Kicked Out, page 7
Sami nodded.
A couple of boys wearing football shirts laughed out loud like a pack of hyenas. We all stopped. They were standing next to a bright red Porsche 911 convertible with two turbo exhausts. It had its top down and expensive-looking beige leather seats. The car had been polished, and it looked like it had just come out of a showroom.
It wasn’t often you’d get a car like this parked up on the parade, but when you did, you couldn’t help but stare.
Sami elbowed me and nodded at the boys. One of the boys in full club kit had a key in his hands, and the other boy was egging him on. “Go on! Just do it quickly before he comes out!”
Do what?
“They’re gonna key that Porsche!” Mark shouted.
“Oi!” We all yelled and ran towards the boys.
The ginger lad with the key in his hand stepped back, but the other one, who was wearing a cap, grabbed the key and stretched towards the Porsche.
I raced to him. “You better not!” I shouted.
“What you gonna do? Fight me?” The boy with the cap pushed his chest out and squared up to me.
“And are you then gonna fight the police too?” said a man’s voice from behind me.
The cap boy’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He gulped and ran off down the street.
I turned to see Sami and Mark standing with their mouths gaping. My mouth soon followed.
It was David Mora.
One of the best goalkeepers in Premier League history!
Oh my Wotsits.
Chapter 11
"Thanks for that!” David put his hand out.
I shook it, feeling as if I was having an out-of-body experience. Should I ever wash my hand? Should I sell it?!
He had his hair tied back in a tiny ponytail with his head shaved underneath it. His ashy-brown goatee glistened in the sun. Maybe he used that beard oil I kept seeing ads for on YouTube.
“You lot have just saved me a lot of stress.” He opened his Porsche door and tossed a gallon of milk in the passenger seat, before sliding in behind the leather steering wheel. “I take it you’re not rival fans like those two clowns trying to key my car?” He glanced in his rearview mirror.
“Never!” Sami said, grinning. “I have a poster of you and the team up on my bedroom wall!”
“Yep, watch all the matches and got all the merch too,” said Mark.
“Oh, nice. Well maybe you can come and watch a home game sometime as a thanks from me?”
“That would be AMAZING, David . . . errr . . . Mr. Mora!” said Sami, and we all grinned at each other.
“Oh, you can call me David!” His phone rang. “Hold on.” He put his hand up at us to tell us to wait and took the call. About five seconds after he answered, he said, “All right, I’m on my way.” He looked at us, his brow creased. “Sorry, I’m gonna have to go. My dog’s run off. Think he got out through the gate as I left. I’ve got to go find him!” He signaled, pulled out of his parking spot, and sped off down the road, his engine roaring.
“Oh man! We almost had tickets to an actual game!” Sami flapped his arms by his side.
“Gutted,” I said.
Mark shrugged. “Mate, we just saved David Mora’s car from being keyed. We are heroes.”
“True. But I already knew we were.” I grinned.
An old, banged-up maroon car with its windows down pulled up into the spot David’s car had been in, its exhaust spluttering.
As soon as I saw who was driving it, my stomach dived as if I was on a roller coaster drop. I didn’t know if I should run back inside the burger place or put my hood on.
My dad scrambled out of the car and closed the thin, rickety door. He looked at us all, then did a double take, walking up to me slowly as if I was an interesting exhibit in a museum.
“Ali?” he said. He was wearing a black leather jacket. His hair was gelled up at the front, even though he’d started going bald on the top of his head.
“Uhhh . . . yeah. Salaam.”
He smiled widely. “You look just like my Mustafa!”
Heat like fire flushed through my body. His Mustafa?! I clenched my teeth. He didn’t even see me as his son. As if there was only one of us. When actually, he had three other kids.
“I thought it was him and was about to tell him off for hanging out on the street.” He laughed.
“We’re not hanging out here,” I snapped, glancing at Sami and Mark, who looked like they wanted to run away. “I’m just gonna get some milk for my mum and then we’re going home.”
“Oh, okay . . . Well, come round sometime,” he said.
How could he have the nerve to invite me over as if we were old family friends who had just bumped into each other? He sounded as insincere as Mum’s friends did when they’d see us at the mosque on Eid. No one ever meant it when they said “come round,” really.
I wanted to say, “I don’t know where you live,” but I stayed quiet.
He tugged on his jacket then forced a smile. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”
I recited my number to him slowly.
My dad punched it into his phone, smiling at Sami and Mark—who at this point would’ve blended into the wall if their clothes had matched—and walked off towards the convenience store as if he’d just taken the number off some random person and not his long-lost son.
My phone buzzed. He’d already texted. I swiped on the notification:
D: my number
Then he sent another text giving me his address.
That was it. I wasn’t even worth an “It was good to see you.” I was really nothing to him. Nobody.
Sami and Mark stared at me, waiting for me to say something.
I shrugged and put my phone in my pocket. I didn’t want to tell them it was my dad.
They didn’t say a word on the way home. It was as if they were respecting a mourning person’s grief at a funeral.
