Being Me (5 page)

‘No, it’s an expression. Young, hungry guys, who want my job. They’d step over my dead body without a blink.’

Dad continues talking nonsense. I look him over. I guess he’ll be OK at Parents Evening. It would have been better if he’d built up a bit of a suntan, then he would maybe pass for at least a bit Ethiopian, even if he’s a long way from looking black.

In between humming a tune Dad says that, with the World Cup coming up soon, the big companies are looking for branding opportunities and they’ll pay lots of money for girls who can do football tricks to be in their adverts. He has access to these companies through his bank.

‘Bring them on!’ I say, and he laughs.

We pull up in the school car park and I spot Mikaela. She’s trying to hurry her mum away from their Bentley. I shout
‘Hi Mikaela!’
really loud so she has to wave back. Her mum waves back too. She ushers Mikaela over to me. Her mum’s in a push-up bra, her eyebrows are sculpted, and her pencil skirt holds her bum tight. Dad approves of all of it. I want to kick him. Dad kisses Mikaela’s mum once on each cheek.

‘Very continental,’ Mikaela’s mum says, blushing at Dad’s double kiss.

‘Enchantay,’ says my dad in bad French.

I roll my eyes. Old people never lose an opportunity to flirt. Like their lives matter anymore.

‘Nice car,’ I say to Mikaela.

She gives me the finger.

‘Mikaela!’ her mum says. She is walking ahead of us but somehow saw it.

‘She just asked me what room’s History, and I was saying Room One,’ says Mikaela.

‘That’s very helpful of you, young lady,’ my dad says, turning to Mikaela.

Dad and Mikaela’s mum are highly amused by this, for reasons known only to old people, I assume. Before you know it, the two of them have decided to do the tour of teachers together, and drag us with them.

We do English, Maths and the Sciences, one after the other. Eventually, Dad manages to sit through the teachers’ whingeing and complaining without shooting me ‘You-are-dead-when-you-get-home’ looks. Mikaela’s mum has taken to patting him on the shoulder during each teacher’s act of revenge on me and Dad likes this so much he’s almost disappointed when a teacher says something nice and he gets no consoling pat.

‘Only two more to go!’ Mikaela’s mum says, merrily.

Dad laughs out loud.

The art teacher, Miss Jobanputra (aka Miss Dolphin) forgets all my hard work in pottery and simply tells Dad about that one little fight. Dad says it will never happen again. Mikaela’s mum butts in and says her daughter is as much to blame as me, then she goes on the attack:

‘Have you heard of Emory Douglas?’ she quizzes Miss Dolphin.

‘Is he in my class?’ Miss Dolphin asks.

‘Emory, whom I have met in person, was the Black Panther’s graphic designer,’ Mikaela’s mum lectures her. ‘He did so much for positive images of black people. Are his design principles taught at this school?’

My dad, who has been a racist all his life (Dad’s Racist Playlist: Islam Is The Cause Of All The World’s Problems. There’s Too Many Black Football Players. There’s A Reason The Roma Are All Poor And Criminals. This Island Is Too Small.) is nodding fervently as Mikaela’s mum makes her point.

Miss Dolphin faffs and stutters. ‘We teach a wide range of influences,’ she manages. She then smiles the way psychiatrists smile at crazy people (I guess) and taps her watch. Time’s up for the two of them.

Mikaela pats her Afro proudly and her mum goes doey-eyed on her. Dad says, ‘You have a beautiful daughter, and I can see where she gets it from.’

Mikaela turns to me and mimes two fingers down her throat at the same time as I’m doing the same action. That has us in giggles.

The last room is next to the toilets. It’s PE. No parents are in there. Mikaela’s mum wants to give it a miss – ‘On principle, the stereotyping of black children as athletes is dreadful,’ she says.

Dad agrees but persuades her to go in.

Miss Fridge reminds me of a drowning woman grabbing for a lifebuoy. She seizes our parents and sits them down.

‘It is a double honour to have before me parents of the two most exceptionally gifted football players I have ever had the pleasure of teaching in my entire career. They could both make the England team. Imagine that!’

Dad is impressed.

Miss Fridge is relentless: ‘Mikaela is an amazing midfield general, Adele is a simply amazing goal scorer. If you two girls could play as a team, we could win the League. Imagine that! And have both of you playing for England!’

I can see my dad and Mikaela’s mum are actually imagining this, Dad with dollar signs in his eyes, Mikaela’s mum dreaming of Mikaela doing a Black Panther lap of glory, clenched fist held high.

