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ULANA (#ulink_6e356aa2-6e29-58f4-a7ac-c3a26bd07976)
Those girls.
With their short skirts and heels. Crisp white shirts with the first two buttons undone. Flickers of lace bras during Gym. Edges of pink thongs peeking out from freshly ironed black school trousers.
Those girls.
I feel bad for those girls. They don’t know any different. They see images on TV and in magazines and aspire to be just that, not casting any doubt on the images they’re being sold. They want their hair longer – not creepy long though – shinier, straighter, curlier, blonder but not too blonde. They want to be taller but, of course, not taller than any boy, thinner but…actually, there’s never too thin. They open a magazine and all they see are skinny girls becoming skinnier, and getting praise for it. I see those girls at lunch, conflicted with the daunting choices of calories. Some don’t even eat. Some have just a piece of fruit then say they had a big breakfast. They sip on water. Too much sugar in juice. Too many calories in a smoothie. Too much fat in a hot chocolate. Black coffee works too.
Then they go to the girls’ toilets straight after. Some throw up, others readjust their short skirts and unbuttoned shirts. Most reapply their make-up for the afternoon. Glossy pink pouts. Thick dark eyebrows. Rosy cheeks. Matte noses. Black spider leg eyelashes. Contoured facial bones shimmering in highlighter. They dot concealer under their eyes, hiding the wrinkles they don’t have but always see when they look in the mirror.
I hope they do it for themselves, and not for others. That they’re not just parts of a game, being played, manipulated, moved onto tiny coloured squares for the next position. If not, I feel sorry for those girls. But they probably feel sorry for me. They think that I don’t belong here. That I’m different. That I’m not free, like them. They’re not free, not if they dress and look that way for others, for boys.
I feel a small tug on my hijab and it yanks a kirby grip from my hair. It slides down a little. When I turn I see those girls walking away. They look back at me and laugh. It’s not like this all the time. But when it happens, it’s always the same.
‘Terrorist.’
Some whisper it, while others say it loud enough so I can hear and so can all those around me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me, of course it does. But that’s what they want. They want to see me angry, see me cry. But I won’t because I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I know I won’t be any less Muslim if I take off the hijab, I’ll still be me. But I want to wear it because it’s a part of who I am, where I’m from, and what I believe in. So they should be the ones who are ashamed and embarrassed. My parents gave me a choice when we first moved here, and although I don’t wear a face veil like some girls and women back home, I’ve kept the hijab. I remain devoted to my faith, to my family, and to myself.
In all but one way.
Some might say, the worst way.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the only Muslim here at this school, that I had someone else my age to talk to. I have Sophia, I know. She’s a good friend to me. But sometimes I wish I had someone who understood more about my background. Someone who, maybe, was also going through what I’m going through – so I could speak to them about it. But I don’t have anyone like that. Surely my parents considered that I’d be the only Muslim high-school student in this small village. The nearest mosque is almost a forty-five minute bus ride away.
‘Hey!’ Aiden from my chemistry class starts to chase them down the hallway but I hold my arm out to block him, being careful not to touch him or for him to touch me.
‘Don’t bother,’ I say, bending down to pick up my folder.
‘I’ll get it.’ He gets down there first and scoops it up. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ But when my fingers latch on, he doesn’t let go.
‘You shouldn’t let those girls get away with that.’
‘It’s fine. Really. Hardly ever happens.’
‘Liar.’ He smiles at me, and slowly I feel the muscles in my face soften.
I tug at the folder again. This time he releases it, but his fingers brush against mine. It startles me and I look back to see if anyone saw it. Around us, people move in all directions, some darting into classrooms, others hanging out in the hallway. No one is looking at us.
No one sees us.
No one sees me.
I take a deep breath and walk away.
When I look back, he’s still standing there.
My shoulder skims the corner of the wall, then I’m in a new hallway and I don’t see him anymore.
I’m not used to being at a mixed-gender school. Boys sitting beside girls in classes. The girls’ changing room next door to the boys’ changing room. Girls standing in front of or behind boys in the lunch queue. Boys eating with girls they barely know. Nobody else here thinks this is strange but me.
