Kicked Out, page 1
Praise for
Kicked Out
“Boasting down-to-earth, believable characters and pacy action, Dassu’s intensely readable sequel to Boy, Everywhere . . . deals squarely with the racism and intimidating bureaucracy facing young refugees.” —The Guardian, a Book of the Month
“This is a story of friendship, resilience and hope, and while Dassu doesn’t shy away from the horrors of racism and the refugee experience, she spreads a message that everyone, including children, can do something to help. Uplifting and powerful.” —The Bookseller, Editor’s Choice (also The Bookseller Buyer’s Guide: Ten [Books] Not to Miss)
“Warm and perfectly observed. Dassu writes the best child characters out there—flawed, messy, cheeky and utterly believable.”
—Louie Stowell, author of Loki
“A powerful and empowering portrayal of hope against adversity. A. M. Dassu is one of our most authentic voices in children’s literature.”
—Hannah Gold, author of The Last Bear
“A heart-warming, empathy-inspiring tale—and a call to action—deserving of a place on every good bookshelf.” —Dr. Graham Fairweather,
senior school librarian
“Kicked Out will inspire young people to become involved in social activism and capitalize on the positive difference that they can make in their communities. Another great book with powerful and important messages at a time when we really need them.” —Kevin Cobane, high school teacher
“An absolute must read!” —Sajeda Amir, high school teacher
Praise for
Boy, Everywhere
★ “Disrupts stereotypes while tugging at readers’ heartstrings. . . . Compelling, informative, hopeful.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
★ “This isn’t an easy read, but it’s an absolutely essential one.”
—Booklist, starred review
★ “Strongly evoked themes of family, homesickness, and friendship cohere in this resonant portrait of one teen’s contemporary refugee experience.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Essential reading for middle grade students and anyone hoping to gain insight into the plight of refugees.” —Book Riot
“A gripping, uncompromising debut, super-charged with the power of empathy.” —The Guardian
“A fantastically well-researched and empathetic story that gives humanity and respect to those seeking sanctuary, busting a number of stereotypes about refugees along the way.” —Amnesty International
Books by A. M. Dassu
Boy, Everywhere
Fight Back
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by A. M. Dassu
Jacket illustration copyright © 2024 by Daby Zainab Faidhi
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
TU BOOKS, an imprint of LEE & LOW BOOKS INC.
95 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
leeandlow.com
Edited by Stacy Whitman
Book design by Sheila Smallwood
Typesetting by ElfElm Publishing
Book production by The Kids at Our House
The text is set in EB Garamond
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress
ISBN 978-1-64379-687-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-64379-688-8 (e-book)
For everyone who felt they weren’t worthy
or good enough because of the way they
were treated by others.
You are enough. You just need
to see it for yourself.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Glossary
Author's Note
What Can We Do?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Living. My. Best. Life.
I typed over a selfie of me in front of my best mate Mark’s massive pool and shared it on my Snapchat story. I grinned, looking through my camera roll at all the goofy photos of Sami and Mark splashing each other. I didn’t think I was ever going to get used to how supreme Mark’s new place was. Life had totally changed since his mum won the lottery.
I picked up a slice of toast while still scrolling through my photos at the kitchen table. You’d never have thought from looking at them that Sami wanted to run off back to Syria just a few months ago because he hated it here so much. It was so good to see him having fun. We’d clicked like we’d always known each other. Spending time with Sami and Mark always made my day, and hanging out in a massive mansion with a heated pool on a school night made every minute even better.
I was selecting a video of all of us shoving lots of cookies in our mouths to post on Snapchat, when someone snatched the slice of toast from my hand.
“Oi!” I turned.
“I’m running late for uni! Make another one!” Samira, my big sis, waved her hand at me dismissively as she walked out the kitchen.
“You make yourself one!” I shouted.
“I’ve got a revision session for my next exam and you’re just sitting around, so no.” She slipped into her shoes in the hallway, opened the front door, and left.
“Here, have mine,” said my little brother, Ahmed, scraping his chair back from the kitchen table and pushing his plate towards me. His brown hair was as messy as ever and he was still in his Minecraft pajamas.
“Why you not eating?” I said, taking his leftover slice.
“I had some Doritos.” Ahmed shrugged.
I made a face. Stinky crisps first thing in the morning was a whole new level of yuck.
“Are you going to Mark’s again today?” Ahmed said, glancing over my shoulder at my phone.
“Yeah, man!” I said, midbite.
“Can I come?”