‘Unfortunately for us, nobody knows which of them is going to turn up on match days, whether Miss Jeckyl or Mrs Hyde,’ says Miss Fridge. ‘At England level, they’re looking for consistency and I have to deliver my opinion on that to the selectors.’

‘Consistency is no problem for my daughter,’ says Dad. ‘She gets out of the same side of the bed every morning. Very consistent.’ This amuses both Dad and Mikaela’s mum.

‘What about you, Lydia?’ Dad asks Mikaela’s mum.

‘I’ve brought Mikaela up to be consistent,’ says Mikaela’s mum with robot eyes.

‘Consistency is what I shall need from these girls to show they are ready for England. And you, the parents, can help with that.’

Dad is startled, but loves it. Mikaela’s mum takes it in her stride.

‘As parents,’ Miss Fridge says, poking towards them with a finger, ‘you must want them to play for England. True?’

They nod.

‘That means making sure they get to matches on time. And having a good night’s rest beforehand so they are ready to
Give Their All.
With your help, as good parents, we can get a hundred percent from both girls at tomorrow’s match.’

Miss Fridge would have gone on for another hour but a bell rings to indicate Parents’ Evening is over.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Miss Fridge. ‘Our Union says we must stop now. No overtime. We’re in dispute. I’m sure you understand.’

On the walk back to the car park, Mikaela’s mum says she totally approves of the teachers’ position on unpaid overtime, and that workers can only win by acts of solidarity, anything else plays into the hands of the Capitalists, their Bankers and the other Oppressors. My dad agrees wholeheartedly and gets her telephone number ‘as an act of parental solidarity’ before Mrs Robinson and Mikaela get in their Bentley.

‘Nice car, Mrs Robinson,’ I say.

‘Thank you,’ says Mikaela’s mum, sliding behind the wheel. ‘And it’s we women who need to be in the driving seat in this world. We’ve watched the men mess it up long enough!’

Dad chuckles. Mrs Robinson pulls off, then promptly stops again because her car is making a racket. She’s got a flat tyre at the back. She gets out. ‘Just my luck,’ she says. ‘I’ll call the RAC.’

‘That’s an hour’s wait,’ says Dad. ‘Could I...?’ He gestures to the wheel.

‘You sure?’ asks Mikay’s mum.

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘I could of course do it myself.’

‘Of course. Maybe we should do it together?’

‘That works for me.’

‘OK, I’ll just get the spare and then... Can you pop your boot open?’

Mikay’s mum looks at him a moment, then says, ‘For you only, Mr Vialli, I’ll pop my boot open.’

‘Excellent,’ says Dad.

They go to the boot and together heave the spare tyre out.

‘Roll the wheel over here, Mrs Robinson, if you would,’ says Dad, ‘while I fish around and find the jack.’

Moments later they are both huddled by the flat rear wheel. They’ve soon hauled it off. ‘It’s teamwork,’ Dad says, as Mrs Robinson rolls the burst wheel away. ‘Don’t underestimate your own muscles, girls.’

Dad picks up the spare wheel from Mrs Robinson. ‘You have beautiful nails, if I may say so, Mrs Robinson,’ says Dad. ‘Beautiful, and yet practical.’

Mrs Robinson looks over to me and Mikaela. ‘Never forget there’s an Amazon inside each of us,’ she says, in lecture mode.

‘What’s an Amazon?’ asks Mikaela with her bored face on.

‘A very fit, strong woman. Like your mum,’ Dad replies.

I get the impression that neither of the two adults are actually talking to us, they’re talking to themselves.

Dad’s grunting as he tightens the nuts on the new wheel with the jack. ‘If the wheels come off in your life,’ he says, between grunts, ‘you just have to find the jack and slot them back on.
Semplice.’

‘Enough with the poetry, Dad.
Abbastanza,’
I tell him.

‘The only Italian I know is Vespa,’ Mikaela’s mum says. ‘Those little motorbikes. My first boyfriend had one.’

‘Mum!’ snorts Mikaela, ‘Too Much Information.’

‘Vespa
means wasp,’ says Dad.
A-pe
would be better for you, Mrs Robsinson.
–A-pe Regina.
Queen Bee. You have bee-stung lips.’

‘Dad!’

Mrs Robinson sniggers. ‘Shh. Not in front of the children.’

The two of them then laugh together like this is the best joke in the world.

I look over at Mikaela. She’s as
bleugh
as me about it.

‘Dad. Stop flirting. Now!’ I tell him.

‘Sorry,’ says Dad, although he’s still enjoying himself. ‘Just a bit of fun’.