But I was grateful, because I really didn’t want to chat as if everything was normal right now. I had so many things going around my head. Should I answer Dad if he called me? Should I tell Samira and Ahmed I’d met him and got his number? And what about Mum? How would she feel if I did talk to Dad? I mean, he’d let her down big-time. Would I be disloyal to her to even admit that I wished he’d been around, especially after everything she’d done for us?
She’d struggled on her own and raised us, while he was having the time of his life with his wife and “chosen” son. Nah, there was no way I could take this further. I didn’t even know why I’d wasted so much of my time thinking about the man.
The next day, I was walking out of a lesson, putting my chemistry book in my bag, when I knocked into someone.
“Sorry!” said the person I’d bumped into, and I looked up to say, “It’s all right,” but I didn’t get a chance. Mustafa looked at me blankly and walked off. As if he didn’t know who I was.
THE RUDE CRUDHEAD!
“Ali!” Mark tapped my arm. “Is Sami already in the library?”
“Uhh . . . I think so. I didn’t have a lesson with him.”
As soon as we stepped into the library, Sami stood up. “Come on! I’ve got a mega update!”
“What is it?” I asked, trying to look interested while looking around for Mustafa. Why had he just walked off? So it wasn’t just Dad who thought Mustafa was better than me—he thought he was better than me too. I bet Dad and Mustafa sat there laughing at the loser family he left behind. I breathed out.
“SO,” said Sami. “Mrs. Hack saw me after PE and we’ve got a date!” Sami grinned.
“A date for what?” I asked.
“Oh my God, Ali!” said Mark. “Where’s your brain at?” He tapped my head. “The charity football match, obviously.”
“Oh, yeah!” I forced myself to smile. I turned to the library door when I heard it open. It was a boy in Year Nine. Not Mustafa. I just couldn’t focus.
“Mrs. Greenwood said yes!” Sami continued. “She said we can hold it at the end of the month, so we haven’t got long—it’s just three weeks away! She’s gonna call my dad in to go through things properly but she said we can start promoting it. So let’s plan the poster now!” Sami’s eyes were sparkling, but right then, I couldn’t imagine what being that excited or happy even felt like.
The computers were all being used, so Mark went to the printer and came back with a sheet of blank paper. Sami pulled out his pencil case from his bag while I sat with my arms folded on one of the tables.
Sami started writing the title in his fancy curly-wurly handwriting.
“Draw a net here . . . and a ball about here,” said Mark, pointing at parts of the paper.
I put my head on my arms. What was the point of trying? I’d probably mess things up for Aadam anyway. Dad clearly didn’t think I was good enough for anything, and he was probably right.
“What’s up with you?” asked Mark.
“Nothin’. I’ve got a headache,” I lied.
“All right, we’ll get this done and then we can head to lunch, yeah?” said Mark.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling as if someone had put a pin in my body and drained the air out of me like a limp balloon.
Chapter 12
Later that day, after school, Sami stood in the changing rooms with his head high and his shoulders back. He had his serious team-captain face on and was checking if everyone had their shin pads before training started.
I looked at him proudly. He was made for this, and it was amazing to see him go from losing all his confidence to being the leader he was always meant to be. Even though Nathan’s racism and bullying had made our lives on the team unbearable last month, it had worked out, because Sami would never have got a chance to step up and show his skills otherwise.
I threw my school shirt into my kit bag and pulled out my football top. Everyone was here except for Nathan. He turned up at the last minute a lot now that he wasn’t captain. I think it was because he really couldn’t handle Sami telling him what to do.
Sami cleared his throat. I glanced up at him as I pulled my shorts up over my knees, avoiding Leo’s deodorant spray wafting all around me. I’d told Sami he should speak to the team when he’d asked me to do it. He was Aadam’s family, and he was also captain. Plus I didn’t want to mess things up. I wasn’t gonna be a lawyer for anyone. I don’t know why I ever thought I would be good enough.
“Uhhh . . . we’re doing a charity football match to raise some money for my . . . older brother. He—he needs urgent money to stop the government from sending him back to Syria, where he’ll be in danger and probably be forced to fight in the war.”
We’d agreed it was just easier to say “older brother” than to explain Aadam’s real situation to everyone.
Sami looked at all of us. I folded my arms and nodded to encourage him to carry on.
“So, uhhh . . . we spoke to Mrs. Hack and she said we can hold it here in three weeks. We were thinking of doing a sponsored match, so we’ll give you a form and you raise as much as you can to play. Who’s in?” He searched all our faces, and I put my hand up. Mark too, then Elijah and Leo, who looked at me and nodded. I think he was acknowledging our earlier conversation. Within seconds, everyone had their hands up.
“Awesome!” Sami said. He high-fived everyone, one after the other. “We’ll get the sponsor sheets ready for Monday. But you can start asking people over the weekend.”
“There’s also gonna be tickets for spectators, to help us raise more money,” added Mark. “So let people know if you can.” He sat on the bench to tie his laces.
“I’ll bring my whole fam!” Elijah said, heading to the door. He always got ready first. Probably because he was used to getting out of the changing room as fast as he could when Nathan was captain.
