Boy vs. Girl (4 page)

But home was another story. There, she was completely different. She was quieter, for a start, less likely to offer an opinion, certainly not one to argue. She did as she was told and listened to adults' conversations respectfully, never butting in, never challenging their views, even when she had reason to.

It was as if the two Farhanas were completely different. Her teachers would not recognise their favourite feisty student in the dutiful daughter she was at home. And her parents would most probably have been appalled to see their well-brought-up daughter arguing with the teachers, teasing her friends, being crowned queen of the Bollywood Massive.

But what did she expect? Her outside world was different to theirs. Her mother, born and raised in Pakistan, had never cried while reading
Of Mice and Men
. Her father, having left school at sixteen to work for his dad in his restaurant, had long forgotten about the causes of the Second World War. Neither of them could explain the theory of relativity or list five sources of renewable energy. All that had nothing to do with them and their world, which revolved around the family and their newsagent's shop.

The learning, the facts and figures, were Farhana's alone, to ponder over in her bedroom at the desk that her mother tidied scrupulously each day. Sometimes, Faraz would take an interest but, for the most part, they were her private pleasure. Which was a good thing, considering that it was her GCSE year. And her teachers had predicted mostly ‘A's for her GCSEs – all except Art. She was rubbish at Art, unlike Faraz who, in her opinion, was a particularly gifted artist. If only he would pursue it….

“So, Farhana,” Auntie Najma had asked once day, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Farhana had laughed. “Honestly?”

Her aunt had nodded.

Farhana had faced her and said, “I'm going to do my ‘A' Levels and apply for university, somewhere far away from here, out in the wide, wide world…” She looked at her aunt steadily, almost daring her to say it couldn't be done, that she was reaching too far, that her parents would never allow it.

But her aunt just smiled and whispered, “Like I did?”

Farhana nodded emphatically. “Like you did.”

She had never shared these thoughts with her parents, knowing that they would much prefer her to take a Childcare course at the local college and get a job in a school, at least until it was time to get married. But with Auntie Naj, she was never afraid to dream big dreams.

But for now, there was no talk of marriage – just books and study and trips to the town centre, secret text messages and a little flirting – nothing serious.

Until Malik.

“Would your parents ever let you bring someone home?” she had once asked Shazia.

“Are you crazy?” Shazia had screeched, her eyes almost popping out of her head. “Of course not!
My dad would lock me up if he suspected I even
knew
any guys, let alone talked to them! And bring one home? That is totally out of the question!”

“I don't see why Asian parents have to be so controlling,” their friend Robina had opined. “I mean, why can't they let their kids make their own decisions? What's it got to do with them? Look at my friend, Katie, her mum is so cool! She can bring guys home, no problem. Her mum even lets them sleep over.”

Shazia's eyes grew wider still. “What? That's mad, that is!”

But Robina shrugged her slim shoulders. “She says it's better that Katie bring them home where she can keep an eye on them, where she can make sure she's safe, than she go sneaking around with boys her mum doesn't know. A very enlightened attitude, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, but Katie's not
desi
, Asian, is she?” Farhana put in. “We're not even supposed to be talking to boys, let alone sneaking around with them, remember?”

Robina rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break! That is so naïve! Tons of Asian girls are doing it and keeping it a secret from their parents –
you just ask my sister! And why not? Why should the goris –
and
Asian guys! - have all the fun? Why shouldn't we let our hair down and enjoy ourselves – at least before we are chained to the kitchen sink and flipping
roti
for an overweight husband sitting in front of the telly!”

They had all laughed at that. But Robina's strident anti-tradition rhetoric had bothered Farhana. Did she want to live like Katie and her mum? They shopped together for the same skinny jeans and halter-neck tops, went out clubbing together and fancied the same guys.

She thought of her own mother, all modest
shalwar kameez
and respect for tradition, always home when she got home from school, a constant, steadying presence. No, she didn't want to swap….

