost of a banana from Guatemala! Because those things were
really
important to Samia, Miss Eco-Warrior herself.

‘Hey, Samia,' I called over to her. ‘You found something?'

‘Yeah,' she smiled up at me, sliding her finger across the screen to close down the phone. ‘I love this colour…'

‘Yeah, it will look great with your red hair,' I agreed. ‘And your eyes.'

Samia blushed and looked away, chewing her bottom lip. ‘Mashallah…' she mumbled before heading off for the changing rooms. I watched her as she walked away, head down, shoulders hunched beneath her puffa jacket. That was so typical of Samia: the girl just could not take a compliment.

I looked around for Yasmin and saw her standing in front of a rack of dresses, her arms empty. I grabbed a couple of the dresses I'd been looking at and went over to her.

She turned to look at me, a worried look on her face. ‘I can't find anything, Ams,' she said. ‘None of this stuff would look good on me. I can't even see anything I like.'

I fingered a brown maxi dress with turquoise flowers. ‘This one's nice…'

Yasmin wrinkled up her nose. ‘Nah, that would make my arms look like slabs of salami.'

‘What about this one with sleeves?'

‘Oh, no, look how low it is. I'd be falling out of that one.'

I sighed. Shopping with Yasmin really was tough. She just did not know what she wanted – and she was hypercritical of her looks and her weight. Over the years, she had accepted the part of the quiet one, the silent observer, like the grey background that allowed the butterflies to shine even brighter.

But eventually, we made it out of TK Maxx in one
piece; arms full of bags, ready to dress to kill, flushed with excitement, hungry as anything.

Only one place would do: Katie's Cafe.

***

‘I swear, I thought this year would never end!' Rania said as we all squeezed into the booth at Katie's Cafe. This was our guilty little secret: a greasy spoon with enough calories in the burgers to give you
and
your mum a heart attack. But it was cheap and it was halal so, sometimes, just sometimes, nothing else would do: it just
had
to be cheeseburgers and fries with double thick milkshakes at Katie's.

‘I know,' I said, jostling Samia with my elbow. ‘It's so cool of your mum to combine her fundraiser with our end-of-school celebration.'

‘Well, I, for one, can't wait,' Rania said, waving at the waitress. ‘The last time we had a good party was Eid and, after those crazy exams, I think we deserve a good time, don't you?'

Everyone agreed and, when the waitress came, we felt no guilt as we ordered enough carbs, calories and fizz to feed the entire
ummah
.

What can I say? Girls just wanna have fun.

11

I woke up thinking about her. Again.

As I made
wudu
, I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to see whether anything had changed. My lower jaw was covered with a light fuzz of hair and it made me look older, more serious. Did she like serious guys? Did she like beards? Judging by her brother, I thought it was safe to assume that she probably didn't mind them, even if she wasn't necessarily a fan. I puffed myself up and looked at my body critically. I had put on a bit of weight, what with all the takeaways we had been eating. It was time to get back into shape. At least basketball would help.

After
Fajr
, I slipped off my thobe and hit the floor to do some push ups. I was soon out of breath and, quite frankly, disgusted with myself. I had really let myself go. It was time to take back some control of my life, time to get in shape and get my mind focussed on the future. But even as those thoughts ran through my mind, I could feel the adrenalin running out of me.

I missed my mum.

I just did.

And, if I was honest with myself, I was crushing on a girl who was as unattainable as the stars, and almost as distant.
She probably didn't even know I existed.

The summer stretched ahead of me, like a life sentence, and, at the end of it, there was uni. I sighed. The prospect of studying Law had started losing its appeal last year after Mum died and I got over the initial sadness. Ever since then, the dream of being a hot shot lawyer had seemed less and less attractive. But what were my alternatives? And what would Dad say if I dared tell him that I didn't want to study Law? He would hit the roof, for sure.

I slumped back against my bed and let sadness wash over me again.

I missed Mum. I missed having her there to talk to anytime and about anything. She would have known what to do, she would have known what to tell Dad.

Just as the tears welled up, my phone vibrated: a message. I checked the screen. It was a message from Usamah. ‘Wanna go skateboarding this morning? Bring your bros.'

And even though I couldn't skateboard to save my life, even though I associated skateboarding with long-haired white dudes from the States, it was just the distraction I needed.

***

The skate park in Brixton was small and scruffy. Low-rise estates surrounded it on all sides and the litter and graffiti on the pavement just added to the gritty, urban ambience. I was determined to keep an open mind but I could see that Umar was seriously unimpressed. Jamal stuck close by me and just stared.

But, as usual, Usamah was in his element. He knew
some of the other guys there and, in no time at all, he had introduced us and managed to persuade his friends to lend us their skateboards and give us an introductory lesson. I felt quite silly, wobbling along on wheels but I could see that Jamal was getting the hang of it.

‘This is fun!' he called out as he sailed past me for the third time. ‘You need to copy me, Ali!'

I was just about to shout out and tell him what a great job he was doing when I heard some raised voices behind me.

‘What you sayin', blud?'

I turned around to see Umar literally surrounded by a group of young guys with bandanas and expensive trainers. They all had scowls on their faces. Umar did too, but I could tell that he was completely out of his depth. ‘Oi, what's going on?'

The boys turned to face me as I hurried over to where they were all gathered.

‘What's it got to do with you, man?'

‘He's my brother, that's what.'

One of them laughed, covering his gold tipped teeth with his fist. ‘Hear dat lickle posh bwoi!'

Another snarled, ‘Tell your brother to watch himself, yeah? He don't belong here down these sides. Down here we hurt mans, y'get me? Especially if they've got attitude like this one.' He jerked his head over at Umar who stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes blazing. I needed to get him out of there.

‘C'mon, Umar,' I muttered, leading him away. ‘Let's go…' I ignored the insults they flung after us. Umar was shaking next to me, determined not to catch my eye.

When I told Usamah what had happened, he shook his
head. ‘I don't know what's happening to these kids, man. They crazy down here… reminds me of the Bronx, for real. Come on, guys, let's beat it. We can go get something to eat up on the hight street.'

We left the skate park under a cloud, the fun of trying, failing and finally mastering the skateboards now forgotten.

As we left, I looked back and saw that the group of boys were still there, sprawled across the low wall on the side of the skate park. Every one of them was staring hard at Umar as he walked away. I felt a shiver run through me. I didn't think we would be coming back any time soon.

***

On the way home on the bus, I told Usamah about my dread of the long summer ahead with nothing constructive to do until A Level results came out.

‘Yo, they need some extra hands down at the Islamic centre,' he said. ‘I figure you might want to help out, what with you having so much time on your hands and all. You too, Umar. You're welcome to come on board if you like.'

I was speechless. Not only had I not expected Usamah to be the ‘community type', but I had never envisaged myself in that setting: youth work. In the suburbs of Hertfordshire and the halls of St Peter's, community work was something you did after a long plane journey, in Africa or South America, just like the school we had worked for in Mexico. But now that we were living in South London, not quite ghetto but close enough, the need for youth programmes was clear: without them, kids were on the streets, getting up to no good.

Umar glanced over at Usamah. ‘Don't look at me,' he said shortly. ‘I've got better things to do than hang out with a bunch of losers.' And he turned to stare out of the window again. Usamah looked over at me and shrugged his shoulders.

'I've never really thought about it, to tell you the truth,' I admitted, embarrassed by Umar's lack of manners. ‘I'm not sure that I'm cut out for that kind of thing…'

‘All you need is time, and you got plenty of that! And anyway, I bet you got mad skills from all those years in that fancy school of yours, what did they teach you, riding, fencing, ballroom dancing…'