Home Girl. Alex Wheatle

      chapter four

      Morning Rush

      I sat up in bed watching the comings and goings of my new foster family as they got ready for their nine-to-five. I laughed when Pablo pulled on different-colored socks in the hallway. I giggled when Tony waited impatiently outside the bathroom for Sharyna to finish showering. I was dressed in my Stormzy T-shirt and my pink jogging bottoms—my sleeping garms. I decided to get up and bounce downstairs. I took my meerkat with me. I wasn’t paying attention last night but I noticed framed pics hanging from the staircase walls of black women washing clothes in a river and carrying fruit in baskets on top of their bonces. There was a photograph of black men garmed in raggedy prison uniforms nine-to-fiving on a rail track. Underneath were the lyrics, We also built your cabins and planted your corn, only to be treated with scorn. I paused. “I s’pose in that country they haven’t got any shopping trolleys or washing machines,” I whispered to myself. Maybe Angelina Jolie, David Beckham, and those peeps on Comic Relief could do something.

      I found Colleen in the kitchen making sandwiches. She wore a baby blue–colored dressing gown and a red, gold, and green headscarf. “Morning, darling,” she greeted. “Sleep well?”

      “No,” I replied.

      “Maybe you will on your second night. Always difficult to get comfy in a new bed.”

      She wasn’t wrong. I tried to count all the beds I’d crashed in since they’d taken my ass into care.

      I was distracted by the magnet souvenirs stuck on the fridge door. There was a Rastafarian sleeping in a hammock. He had a fat rocket in his gob. There was a sombrero-wearing man with a cheek-tickler mustache, Barack Obama getting all cozy with his wife and a smiling skinny camel from Tunisia. Where’s that? I wondered what magnets Dad would have on his fridge if he didn’t have his drink issues.

      “I wanna coffee,” I said.

      “Just let me finish the sandwiches for everyone’s lunch and I’ll be with you.”

      “I can make it myself,” I offered. “I’m not a special-needs case.”

      “The coffee and sugar are in the cupboard.”

      I filled the kettle and put two teaspoons of coffee and three teaspoons of sugar in an I Love Washington DC mug. After pouring in the hot water, I stared at Colleen for a long second. She watched my every move. I then fetched the milk from the fridge, poured a little into my mug, and stirred it. Colleen’s spotlight pissed me off. The coffee spilled onto the table. “Sorry,” I said. “But you’re gonna have to fling me some trust. I can do stuff myself. I looked after my dad for the longest time. The only thing I didn’t do for him was wipe his ass.”

      Colleen reached for a cloth in the sink and cleaned the spillage. “That’s all right,” she smiled.

      I sat down, tasted my coffee, and decided to put another teaspoon of sugar in it. “Why do you wanna look after someone else’s kids?” I asked.

      Placing the sandwiches, apples, and juice boxes into two containers, Colleen replied, “I . . . I couldn’t have a family myself so I—”

      “Your thing wasn’t working?” I cropped her flow. “I knew a woman like that who adopted this four-year-old kid in my old unit. Her thing didn’t work. She didn’t wanna talk about it when my mate, Kim, dared me to ask her. Is it because the man wrecks it when he does his thing?”

      “Er, not quite,” said Colleen. I’m sure she blushed. “Some women cannot have children because of health reasons.”

      “My mum didn’t have that issue with me,” I said. “She had me, innit. Obviously. I remember a social worker saying she shouldn’t think about having any more though.”

      “Oh? Is that so?”

      “Yeah. Mum got pregnant by the guy living in the spare room. Foreign, he was. He had his skills. He’d help me with my math and fixed the pipe beneath the kitchen sink. Sometimes he’d fling us a few notes to help top up the gas meter. I couldn’t pronounce his name so Mum told me to call him Rafi. He used to make me coffee when Mum was out of it. Strong, his coffee was. I had to put nuff sugar in it. He didn’t like it when Dad paid a visit—nuff swearing and mauling. That’s when the social services placed my ass on the at-risk register.”

      “I see,” nodded Colleen.

      “Things were kinda going all right until Mum lost Rafi’s baby,” I continued. “She tried again but had to have an abortion. Rafi didn’t love that. He raged at her in his funny tongue and sacked her cos of it. It sent her off-key. Don’t think she ever regained her dumplings after that. She used to spend nuff time in the bathroom to think things over. You read my file so you know what happened next.”

      Colleen nodded. She had stopped what she was doing and stood still. She paid the fullest attention. Did I spill too much? Oh what the lardy ho. It’s all in my file anyway.

      “Have you got the chocolate biscuits yet?” I changed the subject. “Chocolate digestives, bourbons, or fingers are my fave. Oh, and marshmallows with the liccle dose of strawberry inside.”

      “Tea cakes,” said Colleen.

      “Yep, that’s right. Love ’em. Have you had any abortions? Do they hurt?”

      Colleen looked at me all weird and then swallowed spit. “Er, no. Haven’t got the biscuits yet either. Haven’t had a chance to get out of the house yet. Maybe you can come with me?”

      “Can you get that strawberry yogurt that has that strawberry dip in it? Tastes wicked on chocolate biscuits.”

      Pablo hot-toed into the kitchen wearing his black school trousers and purple-colored school top. A blue Nike bag that hung from his shoulders kissed his knees. His shoelaces were untied, his belt flapped, and his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned. Too cute. Colleen shook her head and smiled. “What am I going do with you? Come here.”

      I bust a laugh. “I’ll do it,” I offered.

      Slightly uncertain, Pablo swapped glances with Colleen as I tied his laces, secured his belt, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and buttoned his cuffs. He gave me a top-ranking smile. “Thank you. What’s your name again?”

      “Naomi.”

      “Thank you, Nomi.”

      He ran out again. “Hold on, Pablo,” chuckled Colleen. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

      Pablo turned around. He game-showed a grin and returned to the kitchen. Colleen handed him his packed lunch. “You’d forget your feet if your ankles weren’t attached to them! Have a good day. Don’t kick the tree in the playground and don’t make faces