Being Me Read online

  CHAPTER 11

  COUNSELLING IS CLOSED

  Mikaela is in tears at Form Class this morning. Miss sends her to Counselling but Counselling is closed. Miss tells Mikaela she has exam-marking to do but she can see her at the end of school if she is still upset.

  Mikaela slumps down next to me again and keeps up the sniffles. I’ve never known her so upset. I run through all my funny faces, even the ear pull trick, but she doesn’t even notice.

  We have double netball next and me and Mikaela are on different teams so I don’t get to see her much but at lunch time I say to her, ‘C’mon, let’s sit somewhere and talk.’

  We sit on a patch of grass at the back of the Science Block. She’s looking at me like somehow it’s me who’s made her unhappy. So I take a guess.

  ‘If you don’t want to do the shoplifting anymore, it’s no biggie.’

  She curls her lip.

  ‘I won’t hate you if you get on the England team and I don’t.’

  She kisses her teeth.

  ‘Help me out here then, Mikay. What is it?’

  ‘I ... My ... I ... My mum and dad had this huge argument last night,’ she says, tears streaming.

  ‘Er. Excuse me? That’s what parents do.’

  ‘Now Mum’s not taking me to Montego Bay this summer!’ Mikaela’s face is wet all over. ‘It’s not fair! We had it all arranged. Me and her was going to go together, we’d been planning it for ages. Now she’s cancelled it!’

  ‘That’s cruel.’

  ‘It would of been my first time in Jamaica. I would of met all the family.’

  ‘How can she do that to you? That’s your roots, what you always wanted.’

  ‘And the beaches,’ she sighs.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the boys on the beaches.’

  ‘And the boys on the beaches,’ I sigh with her. I sneak a glance. She’s sneaking a glance at me. We giggle. We can’t help it.

  And all that spending money Dad was going to give me!’

  ‘You’ll get to go,’ I say, trying to paint a nice picture for her. ‘Maybe next year. Make sure your dad takes his credit cards if he’s the one with the money.’

  Mikaela bursts into tears again. WTF? I peel her hands from her face. ‘Mikaela?’

  She peers out through red-rimmed, cow eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  She wrenches her hands out of mine. ‘You don’t get it do you? My mum and dad are splitting up! Mum’s having an affair. She’s admitted it! Dad packed a bag last night and left and now I have no dad! And no holiday with Mum!’

  ‘Your dad’s moved out?’

  ‘It’s sick, Adele, I mean, an affair, my mum? She’s too old for sex. What’s she doing having an affair? She’s meant to be...’

  ‘Playing Bingo with the old biddies at a Bingo Hall?’ I ask.

  Mikaela rolls her eyes.

  ‘Taking her teeth out and soaking them in a glass at night?’

  ‘She’s meant to be sensible!’ Mikaela says, thumping the grass. ‘Sensible!’

  ‘Listen, Mikaela, your mum’s probably just a little bit confused cos she’s getting old. It’s called dementia. I read it on the Internet. The doctor gives them tablets and they think straight again.’

  ‘She’s not that old,’ Mikaela sniffles, pushing my arm away.

  ‘Then stop being daft. Parents argue. That’s why they marry, so they can argue more. They’ll get back together, all loved up. Then you’ll be going for a month in Jamaica, not a week. Geddit?’ I take her hands in mine. ‘Say after me: “everything will be OK”.’

  I’ve only half convinced her. ‘Everything will be OK,’ she says, reluctantly, then, ‘My bum’s wet from the grass.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ I say. ‘Two wet bums.’

  She smiles. The bell goes. ‘Do I look like I’ve been crying?’

  ‘Put some of my lippy on.’ I dig it out for her. ‘There. Ready for your photo-shoot again.’ I haul her up. ‘Now let’s go to History and get bored stiff learning irrelevant stuff about what happened donkey’s years ago to people that had no flushing toilets! Yeah. History! We love it! C’mon!’

  We walk into History together. Except they’ve shuffled the timetable because a teacher is ill and it’s not History, it’s PSHE. Good old PSHE, I think. Always the best lesson of any week.

  Personal Social and Health Education is taught by Mrs Amore Richards. To get Mrs Richards nickname we changed the first part of her name to Miss Loves because amore means love in Latin. And you are just going to have to guess what we changed the last part of her name to. Mrs Richards did Sex last week. Condoms. Cups and copulation. Diseases. Catholics. We all wet ourselves laughing. Sex, we learnt, is a squishy, serious, dangerous ting, like a bear parking a car on an ice floe. It happens between married adults who want to create a baby to save the world from under-population.