Where was Nathan? He was cutting it close.
“How many tickets can we sell?” asked Leo.
“Uhhh . . .” Sami looked my way.
I shrugged. “As many as you want, really.”
“Yeah, we can fit loads of people on the field around the pitch, so I don’t think we have to worry,” Sami said as he adjusted his shin pads.
“Yeah, exactly,” I said, looking at Sami.
“But maybe we should check with Mrs. Hack first?” said Sami.
“I’m sure she’ll say the same,” said Mark.
Everyone started chatting to each other, and Elijah pulled the door open and left. I guess they were done talking about the charity match.
I squeezed Sami’s shoulder and he smiled.
“Let’s go,” said Mark. His hand was on the door handle, when Nathan pushed the door in, and Mark with it. “Hey!” Mark shouted.
Nathan shrugged and barged in using his kit bag as if it was a battering ram. I sidestepped, giving him a look, and he missed me.
Mark gave Nathan evils and walked out. Sami swallowed. It looked like he was wondering if he should speak to Nathan. I caught Sami’s attention and shook my head. He followed me out of the changing rooms.
“Leave him for now,” I said. “He’s obviously in a mood.”
“Yeah.” Sami tapped me on my arm. “I’ll just go chat to Mr. Clarke before we start.”
I looked over as Sami jogged off. Mr. Clarke was talking to Mustafa.
Ugh. He even had to get in there with my football coach. What was he even saying?
I recalled Mustafa’s face earlier today when I’d bumped into him. He’d acted like I didn’t exist. Totally unaware of the impact his existence had on my life. I wished he hadn’t moved here. Why did he have to come and ruin everything?
That night, Mum picked up my plate from in front of me. “Ali, did something happen at school? You haven’t eaten properly.”
“Not that hungry,” I said, shrugging.
Ahmed shoveled the last of the chicken pasta into his mouth and got up, scraping his chair back. Mum picked up his plate, and Ahmed washed his hands and rushed out of the kitchen—probably to finish the game he’d paused.
“You need to eat, beta.”
“No, Mum. I don’t need to eat twenty parathas and seventy-five samosas every day. Not everything’s about food, you know. This isn’t Pakistan.”
Mum blinked hard and raised an eyebrow. Oh man. I’d hurt her. She showed she cared with food and now I’d just had a go at her about it.
“Is this about your dad moving back? Have you seen him?”
I nodded. So she knew he was back too.
“When? Where?” She closed the oven door, shutting off the heat and garlic-bread smell coming from it.
“Saw him yesterday after school when I went to get milk.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothin’ . . . just texted me his number and told me to go round.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.” I stared at my balled-up fists on the table.
“You’ve not been yourself for a good few days now. I wasn’t sure if you knew about your dad, but Samira said today that she told you he’d moved back here. I should’ve mentioned it before. I just didn’t know how.” She sat opposite me and put her mug of tea on the dining table. “Did Samira tell you about his son starting at your school? Have you seen him?”
I nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shrugged.
She took a sip of her tea, and there was a long silence while she stared at me. I wanted to get up and leave, but for some reason my legs wouldn’t budge.
“You were only five when he left,” she said, and I looked up.
“Why did he leave?” I asked.
Mum sighed deeply. “He was already in love. With someone else, I mean . . . before we got married.”
“Who?”
“The woman he’s married to now. He was young and in a relationship with her, basically messing around, and your dada thought if he got his ‘wild son’ married, he’d settle down and behave. So, they asked me, and I obviously didn’t know about his ‘first love.’ ” She put the “first love” in air quotes.
“So we got married and had Samira and then you, but he was barely home by the time I got pregnant with Ahmed because he’d already done his nikah with her but hadn’t told me.”
“Nikah?”
“They had an Islamic marriage ceremony in a mosque somewhere . . . I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came home one day from the school pickup to find he’d packed all his stuff and left.”
“What, he didn’t even tell you?” I sipped some orange juice from my cup.
“No.”
“So that’s why you were always crying.”
“Yeah . . . it wasn’t easy. I didn’t know how I’d bring you all up by myself. Three kids is . . . a lot.”
“You did it though, Mum. You raised us all by yourself. You didn’t need him.” I swallowed back the choking feeling rising in my throat. Mum didn’t need him—she was fine. But we did when we were little. Not that he cared.
“I know you struggled when he left, beta.” She put her hand on my arm. “What are you feeling?”
I pulled my arm away. “I’m feeling nothing, because he means nothing to me. I don’t even know him.”
I pushed my chair back and walked out of the kitchen. I stopped outside the front room, considering if I should play a game with Ahmed to get rid of the ache in my chest, but instead I headed upstairs, lay on my bed, and put my headphones in, playing the angriest rap I could find on my playlist.
Chapter 13
The doorbell rang on Monday morning, and I ran to open the door. Sami stood outside with one hand on his bike saddle and the other in his pocket. Not chirpy like he had been last week.
“What’s up with you?” I said, turning to grab my schoolbag and blazer.