Room 17 is dark, having not been used for classes all day. It’s stuffy so one of the students cracks open a window. Cool clean air seeps in from the gap and I take a deep breath. The room is full. Classmates sit on desks, in chairs, lean against bookshelves. No one will notice me here.
I stand by the door in the back. The door handle jabs into my spine a little but I stay. This is the perfect spot. This is my spot. I stand here every week.
Some people take notes, while others hide their phones under the desks and text their friends. I don’t know why they come. Most won’t be applying to university and some won’t get in even if they do. I know why I come. Not because we’re obligated to sign up to one of the many UCAS sessions held throughout the school week. And not because I don’t know how to navigate the online system, or don’t know what universities are looking for in applicants. My grades are impeccable and I will certainly obtain unconditional offers for all the universities that I apply to. I could probably teach this class. In the second week, the instructor spent an hour walking us through how to complete the first page of the application form – ‘Personal Information’. I’m pretty confident we can all recall our full name, address, date of birth and a contact telephone number.
That’s not why I come here.
I wait until the lights dim, then watch as the instructor struggles to bring up the first slide of his PowerPoint presentation. Perfect time to slip out. No one turns. Anyone who does see me leave will probably just assume I’m going to the toilet and not question it.
The hallway is already quiet, even though it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last bell. Those girls are long gone now. They’re probably shopping for a new eyeliner in Boots on the way home, or picking up the new Glamour or InStyle from WHSmith. Sometimes I dislike them. Other times, I envy them. I don’t have that luxury of ‘free time’. Between waking up and going to sleep, my day is mapped out for me. What I wouldn’t give for one afternoon after school where I could stay out as late as I want, skip dinner with the family, skip my evening readings, skip everything. Maybe I could leave school early, fake a sore belly, and have hours to myself – hours to lose to nothing, to lose to everything. But time slips by me, never glancing back. Time bumps into me in the hallway, and sits too close to me in the cafeteria. Time sits behind me in class, and ticks against my wrist, reminding me that seconds are passing, but that they don’t belong to me. They belong to everyone else. They belong to those girls.
Time.
When I reach the top of the hill, I look down at the watch on my wrist and adjust the alarm. I have thirty-five minutes. A deep breath escapes my lips. A flutter in my belly. Heat in my cheeks.
Boys sitting beside girls.
Girls meeting boys.
I bite my lip, feel the pressure between the teeth build.
And then I see him, waiting for me on the hill. He turns. He sees me. Finally someone sees me.
Then there comes that smile.
TRINA (#ulink_9a0d29a4-3009-5a0e-b632-7193b32eb95c)
Journal Entry 1: 05.09.2018
I saw him again this afternoon outside the biology department. I’d been rushing back from having a quick smoke outside the chemistry labs and was on my way to the girls’ toilets to brush my teeth before class, when I turned the corner and saw him. I always seem to see him there in that hallway, so much so that I find myself hanging around and waiting there sometimes in case he passes by. I never used to go down that hallway. It branches off to the Literature & Languages classrooms and since I’m not taking English or French this year there’s no need for me to venture down that way. But I know he has German after lunch period so instead of using the toilets by the chemistry wing, I now intentionally walk an extra four minutes out of my way for a chance of bumping into him. Is that stalking? No…surely not? I’ll Google that later.
Anyway, today he was leaning against the wall, slapping his right palm against the stone to a particular rhythm like he was hearing a song that no one else could hear but him, while he waited for Mr Fischer to open the classroom door. And when the door did finally open, right before he turned his back on me – again – I could have sworn he looked up at me. Just briefly. Just long enough for me to notice and take a snapshot in my mind of his eyes, his body language, his expression.
He was kind of happy to see me, but also not wanting to show that he was. Why the games?
I like him.
He likes me.
This is a pretty easy problem to solve, isn’t it?? He’s the smart one, not me, so why isn’t he figuring this out? If he likes me as much as I like him then there’s no need for these mind games. We shouldn’t be avoiding each other or pretending that we’re not happy to see each other at school, in the hallway, outside at lunch, in the car park, when in fact we’re thrilled. He doesn’t have to not let on. He doesn’t have to pretend. Not with me.
