I Am Thunder Read online

  Not trusting the lift to be quick enough, I hurtled down the stairs. Salma stayed hot on my heels. She knew the deal; she’d had a strict Pakistani father of her own, before a heart attack stole him away.

  I yanked open the back door of our car. ‘Assalaamu alaykum, Dad!’ I called cheerfully. Or at least I tried to. All I heard was the bleat of a slaughtered lamb.

  ‘What time is it?’ Dad asked, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I lost track of—’

  ‘Salams, uncle-ji!’ Salma interrupted, all sugary sweet. ‘It was totally my fault. I was trying to buy—’

  ‘I am speaking to my daughter, Salma. Kindly keep quiet,’ Dad said.

  Cut by his abruptness, Salma dropped her eyes.

  ‘Again I ask,’ he said in that same dangerously calm tone. ‘What time is it?’

  I glanced at my phone. ‘It’s 3.50, but—’

  ‘Your father must be getting stupid,’ he said slowly. ‘He was certain your friend requested a 3 p.m. pick-up. You know, it’s a very hot day. This car park is like a—’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ I mumbled, growing more miserable by the second.

  ‘Stop interrupting!’ His words echoed round the car park, announcing my rudeness to the world. Shame filled my heart. ‘This car park is hot and stuffy, like a bloody oven, and your father can’t afford air conditioning because the racist people he works for won’t give him a promotion. As if my life wasn’t hard enough, now you also want to punish me, Muzna?’

  I shook my head, a tear rolling down my cheek. Time stood still as I stewed in humiliation. Finally he relented and told us to get in.

  To say the ride back to Salma’s was awkward would be an understatement. Good old Salma kept squeezing my hand, but I was drowning in guilt. I couldn’t help thinking that none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t tried to get rid of my facial hair. Perhaps Allah was punishing me for defying my mum?

  ‘Khuda hafiz, uncle-ji!’ Salma said cheerily, slamming the car door shut and waving at Dad as we pulled up outside her house.

  Silence foamed around us. I wished he’d just yell at me and be done with it.

  When he finally did speak, it was to say something completely unexpected.

  ‘Muchi, I think I’m going to lose my job.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I asked in horror.

  Whenever Dad had a tough day at work, he called his colleagues ‘racists’. Other times, he’d sing their praises, buying them boxes of mangoes we couldn’t afford, or luxury Christmas cards and presents. Totally confusing. But losing his job? That sounded pretty final.

  Dad sighed and shook his head. ‘This is why it is so important for you to become a doctor, beyta. Nobody can touch doctors. Insh’Allah, you’ll make a lot of money and live a comfortable life. Maybe you’ll also think of your poor Ami and Daddy when we become old and useless . . .’

  A career in medicine had been chosen for me on the day I’d been born. I wouldn’t have minded if I’d been any good at science, but I was crap. Writing was my talent. My only talent. Dad’d read my school reports, heard English teachers rave about me at parents’ evenings. He’d even smiled at my ‘Crazy Wall’ of one hundred and one story ideas. But the truth was, he couldn’t care less.

  Salma had these crazy ideas about becoming Hollywood royalty. Maybe she’d even pull it off. But I was different, and scared. Like I was so often reminded: Allah punished kids who disobeyed their parents.

  ‘I’ll try to make you and Ami proud of me,’ I promised, my voice cracking.

  And I would try. If I kept at it, maybe at some point science would start making sense in the effortless way that English did?

  ‘You’re a good girl, Muchi,’ Dad said. ‘Your Ami and I love you very much.’

  I glanced at his face in the rear-view mirror. It was beaten down and fragile, yet hope shone through the network of worry lines. Me becoming a doctor meant the world to him. How could I break his heart after all the sacrifices he’d made?

  He broke into a smile, seeming instantly years younger. ‘Look, Muchi,’ he whispered. ‘Kites!’

  I glanced out of the window. The common had been freshly mown, and the meadow scent of it filled my nose. A man ran parallel to us, flying an enormous kite shaped like a Chinese dragon. In his shadow scampered a kid, trying to get his own Pokémon kite airborne, but without much luck.

  From the way Dad’s face lit up, you’d think he’d seen the most beautiful thing in all Creation.

