fruit and frowned.
‘You can’t just eat that,’ she exclaimed and was already making me a cheese-and-prawn sandwich when Bubblee came down.
‘Morning,’ Malik said to her.
I took the sandwich Mum handed to me as I watched them and munched on the huge bite I’d taken. Bubblee simply gave him a nod as she made a cup of coffee for herself.
‘Amma, I really think you should call Jay,’ she said to Mum.
Malik glanced at her as she said this. ‘Bubblee is right, Kala,’ he added. ‘Wouldn’t he want to know?’
Mum looked annoyed but turned around and got the flour out for the chapattis.
‘I know Farah’d want to talk to him,’ added Bubblee. ‘And she’s in no state to call him herself, or tell him what’s happened.’
Mum shot her a look before turning to Malik. ‘There’s no need to worry him,’ she said.
I saw Bubblee shaking her head in disbelief. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the fact that Malik was staring at her. I took another bite of my sandwich and wished I hadn’t as Malik looked at me – my mouth full – while Bubblee’s delicate mouth sipped at her coffee. He smiled at me though, so kindly that I didn’t know whether to swallow what was in my mouth, or cry.
This place kills me. I’m, quite frankly, dying on the inside. I always knew Wyvernage was pedestrian, but it’s never seemed so closed-minded as it does to me now that I’ve actually lived away from it. And everything, absolutely everything, ends up revolving around Jay. The male XY chromosomes – a blight to all our lives – only our parents are too visually impaired to see it. The golden child, simply because he’s a boy.
I walked down the steeped curve towards the town’s green, passing the small shops – the store I’d always go to because it was the only one that sold Arts Illustrated; a crafts shop where I’d buy paint and utensils; the off-licence and grocery store and charity shop. Even though none of them were new, I had to get out of the house – away from that Malik. Not to mention Farah. I made it to the park and sat on the bench, watching white families with their white kids, living their middle-class lives in their white little bubble. I’m told you can find art anywhere, but not here. Art should be messy and full of grit – this is all so clean. You can’t feel things here. You can’t create something. I noticed that someone had left a glass bottle by the bin because it was full. I stared at it as an empty packet of crisps fell out of the bin. Walking up to it, I knelt down and saw there were still a few crumbs left in the crisp packet. I emptied it out next to the bottle, tipping the bottle onto its side as I observed the effect. Taking a photo with my phone, I sent the image to Sasha. It was the most art I’d get out of this place. I mean, of all the things my twin sister could’ve done with her life, she chose to stay here; to get married to a man who’s exactly like this place – uninspiring. I had to laugh as I shook my head; I mean, if you live your life trying to fit in here, there’s got to be something wrong with you.
When I walked back home I saw Farah opening her car door. She paused as she saw me. I noticed the way the sunlight hit her heart-shaped face, her black hair shining as it hung loose over her shoulders. It reminded me of how she looked when, as kids, we’d play out in the garden in the sun – Mae crawling around on her scrawny hands and knees, Fatti in her bedroom, looking out at us. Jay destroying something or other. Only Farah used to laugh a lot back then. She doesn’t laugh like that now.
‘Last one in’s a rotten bean,’ shouted Mae as she seemed to come out of nowhere and sprang into the car. She popped her head out of the window from the passenger’s side.
‘You might as well get in – do you know the carbon footprint we leave behind because we’re too lazy to plan journeys or get a bike?’
I walked up to the car. ‘Go sit in the back like the family dog you are,’ I said to Mae.
‘Get lost. You’re sitting there with your husband – oh, look. There he is.’
And out he walked in his ridiculous trilby, trying to be something he’s not. As if a hat can make you English.
‘Wish Mum and Dad hadn’t forced Fatti to go in their car,’ said Mae as I got into the back. ‘Him in the middle and both of you either side.’ She burst out into laughter.
‘Mae,’ said Farah as she got in and Malik followed suit.
‘Bubblee,’ he said.
Even his voice was annoying. I bet he was looking at me, thinking how nice I’d look on his arm when we went out, and how much nicer standing in the kitchen, making his dinner for him. I looked out of the window. Does it look like I was born yesterday? My parents might not have said anything to him about marriage, but I know these men from Bangladesh – especially one who’s in his thirties and ready to get married. When he looked at me, I could imagine just what he was thinking.
A few minutes into the journey he said: ‘This is a very nice green place, isn’t it? Mustafa would talk about it and I never could picture it. He was very happy here,’ he said, looking at Farah through her rear-view mirror. ‘What are your neighbours like?’ he asked.
‘Starkers,’ said Mae, turning around.
He looked at Mae, confused. She stuck a carrot-stick in her mouth. ‘Naked, Mal-meister. Sorry, Mal-meister Baia.’ She chomped on the carrot. ‘They don’t wear clothes. Nudists, through and through.’
He frowned. Yes, here we get to live as we please. Although, the sight of them in the garden is always a little disturbing.
He shook his head. ‘What is the world coming to?’
‘I suppose you’d have everyone covered, head to toe, not being able to leave the house?’ I replied.
He smiled. ‘Ah, you think all men from back home
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