Tuesday, 30 March 2021
‘What’s up bro?’ This is how my best mate, Mo, addresses me nearly every lunchtime these days. Without fail, he’ll thump down onto the chair beside me, study my face, lean in towards me and ask this question.
I feel like I’ll never get used to this college. Everyone is so laidback. Daily, I’m soul searching: why did I quit school and come here? Well there was an answer to that a year ago: because I was so damn miserable there that I couldn’t wait to leave. I was counting down to my exit since year ten, forever the misfit, wandering around in circles, so completely alone. But it seems I’ll always be the misfit, for I feel exactly the same here.
‘Seriously bro,’ he says when I don’t answer, ‘what’s up with you?’
This time I shrug my shoulders. ‘Nothing,’ I mutter.
Mo puts on that goofy face of his and starts messing about. He’s all bluster, never serious. I don’t know why I feel so out of place here; the faces in the canteen are so diverse, like all the world gathered together to share bread. There are afros and braids here, headscarves and turbans, skin of every shade and hue. My face fits, but that’s all. Grinning at me, Mo nearly breaks into song: ‘You’re in love, Ib,’ he laughs, ‘I can tell.’
This is Mo every single day: always the comedian.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I tell him, fleeing his gaze.
‘Then why’ve you been staring at Ayşegül all day?’
‘I’m not staring.’
‘You are, man,’ he chuckles, ‘The girls are laughing at you right now.’
The girls he speaks of are my great adversaries at college. He doesn’t mean girls generally. He doesn’t mean the BLM clique, nor the indie crew. He doesn’t mean the trainee beauticians, the science nerds or the wannabe influencers. No, he means Zahra, Rimsha, Shumaila and Parveen who seem to spend their entire lives convulsed in stitches, at my expense. I can’t really express how much I hate those four imbeciles. Sparing me from their dumb stares is the only thing I’m grateful to lockdowns for. But Mo’s right. Peeking across the canteen, I’ve already seen them pointing at me, nudging Ayşegül and laughing their heads off.
‘I hate those giggling weirdos,’ I tell him, ‘They’re so immature.’
Mo’s not much better, though. ‘Why don’t you just talk to her, man?’ he asks. ‘Or are you intimidated by her hijab?’
‘No,’ I moan. ‘And I’m not even thinking about that.’
‘What? Love?’
‘No, I’m just…’
‘Yes?’
‘I just want to ask her about something.’
‘Ask her what?’ laughs Mo, mocking me, ‘What’s there to talk about except love?’
‘I need her brains.’
‘You calling her square?’
‘I’m calling her a genius.’
‘She’s a nerd, Ib. But she’s a beautiful nerd, I’ll give you that.’
‘Just be quiet,’ I mutter, vexed.
Of course, Mo just laughs in my face: he thinks I’m a joke, too shy for my own good. ‘I’ll sort you two out,’ he tells me.
‘I don’t need anything sorting out for me,’ I say. Then I think about it a bit more. ‘Ayşegül’s too good for me anyway.’
‘I knew it, man,’ he guffaws, ‘you’re in love.’
Hopelessly, I watch as my mate clatters to his feet and bounds across the canteen, that table encircled by those five friends firmly in his sights. In despair, I watch him pointing back at me, prompting yet more derision. Obviously, I’m not going to wait around to see what happens next. It’s time to make my move and leave them to their fatuous stupidity. I’ve got revision to do, anyway.
I spend most of my life in the library, in between classes. Mo: I’ve never seen him in here. In fact, I rarely see any of my mates doing any kind of study at all; I guess we aspire to different things. I want to get away, far from here; they just want to hang about and enjoy themselves until they’re forced to get a proper job. Mo always says to me, ‘Just live a little, bro.’ Me: yeah, I want the same, but not how he means. In truth, I want to live a lot, but not by being sucked into their world. I’m not that daft.