  When I’d been younger, Dad had told me stories about his adventures as a champion kite flier. Basant – the spring festival of kites and yellow clothes – was big business in Pakistan. Paper kites took to the sky, fluttering like butterflies, enticing people out of their houses with every colour of the rainbow. But it wasn’t just about beauty. Fighter kites battled it out in the heavens like angry gods. A yank here, a tear there, and before you knew it, a kite’s line had been cut. ‘Bo Kata!’ the victor would taunt. ‘Bo Kata!’

  Resting my cheek on a palm, I stared up at the sky. Two imaginary kites floated into existence: Dr Muzna vs Writer Muzna. They bobbed and danced in circles, sizing each other up like boxers in a ring. Then, without warning, they lunged.

  Bo Kata!

  In the end, it was over before it had even begun. Doctor trumped Writer.

  It was time for me to stop living up in the clouds.

  CHAPTER 4

  At 9 p.m. my mother brought up a plate of Oreos and a glass of warm milk. Another thing Salma would take the mickey out of, if she knew. Ami stroked my hair, telling me in Punjabi not to stay up too late. Unlike Dad, my mum didn’t speak a word of English.

  ‘I wish I had gone to school,’ she said, squinting at the words on my laptop screen as if they were mysterious hieroglyphs.

  ‘You could take adult classes?’ I suggested, dunking a cookie in my milk. ‘Loads of people do.’

  She laughed. ‘But Allah did not give your mother brains! Still, I am not complaining. He gave me you, Muchi. And you are cleverer than most sons.’

  With a rattle of her gold bangles, and a swish of her apple-green dupatta, she was gone, leaving me to think on her words. I realized Ami didn’t want me ending up like her. That made me sad because to me, she was the most special woman in the whole world.

  I turned my attention back to my story about bride burning. Even if I had to be a doctor, there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t be a writer too. Like, in my spare time. Turned out bride burning was a thing. The internet had the gory photos to prove it. It was a way for in-laws to get rid of a bride they didn’t like. If you weren’t immediately killed in the blast of an exploding oven, you were stuck with looking like an alien from Doctor Who for the rest of your life. What was my stupid facial-hair problem compared to fourth-degree burns?

  In that moment, I resolved to become the kind of doctor who specialized in treating burns victims. But in the meantime, I’d write my story. A tribute to my wronged sisters.

  My laptop pinged, startling me. A chat box had opened in the centre of the screen.

  Salams. Can’t stop thinking about you.

  Kasim Iqbal had found me again.

  Unable to move a muscle, I stared at the message. My blood pumped like thunder in my ears. How was this even possible? I’d gone nowhere near the Dono Aanke Khuli website again . . .

  Don’t be scared. I’m Muslim. You got nothing to fear.

  Life returned to my fingers and I typed out a reply.

  How did you find me???

  Allah guided me. Even better – we don’t have your dirty friend getting in the way.

  I felt myself blush remembering how Salma had behaved when she’d seen his photo. But how could Kasim know that? Come to think of it, how did he know Salma wasn’t with me now?

  I stared at my webcam lens, and it stared right back. OMG, I’d been hacked. I was about to slam the laptop shut, when another message sprang up.

  Please don’t shut me out! I feel like we have a connection.
At least help me with my detective game. What harm can it do? Please!

  WHY ARE YOU WATCHING ME?????? I stuck my thumb over the lens, seriously creeped out.

  Sorry. Just you seem like a really nice person. And you’re really pretty.

  My hand flew to my mouth. I was the type of girl who regularly got bullied for being butters. Could the bleaching crème have made all the difference?

  Look, I’ve shut down the webcam link. It was stupid and haram. Forgive me?

  Sure enough the pinprick of light beside the lens – the thing I’d so stupidly missed earlier – had gone out.

  I glowered, hammering out my reply. That was creepy af!!!

  He inserted the blushing emoji. I know. I was curious. I mean, I showed you a picture of me so. . .

  You could’ve asked for one back.

  You’re right. So right. But now that we’ve seen each other, can we call it even and move on? I really want to get to know you.

  Me?

  Absolutely. Not everyday you meet a future Booker Prize winner on the interwebs.

