Growing Yams in London (4 page)

‘Yeah well, at least I’m not sad enough to fancy my brother’s best mate!’ I said, laughing.

‘You don’t have a brother so . . .’ Bharti said, shrugging. ‘Hold on, you fancied your mate’s brother!’

‘What?’

‘Nick’s brother, Paul?’ Bharti said.

‘What? That was different!’ I said.

I suddenly remembered the day Paul stopped being Nick’s mean older brother. Mum had asked me to return their mum’s plate, so as usual I jumped out of the car and knocked on their
door. Paul opened it whilst drying his hair with a towel. He was almost naked! He did have a pair of jeans on, but I was used to seeing him with a shirt on too. I was so shocked, I nearly dropped
the plate. There were muscles and stuff. I couldn’t believe it was the same boy who pinched me in the arm, threw mud at my tea party, and nearly ruined Nick’s seventh birthday by hiding
the cake in a tent in the garden.

‘Different how?’ Bharti demanded, interrupting my thoughts.

‘Well . . .’ I began, but I had no idea how to get out of this one.

I stopped when I saw two boys from St Mark’s heading our way. They looked familiar, and as they got closer I could see it was Mr DJ and his friend Stephen from Mel’s party.

‘Ohmigod, Bharti!’ I hissed, grabbing her arm. ‘That’s him!’

Bharti looked at me blankly.

‘The one from Mel’s party? Mr DJ!’ I added.

‘Oh right! There are two guys, so which one?’ she said.

‘The tall, good-looking one, of course!’ I hissed at her. Bharti never really listened to me.

‘Ooh I’m glad you said that. The other guy really isn’t your type. I’ve seen less spots on a Dalmatian . . .’

‘Bharti!’

‘Sorry, but he has. I don’t know if I can even look at him,’ she continued.

I gave her my ‘don’t go there’ look.

‘What?’

‘Well, remember when you had that allergic reaction? You were covered in spots and didn’t want to leave the house,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but that was different.’

‘Please, I’m begging you, don’t mess this up for me. I have enough trouble being myself around this guy, without you being all weird with his mate,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t do that!’ Bharti replied indignantly.

‘I didn’t mean . . .’ I began, but I stopped when I realised they were less than ten metres away from us. ‘Ohmigod, they’re about to walk past us. I can’t
find my lip-gloss!’ I said, frantically searching my bag. ‘Oh maaan!’

‘Here use mine,’ Bharti said, handing over hers.

I quickly turned away from them and applied it, whilst tugging my hair free of its band. I knew I owed her an apology, but I still thought that she was being mean about Stephen’s
spots.

‘All right?’ said Mr DJ.

‘Hiya,’ Bharti said, smiling.

I snapped my head round and nearly blinded him with a stray braid.

‘Ohmigod!’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Um . . . yeah, I think,’ he said, clutching his eye.

I looked over at Bharti who was trying desperately not to burst into laughter. I shot her a look.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I was devastated. I’d already lost any chance of going out with this guy.

‘Braids sometimes have a mind of their own,’ Bharti said.

That caused the biggest grin to come on to his face. I flashed a smile at Bharti.

‘I’m fine. My sister’s hair does the same ,’ he said, grinning.

At that moment I couldn’t have loved Bharti more.

He wasn’t much taller than me, but he towered over his friend. He had a black polo neck on under his school shirt and his hazel contacts looked almost natural against his ebony skin
tone.

‘They should come with a health warning . . .’ I added.

‘Hey aren’t you Tejas’s sister?’ asked Stephen.

‘Yeah,’ Bharti replied hesitantly.

‘I thought so! What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Bharti.’

‘I’m Stephen.’

That was the only part of their conversation I caught, as Mr DJ began talking to me. I stared at him, too stunned to listen properly.

‘Makeeda?’ Bharti said, raising her eyebrows at me.

‘Yeah?’ I said, coming out of my daze.

‘She’s only just changed networks,’ Bharti said and rattled out my mobile number.

‘OK, I’ll text you about the party then?’ Mr DJ said to me.

