We Are Not Okay Read online

  She steps closer to the table and looks down at me. Eyes too big for her small face, her slim frame squeezed uncomfortably into a too-short skirt and a too-low top. If it weren’t for her clothes and that ugly silver stud through her bottom lip, she could be pretty. But all I see in front of me is the girl who’s dating my boyfriend, the ‘distraction’ who’s stopping him from getting back together with me.

  I was lying to everyone when I said I didn’t care. Of course I care. Rhys was the only good thing in my life and now that’s gone. He didn’t care about the small petty things that I used to torture myself about – how much I had to eat that day, how dull my skin looked, that stain on my favourite pink skirt. He didn’t even care if I had make-up on. He said he liked me better without ‘that gunk’ on my face. He liked me for me, and that wasn’t something that I was used to.

  We got together purely out of convenience at first. We shared the same friends, went to the same parties, we were even in the same house at school. We participated in the same sports, of course Keith House always won at the school games. We were a team. And it was a team that I grew to love, and to need.

  I don’t even know when it started to go wrong, when he started to get bored. Because that’s what happens, right? All boys get bored eventually. Or maybe they just get bored of me.

  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.

  ULANA

  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 sit on desks, in chairs, lean against bookshelves. No one will notice me here.

  I stand by the door in the back. The door handle jabs into my spine a little but I stay. This is the perfect spot. This is my spot. I stand here every week.

  Some people take notes, while others hide their phones under the desks and text their friends. I don’t know why they come. Most won’t be applying to university and some won’t get in even if they do. I know why I come. Not because we’re obligated to sign up to one of the many UCAS sessions held throughout the school week. And not because I don’t know how to navigate the online system, or don’t know what universities are looking for in applicants. My grades are impeccable and I will certainly obtain unconditional offers for all the universities that I apply to. I could probably teach this class. In the second week, the instructor spent an hour walking us through how to complete the first page of the application form – ‘Personal Information’. I’m pretty confident we can all recall our full name, address, date of birth and a contact telephone number.

  That’s not why I come here.

  I wait until the lights dim, then watch as the instructor struggles to bring up the first slide of his PowerPoint presentation. Perfect time to slip out. No one turns. Anyone who does see me leave will probably just assume I’m going to the toilet and not question it.

  The hallway is already quiet, even though it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last bell. Those girls are long gone now. They’re probably shopping for a new eyeliner in Boots on the way home, or picking up the new Glamour or InStyle from WHSmith. Sometimes I dislike them. Other times, I envy them. I don’t have that luxury of ‘free time’. Between waking up and going to sleep, my day is mapped out for me. What I wouldn’t give for one afternoon after school where I could stay out as late as I want, skip dinner with the family, skip my evening readings, skip everything. Maybe I could leave school early, fake a sore belly, and have hours to myself – hours to lose to nothing, to lose to everything. But time slips by me, never glancing back. Time bumps into me in the hallway, and sits too close to me in the cafeteria. Time sits behind me in class, and ticks against my wrist, reminding me that seconds are passing, but that they don’t belong to me. They belong to everyone else. They belong to those girls.

  Time.

  When I reach the top of the hill, I look down at the watch on my wrist and adjust the alarm. I have thirty-five minutes. A deep breath escapes my lips. A flutter in my belly. Heat in my cheeks.

  Boys sitting beside girls.

  Girls meeting boys.

  I bite my lip, feel the pressure between the teeth build.

  And then I see him, waiting for me on the hill. He turns. He sees me. Finally someone sees me.

  Then there comes that smile.

  TRINA

  Journal Entry 1: 05.09.2018

  I saw him again this afternoon outside the biology department. I’d been rushing back from having a quick smoke outside the chemistry labs and was on my way to the girls’ toilets to brush my teeth before class, when I turned the corner and saw him. I always seem to see him there in that hallway, so much so that I find myself hanging around and waiting there sometimes in case he passes by. I never used to go down that hallway. It branches off to the Literature & Languages classrooms and since I’m not taking English or French this year there’s no need for me to venture down that way. But I know he has German after lunch period so instead of using the toilets by the chemistry wing, I now intentionally walk an extra four minutes out of my way for a chance of bumping into him. Is that stalking? No…surely not? I’ll Google that later.

  Anyway, today he was leaning against the wall, slapping his right palm against the stone to a particular rhythm like he was hearing a song that no one else could hear but him, while he waited for Mr Fischer to open the classroom door. And when the door did finally open, right before he turned his back on me – again – I could have sworn he looked up at me. Just briefly. Just long enough for me to notice and take a snapshot in my mind of his eyes, his body language, his expression.

