Читать книгу She Wore Red Trainers - Na'ima B. Robert - Страница 9

4

I wasn’t supposed to be at the basketball courts. Zayd was playing with his guy friends and that generally meant that the court was off-limits.

‘I don’t want you coming around the brothers, sis,’ he’d always say. I would roll my eyes every time. Not like there was anything there I hadn’t seen before.

‘Nah, it’s just that I know how guys’ minds work, OK? Trust me, it’s better you stay away.’

Then he’d keep going on in that earnest way of his about the Islamic rules on modesty – ghayrah and hijab, niqab, lowering the gaze etc. I’d usually tuned him out by that point. I got it. He didn’t want his friends eyeing up his sister. I could respect that.

But that day was different. After I dropped the kids at the mosque, Mum started ringing my phone, asking where Zayd was. Apparently, he had promised to take the kids to the park after madrasah while she went to her appointment at the doctor’s, and she was still waiting to hear back from him. I shook my head. Zayd may have been the world’s most dutiful son, but he had a terrible memory.

Anyway, that Saturday morning, I knew that he had his regular basketball practice so I decided to go over and tell him to call Mum before going off to do some sketching.

I recognised all the other players: I had seen most of them outside the masjid at one time or another.

I saw Usamah, the exchange student from the Bronx, studying fashion and design at Central Saint Martins, a cross between a ‘loud ‘n’ proud’ New Yorker and a twenty-first century Ibn Batutta. And he scored a very respectable eight in our totally naughty but hilarious Muslim hottie chart: the ‘Mottie Scale’.

Then there was Mr Smooth, Mahmoud. I only knew him because we’d been at primary school together but I never gave him much more than a nod and quick salam in recognition of the fact that he had once pushed someone over for bullying me in the playground. Other than that, I stayed away. Some guys are just too dangerous. You can’t let them get too close because they don’t know how to be ‘just friends’. Mahmoud and guys like him were officially excluded from the Mottie rankings. We girls know better than to play with fire.

But then I noticed that there was someone else on the court, someone I hadn’t seen before. He was playing some serious ball, making everyone gasp and pant to catch up with him. He seemed to be aiming for some sort of record, slamming the ball into the net again and again. There was something about the way he moved – strong, graceful, rippling, like a cat – that made something flutter in my stomach.

What a gorgeous specimen, I thought. From a purely artistic point of view, of course.

For a split second, I imagined myself framing the contours of his arms the colour of caramel, the biceps flowing into the sinewy forearm, the powerful hands with the perfect nails. Charcoal, for sure. That was the best way to capture the glow of his skin and play of shadow and light that highlighted the muscles.

But those thoughts only flashed through my mind for a second.

Astaghfirullah.

What was I doing there again? Then I remembered: I was here for Zayd. But he hadn’t seen me yet, he was so intent on trying to block the guy with the ball. I would have to interrupt.

‘Zayd!’ I called out, my voice perfectly controlled to sound mature and businesslike: my ‘brothers voice’.

All four of them turned towards me and, for a brief moment, the stranger’s eyes met mine. They were the lightest eyes I had ever seen on a mixed-race boy, light and clear. Trusting. As soon as our eyes met, he smiled, almost before he could catch himself, and dropped the ball. It was as if his smile had eclipsed the sun; I wasn’t aware of anything else, just shadows that made him shine even brighter. My heart flipped a couple of times and my mouth went dry.

Oh, wow.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mahmoud running up to grab the ball. But it was as if the stranger couldn’t hear him – either that or he didn’t care.

A moment later, he had lowered his gaze, the ball was out of his control and Zayd was running towards me, his face red, his hair plastered to his forehead.

‘What are you doing here, Amirah?’ he frowned, guiding me away from the court. I heard the ball slam into the net on the other side of the court. Seemed Mahmoud had interrupted Mr Light Eyes’ flow.

‘Well, as-salamu ‘alaykum to you too, brother,’ I smiled, only mildly irritated by his over-the-top protectiveness.

He mumbled a greeting as he approached.

‘Your mother has been trying to reach you,’ I said as he fumbled around for his phone in his bag. ‘Something about a doctor’s appointment?’

Zayd groaned. ‘Subhanallah, I completely forgot!’ he cried, slapping his forehead.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’d better get your backside over to number 6 Seville Close quick time before the Wrath of Mum descends on you.’

Zayd turned to his friends, ‘Yo, ikhwan, I’m out. Got to take care of some family stuff.’ He looked over at the sharp shooter and smiled. ‘Great play, Ali, mashallah…’

So, his name was Ali.

Another piece of information to add to the fact that he was quite possibly the most gorgeous guy I had ever laid eyes on.

But I had to stop that train of thought before it got out of hand because, for a start, the only reason a strictly practising Muslim girl like me would have anything remotely emotional to do with a boy is if she were ready to get married.

And I was never getting married, ever.

End of.