Being Lara (20 page)

“Oh, that's brilliant, Laralina love. I'll just eat this last piece of toast and marmalade and we'll get going,” he said, beaming.

Mum smiled at Lara warmly, rubbing her back, in her own way letting her daughter know she'd just done a good thing.

As they walked up the familiar street, Lara gently pulled her hand away from Dad's as he attempted to hold on to it.

“Too old for me to hold your hand, right?” laughed Dad. And Lara was pleased he thought this the only reason for her refusal.

“Now you be good on your first day, okay?” said Dad as Lara's eyes searched the street for anyone in an identical uniform. Kieron was walking way up ahead, giggling at her “stupidity”—a big word for him. Her heart began to increase in BPM as they approached the bus stop and she saw two sets of gray-and-white uniforms.

“This is okay, Dad. I'll be okay,” she said hurriedly. Lara could only hope the girls wouldn't turn around and see them.

“See you, love!” said Dad, stooping down for a kiss. She pecked him on the cheek quickly, one eye on the backs of the girls and with a wave she said good-bye and he was off, just as the two girls in gray turned to face her.

Then she exhaled.

The first day of secondary school was a breeze for Lara, especially when she'd spotted two girls in the upper years who looked more like her than any of her junior schoolmates had. Then, she'd been the only “one”; now there were others! Such recognition felt unfamiliar, yet pleasant, and she was determined to at least become their friend. Perhaps they could even stick together, so as to be armed and prepared the next time an older version of Connie Jones materialized or someone decided to use the N-word. They could form an alliance and become close friends. Perhaps they were from Africa, too?

Toward the end of the first week, one of the said girls shrugged past Lara, almost causing her to drop her carefully picked-out tray of mash, sausages, and soggy semolina onto the dining room floor.

“Oh, sorry,” said the girl, sarcastically. The girl had multicolored beads dripping from tiny little plaits in her hair and Lara had longed to ask her about them. Did they hurt? How long did it take to do? But it was now clear that any chance of a friendship was out, and she may have just earned her first enemy in that school.

“I bet you were!” Lara countered, determined not to be “the bullied one” yet again. The girl edged toward her, all neatly pressed uniform and baggy socks, fists resting on each hip.

“You wanna say that to my face, new girl?” she challenged.

Before Lara could think of something as equally menacing to say back, a girl with a shorter skirt and straighter socks shoved herself into the space between them.

Sandy Smith.

“Unless you want some trouble today, you'd better go about your business. You know I ain't scared to bring it to you.”

The girl with the beads rolled her eyes, contemplating her options. Even Lara had already heard about Sandy, a notorious London girl who knew anyone worth knowing in the fourth and fifth years. Clearly, the girl with the beads
had
no options.

“Like I'm scared of you!” said the girl defiantly anyway, stomping off and leaving Lara clutching her tray and feeling more than flabbergasted at what had just happened. Sandy Smith, the most connected girl in the school, who up until that moment had never given Lara a clue she even knew she existed, had just stuck up for her in
the
most public way. Oh. Mi. Gosh.

“Thanks,” said Lara, which didn't sound anywhere near as thankful as she'd liked.

“It was nothing; she's an idiot,” replied Sandy as the two girls placed their trays on the table and sat down.

“Still—”

“She knows not to mess with me. I know people who can kick her ass with their eyes shut, if I ask them to. Essex girls like her wouldn't last a minute in London.”

Lara surged with admiration as Sandy spoke. Easily the prettiest girl in school with her perm and red lipstick, she was also the toughest, and listening to her had to be the most exciting thing Lara had ever done.

“What are you doing after school?” asked Sandy as they spooned the last dregs of soggy semolina into their mouths.

“I have netball practice.”

“That's okay, coz I'm off to meet my social worker. After that moment of pure joy and enlightenment, we could meet up.”

Sandy may not have looked much like her, but she and Lara became good friends in a very short space of time. When they were together, Lara didn't remember to tap things as much. Or have to keep going in and out of a room six times. She seemed to flow quite easily into the mold of a happy soon-to-be twelve-year-old girl as they browsed the shops together, tried on clothes, or hung out at Lara's house. Even Kieron would pop over from next door more often than necessary, perhaps nursing a secret crush on Lara's new friend.

Lara and Sandy understood each other like no one else could while the other girls at school couldn't work out why they were so close. But
they
knew. They felt it whenever they were together—like two little street urchins no one wanted, thrown together by the winds of fate and circumstance.

Plus they both adored Color Me Badd.

In between conversations about music and clothes, they'd talk a lot about a future they both foresaw for themselves—one that involved needing absolutely no one and never having to trust anyone except themselves, not even each other, just themselves. Their conversations may have seemed dark, a bit too negative, and perhaps untrue to others, but they were perfectly normal for two girls who at that point didn't feel they actually belonged anywhere in the world or to anyone. Lara even confided to Sandy about the night of her tenth birthday party, with Sandy spouting off a tirade of abuse that included, “Fuck everyone! See, you don't need anyone, Lara. You only need
you
!”

In and out of children's and foster homes, Sandy had lived the type of experience Lara felt she could relate to. Even though to the outside world their circumstances were completely different, to each other they were just the same.

Plus Sandy never judged Lara.

Once, as the two of them were about to watch
Pretty Woman
on video, Sandy must have noticed Lara tapping the VHS recorder four times, just after pushing the tape inside.

“I don't mind, you know,” said Sandy.

They waited for the video to start.

“Mind what, exactly?” replied Lara, trying to sound older, experienced, brave.

“The tapping and stuff. I don't judge.”

“What are you talking about? Nice one for getting this video; Mum would never let me watch it. Probably got loads of dirty bits in it, too. It's about a prostitute, you know,” waffled Lara, desperate to change the subject because she knew exactly what her friend was referring to.