The new wheel is on. Dad drops the damaged wheel into the Bentley’s boot and Mrs Robinson and Mikaela get into the car. Everyone waves goodbye. A smile stays on Dad’s face all the way over to our own car.

Then the Head teacher comes out and corners him. It’s about unpaid school fees. Dad says there must be some mistake. The Head pushes some forms into his hands. Dad’s face is lifeless when he gets into the car. He pulls out of the school grounds sharply.

‘You hear what Miss Jones said, Dad? I could play for England!’

This revives him. He starts nodding to some music inside his head. He says he’s coming to the match tomorrow.

‘Gre-eat!’ I tell him. I wonder how much of his happiness is because of the England thing, how much is meeting Mikaela’s mum again and how much is actually seeing his daughter play. Still, I’m happy that Dad’s happy. He’s been so miserable recently.

Later, Marcus doesn’t pick up his phone or answer my texts. I ring his landline. His mum answers.

‘Hiya, darling, he’s not in right now love. You alright?’

‘I may get on the England team,’ I tell her.

‘Ohmygod, Adele, magic! Well done!’

‘I’m not on it yet,’ I say, trying to calm her down as she oohs and aahs. She always makes me smile, she’s so enthusiastic.

‘You must be playing your socks off. Wait till I tell Marcus. Give yourself a pat on the back. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Adenuga.’

I press End Call and put the phone down. I have this lovely glow in my stomach.

Later, I get a text from Marcus.

Wel don. Mum told me. U da supernova star. Wil bel u 2moro.

Gotta sleep now footie 2moro x(())x

I text him back.

Me 2 xx(())xx

That glow in my stomach gets warmer. I think about Marcus. Why do I like him? Mikaela will say because he’s poor and black and that bumps up my street cred. Actually, I like him because he’s stronger and yet more vulnerable than other boys. I don’t know if that’s his blackness too. He’s my first boyfriend and so how can I compare? His being black irritates Dad which is great, and me going out with him annoys MTB, which is even better. Marcus happens to be a star footballer. He even has a football nickname, The Silent Striker. He won the Manchester United apprenticeship over MTB, which made Dad furious. MTB begged me to not go out with him, but what girl ever takes dating advice from a stupid brother? There’s something sad and unknowable about Marcus that makes me love him and want to be with him. Yes, every girl fancies him a bit. But he’s mine, I bagged him. I know black boys take more shit than white boys from the police and that. Mikaela says that I’m stealing their men dem, that black boys are always checking white girls and it ain’t right. Is it my fault though? And anyway, there’s plenty of other black boys out there. She can check them, can’t she? She shouldn’t be going to war with me over my one boy. I flick through all the texts he’s sent me and count the number of his kisses till I fall asleep.

It’s Saturday morning at Hough End Playing Fields and as soon as I step out of the car, rain smacks my face. I look at the pitch. It’s a lake. We’re late. Dad shoves me into the changing room. Inside, everyone’s moaning, nobody wants to play.

‘My hair’s going to be ruined!’

‘I’ve got asthma!’

‘I can’t swim!’

‘I wanna go home!’

Miss Fridge is fighting on all fronts. ‘Mud? Mud is good for your skin,’ she tells the wannabe Miss Worlds. ‘And remember, it’s the equivalent of two Detentions, but only if you play!’ she tells the conscripts. Asthma? Stick your inhaler in your gob, girl, that’s what it’s for!’ she tells the sick-notes. ‘Think of the England places, girls!’ she yells to everyone, finally.

As there’s no escape, everyone starts to get their kit on. The gale must have got worse because from outside my dad shouts, ‘I’m getting drenched, is everyone decent? Can I come in?’

He gets screams as a reply.

‘No way!’

‘I’m starkers!’

‘Aaagh!’

Drama queens, all of them,
I think.

‘Poor thing!’ Mikaela’s mum says of my dad. She’s been sitting in a corner of our changing room. She takes out a little silver compact, checks her lipstick, then leaves the dressing room to ‘look after’ my dad. I think,
yuk.

The referee comes in. Everyone pleads with her to declare the match abandoned but she’s having none of it: ‘If eleven players are not on that pitch in two minutes I’ll award the match to the opposing team! I’ve got a hundred essays to mark after this!’

The referee turns away. Mikaela calls out to her, ‘Will you be issuing paddles, then, bitch?’ Everyone cracks up at this. It’s so not Mikaela.

The ref turns back. ‘Who said that?’

We’re all suddenly busy adjusting our socks. The ref looks to Miss Fridge. Miss Fridge shrugs that she didn’t hear. The ref glares at Mikaela, but leaves.