Read Online I Can't Think Straight by Shamim Sarif - Free Book Online Page B

gaze was sharper now and her back was straighter. Although Yasmin moved through life at a pace that seemed guaranteed to allow no reflection, she was in fact acutely sensitive to the motivations of every one of her family members. And at this moment, Yasmin recalled that Leyla had been playing the new kd lang CD almost non stop recently.
    ‘I met her through Ali,’ Leyla said, and she damped down the smile that unconsciously came to her face.
    Her, thought Yasmin. Strike one. She would have to tread carefully and change tack if she was to probe this further.
    ‘Can I ask you something?’
    ‘Sure,’ Leyla replied.
    ‘Have you done this often?’ Yasmin asked casually. ‘Lied to Mum and Dad?’
    ‘Never,’ said Leyla, crestfallen. ‘I can’t believe I did it.’
    Strike two, thought Yasmin. She’s already lying for this girl.
    ‘Is she nice-looking?’ Yasmin asked. Immediately, she realised this was far too obvious a strategy. Leyla immediately stiffened and laughed, and asked what kind of question that was. Though her obvious discomfort might in fact be a further clue. Never mind, Yasmin thought. She would leave it alone for now. There would be time to sniff out the details later. Maybe she would follow Leyla down to her room, pretend to look for a missing shirt or something. She was sure she’d seen a DVD of ‘The L Word’ lying around. That might be all the extra evidence she needed.
    ‘Anyway,’ Yasmin said, to break her sister’s awkwardness. ‘Congratulations.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘Defying your parents today.’
    Leyla gave a bitter half-laugh. ‘I didn’t defy them, I lied to them.’
    ‘Well, it’s a start,’ Yasmin said, determined to find a modicum of hope in the situation. ‘Now you just have to learn to do it with the truth.’
    ‘But they make it so difficult, don’t they?’ Leyla said, savagely. ‘I can’t bear the way they make such dramas out of every little thing. Every little deviation from their plans.’
    ‘Don’t blame them,’ Yasmin told her. ‘You’ve let them ignore you as a person for too long. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s always to make sure your drama is bigger than theirs. If they shout, shout louder. If they sulk, sulk harder.’
    ‘I don’t want to have to play those games,’ replied Leyla, and she stood up.
    ‘Sweetheart,’ Yasmin said. ‘Life is a game. And if you don’t want to miss it, you better get playing.’
    Leyla liked to think that it was this advice from her sibling that led her to be sitting alongside Tala the following evening in the warmth and darkness of a London theatre. On an impulse, Leyla had called to invite her new friend to see a play, and Tala had accepted with alacrity. The actors had been on stage for perhaps twenty minutes, and Leyla watched them moving about and talking, gradually realising that she had no idea what the plot was about, or who the characters were.
    For all her senses, all her perceptions were trained on just one small part of her body, the side of her forearm, which lay on the armrest between herself and Tala. When the curtain had risen, she had sensed Tala’s arm raise also, had felt it shift onto the narrow, velvet bridge between them, and she had almost pulled her own arm away, to give her more room. But the touch of Tala’s shirt against her bare skin had thrilled her, and it felt wonderful to have that connection with the girl beside her and she had remained there, with as much nonchalance as she could muster. When the audience laughed at a line, she smiled also, though she had no idea of what had been said, and took the opportunity to cast a sideways glance at Tala. Tala turned to meet the look, then leaned to whisper in Leyla’s ear.
    ‘I forgot to ask – did you bring your stories?’
    Leyla nodded and looked back at the stage, feeling her bag against her feet, the bag which contained two rolled up magazines which contained her short stories. She had been excited about giving