Boy vs. Girl (5 page)

He narrowed his eyes, ready for a confrontation.

“Ooohh,” minced Maj, striking an effeminate pose. “So Faraz is an ahhhhtist, eh?”

Some of the others tittered and Mr McCarthy coughed and adjusted his heavy glasses, ready to intervene.

But Maj didn't give him the chance. “It's a pity charcoal can be rubbed out,” he said and, with a slow, deliberate motion, he swept his hand across the painting. The domes, tower blocks and spikes merged into the night sky in a black rainbow arc. “Just like that.”

A tremor ran through the class. Several girls gasped and Mr McCarthy covered his mouth, powerless in the face of the tension, the restless adolescent energy that could so easily spill blood. He cleared his throat, ready to reassert his authority, bracing himself.

Faraz stared at his creation, now ruined beyond repair and he felt the pressure build up behind his eyes, heat flooding his brain.

Abruptly, he pushed his chair back and it
toppled over, scattering the boys and girls behind him.

“Maj, what's wrong with you, man? What you trying to prove?”

Maj sneered, looking Faraz up and down. “That you're nothing, mate. You always have been and you always will be, no matter who you hang with – Skrooz can't help you here.”

Faraz thought of all the years of anonymity, of blending into the shadows, of keeping his head down. How the other kids had teased him about his stutter, his parents' little newsagent shop, his beautiful green eyes and the fact that he couldn't fight back if the older boys pushed him around.

But that was then. He was older now, bigger, tougher. He wouldn't stand for that kind of disrespect any more, not now that he was part of Skrooz's crew.

He looked at Maj and considered jumping him, but one look at his beefy arms straining against his school shirt made him think again. Not here, not now. He couldn't win this round.

“Yeah? We'll see about that.” And he stared Maj down, steeling his eyes against the fear that constricted his heart.

And then, in the next moment, he grabbed his bag and pushed past everyone as the bell rang, shrill in the crackling silence of the art room.

Farhana dashed up the street, her schoolbag over her head, her school skirt soaking wet. A few metres, the creak of a gate, a puddle-filled path and a slippery key and she had her front door open. She stood there, dripping on to the welcome mat, inhaling the smell of frying chillies and garlic, listening to the hiss of hot oil. Ummerji was making
samosas.

She also heard the sound of other voices, her Auntie Sajda's high-pitched laugh and her grandmother's strident bark - and it dawned on her. Of course! Ramzan was around the corner. It was time to start making
samosas, pakhoras
and
rotis
for the freezer.

Although Ummerji was the daughter-in-law, family and friends liked gathering at their house
because they had a big kitchen and the conversation was always as good as the tea.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, Ummerji!” she called out, knowing that they hadn't heard her come in.

There was a chorus of returned greetings and her mum came out of the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Her hair was coming out of her bun and she had a streak of flour on her cheek, but Farhana couldn't help thinking how beautiful she still was, even at the ripe old age of forty four.

“Oh, look at you!” she cried, taking Farhana's bag from her. “You're soaked! You'd better have a warm shower and change your clothes before you come in. Khala Sajda is dying to see you!”

Farhana smiled and nodded, taking off her waterlogged shoes and handing them to her mother.

“I'll be right down, Ummerji,” she said.

“
Insha Allah
,” was her mother's response.

As Farhana made her way upstairs, her mobile phone rang. She fished it out of her bag and looked at the number. She bit her lip and cut the call, switching the phone off.

Would he ever stop ringing?

She was done with Malik, that was for sure.
It had been a brief few months of madness, a situation she knew would end in tears. But he was only the most gorgeous Asian guy in the boys' school across the park. Who would have been able to resist him?

Malik had typical Bollywood good looks - gorgeous glossy dark hair, eyes the colour of hazelnuts, a strong jaw with a hint of stubble - and a smooth, deep voice that sounded like melted chocolate.