  I smiled in spite of myself. Kasim didn’t seem like a perv. No creepy requests and he seemed ashamed of the webcam snooping.

  Come on, sis. Use your skills to help a brother. Whaddya say? Folded hand emojis stretched the width of the chat box, pleading for my help.

  I stared at the blinking vertical line in the message space, still undecided. My eyes drifted to the webcam lens. It had stayed off. If things got creepy, I could always pull the plug.

  My mate thinks I’m nuts, I finally replied. She’s, like: no one’s gonna want to read your stories, so stop wasting your life.

  Sounds like jealousy to me.

  She’s the pretty one. What does she have to be jealous of?

  Pretty fades – smart is forever.

  A smile crept across my face. Writing stories isn’t smart . . .

  I can’t do it. Doubt your mate can, either. That makes YOU the smart one. Amirite or amirite?

  I hugged myself. I wasn’t used to getting compliments.

  You gonna tell me your name?

  I hesitated. Smarty Pants.

  Hahaha! You’re witty.

  Really?

  100%. I think you’re amazing.

  I took a moment to let that sink in. A seventeen-year-old thought I was amazing. Being worth the time of day to anyone other than my parents or Salma was a revelation for someone as lonely as me.

  You still up for helping me with my detective story? Kasim typed.

  Can I see a pic of you first?

  Sent you a selfie before. Remember?

  You were posing. I want to see you, like right now. Sometimes Salma talked crap, but the stranger-danger stuff she mentioned earlier was eating me.

  One sec . . .

  It seemed to take forever. Enough time for me to wonder whether I’d put him off being mates. Then I got a message notification and relaxed.

  In the fresh selfie, Kasim was waving at me, the glow of his computer screen illuminating a cheesy grin on his face. He looked younger. But maybe that was just because he’d put a top on. I was glad. I’d been brought up to think boys and sex went hand in hand, all aboard a one-way train to Hell. But maybe the world wasn’t quite as evil as my parents made out? Salma wasn’t scared of boys, so why should I be?

  I’ll put the basics of the game in a doc and send it to you tomorrow. Then you can work your writer magic over it and come up with a plot. You should go bed now, little sis.

  OK Bossy Boots.

  Night-night, Smarty Pants. Insh’Allah we’ll be making so much money with our game, you won’t even know what to do with it. xo

  Bossy Boots and Smarty Pants. Smarty Pants and Bossy Boots.

  I found I couldn’t concentrate on my story. Or anything really. I paced around my bedroom, smiling like a crazy person. Had I really been chatting to Kasim Iqbal – an actual, real live person, and not just a character from one of my stories? Had he really called me ‘AMAZING’? I’d heard of kids getting rich by inventing apps. If we made megabucks from his game, maybe my parents would never have to argue again. And maybe becoming a doctor would no longer be that important.

  It was like the 5th of November in my head. Any reservations I might have had were lost in colourful explosions.

  ‘Muzna, have you done something to your moustache?’ Ami asked at breakfast.

  She could have said ‘upper-lip fuzz’ or ‘shadow’. Or even the slightly less offensive ‘facial hair’. But no. Ami always went in for the kill.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s just a side effect of my acne gel. I think it bleaches hair . . .’ Not the excuse Salma had dreamed up, but it actually sounded way more believable.

  Ami coiled a finger round my chin and examined my face. I pulled my best innocent expression.

  ‘Use less medicine,’ she instructed.

  ‘But don’t you think it’s sort of good?’ I said, gripping the sides of my stool. ‘I get called Movember Gal and Ned Flanders at school. It hurts, Ami! And my legs look like loo brushes.’

  ‘Allah! Did you shave your legs too?’ Ami demanded, yanking up my shalwar. Met by the cringe-worthy sight of a hairy leg, she breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘But you shave your legs!’ I protested. ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘I am a married woman,’ she explained. ‘It is my duty to make myself attractive for your father. But you are my baby, Muchi. Only bad girls try to grow up too fast.’

  ‘So?’ Salma prompted.

  My cheeks burned as I held the phone to my ear.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . what was option number one again?’ I’d zoned out and was totally fishing for clues.

