She Wore Red Trainers (15 page)

‘Yeah, well you asked, didn't you? And you got your answer. Anything else?'

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, nothing, bro… nothing at all.'

He nodded curtly and walked off. I let out a sigh of relief. I had been afraid that he was going to jump me right then and there.

Usamah had already warned me about asking about Zayd's sister – I don't know why I hadn't listened. Zayd was definitely unimpressed by my line of questioning.

It was clear that, whatever was going through Amirah's head, she was keeping it to herself.

Perhaps I should have done the same.

***

Later that night, I typed her name into Facebook.

Up came her public photo feed, full of images of various buildings in London, food, and different shop displays. But the latest photo in the feed was a picture of her painting of my hands. The caption read: Prize winner, mashallah! Underneath it, all her friends and followers had left congratulatory comments and lots of <3 and xxx.

I hesitated –
Is this halal
? – but only for a moment; I quickly typed my own comment: A mirror image, mashallah. Real skill. Mr Lightfoot.

Then I clicked the tab shut, closed the laptop and found that I was shaking.

What did it all mean?

And why did I feel so happy?

27

Mr Lightfoot.

It was him. I just knew it was. He'd been on my page. He'd seen the picture. And, if his message was anything to go by, he knew those were his hands.

‘The plot thickens,' Rania would say.

‘OMG,' Yasmin would say.

I didn't know what to say. Much better to ignore my racing heart and that feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Much better to pay attention to preparing for my art therapy class with Collette.

***

Collette's class was a real eye opener. There were children there with different forms of disability: deafness, blindness, autism. We introduced them to a variety of different materials – paint, clay, fabric – and then just helped them create what they wanted to create. The two blind children absolutely loved the clay and it was a real treat to see them ‘seeing' what they wanted to create with their fingertips. I felt totally comfortable using sign language with one little boy. He wanted to create a
picture to express how he felt when his dog died that weekend.

At one point, Collette came up behind me and stood there while I helped a little girl with autism create a village out of different materials. She said nothing for a while, then put her hand on my shoulder and said, ‘You are a natural, Amirah. I'm very impressed…' And then she was gone to help with the clay sculptures.

I left the class walking on sunshine, even though the weather forecast had predicted summer showers. I felt so good; I'd been involved in creating pieces of art with the most wonderful children. I couldn't help thinking to myself that more people needed to come out of their comfort zone and spend time with children with special needs.

As I left Brixton station, I looked up at the sky and noticed the huge, dark clouds that were gathering beyond the church. Not wanting to get caught in the rain and have to go through the process of blow-drying my hair again, I decided to pick up a small umbrella from the newsagent.

And, right on cue, while I was on the bus to Herne Hill, the rain started coming down, pelting the windows like hailstones, blurring the world outside. By the time I got to the bus stop outside Seville Close, the streets were flooded. I shook my head: UK summers really were something else.

As I crossed the road through the rain, trying to keep my backpack from getting wet, as well as keeping the umbrella over my hijabed-up head, I noticed two people standing at the entrance to the compound. My heart began to thud as I recognised the tall, lean figure and the little cutie at his side: it was Ali and his little brother, Jamal.

When he turned towards the street, he saw me coming towards them and that smile appeared again, like the sun
breaking through the thick rain clouds.

All of a sudden, I felt a wave of shyness wash over me. My cheeks burned and my palms grew moist. I knew that he knew about the picture. Not only that, I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew. That was awkward and I felt a bit foolish for thinking that I would be able to keep the painting.

Now, here he was, in the flesh, and I wanted to disappear into the hedge that lined the fence.

But he didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Just greeted me with
salam
, with the same manners as usual: shy but friendly, open but respectful.

And dripping wet.

‘What's going on?' I asked, staring at the two of them hunched outside the gate. ‘Isn't the gate working?'

Ali ducked his head, clearly embarrassed. ‘They changed the code, remember? I forgot to make a note of the new one and now we can't get in. We tried ringing all the bells – doesn't look like anyone's home.'

