Ten Steps To Us

CHAPTER ONE

I fold the black scarf into a large triangle and the material feels smooth under my fingers.

Shafqat Aunty’s suggestion of using viscose is good because the scarf doesn’t slip as much. Staring at the mirror I drape my protective shield—my hijab—over my head, the right side hanging down on to my shoulder. I place the shorter end under my chin. Taking the long side, I wrap it behind my head, then pull it over to the left, fixing it into place with my silver sequinned pin, and see a solitary strand of hair poking out. I tuck it back under the scarf and smile at my reflection.

Aisha, why you have to wear this thing all the time? Mum asks, walking into my room. Why you are making life harder for yourself?

I know she’s only worried about me, but her voice is so shrill the words practically ring in my ears. I remember all the fights Mum and I have had. She didn’t want me to wear the hijab because she felt people would treat me differently and it could affect my chances of getting into university or getting a job. I might be picked on for the rest of my life, but I knew it was the right thing for me to do.

I’m fine Mum, don’t worry about it. Everyone’s okay with it.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? Mum gives me a disapproving look and I escape the house in a hurry.

It rained the whole Easter holidays, but now that we’re going back to school it’s sunny and warm. Typical. The leaves on the trees flutter in the wind and I smell freshly cut grass. Just thinking of the summer term makes me think of exams— year twelve exams! Things are getting serious. If I want to get out of Kent and move to London for university I really need to knuckle down. There’s so much more diversity in London. At least there I won’t feel out of place like I do here in school.

I’m waiting for the bus when I see two boys from the neighbouring school wearing scruffy grey uniforms, one fat with a shaved head, and one thin.

Fancy a smoke? the boy with the shaved head says, offering me one.

I’m nauseated by the stench of cigarette smoke as he leans towards me.

I don’t smoke.

Is that cos you’re a Moooslim? Your mummy and daddy and your Allah wouldn’t like it. Shaved head has a deep, nasty voice.

I don’t want to, okay? I turn away.

Go on, you’ll like it once you try it.

That’s when I hear the skinny one whisper, Pull her scarf off.

I’ve been bullied before, but no one’s ever threatened to remove my scarf. My heart pounds and I shuffle backwards but there’s nowhere left to go; I’m trapped against the back of the bus shelter. Other people at the bus stop turn their heads away. I instinctively put my hands to my hijab and pull the edges of the fabric towards me.

Try it. Shaved head practically pushes the cigarette into my mouth. He stinks of B.O. I twist away and silently start praying to myself in Arabic.

"Qul ho wal a ho ahad—allah hoos samad lam ya lid wa lam u lud, was lam ya qul la hoo kofo one ahad."

I can’t remember exactly what it means word for word, but I know it’s a prayer to protect you from bad things.

As the boys tower over me, I start shaking, my legs like jelly as though I’m sinking into the ground, like it’s turned to quicksand. Suddenly, a hand appears over shaved head’s shoulders, grasps his wrist, and yanks it away from my face.

She said no, okay? a male voice says forcefully.

At first, the sunlight in my eyes made my saviour seem like a huge, invincible shadow-creature, but now I see that he’s a tall, dark-haired boy with floppy hair. He pulls shaved head by his arm, forcing him to step away from me.

Alright, mate, I got it, I’ll leave her alone!

Dark-haired boy lets go of his arm.

What the hell? Hang out with terrorists if you want, the skinny boy shouts as he backs away.

Get out of here! dark-haired boy shouts, and the two boys scuttle away to the other side of the bus stop.

Thank you. I stare down at my shoes. I don’t want him to see the few tears that have escaped from my eyes.

I’m Darren by the way. I just moved here from London. What’s your name?

I look up and Darren smiles at me. For a second, my breath catches in my throat as I stare transfixed into his hazel eyes. They’re so dreamlike I could almost dive into them. My heart rate quickens. He’s tall and dressed smartly in black trousers with a white shirt and grey blazer. Not quite school uniform but formal.

I’m Aisha.

Thank you for helping me; thank you for not thinking like them, is what I want to say, but I can’t seem to get the words out.

Do you know Forest High? I’m gonna be in the sixth form there.

Aah, no wonder he’s dressed smartly; it’s school policy that sixth formers dress how they would for the world of work.

No way, I go there! I’m in sixth form too. I grin at him.

Is it any good? What are the teachers like?

I frown. Well, it depends on what you’re studying.

History, chemistry, and physics.

Handsome and clever.

That’s some tough subjects. What do you want to do?

