I called him so many times after but all he said was, ‘You’ve changed, Luce.’ Of course I’ve changed. I’m supposed to change. We all are. It’s more that I’ve changed into someone he’s no longer interested in.
It’s funny really, because that’s what my dad said to my mum before he left: ‘You’ve changed, Julia.’ I don’t know if I ever told Rhys that.
Maybe we haven’t changed. Maybe they have.
Now, I hardly ever see Dad.
He has a new family – young pretty blonde wife who used to work at the doctor’s surgery, with a one-year-old on her hip. One year old. He left us fifteen months ago. The maths doesn’t fit. He knows that. So when that woman walked around with a swollen belly, my dad sat at the dining table with us eating his Sunday roasts and reading his newspapers.
Not anymore. Now Mum rarely cooks or leaves the house. I don’t know when she last showered. She completely crumbled the moment Dad walked out. And I have to deal with it every day. But back then I had Rhys to help me deal. Now, I don’t. Now, I’m all alone in this.
He understood. He knew both my parents. He’d seen them when they were together, when Dad was faking the love and pretending he was in his forever family. Rhys used to come over for Sunday lunch sometimes when his mum and dad went out to the golf club to meet their friends. He sat with us, laughed with us.
Sometimes when I’m alone in my bedroom, I think about just how much I’ve lost in the past year, how much I’m still losing. All that time, all that precious time I could be spending with my dad, with Rhys.
Amber.
That’s her name. My soon-to-be stepmum. Who leaves their family for a woman called Amber? That’s who’s standing in front me now. Amber. Trina. They’re both the same. Both want what isn’t theirs.
She’s standing here at my table in the cafeteria. Mollie, Lily and Cara are watching me, anticipating what I’m going to do next. Honestly, I don’t know. I never know. I just keep pushing the boundaries until someone says something, until someone finally loves me enough to notice. I can feel the anger, the frustration, bubbling so close to the surface. I uncross my legs and lean into the table further and stare back at her, tempting her to push my buttons.
Go on, Trina. Start it.
She eventually rolls her eyes and walks away, wildly swinging her bag over her shoulder, her skirt slightly hitching up at the back.
See?
Amber.
They’re all Ambers.
Those girls.
With their short skirts and heels. Crisp white shirts with the first two buttons undone. Flickers of lace bras during Gym. Edges of pink thongs peeking out from freshly ironed black school trousers.
Those girls.
I feel bad for those girls. They don’t know any different. They see images on TV and in magazines and aspire to be just that, not casting any doubt on the images they’re being sold. They want their hair longer – not creepy long though – shinier, straighter, curlier, blonder but not too blonde. They want to be taller but, of course, not taller than any boy, thinner but…actually, there’s never too thin. They open a magazine and all they see are skinny girls becoming skinnier, and getting praise for it. I see those girls at lunch, conflicted with the daunting choices of calories. Some don’t even eat. Some have just a piece of fruit then say they had a big breakfast. They sip on water. Too much sugar in juice. Too many calories in a smoothie. Too much fat in a hot chocolate. Black coffee works too.
Then they go to the girls’ toilets straight after. Some throw up, others readjust their short skirts and unbuttoned shirts. Most reapply their make-up for the afternoon. Glossy pink pouts. Thick dark eyebrows. Rosy cheeks. Matte noses. Black spider leg eyelashes. Contoured facial bones shimmering in highlighter. They dot concealer under their eyes, hiding the wrinkles they don’t have but always see when they look in the mirror.
I hope they do it for themselves, and not for others. That they’re not just parts of a game, being played, manipulated, moved onto tiny coloured squares for the next position. If not, I feel sorry for those girls. But they probably feel sorry for me. They think that I don’t belong here. That I’m different. That I’m not free, like them. They’re not free, not if they dress and look that way for others, for boys.
I feel a small tug on my hijab and it yanks a kirby grip from my hair. It slides down a little. When I turn I see those girls walking away. They look back at me and laugh. It’s not like this all the time. But when it happens, it’s always the same.
‘Terrorist.’
Some whisper it, while others say it loud enough so I can hear and so can all those around me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me, of course it does. But that’s what they want. They want to see me angry, see me cry. But I won’t because I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I know I won’t be any less Muslim if I take off the hijab, I’ll still be me. But I want to wear it because it’s a part of who I am, where I’m from, and what I believe in. So they should be the ones who are ashamed and embarrassed. My parents gave me a choice when we first moved here, and although I don’t wear a face veil like some girls and women back home, I’ve kept the hijab. I remain devoted to my faith, to my family, and to myself.
In all but one way.
Some might say, the worst way.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the only Muslim here at this school, that I had someone else my age to talk to. I have Sophia, I know. She’s a good friend to me. But sometimes I wish I had someone who understood more about my background. Someone who, maybe, was also going through what I’m going through – so I could speak to them about it. But I don’t have anyone like that. Surely my parents considered that I’d be the only Muslim high-school student in this small village. The nearest mosque is almost a forty-five minute bus ride away.
‘Hey!’ Aiden from my chemistry class starts to chase them down the hallway but I hold my arm out to block him, being careful not to touch him or for him to touch me.
‘Don’t bother,’ I say, bending down to pick up my folder.
‘I’ll get it.’ He gets down there first and scoops it up. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ But when my fingers latch on, he doesn’t let go.
‘You shouldn’t let those girls get away with that.’
‘It’s fine. Really. Hardly ever happens.’
‘Liar.’ He smiles at me, and slowly I feel the muscles in my face soften.
I tug at the folder again. This time he releases it, but his fingers brush against mine. It startles me and I look back to see if anyone saw it. Around us, people move in all directions, some darting into classrooms, others hanging out in the hallway. No one is looking at us.
No one sees us.
No one sees me.
I take a deep breath and walk away.
When I look back, he’s still standing there.
My shoulder skims the corner of the wall, then I’m in a new hallway and I don’t see him anymore.
I’m not used to being at a mixed-gender school. Boys sitting beside girls in classes. The girls’ changing room next door to the boys’ changing room. Girls standing in front of or behind boys in the lunch queue. Boys eating with girls they barely know. Nobody else here thinks this is strange but me.
Room 17 is dark, having not been used for classes all day. It’s stuffy so one of the students cracks open a window. Cool clean air seeps in from the gap and I take a deep breath. The room is full. Classmates