We had an amazing summer together. We spent practically all of our free time hanging out. He acted like we were in a proper relationship, but now this? It’s as if the summer never happened. But it did. I know it did, and so does he. How much longer am I supposed to wait for him?
We don’t have all the time in the world to take this slowly if this is what is happening. We only have one more year together. He graduates in June and will go off to somewhere else new and exciting no doubt, Edinburgh or London or somewhere, and go to a fancy university that I can’t pronounce the name of let alone ever stand a chance of getting into myself. And even if I did stand a chance – in some crazy universe where I actually got good enough grades and had made Head Girl – I couldn’t afford to go.
Tuition rates are insane. I know there’s funding, but I likely wouldn’t be eligible for it because it’s probably ‘merit-based’, right? People with bad grades and even worse attendance don’t get funded to go to uni to get more bad grades and skip more classes. No, the government would prefer to spend its money on students who will actually pass the course and graduate to get a job to contribute to society. Me – I’m a risk. No contribution to society so far. Except to the food and drink industry. I do frequent the newsagent down the street quite a bit to get cheap vodka for the weekend. Does that count? No probably not.
And then there’s the books. A friend of mine in the year above went to Kelvin College this year to do her Access to Nursing and she’s already spent so much on the textbooks. And that’s just for her first semester! One book was apparently forty-five quid! She probably won’t even read it. You know anything that costs forty-five pounds will have tiny writing, graphs no doubt, and not the kinds of glossy colourful photos I like to see in a book!
And the housing options suck – I could stay at home with Mum and commute by bus to the nearest uni, which Rhys probably wouldn’t choose. Or I could get student accommodation and be subjected to one toilet between twenty people. I could live with my friend but she lives in a council flat and probably couldn’t fit me in anyway. She’s also got a ten-month-old that her mum looks after during the day sometimes…me and a crying baby under one roof?
No.
University is not for me. Besides, I wouldn’t even be able to work out how to complete the first page of the UCAS application.
University – or ‘Further Education’ as the guidance counsellor calls it – is for people who:
1. Read William Shakespeare (and understand what the hell he’s saying – is it even in English?)
2. Drink tea in the afternoons, especially if it comes with a scone and a porcelain jar of clotted cream, whatever that is. Is it just regular cream? What makes it clotted?
3. Write with a pen that has a fluffy thing on the top that sits on a spring and bounces side to side when you write with it
4. Post photos of themselves with their parents, usually on some expensive holiday abroad – and they actually look normal, and HAPPY!
5. Detail volunteer work experience at homes for the elderly and children’s hospitals on their profile and define this experience as ‘life changing’
6. Use the term ‘extra-curricular activities’ on their CVs. Actually, bigger point here – it’s for people who have CVs!
7. Have a five-year-plan that includes getting married and buying a fancy breed dog
8. Make daily ‘To Do’ lists and probably tick off each item as it’s accomplished with that annoying fluffy top bobbing to the side pen!
9. Colour-coordinate their school folders
10. Season-coordinate their wardrobe – although this one sounds tempting as I hate digging into the back of my drawers in the dead of winter and only finding summer shorts and sleeveless vests
I’ll tell you who it’s not for – and keep in mind, this list is where I fall in. It’s not for people who:
1. Don’t read Shakespeare, but who have just one book on their bookshelf that has the inside pages ripped out and a stash of cigarettes inside (Mum goes through random bouts of ‘Ciggies are so bad for you’ moments and searches my bags and drawers to ‘help me’)
2. Drink vodka and red bull – occasionally vodka and lemonade if I want to sleep that night for more than three minutes
3. Write with a black sharpie pen – and only on the bathroom doors of the boys’ toilets at school
4. List ‘partying’ and ‘sleeping’ on their activity list
5. Post photos of their mates falling down the stairs of O’Neill’s on a Saturday night
6. Have a mum that works at a home for the elderly for minimum wage, bathing creepy old men, while snobby girls with gel manicures breeze in for their daily thirty minutes of ‘Read to an Old Person and Feel Good About Myself After’
7. Actually know what CV stands for…
So, as I said, this is where I fall in. And I mean, clearly fall in. Like there’s no mistake about that.