  Everyone wants Sex again. Mrs Richards says we’re doing Gender and Body Image. Somebody starts up a chant: ‘Sex! Sex! Sex! Sex!’

  Mrs Richards ignores us and puts a box on each of the five classroom tables. ‘Do not open them yet!’ she says. ‘Who has any idea what Body Image means?’

  Everyone gets their head down.

  ‘Showering, Miss? Boys don’t like to,’ says the ever reliable Jennifer. She’s on our table with Sorayah and Lubana.

  ‘Good try, Jennifer, but that’s body odour.’

  ‘Women photographers, Miss?’ someone from another table tries.

  ‘Not quite. Let’s find out then. Open your boxes and discuss the pictures inside among your group. Look at the pictures and make a list of what is real and what is unreal about these women. I’ll walk round and give you some help if you need it.’

  We open our box and dip in. ‘Wow, that’s a supermodel,’ says Sorayah.

  I read “Miranda Kerr” at the bottom of the photo. Miranda Kerr is wearing a bikini and is looking all slinky, pony-ing down a catwalk.

  ‘I wish I had a body like that,’ says Sorayah.

  ‘She has got nice boobs,’ says Jennifer. ‘Like, a nice size. Real?’

  We all vote yes and Jennifer makes the note.

  ‘Perfect legs,’ Jennifer says. ‘Real?’

  We vote yes again.

  When we’re done, we’ve all agreed Miranda Kerr in the photo is 100% perfect and real.

  There’s lots more photos in our box. We work through them. Most of them are really skinny.

  ‘This is Beyoncé,’ says Mikaela, pulling her out of the box. ‘Don’t nobody diss her!’

  ‘What’s not real about her?’ asks Lubana, puzzled.

  ‘She’s wearing a weave,’ whispers Mikaela, ‘it’s not her own hair.’

  ‘Nooo! I don’t believe you!’ says Lubana.

  ‘It’s true. It’s like the more beautiful you are, the more white you are, or the other way round,’ says Mikaela.

  ‘Fe true!’ says Sorayah, suddenly dropping into Jamaican for a moment. ‘My auntie uses skin lightening cream. She’s almost white now, but she can only afford it on her face and hands, so her legs are dark as mine.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say, ‘why would your auntie want to look white?’

  ‘So she’s more beautiful.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a black thing, Adele,’ says Mikaela, ‘you wouldn’t understand!’

  Mrs Richards shows up at our table.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asks as we look at a new picture.

  There’s no name on the picture and we don’t recognise her. It’s a leggy blonde in a one-piece bikini, with big hair.

  ‘You are looking at the model, Cindy Crawford,’ Miss says. ‘You know what she said of herself? She said “I wish I looked like Cindy Crawford”.’

  ‘But she is Cindy Crawford, Miss,’ says Sorayah.

  ‘Exactly. Yet in this picture her legs have been made longer, her waist made thinner, and all her hairs and spots removed.’

  Miss
looks at our notes and frowns. We’ve decided everybody we’ve looked at so far is pretty much perfect and nobody is fake. ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ she says. ‘All these pics have been retouched in some way. Kate Moss isn’t hairless. Angelina Jolie doesn’t have perfect skin. Even Miranda Kerr doesn’t look like that in real life.’

  ‘But how can we tell, Miss?’ asks Sorayah.

  ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it?’ says Mrs Richards. ‘Have a go. Look more closely.’ Then she goes off to another table.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re all bored and Miss calls the session over. All the boxes are repacked and we compare answers. Our table gets six out of ten and we’re top of the class.

  ‘Well I know you’re all thinking, “What’s this all about?” Well, it is about sex,’ Mrs Richards declares.

  Everyone cheers.

  ‘It’s about sexual attraction and the pressures you girls face to conform to impossible ideas of beauty. In most societies, women are controlled in some way from the moment they are born till they die. When society controls women, this is called what, Blue Table?’

  ‘Marriage!’ Sorayah calls out.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Slavery!’ Sorayah tries again.

  ‘Almost.’

  A Bad Thing!’ is Sorayah’s third shot at it.

  ‘It is, but that’s not its name,’ Mrs Richards smiles.

  Jennifer steps in. ‘Patriarchy, Miss.’

  ‘Thank you Jennifer, that is correct. It exists in one form or another in all societies. Patriarchy. In some places girls are not even allowed to go to school.’