* * *

“So, are you guys coming to the Asian Girl Bachelor Party next weekend?” As they walked down the stairs towards their next lesson, Robina turned to Shazia and Farhana and showed them a flyer. A bikini-clad woman with dark eyes and endless
legs was draped over a brooding Asian man with designer stubble and a diamond earring.

Shazia wrinkled up her nose in disgust. “That is too disgusting! What a cheap flyer!”

But Robina turned and flicked her with the glossy piece of card.

“It's not for the likes of you, Shazia!” she laughed. “I think it's going to be dead classy – and I bet my sister can get us tickets. All the staff at Asian Girl will be getting free passes.”

Farhana remembered how they had pored over the bachelor issue of Asian Girl for ages in her room, deciding which of the guys were hot, which were right posers and which ones were wearing too much make-up. Her brother Faraz had caught them at it and wouldn't stop teasing her about it. In the end, she had had to put it in the recycling bin to hide it from her mum and dad.

“So when is it then?” Farhana asked.
As if I'll be going
, she thought to herself.

Robina looked at the flyer again. “It says next Saturday night here.”

“But we'll be fasting then. Ramzan is in a few days' time y'know…” Farhana took out her mobile to check her messages. Several times, she pressed
the button to delete. Five messages from him so far today.

“So? At least it's the weekend, right?”

“Oh, don't be so daft, Robina!” snapped Shazia. “Are you really going clubbing during Ramzan?”

Robina shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I'm sixteen now – my parents can't tell me nothing. And besides, if I go with my sister, it should be all right…”

Farhana and Shazia looked at each other. Robina had changed so much since she started hanging with her older sister, Tasnim, who had a glamorous job at a hip Asian magazine and lived it up every weekend. Once upon a time, they had all been on the same page, but now…

“Well, I won't be going,” said Farhana at last. “I know how busy things always are in Ramadan – besides I want to do it right this year and …”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever!” Robina huffed. “I'll let you know how fun it was, OK? Take a few pics on my phone for you.”

“Don't bother,” muttered Shazia, not quite under her breath.

Robina took a long, hard look at Shazia. “You know what, Shazia?” Her voice was slow and
deliberate. “You really need to get a life.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and flounced off down the hall.

The two girls watched her go.

“She's got some serious issues, man,” said Shazia, as they too began to walk to their next class: Art.

Faraz sat hunched over the large sheet of grainy paper.

All around him, the sounds of the unruly Year 11s ebbed and flowed: papers shuffling, chairs scraping, doors slamming, whispered arguments, sly curses and promises to meet after school, either for a tryst or a fight. He was hardly aware of his hard chair and the scarred desk, etched with messages from students long gone. In the background, he could hear the soft voice of Mr McCarthy, the art teacher, trying to maintain order and command respect in a class of hard-boiled teens, all eager to protest, argue, trip him up.

But Faraz was hardly conscious of the chaos. His mind was focused. He was in the zone. This was where he felt safe, where he could do something right…

* * *

“No, Faraz, no! That's wrong! Do it again!”
Imam
Shakir's voice echoed in his subconscious and he heard again the titters of the other kids, all careful not to laugh out loud in case the
imam
called on them next. Or turned the stick on them.

Faraz, six years old, took a deep breath.

“B-b-b-b-bismillahir-r-r-r-r-rahmanir-r-r-rr-r-raheem-m-m,” he stammered, tears stinging his eyes.

Imam
Shakir shook his head in frustration. “You don't practise, Faraz! You lazy boy!” He picked up the little stick he kept on the bench at the front of the room. “Put your hand out!”

Faraz swallowed hard as the
imam
made his way towards him through the rows of children. The room swam before him: the pea green walls, the single strip of neon light, the blackboard with undecipherable Arabic and Urdu letters, the benches stacked along the sides of the rooms, his sister Farhana's face, miserable, ashamed for him, the carpet beneath his feet green, the colour of Jannah, Paradise.