‘Sure,’ I said, watching him and Stephen walk away.

I knew there was no way my parents would let me go to a party if they’d never met the person holding it. I was just pleased he had my number.

‘Bye, then,’ he said, turning to smile at both of us.

‘When did he mention a party?’ I hissed at Bharti. ‘Wouldn’t mind going if he was there though,’ I said dreamily.

‘Oh boy, you’ve got it bad!’ Bharti said with a grin.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ohmigod, your hair! What was that all about?’ Bharti was almost shaking with laughter.

‘I know. Talk about embarrassing!’ I said, laughing too. ‘Thanks for . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway, what’s his name again, Makeeda?’

I looked blankly at Bharti. I didn’t remember giving him mine either. This was a disaster! I was so glad Bharti had been with me.

‘I’ll tell you his name if you buy me a nice, expensive hot chocolate,’ Bharti said giggling.

‘Deal,’ I said. ‘Bharti?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks for not making me look a complete idiot,’ I said and I hugged her.

‘Well, it’s not easy, but when you’ve got a job to do . . .’

‘Hey!’ I said, whacking her across the head.

‘That’s it, I’m going home!’ Bharti said jokingly. ‘You hit me!’

‘What? Come on, Bharti, please? You haven’t told me his name yet . . .’

‘Blimey, you really do have it bad! Beg some more and I’ll think about it,’ she said, rushing down the road as I began chasing her.

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but she was right. I did have it bad. My biggest problem was working out how to see him again.

I stared at the stairs ahead of me. It was four-fifteen and I had a maths lesson with Nick at five p.m., so I had forty-five minutes to sort out my history project. The threat
of a letter being sent to my parents was no way for anyone to live. I was beginning to get stressed out. For some reason, I didn’t want to just hand in an essay plan based on the first female
biography I found in the library. Mrs Hipman said we had to find an inspirational individual. It would be easy enough to just write a paragraph at the end saying why I chose this woman, but I
actually wanted to mean it when I said this person inspired me.

I climbed the stairs to the public library and was surprised by the number of posters for Black History Month. I walked in and saw more posters and a display of African artefacts alongside a
piece of ntoma cloth that was acting as a backdrop to books written by mainly African American authors alongside novels by Black and Asian British writers and biographies of Black and Asian
footballers and actors.

As I flicked through a book about the Transatlantic Slave Trade, I began to wonder if Aunt Grace was right. She said Black History Month was like Carnival: the one part of the year when it was
cool to be Black. Mum said that Aunt Grace could be bitter at times, and that things were no longer as bad as twenty or thirty years ago. When I asked her what she meant, she told me how they used
to cheer when a black person was on television, then how that changed to hoping that the black actor in the detective programme wasn’t playing a criminal, as usual. I was really shocked as I
thought actors got to play different parts regardless of their race. At school no one ever made a big deal about stuff like that and we’ve always had multicultural performances, although in
nursery Auntie Angie had to come in when Mel was told she couldn’t play Gretel in
Hansel and Gretel
because she didn’t look like the girl in the book.

I found a desk and dumped my coat and bag on it. I headed for the history section but got bored looking for the perfect material, so I returned to my desk and flicked through a book on the
Crimean War. I was about to make notes on Mary Seacole for my history project, when my phone rang.

‘Switch it off!’ screamed a librarian, as I ran out of the library.

‘Hello?’ I gasped.

‘It’s me!’ Mel said. ‘Why are you out of breath?’

‘I’ve been running.’

‘That’s why you should be on a school team, with Laura and me.’

‘Mel!’

‘Seriously, after a month of training you’d be so much fitter!’

Great, I had Mel going on about my lack of exercise and Laura agreeing in the background.

‘Mel, I’m freezing my butt here, what’s up?’ I asked, irritated.

‘I needed to know if you wanted to come bowling tonight.’

‘I can’t. Mum would kill me if I went out on a week night.’

‘Ahh maaan! Makeeda, you don’t have to tell her everything, you know!’ Mel said, sighing. ‘I’m about to hand that DJ to you on a plate!’