  ‘Rude!’ she trilled. ‘I just asked if you wanted to see that new movie with the hottie off Disney Channel. Guess you’ve got better plans!’

  ‘Sorry, Salma,’ I said, twisting my fingers, ‘but I really want to finish my story.’

  ‘Fine!’ came the unforgiving reply. ‘Two weeks before Year Nine, and my BFF turns into an old lady. You’re gonna end up alone, girl, talking to yourself and writing books about your ten stray cats.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Salma—’ I began.

  But she’d already hung up.

  I’d always been so careful not to upset her. Pretty much a given when you had just the one mate. But now Kasim Iqbal was in the picture. Was I being a cow? Possibly . . . But maybe letting Salma know I wouldn’t always be at her beck and call was healthy for our friendship?

  Do you ever miss your parents? I asked Kasim.

  He’d told me he lived abroad with a bunch of friends in a big mansion. Just like a second family, they had each other’s backs and shared everything. It sounded great.

  Sometimes, Kasim replied. My parents weren’t proper Muslims. Like all the stuff you learn in RS about Islam was the stuff we never did. Pakistani Culture was their god.

  His description was savage, yet familiar. According to the Gospel of Dad, being a ‘good Pakistani’ was everything and being a ‘good Muslim’ came second. I could belt out Noor Jehan’s top five hits in Punjabi, but don’t ask me to recite five surahs from the Qur’an.

  Every time I miss my parents, all I got to do is remember what they tried to do to me, he wrote.

  What did they do?

  No answer. I started to type an apology when his reply came through.

  My parents were forcing me to marry a girl from back home.

  But you’re only 17!!!

  When I get married, it’ll be to a British Muslim girl. And I’ll spend my whole life looking after her and making her laugh.

  That was too cute. Kasim was a solid guy.

  Thank you.

  I wrinkled my brow. For what?

  Just. I don’t usually tell people personal stuff. But with you, the words come easy.

  My lips stretched into the widest smile.

  Any time, I typed.

  ‘Ami, would you like some help?’ I asked.

&nb
sp; Ami peered over a mountain of carrots – peeler in hand, and sweat on her brow.

  ‘Then I would ask Allah to grant all your wishes,’ she said gratefully.

  The spare peeler was right at the back of the drawer. Had it been that long since I’d helped out in the kitchen? Determined to make up for lost time, I raked the peeler across the knobbly carrots as fast as I could. Soon my fingertips were stained orange, and a sweet tartness hung in the air.

  ‘This lot’s going to last us till next year!’ I said, wondering how much curried carrot we could take.

  Ami furrowed her brow, ‘Then maybe I’ll also make gajar murabba.’

  I licked my lips, imagining the heavenly taste of candied carrots. Glancing down at my belly filled me with shame. Then I remembered Kasim’s words:

  All those stick-thin women you see on TV is just the West stuffing their demented ideals down our throats. TV has become one big advert for plastic surgery.

  I’m not perfect, I thought, but I am one hundred per cent plastic-free.

  ‘When I was a girl,’ Ami began, with a shake of her head, ‘gajar murabba was like my drug. In our village, I came to be known as Murabbi Chor.’

  ‘You were a candied-carrot thief?!’ I gasped, wondering if she was pulling my leg.

  ‘Are you telling the story, or me?’ she asked with annoyance.

  Was she kidding? I hadn’t heard Ami tell a story in forever. I mimed zipping my lips.

  Satisfied, she continued. ‘The village elders all loved me because I offered to do little jobs for them. “Parveen is such a hard worker!” they’d say. It was true, but I worked with one eye on the gajar murabba jar. By the time I finished their chores, everyone’s jars would be empty, and my belly would be full. Not wanting to be beaten, I hid the empty jars in Grandpa’s bed. He was half senile anyway, so no one believed him when he protested his innocence.’

  ‘Ami!’ I gasped as we both laughed. ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘Yes, beyta,’ she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Your Ami was a little devil. And like all devils, one day I got my comeuppance. Grandpa set a trap, lacing a jar of murabba with chilli flakes. What a time to discover the old duffer wasn’t senile! Overcome by my burning tongue, I leaped straight into the well. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, my mother forced me to cook Grandpa meals for a whole month as an apology!’