I want to be a human rights lawyer.

Wow, caring too.

How comes you left London?

Darren’s smile vanishes. He swallows and stares at the floor with a frown. I’m. . . it’s complicated.

I wonder what’s wrong? I want to ask but I don’t want him to think I’m pushy. Luckily, the bus arrives before it becomes even more awkward.

Darren sits next to me once we’ve clambered aboard. I’ve sat next to boys before during class projects and stuff, but I’ve never felt so nervous. It’s like I’m so aware of everything—the shine on my nose, the tiny hole in my tights, the way I can’t stop my hands from fidgeting. Why have I never thought about how to talk to boys before? To be honest, the only boys I’ve really talked to are my annoying younger brothers and he certainly isn’t like them. He must think I’m so nervous and weird.

Is it always like that? Darren asks. I mean with the bullying and stuff.

Yeah, sometimes, but no one’s ever threatened to rip my scarf off before.

That’s so bad. Have you told anyone about this?

I feel my skin prickle. I hate the way he’s looking at me with pity.

It’s not that simple, you know, I eventually say.

I bet it’s really difficult.

Maybe I should stand up for myself more? Toughen up? But they’re the ones with the problem, not me. Why do I have to change?

Darren’s face flushes. No, of course you’re right. You don’t have to change who you are. A lot of my friends from my old school wore the hijab. The girls were pretty feisty and no one dared mess with them, but everyone’s different. I’m just glad I was there to help you. Those guys were total losers.

Thank you, I say.

He’s so lovely. I wonder why he’s being so nice to me. He smiles and I notice a little scar by his left eye. I focus on the scar and try not to think about how handsome he is with those ridiculously beautiful eyes that seem to pierce right through to my soul.

I look away. I’m not meant to notice things like that.

CHAPTER TWO

You do realise that new boy hasn’t stopped staring at you, Isabelle whispers during chemistry.

Isabelle Fleming has been my best friend since year seven, when we both had braces and scraped back hair. Now she wears her gorgeous brown hair long and bone straight. She has killer cheekbones, a slim frame, and her skirts are always very short, skin-tight, and just about adhering to the school policy of smart dress.

I’m always in black trousers, white shirt, black hijab. We couldn’t look more different, but we’re still best friends. We have a secret that no one else knows—we’re both really into Taylor Swift and Harry Styles. If anyone found that out about Isabelle, she would so lose her street cred. I often joke with her that she should never ditch me because I can totally blackmail her with this information whereas I don’t think anyone would be in the least bit interested or surprised to know that I still love them, especially Harry.

I’m blushing. I know she means Darren is staring at me as he’s the only new boy in school. He’s sitting by the window a few rows back. Our desks are in pairs and we both cast a furtive glance backwards. It’s true, he’s staring in our direction. I drop my gaze and try to focus on the equations on my page.

He’s gorgeous. She giggles.

Are you sure he’s not staring at you? I ask. You’re way better looking than me.

Let’s face facts: she is a lot prettier than me, and she’s allowed to date, unlike me.

Oh, that’s not true. Isabelle brushes me off, but I know she’s only saying that to be nice. She pushes her hair behind her ear and flashes me a conniving grin. Let’s go and chat to him after class.

I nod, ignoring my thoughts which are racing at a million miles per hour.

In true Isabelle fashion, as soon as class ends, she drags me by the hand to talk to Darren. He’s standing by the lockers right next to the chemistry lab. It’s always busy around here and there’s not enough room for me to edge in next to them, so I stand awkwardly to the side and resign myself to getting jostled by kids running between lessons.

So, what do you think of our school? Isabelle asks. Do you like Kent?

Darren shrugs. It’s pretty I suppose but it kind of sucks cos I don’t know anyone here—all my mates are in London.

And your girlfriend, I bet, Isabelle says.

She is so not subtle.

Darren looks right at me and says, I don’t have a girlfriend.

Why did he look at me? Did Isabelle notice?

Great! I mean no one will mind if you come to my party Friday night then, Isabelle says.

Will you be there, Aisha? Darren asks.

I shake my head.

Isabelle elbows him, so he focuses back on her, and bats her long lashes at him.

Aisha doesn’t come to parties, she says in her sweet flirty voice.

And I wish more than anything that I could go. I glance at the clock in the hallway; it’s time for Zuhr lunchtime prayer.

I need to go and pray, I say. I’ll catch you guys later.