‘Never fear,' I grinned, ‘Amirah is here. I stored the new code in my phone.' And I handed the umbrella to Ali while I fished around in my bag for my phone.

The umbrella wasn't a big one and we all ended up being in much closer proximity to each other than we had ever been before. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne and coffee, and my breath caught.

Rania is never going to believe this!
I thought as I keyed in the code.

Ali pushed open the gate and let me and Jamal go through, handing me the umbrella. Our fingers almost touched,
almost
. But, alhamdulillah, they didn't. That might have sent me over the edge completely. I struggled to keep my face normal when,
really, I felt giddy and just wanted to grin like a mad woman. I wanted to look into his eyes and see what secrets were hidden there. I wanted to ask him what kind of coffee he liked. I wanted to share his coffee. And pancakes. And eggs. And toast.

Stop, Amirah. Just stop, OK? Do yourself a favour and control yourself.

We walked quickly up the hill through the rain, not saying anything, Jamal and I sharing the umbrella. I didn't trust myself to be able to hold it down. I don't think Ali did, either. I mean, surely he wanted to ask about the painting, right? And, if he did, wouldn't I just die of embarrassment? Discussing the painting would mean getting personal. And that wasn't safe territory. I knew that.

And yet, a part of me wished he
would
ask me. The daring part that wanted to see what would happen, that wanted to see how he felt about it, whether he felt anything at all. That part that wanted more food for dreams. More fuel for my fantasy.

The naughty part.

But I had her well trained by now, so I didn't speak to Ali again as we hurried along, Jamal and I under the umbrella, Ali getting soaked beside us.

I was able to be more relaxed with his little brother. ‘Abdullah's been asking after you, Jamal. Said you promised to help him with his maths in exchange for teaching you sign language.'

Jamal nodded, his face bright. ‘Yes, Ali's been prepping me. Just teaching me the basics. I'm a bit worried that I won't be able to teach Abdullah properly if he can't hear me and I can't sign properly.' He bit his lip. ‘That's what's been holding
me back.'

I smiled at him – what a sweetie! ‘You don't have to worry about that, Jamal. Abdullah can read lips, too. Just make a date and come over, OK? I'll stick around if you need any extra help with him.'

He looked more relaxed.

‘And I'll make you my trademark brownies, too.'

Then he grinned and put his hand out to me. ‘It's a deal!'

I shook his hand and saluted, then glanced up to see Ali looking at the two of us with this soppy smile on his face. The rain was starting to ease up. ‘I suppose you'll be wanting some brownies too, right?' I said with a smirk.

‘Well, a guy can dream, can't he?'

‘Well, there's no law against it, that's true.' We both fell silent as we reached my front door.

‘You guys take the umbrella, OK?' I said, handing it to Jamal this time. ‘You need it more than I do.'

‘OK, so you're talented, caring
and
generous?' Ali remarked, out of the blue. ‘Isn't there anything you can't do?'

‘Umm, yeah…' I felt my cheeks start to burn. ‘I can't take a compliment,' I said, then dashed indoors to hide under my duvet. Now I could grin all I wanted.

Minutes later, I was on the phone to Rania: ‘Girl, you will never believe what just happened…'

28

It was my third time out with Yusuf and the other Deen Riders. Despite my initial misgivings and the fact that I had been absolutely terrified the first couple of times I rode on one of their huge bikes, I couldn't deny the thrill I got from it. The power of the machine, the landscape rushing past, the speed. I was definitely hooked.

Usamah had laughed at me when I dismounted after that first ride, legs shaking, eyes watering, a crazy grin plastered all over my face. ‘That's some good stuff, huh? Get your blood pumping, get some colour in those cheeks!' All the brothers laughed, but in a really great, welcoming way. I had looked out over the field, to the woods and to the red roofs of London beyond and felt my chest expand with so much gratitude. So this is what it felt like to conquer your fears. Definitely a feeling I could get used to.

I knew then that I would be back to ride with the brothers again.

