School’s out and I’m waiting for Kim when my phone bleeps. Can’t cum shppng. Gran sick. Soz. So I’m stuck here on the High Street on my own, my best friend since forever sucked back into her superhuge family. I need a new top but I’ve got hardly any money left and Mum wants me home in one hour max, because since she broke her leg she expects me to do everything. Even clean the toilet.
“I’m not fifteen until May,” I yelled at her earlier.
But she just said, “Save it. You’ll find the bathroom cleaner under the sink.”
“Might as well sell me into child slavery,” I muttered, because since we’ve not been getting along, well not getting along even worse than usual because she broke her leg (which for the record wasn’t my fault), it’s just not worth winding her up. I try to think thoughts these days instead of actually saying them out loud, because you know how it is, everything you say out loud gets taken down and used as evidence, or recorded on cell phone and loaded onto YouTube, so everyone can view it. Well that’s how it feels anyway.
I don’t care about shopping anymore. It’s not much fun by yourself. The shops are full of girls from school hanging out with their boyfriends and they’re trying on the jewelry. Yes, the boys I mean, they’re trying on the bracelets and stuff and the girls are screaming and laughing.
“Let’s face it, Alix Miller,” I say to myself, “you haven’t even got a boyfriend.” It’s the Spring Rave on Saturday night at school and I’ve got no one to go with, again.
I pull my hair band out and drag my hair back more tightly, wishing I had enough money for one of those sparkly vests that look great with shorts and black tights. I walk back to the bus stop feeling completely miserable. When I get near, there’s a crazy commotion just in front of me. Some boys are hooting and jeering. I can’t make out what they’re saying at first but as I get nearer I hear them yell, “Paki, Taliban, terrorist!”
I see Samir, the foreign boy from school. The hoodies have got him jammed up against a wall and they’ve begun chanting, “Paki out, Taliban out. Out, out, out!” They’re really pushing their voices and shoving their arms like football hooligans.
People are crossing the street to avoid them and muttering into their shopping bags. The wind gusts all the takeout rubbish around our feet and whips back one of the gang’s hoods from his head. I recognize Terrence, Lindy Bellows’s big brother, who’s a real thug, and a horrible feeling sinks into the pit of my stomach. No wonder Samir looks totally scared to bits. Samir’s a bit taller than me and his black hair spikes up over his head making him look even more scared. He’s wearing an Arsenal football scarf and his face is sort of pulled in as though he’s trying to disappear.
Remember what I said about YouTube? All those thoughts that I try to keep in? Well, suddenly I’m shouting, “Leave him alone, pick on someone your own size!”
The gang turns and Terrence snarls, “Shut it, Alix! Unless you want some.” God! He knows my name. Uh-oh! I’m in training for the Junior County Marathon, so I’m poised to sprint away when a police car pulls up, just like on the telly, and three ginormous cops in stab vests leap out.
The gang disappears in seconds and I see Samir’s back whizzing off, Arsenal scarf flying out behind him. A tatty wallet slips out of his back pocket and onto the pavement.
The crowd that’s gathered on the other side of the street trickle over the road, now that it’s safe, and surround the police, saying how dangerous the High Street has become.
One of the policemen asks the crowd, “Did you recognize any of them?”
A woman in a see-through plastic mac shrieks out like a parrot, “Terrence Bellows!” and everyone says, “Yes, yes, that’s him.”
“Terrence Bellows has a police record. He isn’t allowed anywhere in the town center.” The policeman frowns.
The crowd snorts like a herd of bulls, but I’ve already picked up the wallet and I’m running after Samir who’s dodged off down the next street. He’s pretty slow, maybe a smoker, because I’ve almost caught him up when he comes to a halt, pulls out a key, lets himself into a flat beside a Chinese takeout and slams the door shut. I’m left standing out in the street, the smell of sweet-and-sour making me really hungry, wondering if I should knock on the door or just give up and go home. But the thought of Misery Guts Mum slouched in front of the telly giving out orders all evening overwhelms me, and without another thought I rap loudly on the door.
Nothing. I rap again a bit more halfheartedly.
A Chinese woman comes out of the takeout and says, “Do bell, they not hear you.” She has a tired, wrinkly sort of face and she’s wearing bright red slippers on her feet. When I look at the door again I can see a grubby bell with the wires hanging out of the side.
I press the bell and it rings somewhere above me and then I hear the thunder of feet coming down a long staircase. Someone rattles a chain and the door opens a sort of cautious crack. It’s Samir and when he sees me he stares at me and I stare back.
“Girlfriend visit you,” the Chinese lady pipes up and she lets out a peal of shrill laughter, which echoes around the street.
I feel my face go bright red and the door slams shut. More chain rattling, the door opens wide and, frowning at the Chinese lady, Samir says, “Come in.”
I hesitate, thinking, Should I? What would Mum say? and even, What if they are terrorists? But then I think that’s so crazy that I run up the stairs after Samir.
The smell of Chinese food fades and it’s replaced with a strange smell, which I completely don’t recognize. Samir pushes open a door and leads the way into the kitchen. It’s very small and every surface is covered in cooking stuff: mixing bowls, wooden spoons and huge metal baking trays all smeared with a sticky-looking mixture.
I’m just wondering what it is when Samir says, “Auntie Selma’s been making baklava.”
For once I keep my mouth shut and just think in silence, Why does his auntie make balaclavas? Aren’t they like ski masks that terrorists wear, and anyhow why would she make them in the kitchen while she’s baking?