His eyes had met hers at the inter-schools debate competition. Her heart had quickened but she held his gaze only for a moment before looking away. She wasn't about to let him think she was impressed.

It was only later, when the debate was in mid-flow, that he caught her eye again. The debate had been vigorous and Farhana was well prepared: her eloquent, passionate opening speech had floored her opponents. And that was when she saw the look in his eyes: admiration, curiosity and something else she couldn't put her finger on. Again she had looked away haughtily. She had pretended not to know who the girls were talking about on the way home in the bus. He had made
quite an impression: good looks and intelligence made such a good package.

Robina had immediately declared that he was hers, and she had pursued him single-mindedly, finding out where he lived, where he hung out, who his mates were, whether he was single, even managing to get hold of his mobile number. But no matter how many times she had tried to orchestrate a meeting and get him to come with her to the many events her sister had free tickets for, Malik seemed only to have eyes for Farhana.

And so it began.

The text messages, the secret calls to her mobile, then the emails, MSN, back and forth, he so determined to get her to agree to a date, she equally determined to keep him at arms' length, like all other guys.

She wasn't stupid. She knew what guys were about, especially guys like him. And she knew that certain things were too precious to gamble, that some things can never be reclaimed once given away. Her mother had taught her well. So she held back, held back, until he wore down her resistance.

His words were too sweet and they drowned out the thought of her parents' shock and complete
disapproval. If marriage was not on the cards, there could be no talk of boys. And marriage most certainly was not on the cards at her age. So she couldn't tell Mum about the gifts Malik would give her, little gifts, bought from the department store in town with his hard-earned Saturday wages.

She couldn't tell her about the dreams that left her heart pounding, the blood hot in her veins, her mind deep in a fantasy of happily ever after.

She couldn't tell her how hard it was to concentrate sometimes, how she would hear his voice or see his face while buried deep in an assignment for school.

“The thing is, Shaz,” she had confided, “he's not like other boys. We talk, you know? Really talk – about everything! He's interested in me for who I am, not what everyone else sees…”

“That might be true,” Shazia insisted, “but I still think there is something wrong with a Muslim boy who starts a relationship with a Muslim girl. I mean, what does he want to get out of it? If he's like all the others and is hoping that he's going to get some of
that
, then he's a ho and I've got zero respect for him! And if he isn't, then
why is he doing something he knows we're not allowed to do? What does that say about what he thinks of you?”

“Not everyone is like you, Shazia,” Farhana had replied. “Some people know what's right and just find it hard to do it. I don't believe Malik is like all the others… I can't believe that.”

“I just don't think I would take the risk – you know what would happen if your parents found out.”

“Yeah,” Farhana had murmured. “I know…”

And Farhana hadn't told Shazia much about Malik after that. By then, she would have risked anything for Malik. Anything.

Until he did the unthinkable. It was Robina who broke the news. It was she who had seen him at a party with Amba, a tall, leggy girl from the A Level year, the one who was a part-time model for Asian Girl. To hear Robina tell it, Amba didn't seem interested in holding anything back.

And so came the heartache, the pillows wet with tears, the sleepless nights, the gifts thrown in the bin. And she stopped taking his calls, never once telling him why.

Who were you trying to kid?
she had asked
herself.
Why should he stay with you when girls ten times prettier than you are fighting to be with him and give him everything he wants and more?

“More than anything, I'm angry with myself,” she had said to Shazia. “I risked so much for him – and for what?”

“Well, I think it's for the best: your parents would have gone absolutely mental if they had found out. I say count your blessings that it ended before things got out of hand. Remember,” she had said, putting on her mother's Urdu-tinted accent, “you are their daughter, a Pakistani girl, a Muslim. You are expected to stay chaste, away from all this teen romance nonsense.”

Farhana had laughed but she knew that it was true. As far as her parents were concerned, she went to school and came home, clothes deemed too revealing swiftly disappeared, parties were out of the question, staying over at friends' houses was unthinkable.