  He was kind of happy to see me, but also not wanting to show that he was. Why the games?

  I like him.

  He likes me.

  This is a pretty easy problem to solve, isn’t it?? He’s the smart one, not me, so why isn’t he figuring this out? If he likes me as much as I like him then there’s no need for these mind games. We shouldn’t be avoiding each other or pretending that we’re not happy to see each other at school, in the hallway, outside at lunch, in the car park, when in fact we’re thrilled. He doesn’t have to not let on. He doesn’t have to pretend. Not with me.

  We had an amazing summer together. We spent practically all of our free time hanging out. He acted like we were in a proper relationship, but now this? It’s as if the summer never happened. But it did. I know it did, and so does he. How much longer am I supposed to wait for him?

  We don’t have all the time in the world to take this slowly if this is what is happening. We only have one more year together. He graduates in June and will go off to somewhere else new and exciting no doubt, Edinburgh or London or somewhere, and go to a fancy university that I can’t pronounce the name of let alone ever stand a chance of getting into myself. And even if I did stand a chance – in some crazy universe where I actually got good enough grades and had made Head Girl – I couldn’t afford to go.

  Tuition rates are insane. I know there’s funding, but I likely wouldn’t be eligible for it because it’s probably ‘merit-based’, right? People with bad grades and even worse attendance don’t get funded to go to uni to get more bad grades and skip more classes. No, the government would prefer to spend its money on students who will actually pass the course and graduate to get a job to contribute to society. Me – I’m a risk. No contribution to society so far. Except to the food and drink industry. I do frequent the newsagent down the street quite a bit to get cheap vodka for the weekend. Does that count? No probably not.

  And then there’s the books. A friend of mine in the year above went to Kelvin College this year to do her Access to Nursing and she’s already spent so much on the textbooks. And that’s just for her first semester! One book was apparently forty-five quid! She probably won’t even read it. You know anything that costs forty-five pounds will have tiny writing, graphs no doubt, and not the kinds of glossy colourful photos I like to see in a book!

  And the housing options suck – I could stay at home with Mum and commute by bus to the nearest uni, which Rhys probably wouldn’t choose. Or I could get student accommodation and be subjected to one toilet between twenty people. I could live with my friend but she lives in a council flat and probably couldn’t fit me in anyway. She’s also got a ten-month-old that her mum looks after during the day sometimes…me and a crying baby under one roof?

  No.

  University is not for me. Besides, I wouldn’t even be able to work out how to complete the first page of the UCAS application.

  University – or ‘Further Education’ as the guidance counsellor calls it – is for people who:

  1.Read William Shakespeare (and understand what the hell he’s saying – is it even in English?)

  2.Drink tea in the afternoons, especially if it comes w
ith a scone and a porcelain jar of clotted cream, whatever that is. Is it just regular cream? What makes it clotted?

  3.Write with a pen that has a fluffy thing on the top that sits on a spring and bounces side to side when you write with it

  4.Post photos of themselves with their parents, usually on some expensive holiday abroad – and they actually look normal, and HAPPY!

  5.Detail volunteer work experience at homes for the elderly and children’s hospitals on their profile and define this experience as ‘life changing’

  6.Use the term ‘extra-curricular activities’ on their CVs. Actually, bigger point here – it’s for people who have CVs!

  7.Have a five-year-plan that includes getting married and buying a fancy breed dog

  8.Make daily ‘To Do’ lists and probably tick off each item as it’s accomplished with that annoying fluffy top bobbing to the side pen!

  9.Colour-coordinate their school folders

  10.Season-coordinate their wardrobe – although this one sounds tempting as I hate digging into the back of my drawers in the dead of winter and only finding summer shorts and sleeveless vests

  I’ll tell you who it’s not for – and keep in mind, this list is where I fall in. It’s not for people who:

  1.Don’t read Shakespeare, but who have just one book on their bookshelf that has the inside pages ripped out and a stash of cigarettes inside (Mum goes through random bouts of ‘Ciggies are so bad for you’ moments and searches my bags and drawers to ‘help me’)

  2.Drink vodka and red bull – occasionally vodka and lemonade if I want to sleep that night for more than three minutes

  3.Write with a black sharpie pen – and only on the bathroom doors of the boys’ toilets at school

  4.List ‘partying’ and ‘sleeping’ on their activity list

  5.Post photos of their mates falling down the stairs of O’Neill’s on a Saturday night

  6.Have a mum that works at a home for the elderly for minimum wage, bathing creepy old men, while snobby girls with gel manicures breeze in for their daily thirty minutes of ‘Read to an Old Person and Feel Good About Myself After’