I spend the next twenty minutes sitting in one of the dark pink bucket chairs next to the magazines. I don’t know why I always pick the New Internationalist. Is it because my dad’s English and my mum’s Indian, or am I just a secret socialist? Oh, but as if to compound my woes, I’ve hit upon an article entitled, Love and other conspiracies, which has sent my mind tumbling over my mum’s revelations last night about her own conversion. How I’d love the conspiracy theorists to get their teeth into that one. I can’t even make sense of it myself. If only I’d picked up The Economist instead.
At ten to two, I abandon my reading back on the shelf in the hope it’ll perturb someone else after me, and wander down the stairs in pursuit of my first lesson of the afternoon. There are so many stairs in this place. I feel like I’m being prepared for a future walking up and down them. Does that mean I’m destined for a career in healthcare? I must say my college reminds me of a hospital, with its white tiled floors and endless corridors, not to mention the mandatory surgical masks. It’s a bit depressing, when I think about it.
At five to two, I come to a halt outside my classroom, waiting first in line for our tutor to arrive. First in line because, well, I guess all my friends are right about me: super nerd, alpha geek, anorak, dork. Mo, if he arrives at all, will turn up fashionably late, blustering into the room with a hilarious jibe which will set everyone at ease. Me? I just seem to invite derision wherever I go. Yes, and here we go again, for I’ve seen them: Ayşegül and Zahra are coming my way. Zahra’s ceaseless laughter grates with me, but it’s the sight of Ayşegül which sends my gaze plummeting to the floor. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but it suddenly feels way too hot in here.
‘There he is,’ I hear Zahra whisper in her friend’s ear, and then I shrink back in horror as she pushes her right in front of me, causing both of us to panic. ‘Don’t be shy, Ibs,’ scoffs Zahra, ridiculing me as usual. ‘Your mate said you wanted to speak.’ Momentarily she glances at her friend, smirking blithely. ‘I’ll leave you to it, yeah?’
In a year and a half, I’ve never spoken to Ayşegül. We’re not in the same tutor group, but she’s in a couple of my classes. Of course, I’m aware of her; how could I not be, for she seems to float so gracefully around college, clothed in those long flowing skirts and scarves of hers. Now, all a sudden, she stands directly in front of me, seeking my eyes.
‘You look stressed, Ibrahim,’ she says, smiling benevolently.
Timidly, I glance back at her. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I mutter.
‘Why sorry?’
‘My mate’s an idiot,’ I tell her, ‘It’s not…’
‘Not what?’
I have to stop and think. To be honest, I have no idea what Mo said to them, but I think I can guess. Mo’s never going to get a job as a diplomat. No, I know exactly what he’s said to them, so it’s best I start with an apology. ‘I know you don’t do the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing,’ I whisper, eyeing the floor once more.
‘I know you don’t either,’ she replies, still smiling.
‘Yeah,’ I nod.
This is awkward; seriously awkward. I wish I was normal. I wish I wasn’t so self-conscious. I wish I could just go with the flow like everyone else. I wish I knew what I was doing.
‘So?’ she says, ‘Your mate said you wanted to talk to me about something.’
‘Yeah, I do,’ I stutter. ‘You’re a computer whizz, right?’
‘I know a bit,’ she says.
I know for a fact that she’s being modest, because I’ve seen her at work; she’s amazing. ‘I need your help,’ I tell her. Yes, if anyone can help me, it’s her. ‘Do you think, possibly… maybe… you might be able to…’ Now Ayşegül seems to be laughing at me too. Oh why, oh why am I so awkward? ‘Could you perhaps… give me, like, ten minutes… later on?’
Ayşegül’s not like me at all; she’s self-assured, her face always bright with that eternal happiness of hers. She must think I’m a total moron. No, but she doesn’t let on. ‘Sure,’ she says instead: ‘anything.’
‘Really? Seriously?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ she says, nodding. ‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘Library’s best. Maybe, like, three-thirty?’
‘Sure,’ she says, grinning. ‘Inshallah.’
‘I’ll grab a computer.’ Yeah, smile Ibby: smile back at her. No, but I can’t, and don’t. It’ll have to be a self-conscious murmur of my lips instead: ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, ‘and, erm, jazak...’
‘Really, it’s no problem at all,’ she says, ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah, seriously, Ibrahim,’ she laughs, leaving me, a skip in her step.
