itt.’
He stopped and stared. Others did too, as though they were seeing me for the first time. Then someone mentioned this twat in another class who stuttered so badly nobody talked to him. Assuming I had been mocking him, they broke into laughter. I laughed too. But deep inside I felt a surge of panic. I pushed my tray towards Arshad and gestured with my head that he could have what was left. I’d lost my appetite.
When the break was over, I returned to the classroom in low spirits. How could I have developed a speech impediment, just like that? Nobody in my family stammered. Weren’t these things supposed to be genetic? Maybe not. It could be a blip; a one-off. A temporary psych-out, like a bad trip. Maybe it would go away as suddenly as it had appeared. I had to find out. So I put my watch in my pocket and approached two girls to ask the time. But the only thing that came out of my mouth was a strangled sound.
The girls giggled. Airheads! They must have thought I had a crush on them. I turned away, my face burning. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my girlfriend watching my every move. When the history class started, Katie threw me a note.
Maggie, Christine, Hilary. If boy, Tom.
I crumpled the paper and slipped it into my pocket. Immediately, she hurled another ball.
What’s up with you?
I shrugged, meaning it was nothing important. But even if Katie got the message she didn’t look convinced. So I wrote her back:
Tell you later!
Throughout the entire class, I was worried sick the teacher would ask me something. I would become the butt of jokes for ever. Fortunately, there were no questions. As soon as the torture was over, I grabbed my rucksack and headed to the door. I decided to blow off the rest of my classes and go home early for once.
*
It was three thirty when I reached our house and rang the bell. As I waited for the door to open, my eyes slid to the name beside the doorbell:
ADEM TOPRAK
My sister, Esma, had written this in her flowery handwriting. Against her better judgement. ‘We live here as well,’ she grumbled. ‘Why write only Dad’s name?’
Esma was a frail girl but she always expressed herself with giant ideas: equal opportunity, social justice, women’s rights . . . My friends thought she was either barmy or a Communist. If it were up to her she would have written instead:
THE TOPRAK FAMILY
Or else,
ADEM, PEMBE, ISKENDER, ESMA, YUNUS & THE GOLDFISH
Either way I didn’t give a toss. I, myself, would have left the nameplate anonymous. That would have been more decent, more straightforward. It would be my way of saying nobody lived here. Not really. We didn’t live in this flat, only sojourned. Home to us was no different than a one-star hotel where Mum washed the bed sheets instead of maids and where every morning the breakfast would be the same: white cheese, black olives, tea in small glasses – never with milk.
Arshad might some day play in League Division One, for all I knew. He could fill his pockets with pictures of the Queen and his car with gorgeous birds, but people like us would always be outsiders. We Topraks were only passers-by in this city – a half-Turkish, half-Kurdish family in the wrong end of London.
I rang the bell again. Not a peep. Where on earth was Mum? She couldn’t be at the Crystal Scissors. She had quit her job days ago. I was the head of the family since Dad had gone off and I didn’t want her to work any more. She cried a lot but didn’t resist. She knew I had my reasons. People were gossiping. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. So I told her to stay home. I had to put out the flames.
Nobody at school was aware of what was going on. And I wanted it to stay that way. School was school, home was home. Katie didn’t know a thing either. Your girlfriend was your girl, your family was your family. Certain things had to be kept separate. Like water and oil.
It occurred to me that Mum might have gone to get the shopping or
He stopped and stared. Others did too, as though they were seeing me for the first time. Then someone mentioned this twat in another class who stuttered so badly nobody talked to him. Assuming I had been mocking him, they broke into laughter. I laughed too. But deep inside I felt a surge of panic. I pushed my tray towards Arshad and gestured with my head that he could have what was left. I’d lost my appetite.
When the break was over, I returned to the classroom in low spirits. How could I have developed a speech impediment, just like that? Nobody in my family stammered. Weren’t these things supposed to be genetic? Maybe not. It could be a blip; a one-off. A temporary psych-out, like a bad trip. Maybe it would go away as suddenly as it had appeared. I had to find out. So I put my watch in my pocket and approached two girls to ask the time. But the only thing that came out of my mouth was a strangled sound.
The girls giggled. Airheads! They must have thought I had a crush on them. I turned away, my face burning. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my girlfriend watching my every move. When the history class started, Katie threw me a note.
Maggie, Christine, Hilary. If boy, Tom.
I crumpled the paper and slipped it into my pocket. Immediately, she hurled another ball.
What’s up with you?
I shrugged, meaning it was nothing important. But even if Katie got the message she didn’t look convinced. So I wrote her back:
Tell you later!
Throughout the entire class, I was worried sick the teacher would ask me something. I would become the butt of jokes for ever. Fortunately, there were no questions. As soon as the torture was over, I grabbed my rucksack and headed to the door. I decided to blow off the rest of my classes and go home early for once.
*
It was three thirty when I reached our house and rang the bell. As I waited for the door to open, my eyes slid to the name beside the doorbell:
ADEM TOPRAK
My sister, Esma, had written this in her flowery handwriting. Against her better judgement. ‘We live here as well,’ she grumbled. ‘Why write only Dad’s name?’
Esma was a frail girl but she always expressed herself with giant ideas: equal opportunity, social justice, women’s rights . . . My friends thought she was either barmy or a Communist. If it were up to her she would have written instead:
THE TOPRAK FAMILY
Or else,
ADEM, PEMBE, ISKENDER, ESMA, YUNUS & THE GOLDFISH
Either way I didn’t give a toss. I, myself, would have left the nameplate anonymous. That would have been more decent, more straightforward. It would be my way of saying nobody lived here. Not really. We didn’t live in this flat, only sojourned. Home to us was no different than a one-star hotel where Mum washed the bed sheets instead of maids and where every morning the breakfast would be the same: white cheese, black olives, tea in small glasses – never with milk.
Arshad might some day play in League Division One, for all I knew. He could fill his pockets with pictures of the Queen and his car with gorgeous birds, but people like us would always be outsiders. We Topraks were only passers-by in this city – a half-Turkish, half-Kurdish family in the wrong end of London.
I rang the bell again. Not a peep. Where on earth was Mum? She couldn’t be at the Crystal Scissors. She had quit her job days ago. I was the head of the family since Dad had gone off and I didn’t want her to work any more. She cried a lot but didn’t resist. She knew I had my reasons. People were gossiping. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. So I told her to stay home. I had to put out the flames.
Nobody at school was aware of what was going on. And I wanted it to stay that way. School was school, home was home. Katie didn’t know a thing either. Your girlfriend was your girl, your family was your family. Certain things had to be kept separate. Like water and oil.
It occurred to me that Mum might have gone to get the shopping or
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