Then the
imam
was in front of him, a resigned
look on his face, his stick raised. Faraz's fingers trembled but he dared not pull them away, knowing he would get an extra beating.

The stick whistled through the air and landed with a thwack on his upturned palm and fingers. Heat seared his skin, more tears, dropping down his face this time, adding to his shame.

The other children were subdued now, feeling his pain. They had all felt the
imam
's stick at one time or another.

“Practise your
surahs
, you lazy boy!” the
imam
shouted, furious at having to interrupt his lesson to deal with the boy again. He would just have to work harder at controlling his tongue, that was all. He would speak to his father after Friday prayers.

Faraz knew what it felt like not to belong. He had never made much progress with
Imam
Shakir at
madressah
and had dropped out as soon as he was allowed to. He had tried to fulfil his father's sporting dreams by being the cricketer his father had been but he couldn't bat or bowl to save his life. He had tried with football but with two left feet, football stardom was not an option. He had tried hard to fit in at school but he had always been too shy, too sensitive, too pretty for the other boys
who had made it their mission in life to mess up his face as best they could.

But in the art room, he didn't need to try and fit in – he belonged there. He understood how colours worked, how to coax feeling out of a lump of clay, how to make a paintbrush sing. This was his sanctuary.

Now, with quick, nimble movements his fingers attacked the page, stabbing, stroking, the charcoal dust rising off the paper, staining his fingers. He worked intently, furiously, adding lines, contours, shades, cross hatching, blending, the image growing all the time, until it filled the page.

The assignment was one of his favourites: Imaginative Composition. Mr McCarthy had asked them to draw an imaginary landscape, a long shot for kids who had scarcely seen more than the inside of their estate and the town centre.

Faraz had chosen his favourite medium – charcoal – and, while his classmates stalled and argued, hoping for the bell to ring, he poured himself onto the page.

It was a landscape he had seen in a dream the night before.

He was running, running in the dark. Something
was after him, something he couldn't see, couldn't hear. But he could feel it, gaining on him. The street lights swam and made mad patterns before his eyes as he raced by. The skyline was unfamiliar: what looked like the domes of mosques loomed high, jostling with high rise flats, pointed spires and spiky fence-tops, weird shapes from another time, from another world. The road began to slope upwards, up, up, steeper and steeper until he was climbing it like the side of a mountain, scrabbling for a foothold, a crack in the road, anything to keep himself from sliding backwards, backwards into darkness…

The dream had been quite vivid and he was feverish with excitement as he watched his dreamscape come to life on the page. Everything around him blurred as he sketched, panting slightly, fearing the sound of the bell at any minute.

It was only when he felt himself coming to the end, seeing what he had seen in his mind's eye, that he became aware of the small crowd that had gathered round him.

Then it was finished.

He leaned back in his chair, let out a long ragged breath and threw his tiny piece of charcoal down, wiping the sweat from his forehead, leaving a dark smudge along his hairline.

His classmates stood by, riveted, studying the skyline, the strange silhouettes, the masterful strokes, the sense of strangeness, darkness and dread as the night sky loomed above an alien city.

A few of them whispered and Mr McCarthy nodded approvingly.
This lad will go far if he keeps straight
.

Faraz was his brightest student, although other staff members often complained about his attitude, his laziness, his wasted potential. They were all sure he was going to fail his GCSEs. But not here, in the Art Room. This was where he came alive.

But the moment was broken by Maj, a broad slab of muscle with a permanent smirk. “What have you got there, Faraz?” he taunted as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

Faraz forced himself to look him in the eye, although his heart missed a beat when he remembered their last encounter after school. His mum had fussed for ages over his cut lip and bruised face. ‘Just some kids at school, Ummerji, don't worry. I can handle it.'

He hadn't told her that it was Maj, who belonged to a gang that was forever sparring with Skrooz and his crew. And now, he was involved
too. An enemy of the lads was his enemy too, after all.