‘Seriously, Mel, I can’t, not even for Nelson.’ Bharti had told me his name after two low fat hot chocolates. They were expensive but worth it.

I hadn’t told Mel that he had already sent me a text. He said he was just checking he had the right number, but it was a start.

‘Laura thinks you’re mad to give up on seeing that guy.’

I wanted to scream that I hadn’t given up on anything, but I didn’t want Laura knowing my business.

‘Look, I’d better go,’ I said.

‘Where are you anyway?’

‘The library.’

‘B-O-R-I-N-G!’ Mel intoned.

I could hear Laura giggling in the background.

‘Whatever!’ I said, cutting her off.

Sometimes Mel was mean. She had probably already done her homework, but I still had Mrs Hipman’s project, on top of everything else. I stormed back into the library and fished out a
magazine from my bag. Mum hates me reading too many magazines, so I hide them. Gradually I began to calm down, especially when I saw an article on ten ways to tell if a boy fancies you.

Step one: Does he ignore you or pick fights with you?
Hmm . . . Nelson did pick a fight at Mel’s party, when I said he liked Fairytale.

Step two: Does he hit you playfully? This is a boy’s way of achieving physical contact.
Yes, he definitely did that when I . . .

‘Ouch!’ I said, looking up to see Nick.

‘All right?’ he said and slid into the seat opposite me.

Nick is tall and skinny (despite his ability to eat more joloff rice and fried plantain than anyone I’d ever met). His mum is Ghanaian and his dad is Polish, so Nick has brown ringlets he
wears like a mop, Caucasian skin and green eyes. Mel thinks he is fit but all I see is the boy who threw up on me when I was eight, and gave me chickenpox when I was ten. The only time I’ve
ever been grateful to have him as a family member was when José Santos bullied me in primary school. Nick was in the year above me, and that was a year below José. Despite this and
his skinny little frame, when Nick saw me being pushed around in the playground during lunch break, he pushed José so hard that he fell backwards and ended up with a sprained wrist. When the
teachers arrived, José was too embarrassed and in too much pain to tell them Nick had pushed him. Since then, the legend that is Nick’s strength has meant that no one has even breathed
too hard in his direction. He never talks about it. Even now when I tease him, he just changes the subject.

‘Do you mind?’ I said, rubbing my head.

This was his usual way of saying hello: I get whacked across the head with his latest reading book, and he just smirks at my discomfort.

‘No,’ he said, pulling one of my braids loose.

‘Keep the noise down,’ said a library assistant, shelving books to our left.

‘Ohmigod, how many times? Don’t. Touch. The hair!’ I said angrily.

‘Whatever. Shall we start?’ he said, removing the scariest looking maths text book from his bag.

‘Er . . . we’re not using that are we?’

‘Makeeda, you can barely add. Why would I use an AS-level book to teach you? It’s for me to use while you’re doing some of the exercises in here,’ he said and took a
smaller GCSE textbook from his bag.

‘I knew that! I was just mucking around,’ I lied.

Nick already thinks I’m dumb: I don’t want to give him any ammunition.

‘Yeah?’ He had a smirk on his face.

I really wanted to know his opinion about Nelson, but Nick and I never really spoke about relationships. He even looked embarrassed when I bumped into him and his ex-girlfriend Maria last month.
They weren’t kissing, but he went the shade of a bus (well, a red one) and all I said was hi.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said.

‘Seriously, Makeeda, we have to get on with the lesson. I’ve got revision to do after this. You do know this is my GCSE year?’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I fail, I’ll have to do retakes and my first choice for sixth form goes out of the window . . .’

‘Nick, you’re not going to fail! You’re already way beyond GCSE level.’

‘If you two don’t keep the noise down . . .’ began the librarian.

‘Sorry,’ we chorused.

‘OK, but in here it says that if a boy likes you . . .’ I began in a whisper.

‘Give me that!’ he said, snatching the magazine from me. ‘Makeeda, you’re meant to work this out for yourself!’