Читать книгу Dahling If You Luv Me Would You Please Please Smile - Rukhsana Khan - Страница 6

I feel like they can see me even though the closet doors hide me well. I’m sure Jenny can hear the pounding of my heart. She pushes aside her bangs and peers around the classroom. “Are you sure about this, Kevin? I don’t think Mr. Weiss would like us to be in here during recess.”

Kevin takes a furtive peek down the hallway and quietly closes the door. “Relax, he’ll never know.”

Jenny digs her hands into her jacket pockets, hunching up her shoulders. “I don’t like it. Maybe you could, I mean, just get your smokes and let’s go.”

Kevin stiffens. “Is this going to be a habit? You telling me what to do?”

Jenny’s face is red. “But I, I didn’t mean to.”

“Like when I was kidding Zainab?”

“What?”

He twists his face and mimics her. “Oh, Kevin. That wasn’t very nice.”

Jenny says, “But, it wasn’t.”

Kevin roots inside his desk till he finds the pack of cigarettes. “Jeez, I was just joking. You showed me up in front of everyone.”

Jenny puts a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just that . . .” Jenny looks down at the toe of her sneaker. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

Jenny nods quickly.

He puts his arm around her waist.

She slips free and glances at the clock. “Mr. Weiss will be here soon. We’d better go.”

He pulls out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth and lights it, all in one fluid gesture, then letting out a cloud of blue smoke, he gives Jenny a look that would melt any girl’s heart. “What’s your hurry?”

He must have rehearsed that look, those gestures, the whole scene. It’s straight out of a corny western. But it’s working. Jenny’s practically drooling. Her baby blue eyes are large and fixed on Kevin as he glides closer.

The closet is getting hotter. The smell of moldy sweaters and sweaty gym shorts is nauseating. Recess will be over soon and the chance of making a clean getaway is sinking with every tick of the clock.

He’s feeling her up. His hands trying to release her sweater from her pants. Jenny backs away, whispering, “Please, Kevin. Please don’t.”

I can see her face, strained and agitated, as he concentrates further down her neckline. Why doesn’t she stop him?

What would it be like to have a boyfriend? My older sister, Layla, always laughs at the way girls fall for guys. We’re lucky, she says. Islam spares us from this nonsense. Our parents will help choose our husbands. It’s all practical, and it makes sense. But . . . what would it be like to have the cutest guy in the school crazy about you?

He has her up against the chalkboard. The hand that holds the cigarette is braced against it, trapping her. Gently, she’s trying to push him away. “Please, Kevin. Please don’t.” Kevin doesn’t listen. Her voice takes on a desperate note and a firmness I’ve never heard before. “Kevin, no. No. STOP!”

He finally turns away with a sigh. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he lets it fall from his mouth, and crushes it with the toe of his sneaker. “I thought you liked me,” he murmurs, turning his back on Jenny. He’s facing me, now. She can’t see the way his eyes flick back, measuring her.

Jenny steps forward and touches the sleeve of his jacket. “Oh, Kevin, of course I like you.”

Jenny doesn’t see the smirk, the barely contained laughter on Kevin’s face, as she explains how much she cares.

Kevin always said he’d be a movie star one day. I have to admit he’s a great actor already. He’s playing her perfectly. My hands are hurting. I’ve been gripping the cut-off shorts so tightly my knuckles are white and cramped.

He’s back at her, like a dog at a fire hydrant, and she, with a grimace of distaste, is tolerating it.

Why are girls such suckers for sweet talk? All any guy has to do is tell a girl what she wants to hear and she’ll do anything for him.

The click of the doorknob and the muffled voice of Mr. Weiss in the hallway makes me sit up. Kevin, dragging Jenny by the hand, is rushing straight at me, heading for the only hiding place in the room—the closet. There’s no time to dig deeper into the pile of stuff on the floor, no time to drag down the old discarded sweaters that still hang from warped wire hangers above my head. He throws open the door and gapes at me, just as Mr. Weiss steps into the room.

Kevin’s gaze drops to the shorts I’m holding. He sees the bit of tag peeking out of the fingers of my left hand. I move my hand out of his line of vision, but not before he knows. He turns with a boldness that is truly remarkable and says, “Look, Mr. Weiss, we caught Zainab stealing Lucky tags.”

Mr. Weiss is frozen, one hand still resting on the doorknob, his saggy cheeks puff out, his forehead puckers. Through the veil of Jenny’s bangs, her eyes are wide. Her pink lips frame a silent “Oh.”

Kevin continues, sounding like a used car salesman, “I just came in to get something, and Jenny came with me, then we heard this noise in the closet and there she was.” He grabs my hand, and despite me fighting him, manages to pry my fingers apart and dangle the tag in front of Mr. Weiss’ face. “See? Caught her red-handed.”

Mr. Weiss looks from the crushed cigarette on the floor to Jenny’s disheveled sweater and then back to Kevin. He takes the tag from Kevin while opening the classroom door. “That’s enough, Kevin. You and Jenny are excused.”