Now we were in a lay-by on one of the long, winding country roads out past Croydon. In front of us was a spectacular view of the green fields of Surrey. Behind us, there was a meadow framed by woods. The horses were startled at first by the sound of all the bikes and they galloped to the
other end of the field. But once we had cut the bike motors, they calmed down and went back to grazing.

I took off the helmet that Yusuf had lent me and took a deep breath. How I had missed the country air. The great, old trees and rolling patches of green reminded me of home.
Hertfordshire will always be home
, I thought to myself.
No matter what
.

Then Yusuf put his helmet down and reached into his backpack. ‘Brothers, some goodies from my sister's kitchen…' And he held up a large yellow cake box.

Immediately, the brothers crowded round. It was clear that they were not strangers to Yusuf's sister Yasmin's skills in the baking department. And there was a cheer when Yusuf opened the box to reveal a selection of delicious-looking muffins. The smell was mouth-watering.

Yusuf held the box out to me. ‘Since you're the guest, bro…'

I didn't need asking twice. I took one of the muffins that was closest to me, took a bite and was blown away by the taste. ‘OK, this is my new favourite,' I joked. ‘Any wife of mine needs to know how to make these, inshallah. That will have to be top of the list!'

The others laughed and Yusuf smiled at me. ‘You thinking of getting married, are you?'

I grinned at him. ‘Seems like that's the only thing some brothers talk about – as for me, I'm only 18! Well, about to turn 19. But still, I don't think I'm ready to get married. I haven't even got my degree yet!'

Yusuf chuckled and nodded at one of the other brothers, a short, stocky guy with a ginger beard and bald head. ‘Yo, Dav, come and tell my boy, Ali, about your little halal love
story!'

Dav turned red and threw one of his riding gloves at Yusuf. ‘How many times have I told you to mind your own business, bro? I'm going to have to teach you a lesson one of these days…'

Yusuf threw the glove back. ‘Nah, don't be like that! I just want you to tell Ali here your thoughts on early marriage, innit.'

Dav came over, brushing the muffin crumbs from his beard. ‘You thinking of taking the plunge, are you?'

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, no, I was just telling Yusuf that I'm not settled yet. Not settled enough to provide for a wife and all that stuff – I only start uni next month.' The thought of going off to university made me feel queasy all of a sudden and I didn't trust myself to speak.

Dav said, ‘Yeah, I understand what you're saying. I mean, we're always told that marriage is something you do when you've achieved your other milestones like education, a good job, a house in the suburbs, and all that. But when I was about your age – maybe even younger – I was just learning about Islam. My girlfriend of the time was, too. When I took my
shahadah
, I knew I'd have to break it off with her but it was so hard…'

‘He loved her, you see,' commented Yusuf, ducking another one of Dav's riding gloves.

‘Anyway, she ended up becoming Muslim, too, and we both decided that we wanted to get married straight away, not wait until we were ‘financially secure', as my mum and dad kept saying. So we got married at 18, and we're still together, ten years and four kids later, mashallah.'

‘You were
18
when you got married?' I was incredulous.
I could only imagine what Dad would say if I tried to spring that on him.

Dav smiled at what were clearly fond memories. ‘Yeah, we both were. We didn't live together straight away, though, because we were both studying while living at home and our parents were dead against it. But after about six months, I got a part-time job and we were able to get a little one bedroom flat together and start living as man and wife.' He sighed then, a wistful look on his face. ‘The best years of my life, I tell you.'

I frowned. ‘But wasn't it tough? I mean, how did you manage to make ends meet? Do the whole
providing
thing?'

‘Well, my wife wasn't one of those women who wanted the high life; she was never like that. We both had to make sacrifices but, mashallah, they were worth it. It's something special to struggle through those early years together, when you're both still strong and have loads of energy and your
iman
is high. And you're both still learning, y'know? That's one of the best bits about it: you're still learning about yourselves, each other, Islam, and the ways of the world. And you're like best friends, really. Companions on a journey…'