I walk down the corridor towards the prayer room knowing I shouldn’t like that Darren was so focused on me, except I kinda do. I’m not really supposed to notice boys and, to be honest, it hasn’t really been a problem for ages. Not since my last crush, aged fourteen, on my cousin in Pakistan where nothing much could happen because our only line of communication was Instagram.

I’m almost at the prayer room when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find Darren standing in front of me.

Don’t you want to come to the party? You don’t have to drink, you know, if that’s what you’re worried about.

Another kid walks past us slowly in the corridor. From the corner of my eye, I see him gazing at us and I know he’s thinking, what’s this short girl in a hijab doing with this tall, good-looking guy?

I don’t go to parties, Darren.

But you want to come, don’t you? I’m sure we could find an excuse to tell your parents if they’re strict. You could say we have a study group.

You want me to lie to my parents? I raise my eyebrows.

The girls from my old school, they all had to make up stuff so they could go out. It’s not a big deal.

Not all Muslims are the same, I want to say, but I don’t. I know he’s only trying to be nice.

I don’t want to go to parties; I don’t want to smoke or drink. No one is making me wear this scarf. Mum and Dad’s nagging faces pop into my mind. Especially my parents. They would prefer it if I took it off. Look, I really need to go and pray.

I turn to go before he says something else stupid, but then he blurts out, Can I have your number?

He wants my number?! Why on earth does he want my number? Oh my God, what do I do? Does he fancy me? No, it can’t be that, maybe he just wants to be friends? After all, he is new to the area. I turn back around.

You can have my number but I’m not going to change my mind.

He hands me his phone and I type in the digits.

I’m texting you mine, he says.

A second later my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I’ve really got to go, I say.

He nods but he doesn’t move. I turn and walk away but I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. I can’t understand why my stomach’s turning somersaults and my face feels like it’s burning. I need to pray and ask Allah for guidance.

CHAPTER THREE

When I wake the next day, I’m shaking. I’m dreading going to the bus stop—what if those boys are there again? I secretly hope that Darren will be around to save me from any more trouble. I leave it till the last minute practically dragging my feet all the way.

When I get to the bus stop, the bullies from yesterday are there too and my stomach twists, but then I see Darren fiddling with his phone. I notice that he has gelled his hair back today. He looks up and waves. Was he waiting for me?

The boys from yesterday seem to be standing a million miles away from Darren and don’t say anything, although they do keep sneering and smirking at us.

Hey, Aisha, Darren greets me with a warm smile on his face which makes his eyes light up. The hair off his face today draws more attention to those hazel pools of deliciousness

Stop it, Aisha. Stop checking him out.

Did you just get here? I ask.

I’ve been here for about ten minutes, he replies. I was waiting for you.

What? He was waiting for me.

I didn’t want you to have to deal with those idiots again. He glances in the direction of the bullies, and they quickly look away.

I want to say something along the lines of, Oh my God, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, but instead I just nod and gulp to keep the nerves at bay.

That one on the left, he looks like such a weasel, he continues. Like he’s the fat kid’s slave, don’t you think?

Totally! I laugh.

I can tell that he has sensed how nervous I am and is trying to put me at ease, and it’s working. I’m already feeling more relaxed. He has this deep rich voice that reminds me of melted caramel.

You never told me what subjects you’re doing, Darren says.

Chemistry, history and maths.

Maybe we’ll have history together too. I was chuffed when I realised you were in my chemistry class.

Wow, he’s already planning what lessons we share; I’m taken aback by how direct he is. I secretly hope we do have the same class though. A buzz of excitement runs through me at the thought of sitting next to him.

So, what do you want to be, a doctor or something?

He clearly knows the Asian stereotypes.

I don’t know, I say. My parents would love that, but I’d really like to do a history degree or something. Pretty geeky, huh?

He shrugs. No, it’s cool. History is my weakest subject so I respect anyone who can write those long essays properly. You must be pretty smart.

I blush.

You should tutor me or something. He laughs.

I’d have to charge, you know, I say, smiling.

The bus arrives, and we have such a laugh on the journey. He wants to know all the dirt about the school staff, so I tell him about the chemistry teacher.

She seems super-scary, he says. Like she could shoot lasers from her eyes.

I know, right, she’s like a total dragon lady. We’re all petrified of her, I say. By the way, what do you think of the lab technician?

Who’s that? The weird guy with the mental weave and those mad coked-up eyes? The one who keeps dropping all the burettes and smashing them?

Yes! I laugh so hard I have to put my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t have described him better myself.

I don’t even know why I’m doing chemistry. I want to be a human rights lawyer, so God knows what help it will be.

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