Kevin smirks at me and heads for the door.

Mr. Weiss says, “Oh, and Kevin. This little incident doesn’t leave this room. If I hear that anyone else knows, I’ll just have to ask more about why you and Jenny were in here, unsupervised. Understand?”

Kevin nods. The smirk fades a little but doesn’t disappear entirely.

Jenny gives me one quick apologetic glance and trails Kevin out the door.

Mr. Weiss sits down on the edge of a desk. “Unless you can explain to my satisfaction what you were doing in the closet, I’m afraid I’m going to have to contact your parents, Zainab.”

There’s been a hum in my ears during the whole encounter, a kind of buzz that was numbing. I’m almost sure this is just a bad dream, convinced that nothing could really go this wrong, until he mentions my parents. It’s like a bucket of cold water right to my face. “Oh no, Mr. Weiss. You mustn’t tell them. They will kill me! I will not be here tomorrow because I’ll be dead!”

“Whatever were you stealing Lucky tags for?”

My face is so hot. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

It’s hard to begin, but once I do the whole story comes pouring out. I wonder, in the back of my mind, whether I should be spilling my guts like this, but I can’t stop even if I tried. I tell him about Kevin’s remark, about Premini getting Lucky’s, and about being the only kid in all grade eight without them.

He listens with his head bent, one leg swings back and forth and he nods every now and then. When I’m finished, he asks, “But why did you steal the tags?”

I tell him about the store promotion.

His face grows still. “But Zainab, don’t you know that promotion is over? It was over a couple of months ago. Twenty-two Lucky tags won’t get you anything.”

It’s over? My chance is gone? I stole those stupid tags for nothing? The recess bell rings shrill and mocking as I stand there wishing the linoleum would open up and swallow me. I’ve never felt so foolish in all my life, and what makes things worse is that Mr. Weiss knows exactly how stupid I am.

He doesn’t ask why I didn’t just beg my parents for them. I guess he doesn’t need to. He’s saying something.

“But why would you want to be like everyone else anyway? You’re fine just the way you are.”

“Are you kidding? I might as well be a leper, the way everyone avoids me.”

He laughs. “You’ve been reading too many gothic romances, Zainab.”

“Lepers aren’t in gothic romances. And I don’t read romances. Well, not only romances.”

“Of course. Too many historical novels, then. You know what I mean. You’re hardly a leper.”

Tears well up in my eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like not to have any friends in the whole school.”

Mr. Weiss looks thoughtful. “What is it you really want, Zainab?”

Huh? What do I want? Nobody ever asked me that before. It had never mattered. What do I want? I wipe my face. “I want to be treated equally and fairly. I’m just as good as Kevin, or Cheryl or anyone else in this class and I want them to know it.”

“Isn’t it enough that you know it?”

“No.”

Mr. Weiss opens his mouth to say something, looks puzzled, then closes it again. He picks up a pen, turns it over in his hands and then puts it down.

“Don’t I treat you equally?”

“It’s not you.”

“Well, I know you’re just as good as anyone in this class.” He pauses, a twinkle in his eye. “Or just as bad. But it’s another thing proving it to others. You’re better off just ignoring them. You were fine last year.”

“You sound like my parents. They told me to ignore them too. It doesn’t work.”

Mr. Weiss looks at the clock. “The other kids will be in soon. I don’t have much time, but I’ve just had a thought. How do you like plays?”

“Well, I like Shakespeare, even though the language is difficult, and I tried Chekhov, but he’s dull. All the characters ever do is sit around a table talking. My favorite is Tennessee Williams.”

“Let me rephrase that. How good are you at writing plays?”

“You mean something like The Glass Menagerie? There’s no way!”

“Oh, nothing that fancy!” Mr. Weiss claps his hands, lacing his fingers together. “How would you like to be in charge of the Mackenzie King play? It could be any story you want and you could choose whomever you want to play the lead. Though I do think you should stay away from classical literature,” he says with a wry grin.

Deanford is divided by classes into four house leagues called Mackenzie King, Laurier, Pearson and MacDonald. Our class is in Mackenzie King.

“I don’t know. Do you think I can do it?”

He fixes me with a measuring look, then nods. “I wouldn’t be giving you this responsibility if I didn’t. But the main thing is you’d be in charge. The other kids will have to come to you. It’s a chance to make friends and to prove yourself.”

“Or make a fool of myself.”

“I’ll be here if you need any help.”

“But what if we lose? All the kids will blame me.”

He shrugs. “That’s a chance you’ll have to take. It’s either this or ignore them for the rest of the year. This is your last year here anyway, then you’re off to high school. You might not see any of them again. They might go to a different school, but then again they might not. It’s up to you. You can ignore the problem or meet it head on.”

The classroom door opens and the others come marching in. Mr. Weiss gets up from the desk saying, “Let me know tomorrow.”

I stop him. I feel like I’m plunging off the edge of a great cliff. “I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do it.”

He pats me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”