“Errr, no!” I swallowed and swiped out of my camera roll. “You ain’t ever hanging ’round with us. You better get that idea out your puny eleven-year-old head now!”
“Not fair!” He huffed and walked out of the kitchen.
I went into WhatsApp to message Sami to find out how long he’d be.
“What’s not fair?” Mum walked in with a basket full of dirty laundry.
“Life, innit, according to him.”
Mum lifted her kameez from the hem so it wouldn’t touch the floor, before bending down and loading the washing machine. “Oh, Ali, make sure you pick up Ahmed from football practice tomorrow. The optician can’t reschedule my appointment, so I won’t make it in time.”
I gobbled up the last of the toast. “I can’t,” I said with my mouth full. “Samira will have to do it.”
“She’s revising for her exams . . . and you, my dear, have nothing to do.” She shoved the last of the clothes in and clicked the door shut.
“Yeah, I do! I’ll be at Mark’s, and it’s well far. By the time I get there, I’d have to come back!” I pushed my chair and got up.
Mum poured washing powder into the compartment. “Ali, you were at Mark’s house after school all of last week! You’re going to be there all day today. You can spend Sunday at home.”
“Not the whole week. This will only be my fourth time!”
“Only!” She turned and smirked. “Only FOUR times in ONE WEEK.”
“Well, it’s amazing.” I put my phone in my back pocket. “You’d be there every day too if you saw it.” I still couldn’t believe that Mark’s mum had actually won the lottery and moved them from a tiny council flat, where the whole housing estate looked the same, into the most mind-blowing place.
“Take me to see it, then.”
She pressed the start button on the washing machine and picked up the empty gray laundry basket, then tucked it between her arm and her bright pink kameez.
“I can’t do that!”
She turned around and grinned. I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not
“You need to tell Mark’s mum to have a housewarming party for the Year Eight school mums!”
“Oh my God, no way!” I headed to the door.
“Wait, Ali.”
I turned.
“Make sure you pick Ahmed up tomorrow.”
“But—!”
“Shhh, no buts. With your dad not being around, Ahmed needs you to be there for him. You know I wouldn’t ask unless I had to. I have to get my eyes checked.”
I sighed. Because of my loser dad, I had to be the “man” around the house. Even though I was just barely thirteen. I wondered what life would’ve been like if Dad hadn’t left us all behind as if we were stale milk. Maybe he’d be having breakfast in the kitchen with us. Maybe he’d have dropped me and Ahmed at footy practice like the other dads did.
Stop. Block the thought, I told myself. He’s not worth it.
“So, you’ll get Ahmed, yes?” Mum asked.
“Yeah, yeah, OKAY!” I had to step up ’cause he’d stepped out. Mum had me. “I’ll get Ahmed.”
“Thank you, my gorgeous laddu!” She came over and pinched my cheek.
I leaped back and looked at her in horror. “What the—? I’m not two anymore!”
“You’re the man and one of the babies of the house.”
“How does that even make sense?”
She chuckled. “Well, you’re the man of the house, but will always be the baby of my heart.”
I forced a frown so she’d stop and headed to the door. Mum was hilarious.
“Here, have some barfi.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned.
Mum pushed a box of milky sweets on the table towards me. “Rubina’s son got engaged, so she sent these to mark the occasion.”
“Which ones are they?” I popped the red cardboard lid open.
“The plain ones you like. Not a pistachio in sight.”
“Ohhh, yeaah!” I pinched a block of creamy barfi out of the box.
“Ey! Don’t take a whole chunk! You’re supposed to cut that!” Mum tutted.
“Well, the baby of your heart has to eat!” I said. I popped the whole thing into my mouth and the taste of cardamom danced on my tongue as I chewed on the soft, crumbly rectangle.
Mum shook her head, smirking, and I hurried out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs before she thought of another chore for me.
The doorbell rang just as I got to the top. I sighed and ran back down and opened the front door.
It was Sami. “All right?” I smiled, still chewing down the barfi. “You’re early. I thought you were running late?”
He unclipped his bike helmet. “Yeah, I thought I would be ’cause Aadam went off on one after getting a letter from his lawyer about—”
“Where’s big bro?” I looked around Sami, into the street.
Aadam wasn’t really Sami’s big brother; they’d met somewhere on their journey from Syria, and now he lived with Sami’s family and was like the brother Sami never had. To be honest, he was like a big brother to all of us. Aadam was sixteen, but just so much more grown up and with it. I’d rather have had him as my older sibling than Samira, but I’d never dare tell her that.