  ‘Where’s that, Miss? I wanna live there!’ shouts Sorayah.

  Everyone’s rocking off their chair, laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny, Sorayah, it’s serious,’ says Mrs Richards. ‘And that is only one, obvious example of how society makes women less equal than men.’

  ‘That sucks, Miss,’ says Sorayah.

  ‘It does suck, Sorayah,’ says Miss, ‘on many levels. There are more subtle ways women are controlled. Think of all the insulting words used to describe women. They are often offensive words. Does anybody know any?’

  ‘Can we say them, Miss?’ says Sorayah. The whole class leans in waiting for the answer.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Miss says.

  The class erupts into swear words like fireworks going off on Bonfire Night.

  Everyone’s jumping around, screaming out. I’m on my chair, giving it large. I drag Mikaela up on hers and we shoot off a dozen swear words. Sorayah’s under her desk, killing herself with tears, even Jennifer’s loosened her tie and is wagging a finger at each classmate saying bad words. Half the class are volleying the words at Mrs Richards, pointing at her as they shout. It’s like a heavy metal concert, but madder, and Mrs Richards is the lead singer. I catch Mikaela’s totally belly-ache laughing. She’s not miserable now. I knew PSHE wouldn’t let us down.

  Finally Mrs Richards calls a halt. Everyone sits down again and there’s silence.

  ‘C*nt!’ someone whispers.

  ‘We’ve had that one,’ says Miss. ‘Any new words?’

  ‘Blonde. Meaning dumb?’ goes Jennifer.

  ‘Excellent, Jennifer.’

  ‘I’m going to tell my dad you’re teaching us all men are dickheads!’ Sorayah calls out.

  ‘Tell him we’re trying to change the world so his daughter has an equal chance in life,’ Mrs Richards answers.

  ‘I prefer “all men are dickheads”, Miss,’ insists Sorayah. Everyone agrees.

  The bell goes.

  ‘Your homework!’

  Everyone groans.

  ‘I want you to answer the question: Why are women given impossible ideals of beauty to live up to, like in the pictures? Is it our choice? Is it advertising? Is it innocent fun? Your answers should include a mention of “Patriarchy” P.A.T.R.I.A.R.C.H.Y.’

  There’s more groans.

  Me and Mikaela join the mad scramble in the corridors and charge through the car park then out of the school grounds. The sun’s blazing. There’s loads of parents’ cars lined up on the street as usual. We walk together towards the bus stop. I’m guessing that, because Mikaela’s dad’s run off, presumably with their Bentley, Mikaela will have to catch the bus home, like me. I chat and chat and chat to Mikaela so she can’t even think about this.

  ‘PSHE was well good wasn’t it? How to spot fake Supermodels!’

  ‘Yeah. What are we meant to have?’ Mikaela goes. ‘Tiny waists, long legs, big boobs?’ She prods me, playfully. ‘You’ve got two out of three, Adele, I’ve got none, it’s not fair. I’ve got a really fat arse. Mum calls it my African bum, but I know it’s fat.’

  ‘I thought boys liked that? A Brazilian booty? Isn’t it meant to be sexy?’

  ‘Yeh. That and shaved pubes, I think. But I mean, really? Shaved pubes must be well scratchy!’

  We giggle.

  ‘Mum says boys are all a waste of time anyway. Sister, I’m telling ya, forget men, it takes a woman to make a revolution!’

  I laugh and try to keep us laughing as we walk along an endless row of parents’ cars. Then I spot a Bentley and Mikaela’s mum’s waving to us from the driver’s seat of it. ‘Look!’ I shout to Mikay.

  Mikay leaps in the air. She gives me a quick high five then dashes to her mum.

  Thinking about Mikaela (her slogans, her rhymes, her African bum, her neat passing skills, and her tears of laughter in PSHE) has me feeling good on the bus home.

  Three Different Ways Mikaela Is Good To Me.

  SHE SAT NEXT TO ME ON DAY ONE AT SCHOOL AND HAS SAT NEXT TO ME EVER SINCE.

  SHE RINGS ME BACK WHEN I SILENT CALL HER BECAUSE SHE KNOWS I ONLY DO IT WHEN I DON’T HAVE CREDIT.

  SHE HUGS ME FOR NO REASON SOMETIMES.

  I think about the PSHE lesson a bit more. Then, as I get nearer home, I start thinking about my mum.

