Boy vs. Girl (10 page)

Just before going back to class, he sent his sister a text message:
Salam. Meet me aftr skool. Fraz.

* * *

Faraz was bursting with anticipation as he waited for Farhana at the bus stop. When at last she arrived, he did a double take. He hadn't seen her in her
hijab
in the morning.

“Hey, sis,” he smiled, “looking good! How did the girls at school take your new look?”

“Hmm, so-so,” replied Farhana, adjusting her scarf. “Nothing Miss Farhana Ahmed can't handle.”

Faraz chuckled. “That's my girl!”

“What's up anyway, Faraz, where are we going?”

“I've just got to show you this Muslim artist's work, man! It will blow your mind!”

“We're going to an art gallery?”

“Nah, this guy uses the street as his gallery. Come on, this bus will take us there. I'll fill you in on the way…”

Pleased to see her brother so animated, Farhana followed him into the bus.

By the time they got down to the building whose name Faraz had scribbled down, there was a small crowd gathering. They began to ease their
way to the front.

In front of them loomed a large wall at the end of a row of shops. The wall and its surroundings had seen better days, that was for sure. Faraz scanned the figures in front of the wall and immediately spotted Ahmed Ali. He was as big and burly as he was in his pictures and he wore dark glasses. Several spray cans poked out of his army jacket pockets.

At that moment, he was standing back from the wall, his head on one side, looking at the rough silhouette he had already sprayed on to the ageing bricks, obviously trying to decide something.

“That's him over there,” Faraz whispered to his sister, pointing him out.

Then, all of a sudden, Ahmed Ali sprang into action. Like a giant bumblebee, he began to flit and hover across the wall, leaving great swathes of colour in his wake. First the brighter colours, then the shades, then the dramatic black outlines that brought his Arabic letters and graffiti renditions to life. Then the finishing touches: the gloss on the lettering, the twinkles on the dark background, the glow on the motifs. The wall was transformed: it seemed to move and pulse with life, the smell
of spray paints thick in the air.

The crowd gasped in appreciation of the image and the message:
shukr
, gratitude. Some of them applauded. The television cameras were there to capture the finished product and Ahmed Ali made a short speech, thanking the town for welcoming him and being such a great audience. Then Imran stepped up and said a few words, thanking the city council for granting permission to stage the event, telling the crowd about the Islamic urban art project.

Faraz thought he would burst with pride.
Brilliant
, he thought to himself again. He grinned over at his sister and saw that she was smiling too, her eyes alight. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

She sees what I see
, thought Faraz.
A future for me, doing what I love.

“You go up there and you show him your stuff,” she said, pushing him forward.

Faraz hesitated, but only for a moment. As the event came to a close and the crowd began to surge forward towards Ahmed Ali, he clutched his portfolio to his chest and made a beeline for Imran.

Imran saw him coming and a smile lit up his face.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, bro, you made it!” They shook hands and embraced. “Is that your work in there?” he asked. Faraz nodded. Imran leaned over to Ahmed Ali and whispered in his ear. Ahmed looked across at Faraz and smiled at him.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, bruv, be with you in a minute, yeah?” He was still busy signing autographs, responding to people's questions, making way for people to take photos of his latest mural.

“D'you mind if I have a look?” asked Imran, when it became clear that they would be waiting for a while.

Faraz jumped slightly, then nodded and haltingly handed his portfolio over to Imran. He turned away and busied himself with studying the freshly painted mural. He didn't want to see Imran's face as he looked through his work.

He heard the swish of the thick pages as Imran looked through his drawings, sketches, paintings and collages.

“
Masha Allah
, bro… wow…” There was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. Faraz turned to him finally, his face burning, and saw the look
on Imran's face. He was clearly impressed.

“Ahmed's got to see this!” he cried and immediately walked over to Ahmed Ali who was saying goodbye to a reporter from the local paper.

“Bro, you have to see this young brother's work – it'll blow you away,
masha Allah
!”

Faraz watched Ahmed's face intently as he too leafed through the portfolio. He lingered on some pages longer than others, a smile touching his lips. Then he looked up at Faraz and grinned, his teeth bright against the dark hair of his bushy beard.

“You've got some real talent here, bruv,
masha Allah
! This stuff is really amazing… how old did you say you were?”

“Sixteen…” was Faraz's reply.

Ahmed turned to Imran. “You better sign this boy up quick, Imran. This is just the kind of young talent we need in the organisation, man.” Then he turned back to Faraz. “I'm going down south next week but I'll be back in town in the last week of Ramadan to paint another mural – you handy with a spray can?”

Faraz nodded.

“Well, how would you like to come and paint the mural with me? It's on the wall of a school –
I can't remember the name now – but we're doing it with some lads from the area, y'know. Bridge-building and all that… what do you say?”

Faraz nodded. “Yeah, yeah, of course. That sounds brilliant…”

“Here's my card – that's my email address. You let me know for sure before the event, yeah? I can only have a limited number of lads on the wall with me at one time…”

Imran interrupted. “Don't worry, Ahmed, Faraz will be there. There's so much work to be done in the city, so much work with the youth. You see them out there, getting worse every day. It's like the streets are claiming them one by one…”

“I know, man, I used to be in that life, y'know… it's hard to resist, especially when you don't have anything to replace it.”

“Well, hopefully, this is what we can do with the urban arts project: give them something to replace it…”

Faraz listened absently to their conversation. He saw himself in front of a wall, spray can in hand, bringing the bricks to life with colour. He grinned to himself. He could hardly wait!

“Listen, it'll be time to break fast soon – you coming to mine, Ahmed?”

“Nah, I promised the missus I would take her out to eat – she hasn't really seen much of this place.”

“OK, then, we'd better get moving… Faraz?”

