But those thoughts only flashed through my mind for a second.
Astaghfirullah.
What was I doing there again? Then I remembered: I was here for Zayd. But he hadn’t seen me yet, he was so intent on trying to block the guy with the ball. I would have to interrupt.
‘Zayd!’ I called out, my voice perfectly controlled to sound mature and businesslike: my ‘brothers voice’.
All four of them turned towards me and, for a brief moment, the stranger’s eyes met mine. They were the lightest eyes I had ever seen on a mixed-race boy, light and clear. Trusting. As soon as our eyes met, he smiled, almost before he could catch himself, and dropped the ball. It was as if his smile had eclipsed the sun; I wasn’t aware of anything else, just shadows that made him shine even brighter. My heart flipped a couple of times and my mouth went dry.
Oh, wow.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mahmoud running up to grab the ball. But it was as if the stranger couldn’t hear him – either that or he didn’t care.
A moment later, he had lowered his gaze, the ball was out of his control and Zayd was running towards me, his face red, his hair plastered to his forehead.
‘What are you doing here, Amirah?’ he frowned, guiding me away from the court. I heard the ball slam into the net on the other side of the court. Seemed Mahmoud had interrupted Mr Light Eyes’ flow.
‘Well, as-salamu ‘alaykum to you too, brother,’ I smiled, only mildly irritated by his over-the-top protectiveness.
He mumbled a greeting as he approached.
‘Your mother has been trying to reach you,’ I said as he fumbled around for his phone in his bag. ‘Something about a doctor’s appointment?’
Zayd groaned. ‘Subhanallah, I completely forgot!’ he cried, slapping his forehead.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’d better get your backside over to number 6 Seville Close quick time before the Wrath of Mum descends on you.’
Zayd turned to his friends, ‘Yo, ikhwan, I’m out. Got to take care of some family stuff.’ He looked over at the sharp shooter and smiled. ‘Great play, Ali, mashallah…’
So, his name was Ali.
Another piece of information to add to the fact that he was quite possibly the most gorgeous guy I had ever laid eyes on.
But I had to stop that train of thought before it got out of hand because, for a start, the only reason a strictly practising Muslim girl like me would have anything remotely emotional to do with a boy is if she were ready to get married.
And I was never getting married, ever.
End of.
5
‘You did good, man, mashallah,’ Usamah smiled over at me as we cooled off after the game. Mahmoud was already gone, off to meet one of the girls who had stopped by earlier, no doubt. Usamah rubbed his towel over his bald head and sat down to drink some water from his bottle.
‘You didn’t play too badly yourself,’ I said, leaning back onto the bleachers and looking over at him. ‘But you know I could have got 50, don’t you…’
‘Uh-huh,’ Usamah took another swig from the bottle. ‘If you hadn’t gone and gotten distracted, you might have.’
I coughed and let out a little laugh, embarrassed. But Usamah just shrugged his shoulders and looked out over the court, smiling. I glanced behind me and thought to myself, This is the spot, right here. This is where she was standing…
We got up to go and Usamah turned to me. ‘You hungry? There’s a great West Indian place around the corner. And I could show you around your new hood.’
And he did. He showed me the station tucked away under the bridge, which bus to take into Brixton, which one to take down to Croydon. He took me to try the best halal Jamaican patties in South London, and told me which stalls in the market sold the best incense and perfume oils.
And as we walked and ate and rode the bus, we talked.
‘So why did y’all move from out in the country to the big, bad city?’
I took a deep breath. I hated this bit: explaining why we had left Hertfordshire. Usamah noticed my hesitation and put a hand out towards me.
‘I don’t want you to think I’m nosey or nothin’, it’s just that I’ve got a habit of asking questions about everything. So any time you feel you want me to shut up and stop asking you about your life story, you go right ahead and say it, OK?’
‘OK,’ I laughed, thinking how unusual this Usamah guy was. ‘It’s not a problem. You remind me of one of my school friends, Pablo. He was like that, always asking questions, wanting to get to the bottom of things.’
‘Good at getting those ‘Oprah moments’, huh?’
‘Yeah, you could say that…’ An image of Pablo flashed across my mind: it was the last day of school, the day after we had finished our exams. We were both dressed in our school uniform, and I was telling him that I wouldn’t be coming to the end-of-year dance. The look on his face – incredulity, incomprehension, disappointment – only made my words seem harsher than I intended. I didn’t trust myself not to buckle, not to allow him to sweet talk me into fulfilling our pact, as he always did. So I got it out and over with, as quickly as I could, and walked away.
That was the last time I had seen him.
I had decided that I couldn’t trust myself around him. His lifestyle was too tempting, and my fledgling Islamic identity was too weak to withstand the attraction. Or so I had thought at the time.
Now, with his face vivid in my mind, I wondered whether I had been too harsh on him – and too doubtful of my own strength of character.
Usamah’s voice snapped me back to the present. ‘So, is that why you don’t sound like most of the brothers I’ve met from London?’
I laughed, embarrassed. ‘You mean my accent?’
He nodded, smiling.
‘Well, I went to a public school – what you Americans call private school – so my accent is a little different. You’re from New York, right?’
‘That’s right, the Bronx, baby.’
‘So what are you doing in London?’
‘Well, I always wanted to travel, to see Europe and all that jazz. And I thought studying abroad would be a way to do that – don’t ask me how I ended up living in South London studying fashion, though, that was just fate, the qadr of Allah!’
‘Seriously, bro – fashion?’
He laughed again. ‘Yeah, I’m that straight guy with the queer eye, I guess. I just always loved clothes: drawing them, making them, y’know. My sisters loved me ‘coz their Barbies were the best dressed in town!’
An image of a child-sized version of Usamah fitting clothes on a Barbie popped into my head and I spluttered.
‘OK, maybe I’m missing something here. I mean, I don’t mean to judge or anything, but how does the fashion industry fit in with your beliefs?’
Usamah sighed and scratched his head. ‘I’m trying to make it work, akh. But I can’t deny the gifts God gave me. I can’t pretend I don’t love what I do. So I’ve got to halalify, y’know? I design clothes for young Muslims – or anyone into funky, individual style with a modest edge. And I sell them from my website. As for the other stuff, the shows, the models and all that, I’m trying to find a way around it all.’
I