Page 10 of People Change

Then

Mehdi had been in prison almost three months when Kian was told he would be changing schools. The summer holidays were nearly over, and it was supposed to be his final year at Foxview before he went to college. It was his mum’s idea. She said Foxview was the reason his brother had ended up the way he had. ‘The teachers,’ she said. ‘They all hated him. And they’ll hate you too.’ Kian argued, pleaded with her to let him continue at Foxview, where all his friends were. When that didn’t work, he tried to reason with her. ‘Just because the teachers didn’t like Mehdi doesn’t mean it’ll be the same for me.’ He raised his voice at his mum, panic mounting in his chest. He had never shouted at her before, but it was unfair. He was being punished for something Mehdi had done – something Mehdi had donefor him, but it wasn’t like Kian had even asked him to do it.

He missed his brother so much it hurt. He wrote to him. Every week. Sometimes he would send two, even three, letters in a row, before he got Mehdi’s response back. He needed to tell him every little thing, like when his mate Teddy had eaten ten double cheeseburgers from McDonald’s, one after the other, on a dare; and how his face had gone all yellow afterwards, and he’d taken a sip of his milkshake, which hadtipped him over the edge and he’d had to run to the toilets before it was too late. They’d all laughed, Kian included, but all the while he’d been conscious that his brother was in prison and his mum was always red-eyed, his dad stressed and distracted. His unabashed laughing had turned to guilt, and he’d stopped.

But despite all this, with his parents’ increasing strictness – the way Kian was expected to be perfect, so he didn’t end up the same as Mehdi – he felt something chipping away at him. The day his mum told him that he would be moving schools she had her back to him. She was dusting the fireplace, like she didn’t care that she was ruining his whole life because of something his brother had done.

They were in the front room, ‘the guest room’ his mum called it, their sofa white leather, bulky, curved and thick on the arms. In the middle of the room was a glass coffee table, with gold Iranian ornaments on it, and a large empty fruit bowl that his mum would fill with at least five different fruits for visitors. On the shelf beneath the coffee table: intricate glass plates, small fruit knives. The floor was covered with a large red Persian carpet that they’d imported from Tehran. His mum was always ready for visitors, but they barely had anyone round any more. Over the past year the room had been used only for lawyers and police.

And when his dad came in, presumably having heard Kian’s tone increase, he glanced from Kian to his wife, a stern look on his usually soft face. His dad had let his stubble grow into a beard. It was thick and dark, and made his face appear much rounder. He had been dedicating himself more to Islamsince Mehdi had been taken away, though in doing so he had become more reclusive. He spent many evenings after work in the mosque, returning home late and going straight to his office before bed.

‘Enough, Kian – it’s been decided. And don’t talk back to your mother,’ he said in Farsi, in a harsh tone that was unusual for him. It was easier for Kian to argue with his mum, but with both his parents on the same side, he knew none of his pleading would be of any use now. Little did he know, though, that moving to North Oak would be what led him to Shirin Bayat.

North Oak was divided into two sites, one for years seven to nine, and one for years ten and eleven a mile away in another building. Kian was in the latter. It was a shabby school; most of the classrooms were in huts intended to be temporary, though they had been there since the late nineties. The science block, however, was newly built, with underfloor heating and silver-speckled tiling. It was there, Kian would soon discover, that people congregated in winter to keep warm during lunch.

The uniform they were made to wear was basic: black trousers, white polo shirt, black sweatshirt. Because he’d enrolled at the last minute he didn’t have the North Oak badge on his sweatshirt, and his mum rang up reception to explain that the shop was out of stock. They told her a plain one was okay for the first few weeks, which she told Kian, relieved – like he cared.

He began year eleven knowing no one. As he walked through the entrance and along the long tarmacked strip leading to the main building, he noticed that everyone wastogether in clusters. It was only really then that he realised how lucky he had been at his old school that he had never felt this acute aloneness. No one was brown or Black here, but that was unsurprising. Foxview had more Asian students; his best friends, Koyer and Ahmed, were Pakistani and Bangladeshi. They had been friends since primary school and were like family to him now; he couldn’t ever imagine not having them in his life.

Eyes were on him: some enquiring gazes, some hateful stares. Kian thought he heard someone walking past say, ‘Fucking paki’, but he didn’t know if he was imagining it. He probably wasn’t.

A boy shoved past him, knocking his backpack off his shoulder. Ahead of him, the shover turned, his face pink, his blond hair gelled up at the front. ‘Look where you’re fucking going, dirty paki,’ he said to Kian and spat, inches from where Kian’s backpack was. The friend he was walking with began singing a mock-Bollywood song at the top of his lungs. People around him stared – and then laughed.

Instantly Kian thought about turning round and going back home. His jaw was tight and angry. He considered punching both boys in their faces, but knew he was so weak he’d only end up getting beaten up himself. He used to practise boxing with Mehdi, and the impact of his punches had always made Mehdi belly-laugh.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Mehdi would say, lifting the pads. ‘Come on – give it your all now.’ Kian would punch with all his force, and only then would Mehdi say, ‘Better, but you need to practise.’ He wished he had practised after all. Heimagined beating the prick up and getting carried out of school, rejoicing, arms in the air. Instead he collected his bag from the floor and put one foot in front of the other.

When he was nearer the entrance he heard someone say, ‘Hey. You alright?’

Kian turned to see a boy with short mousy-brown hair and acne on only the right side of his face. His facial expression was earnest, but Kian still didn’t trust him. He didn’t know what to say in response, so he shrugged.

‘You’re new here, right?’ the boy said. Kian nodded. ‘I thought so. Don’t let it get to you; they’re dickheads to everyone.’

‘Great,’ Kian mumbled.

‘I’m Connor,’ the boy said.

‘I’m Kian.’

A girl approached them, looped her arm into Connor’s. She had her polo T-shirt tied in a knot on the front, so that her stomach was showing. There was a mole above her belly button and when Kian noticed it, he quickly looked away, embarrassed for some reason.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Kian took this as his cue to leave, but then Connor said, ‘Jordan and Rob are bothering the new kid.’

She rolled her eyes and turned to Kian. ‘A bit late to move schools in our final year, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Kian said.

‘Mysterious,’ she replied. ‘Well, if you want any advice from us: avoid those two. I don’t think they’re right in the head.’

‘I mean,’ Connor began, ‘they’re bad, but you’re being a bit dramatic.’

‘Didn’t you hear what they did to Shirin? She had to go to hospital.’

‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Connor said.

‘Well, you shouldn’t be throwing mud balls at people in the first place – that’s what my mum said when I told her.’