  CHAPTER 12

  DOUBLE TROUBLE

  It’s Saturday and I get up early. The kitchen’s a mess. There’s a burnt out candle on the fridge and red wax all down the side. I clear it up, bin two empty bottles of vodka then go out into the garden. I’m practising twist-and-shoot when Mum hollers me. I check my watch. 11.32am. I’ve been training for three hours. I do my drag-the-ball-back, flick-it, bounce-it-on-my-knee-and-flick-it-to-the-other-foot trick for Mum.

  Mum shouts, ‘I’m making you some lunch. Fish and parsley sauce!’

  I give her the thumbs up, not because I’m hungry but because it’s ages since she’s cooked me anything.

  After thirty minutes, I switch to half volley shots. The first time I try one, the ball bounces up faster than I expect. I miskick it and it balloons up. I hear it hit a kitchen window behind the shrubs.

  Boosh! The window smashes.

  Mum storms out. She weaves round the shrubs towards me and I can tell she’s been necking vodka. She’s got a plate in her hand, full of steaming food. She tries to chuck it at me. It lands on the grass about a metre away from her.

  ‘Salmon in parsley sauce, with petals of glass! You know how long that took me? You’re the devil’s child! I should have had an abortion!’

  ‘Fuck you!’ I reply.

  I rush inside and throw on some clothes then run back out. I can’t believe what my mum has just said. It’s everything I thought she ever thought of me. I wipe away enough tears so I can see the screen of my phone. Four messages from MC. I wasn’t going to do this again, but I’ve changed my mind. I text Mikaela.

  Forty minutes later, me and Mikaela are on the bus and I’m a world away from my mum.

  ‘What’s up?’ Mikaela asks when she plonks herself down next to me.

  I shake my head. I’m too upset to talk.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I don’t say anything to Mikaela for a long time. We’re on the back seat. Mikaela looks out of the window. The sun is blazing through Mikaela’s Afro. She’s lip-synching to a song on her headphones. I nudge her and she hands me an ear piece. We get a h
and dance going and soon we’re rocking and everyone on the bus is smiling except some old fart who starts tutting (which makes it even better).

  My mum texts me.

  So sorry. Can you ring me?

  I text her back.

  Nt now mum am w frends.

  I hope she gets the friends bit. She’s never been my friend.

  The main square in town is full of jugglers and dancers and a big crowd’s out in the sun enjoying it. MC has been here all morning and says it’s pickpocket heaven. Me and Cakes know what to do. MC goes through it for Mikaela. As she explains our routine (one of us barges into someone “accidentally”, the other one lifts their purse or wallet. They pass it to the third person, who takes off), I see Mikaela’s cheek start its twitch. When MC has finished, I say, ‘Cakes bumps, MC picks, I walk with. Watch and learn from the experts, right, MC?’

  ‘Yup,’ says MC. She does her double-jointed fingers trick for Mikaela, moving the fingers of her right hand so they revolve in strange and unnatural ways. As she does this she rolls her eyes into her head so you can only see the whites. It’s MC’s party trick, and just like she intended, it spooks Mikaela.

  ‘This feels so wrong,’ Mikaela whispers to me as we’re walking.

  MC hears her. ‘The best fun always is,’ she says.

  ‘What about all the CCTV?’

  ‘Lazy bastards what watch them are all asleep.’ MC puts her hand out. Mikaela looks around nervously as we say our slogan.

  ‘A rob for one is a rob for all!’

  It isn’t long before we spot someone. A woman with two toddlers pushing a buggy. Her open handbag is slung across the buggy handles. The toddlers are pulling her this way and that. We’re about to crowd her when this guy in a track suit runs up with two ice creams and thrusts them at the kids. His hands go on the buggy handles and the woman scoops up her handbag and closes it. We look for someone else.

  MC Banshee spots a man standing on some steps, opposite a hotel talking into his phone. She says she can see the bulge of his wallet in his inside jacket pocket. Cakes leads, pretending to be arguing with a boyfriend on her phone. At the last second she stumbles into the man, using her weight to wobble him. MC is in his jacket in a flash as he’s trying to untangle himself from Cakes. MC palms me the wallet. I’m down the street as Cakes and MC are still apologising to the business guy. He swats them away while keeping up his conversation on his phone. Mikaela’s with me. We run down a side street, take the stone steps down onto a canal bank and half walk, half run under a bridge. I take out the wallet. It’s bulging. I unzip it. A huge bundle of notes. In three currencies. My heart is hammering my rib cage as I count them. Two hundred in English pounds. Two hundred and fifty in Euros, and ten twenty dollar USA notes. Plus four credit cards.