“Yeah, I'd better get home too, my sister's over there and our mum is expecting us.”

The two men looked over briefly and lifted their hands in a semi-wave, a sort of long-distance ‘salaam'.

Faraz started zipping up his portfolio. “I'll see you guys around, yeah? At the mosque, Imran?”

“
Insha Allah
,” Imran answered as he shook Faraz's hand and embraced him again. “And keep up the good work, OK? I'll email you with the details of the next youth meeting…”

Faraz practically ran up to Farhana.

“So?” she asked, eagerly, “what did he say? What did he think?”

Faraz ducked his head shyly. “He reckons I've got talent, y'know? Wants me to work with them on their arts project, maybe even paint a wall with Ahmed Ali…”

“That is
brilliant
, Faraz!” Farhana was ecstatic.
“I'm so happy for you!” And she gave his arm a big squeeze.

“You're all right, you know that, sis? My best cheerleader…”

“Hey, that's what sisters are for!”

They both laughed as they saw their bus approach the bus stop and the sun start to sink behind the apartment buildings.

This was definitely shaping up to be the best Ramadan ever.

* * *

The twins woke before dawn and ate
sehri
with their mum and dad, the food delicious and filling, as usual.

Faraz was pleased that he had been able to maintain his weight in spite of the day's fasting and Farhana was happy with her weigh too, albeit for different reasons.

They prayed each morning as a family in their living room. Brother and sister now had an established ritual. When their parents went back to bed, they stayed up to read
Qur'an
, Faraz reading the verses that would be recited that evening at
the mosque, Farhana reciting the Arabic alongside. She was determined to finish reading it during Ramadan this year. This and the shared breaking of the fast at sunset, the talks they would have every night, the emails their aunt sent them, brought them closer than they had been in a long time.

Farhana put on her
hijab
each morning with a sense of gratitude: so far, things had been so easy. She was able to keep her fast, pray all her prayers more or less on time, keep out of the vicious gossip circles she had once been a part of and maintain her high grades.

She spoke to Auntie Najma every night and was encouraged by her enthusiasm at her progress.

And she began to feel different. Ramadan was no longer just a month of fasting. She felt as if she was growing stronger all the time, more spiritually aware, becoming a
real
Muslim.

Faraz felt it too. He had been praying on time, letting his stubble grow a few more inches, listening to
Qur'an
on his iPod.

The long nights of standing in prayer affected him in the day. Yes, he was tired, but he was also more at peace, less desperate to prove himself. His confidence grew and, thankfully, the rest of
the school seemed to calm down too. There were fewer confrontations between the boys, there was less beef. Even Maj seemed to melt into the background.

Faraz was grateful for that. He didn't need Maj and his lot getting him off track. Strangely enough, he hadn't heard from Skrooz in a while, either. It was probably just as well. Skrooz was like a relic from a past life now, a different reality, one he didn't want to have to face again.

For now, it was easier to believe that everything would be all right. That he could stay high on
iman,
on faith, and keep getting stronger every day.

Funny how things can change. Sometimes, all it takes is a phone call.

“Fraz! Where you been, man?”

Faraz instantly recognised the thick voice on the other end of the phone and his mouth went dry. Skrooz.

“Hey, Skrooz.” He tried to sound casual. “Where have
you
been? Haven't heard from you in ages…”

“I had to go down London for a bit, y'know, keep a low profile. But it's safe now, I'm back. We need to hook up, man.”

No, we don't
, thought Faraz.
That's the last thing I need…

“You seen any of the other lads while I've been away?”

“Uhh, I've been keeping my head down, y'know…”

“Nah, that's safe, that's safe. Anyway, I'm back now so you can come and hang with us again. We've still got to get you sorted, innit?”

“Sorted?”

“You know, make you
official
and everything. You're still down to be part of the crew, right?”

“Yeah, that's right…” said Faraz miserably. How was he going to get this guy off his case? He took a deep breath. “Only thing is, Skrooz, I've got quite a lot on at the moment, y'know? D'you think we could hook up in like, a few weeks' time?”

There was a long, cold silence. Then Skrooz's smooth voice with the sharp edge to it. “When Skrooz calls, you answer, blud. You know that. That's how it works. You're either in or you're out. And I know you don't want to be out… right?”

For the second time, Faraz found himself telling a lie. “Yeah, of course…”

“Safe. So I'll pick you up tomorrow after school? Got some stuff to take care of today…”

“OK.”

“See you later then.”

Faraz clicked the phone off. He had never despised himself more than in that moment.
What the hell do you think you're doing?

But his internal monologue was broken by a painful shove in the back. Taken by surprise, he lurched forward, his hands flying out in front of him just in time to stop his face smacking into the tarmac. His phone clattered to the ground.

“We've got some unfinished business, you and me!” It was Maj.

Faraz's heart filled with dread and he began to feel sick. But he could not let Maj see he was afraid.

In an instant he was back on his feet.

You're fasting! You can't fight this guy now!
The thought flashed through his mind, quicker than lightning, just as fleeting. It wasn't allowed to fight during Ramadan, the sacred month, not even getting angry was OK. But he couldn't back down now.

He squared up to Maj.

“What's your problem, man?” he shouted, his voice thick.

Maj was pushing him with both hands, the insults coming thick and fast.

Faraz felt the blood rush to his head as he pushed back, hard, pushing Maj's hands off his chest.

But Maj was at an advantage. Faraz had been standing near a wall and now he found himself backed up against it, trying to fend off Maj's blows.

The bell rang and a teacher's voice rang out across the courtyard.

“Hey! What's going on over there?”

Maj gave Faraz one last blow to the chest which left him winded, then turned to face the teacher who was making her way across towards them. He smiled at her, panting slightly.

“Nothing, Miss. Just messing around, that's all.”