And as you’ve probably guessed – the first section is where Rhys is. Although hopefully not the part about the pen with the fluffy top…or the afternoon tea with scones…but probably everything else, mind you.
BUT that didn’t seem to bother him over the summer, did it?
No actually, it was the total opposite. He seemed really into me over the summer. We even met up a couple of times the week before school started back. And now he’s acting distant, and I heard he’s even been talking to his ex Lucy again. I hate that girl. STUCK UP SNOB!!!!!!!!!!!
She thinks she’s better than everyone else, and she’s not. She got dumped by Rhys before school ended for the summer and then got upset when he and I got together. She threw a drink in my face at Euan’s party and called me a slut. Nice. Yesterday, she called me the same thing in the middle of the cafeteria then pretended that she was just coughing. She’s so immature. What did Rhys ever see in her? And her friends are just as bad. I think I’m dumb – but Mollie Bridges? She takes the…whatever that saying is. And Cara and Lily are basically mini Lucys. UGGGHHHHHHHH! I can’t wait for Friday. This week is going to SUCK!!!!!!
SOPHIA (#ulink_cd21cbb6-c880-512e-9868-48f5352ceb5c)
‘Are you not eating today?’ Ulana asks me.
I look down at my empty tray that perches lightly on the cold metal racks of the cafeteria island. Round white plates line the silver shelves in the middle. There are no healthy choices at Birchwood High School, except if you count the salads, which most people do. I don’t. Most swim in a sea of oily dressings. ‘No, I don’t really see anything that looks good today. I guess I’m not really hungry.’
She’s looking at me in a weird way.
‘I had a big breakfast,’ I quickly add.
She eventually nods and gets back to choosing between tomato pasta or a ham and cheese roll for lunch. She’s the only girl at school that I know who doesn’t talk about her weight, or know the number of calories in a KitKat, or even read those magazines that claim to have ‘the secret for losing a dress size in a week’. Which they don’t because no magazine can tell the public that if they actually want to lose a dress size in one week then they’d basically have to starve themselves for that whole week.
I would give anything to have Ulana’s confidence, her self-assurance.
But maybe not her parents. Gone would be my quiet evenings with Steve alone in the house if I had her parents. No, I’d be sneaking out back to meet my boyfriend too.
She struggles to lift up her full tray, while mine rests lightly on my forearms. ‘Where do you want to sit?’
My eyes skim the crowd, quickly locking onto Lucy McNeil and her friends in the centre of the cafeteria. ‘Maybe not there.’
We shuffle to a table at the side, in the back, and plop our trays down. Streaks of ketchup and mustard left behind from the last occupants make my tummy flip.
‘You’re really not hungry?’
I shake my head and poke at the bruised apple on my tray. ‘Told you. Big breakfast.’ I glance over to Lucy’s table, her tanned brown skin, shiny dark hair falling around her shoulders. Girls like that are just born that way, while we have to claw our way up or risk being mediocre and forgettable our whole lives. ‘Looks like someone’s enjoyed a holiday abroad.’
‘Who?’ asks Ulana as she digs into her plate with a fork a little too small for her fingers.
‘Lucy McNeil. Look how tanned she is. So jealous.’
‘Burned you mean,’ she says. ‘Anyone who intentionally sits out in the sun is just burning their skin.’
I take a bite of my apple. The waxy skin tastes like shards of plastic in my mouth. I gaze down at Ulana’s pasta. ‘How is it?’
She shrugs and takes another mouthful, some flakes of Parmesan falling from her fork. ‘It’s not Italia Nostra, but it’ll do.’
‘I love that place.’ Freshly ground garlic and rosemary seep out from under the kitchen door and float through the restaurant, occasionally out onto the street. Beautiful circles of brick-oven pizzas loaded with fresh basil and mozzarella that stretches for yards. Tubes of red pasta dotted with black pepper served in bowls that have yellow and blue swirls looping around the edges. I clutch my belly as a low gurgle moves through my body. ‘Have you ever thought about sex?’ I suddenly blurt out.
Ulana coughs on a piece of pasta and sets her fork down.
I slap her on the back. ‘Sorry.’