“He’s gonna go straight to Mark’s house from the lawyer’s.” Sami bit his lip and shifted.
“Oh cool, we’ll see him there then.”
“Nah, we probably won’t.” Sami shook his head. “He’s gonna be busy. Mark’s mum messaged to say she’ll pay him a full day’s work ’cause she wants him to do the whole lawn today. She’s gonna do a barbecue or something.” Sami pushed his floppy hair off his face and hung his helmet on his bike handle. “You ready?”
“Yeahh, man! I’ll just get my swimming stuff.”
We got off our bikes as we turned on to Mark’s road. Actually, Mark’s private road. That’s what it said on the street sign. We’d always get off and walk up the long, pretty, tree-lined street, so we could gawp down the deep driveways and catch a glimpse of all the mansions.
“Hey, is that Aadam?” I said. A tall dark-blond teenager in joggers and a gray T-shirt was strolling along up ahead. His black rucksack had a Syria flag stuck on the front compartment.
Sami cupped his hands around his mouth. “Aadam!”
“’Course it’s him. Ain’t no teenagers ’round here,” I said, looking at Sami. We’d seen no one else our age on the street all week. It was probably full of old, rich people.
Aadam turned, smiled, and walked back to us.
“How did you beat us here?” asked Sami.
“I got a lift!” He pulled on the strap of his rucksack.
“From who?”
“This guy from Syria who was at the lawyer’s too.”
Aadam spotted me and put out his fist.
I bumped it. “What’s happenin’, bro?”
“Ah, got problems, akhi.”
“Nothin’ some football after school won’t fix.” I smiled. “I know you’re working all day today, but join us again tomorrow?” Even though Aadam didn’t go to our school—in fact, he didn’t go to school at all right now and instead worked under-the-table jobs, when he should’ve been doing his GCSE exams—whenever he had the time, he’d meet me, Sami, Mark, and the other guys from our school footy team in the park to basically thrash us. Although he’d call it “helping you train.”
“No, this time it is serious problem,” he said, in his Syrian accent.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Sami looked down. Okay, so this was not good.
Aadam sighed. “I got a letter from Home Office.”
“Home Office?” I stared, waiting for him to explain.
“Yeah. The immigration department—they reject my asylum application again.”
Oh man, I’d just talked all over Sami earlier when he’d tried to tell me about Aadam’s lawyer. I thought he didn’t look right but got distracted when he’d mentioned Mark’s garden.
“But you did an appeal and everything!”
“Yeah, and the judges decided I wasn’t . . . how do you say it?” Aadam looked at Sami. “What was the word in the letter?”
“Credible.” Sami shifted his feet.
“Yeah.” Aadam faced me. “They say I’m not believable because I got my dates wrong about when I left Syria. I said one date in the statement when the man at the homeless hostel helped me fill in form and then a date before in the interview with Home Office . . . Just one day difference! I was stressed; I didn’t remember dates! And now they say I’m not credible.” He dropped his shoulders and sighed, his mouth drooping into the saddest curve.
Sami looked up. “The letter also said you said the wrong name of the street the mosque is on.”
“Yeah.” Aadam blinked hard, as if he was annoyed with himself. “I was panicking in the interview, so I forgot. It was like a big test, and they made me talk about what happened to me on my journey and I was upset and not thinking right.” His voice shook and he bit his lip.
“Worst thing is even the judges said they believe the Home Office that he’s an adult.” Sami shook his head.
I gasped. “How can they say you’re an adult?!”
Aadam showed me his leathered hands. “They say my hands are too wrinkly for sixteen-year-old. I tell them I have eczema and it’s because I was homeless on the streets for months and my hands got worse, but they don’t believe me.” Aadam shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked alongside us.
“So, hang on.” I glanced at Aadam. “They’re saying you can’t stay here anymore?”
Aadam nodded. “I have fourteen days to appeal the decision, but my lawyer said it’s not going to pass because of weak evidence in my application and we will have to do a fresh claim. But other problem is I have run out of free legal aid because he spent so much time on my case already. So now I have to pay lots of money to my lawyer to do this and to prove I am sixteen . . . I need three to four thousand pounds, and I only have one hundred!”
“What happens if you can’t pay him?”
“Government will deport me.”
I stopped dragging my bike, and Sami and Aadam stopped too. “What, send you back to Syria?”
“Yep,” said Sami. I now noticed the dark circles under his eyes. They’d probably been up late talking about it.