It was hard to pinpoint the very moment in time that Lara began to tap things, only it had increased around the time of her tenth birthday. The urge to do it was so strong, at times she'd indulge before starting something important like homework, as if by not doing it, she'd get low marks or worse—Mum and Dad being carted away from her and she being shipped back to Africa. Sometimes she was aware of just how silly she was being; other times it felt like a matter of life and death. Ironically, these urges to count, or walk in and out of a room multiple (always an even number) times, had started to increase as she and Sandy got closer. Lara feared that by not obeying her urges, her friend would most definitely be taken from her.

During a boring bit in the movie, Sandy spoke again. “I'm serious. I mean, it's pretty weird, all that tapping, but I'm cool with it. I've seen all sorts in the children's home.”

Lara opened a bag of toffee popcorn, determined to hold on to her denial.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Sandy. Can we just watch the film before my parents get back?”

Sandy grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bag. “I don't care what you do. You're still a cool chick.” And with that she stuffed some popcorn into her mouth and the two girls never mentioned the tapping again.

The counting, tapping, and walking in and out of rooms, two, four, or six times in less than sixty seconds, increased or decreased at different times. Increasing when the news had shown Nelson Mandela being released from prison and Lara had searched the crowds gathered around him, hoping for something, someone, anything identifiable. Increasing to even greater numbers when Lara found out something she perhaps wasn't supposed to from one of Mum's showbiz friends.

Maria Tucker would visit in between tours, award shows, parties, or whatever. Lara wasn't quite sure what she did in “showbiz,” but she'd breeze in smelling of strong perfume and so much confidence, it really didn't matter. She always seemed to bring out a side in Mum unfamiliar to Lara, while Dad would frown a lot whenever she was around. She'd only come to the house a few times, but each arrival seemed to send Mum into a tiz, which required an extra clean of the lounge and a fresh layer of makeup, as well as her voice rising a few octaves when it came to talking to Dad. Maria was glamour-
rous
—a bit like the ladies in the magazines and on telly. She wore short leather skirts and heels and would sport a mop of pink, purple, or this time blue hair on her head. She was always just off the plane from Los Angeles or something, with wild tales of champagne and glamorous things only adults were allowed to listen to.

“You're getting so big, aren't you?” said Maria, before pushing an
I
♥
NY T
-shirt into Lara's willing hands. It had to be the most glamorous thing anyone had ever given her and she couldn't wait to show it off to Sandy.

“Your hair looks so different!” she enthused, running blood red nails through Lara's straightened locks.

“So does yours!” laughed Lara.

“Mine is a blue wig, darling!”

“I got Phil to do something to it for her birthday, and we've tried to keep it up ever since,” said Mum.

“He tonged it,” added Lara proudly.

Maria tossed a paper bag at Dad, who seemed to be the only one who hadn't stirred at her arrival. Dad had never seemed that fussed with Maria and, unlike the rest of the Reid family, behaved indifferently, if not at times a little cold, toward her.

“Oh … thanks…” said Dad.

“Duty-free fags,” said Maria as Mum raised an eyebrow.

“Barry's stopped smoking, haven't you?” said Mum.

“Yes, but I'm sure I can get rid of them,” he replied without looking at either of them.

“Sorry, I didn't know! Good job, too. Smoking is a disgusting habit!” said Maria.

“But you smoke!” Lara pointed out—not wanting her dad to be singled out like that.

“Yes, I do, but I'm addicted!” laughed Maria.

The night of Maria's arrival, Lara couldn't sleep, the buzz of excitement still airborne. She was more interested in listening on the staircase to whatever Mum and Maria were talking about than sleep. She was dressed in a pink-and-yellow nightdress with lace frills on the sleeve, listening to the clinks of glasses as Mum and Maria guffawed passionately midconversation as Dad snored away in the bedroom.

Lara was only able to hear fragments of what was spoken, in between the laughter and sounds from the television.

“Oh, Maria, it was nothing!”

“You so had a crush on him and you know it!”

“… Travis… Compton Street… Robin … high heels… Top of the Pops… Fancy a ciggie?… Stroppy.”

“… long time ago … he was in Boney M … silly you … another drink?… Seriously though…!”

“You fancied him a little? Go on, admit it!”

“Stop it!… Never! Kayo is a good man.... What color hair next?.... Don't smoke in here!… Not a suburban housewife.... Barry, one true love… Love Lara … interfering social workers have no idea!”

“Nothing wrong with cigarettes … miss touring… More wine… Great parents… Boney M, right?… No wonder you got Lara…!”

Lara's ears pricked up at the sound of her name in connection with something not actually connected to this house, school, this life—but a man called Boney M. A man she could just about picture, if she thought about the old TV clips and album covers she'd seen packed away in the living room cupboard. From what she could make out, he wore tight, flashy outfits, had big hair, and was a singer who was probably born in another country. And he looked a lot like Lara, too. That much was obvious.

He looked like her.

A cauldron of confusion and excitement slowed down her functions as she tiptoed back up to her room that night. On her pillow she felt weighed down by the realization that the man from Boney M had clearly done something with the Lady in Africa, which had led to Lara being born.

Obviously.

And she had to find out more.

The next morning, Lara found herself gazing expectantly and curiously at a picture of Boney M. Mum had stored three of their albums in the cabinet and would sometimes bring them out at Christmas specifically to play “Mary's Boy Child.” Lara studied the twelve-inch single cover of
Brown Girl in the Ring,
tracing her finger over the image of a man sitting in between three other band members. Lara was desperate to feel
something.
Thinking that by listening to the song, she might receive some answers. The truth. Anything.