“We have our way of doing things, Farhana,” Mum would say. “It's for your own good.”

But how crazy was that? All around her, the messages were the complete opposite. The music, the videos, the movies, the teen magazines were all
full of the same thing: boys, boys, boys! It was like, if you weren't hooking up with some guy or the other, you were one of last living freaks.

“I just feel like such an idiot,” she had moaned. “You know what Robina said? She said that he had been telling everyone that he was going to ‘have' me: Farhana Ahmed, the ice maiden!”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn't take what Robina says too seriously. You know she has a habit of making things up sometimes. Anyway, wasn't she dead set on having Malik herself?”

“Yeah, but she gave up once she saw that he was into me…”

“Yeah?” Shazia had been thoughtful. “OK…”

So Farhana, to protect herself and what was left of her dignity, had closed her heart off, sealing it away. It was all right as long as she didn't hear his voice. So he could call as much as he wanted. There was no way she was going to speak to him.

* * *

When Farhana came downstairs again, she had exchanged her wet school uniform for her favourite
shalwar kameez
, the turquoise one with silver
embroidery. Everyone always said that it brought out the colour of her green eyes. Plus she wasn't in the mood for a lecture from her grandmother about the fit of her clothes.

She was greeted in the kitchen by the sight of her mother and aunties all at different stages of the samosa-making process. Ummerji was making the filling – frying the spices, onions and garlic until their smell filled the room, browning the mince.

Auntie Sajda was filling the little squares of filo pastry, folding each one into a neat triangle before putting them in a cloth-covered bowl that was already piled high. Auntie Anisa was overseeing the frying, peering into the deep-fat fryer with a look of intense concentration on her face.

They all turned when she came in, their faces warm with smiles and the heat of the kitchen. Farhana greeted them all in turn, hugging her aunties and kissing her grandmother on the cheek. Then she pulled up a chair and started filling pastry.

“Not like that, Farhana,” scolded Auntie Sajda gently. “Watch me. You have to fold the corners, like this, just so.”

Farhana did as she was told. She was used
to being bossed around in the kitchen. After all, that was how she had learned to make roti when she was fourteen.

“It's been a long time since I saw Farhana in a
shalwar kameez
, Uzma.” Auntie Anisa's voice was teasing as she looked Farhana up and down.

“Well,” barked Naneeji, “at least it's better than those terrible skinny jeans she is always wearing!”

They all laughed again and Uzma gave her daughter a hug.

“But you know,” Naneeji continued, “the
shalwar kameez
these days are so different to the ones we used to wear, even the ones you girls used to wear. Those
shalwar
were modest, they didn't show your shape. Nowadays, a girl can be wearing
shalwar kameez
and be showing everything at the same time!”

“Ummerji,” said Auntie Sajda, looking over at her mother, “you and Babaji used to make us wear
shalwar kameez
at home, even when we didn't want to!”

“And
always
with a
dupatta
!” added Auntie Anisa. “Remember how you used to beat me because I kept losing mine?”

“You were a very careless girl,” answered
Naneeji, wagging her finger at her daughter. “And anyway,
shalwar kameez
was our culture, our way. We didn't want you dressing like a
gori,
a white girl. That was OK for school – but not at home. Your father would never have allowed it!”

“Yeah, but look at us now” snorted Auntie Sajda. “As
gori
as they come!”

“Oh, I love to wear
shalwar kameez
!” cried Ummerji. “They are just so elegant and comfortable. I could never have enough of them…”

“Which is great because I get to borrow them!” Farhana piped up. She was used to her aunties and other adults talking about her rather than to her – it was definitely a
desi
thing, an Asian thing. Forty years of living in England hadn't managed to change that. Although sometimes she wished they would listen more and talk less. But just as she was deciding whether to speak up again or not, the doorbell rang.

“Go and get the door, Farhana,” ordered Naneeji. “But ask who it is before you open it!”