never been inside a Muslim’s house before. I was worried that it would smell of curry like Dad said in London. I was scared that her family would be praying and talking in a different language. And I was frightened that Sunya’s dad would be making bombs in his bedroom. That’s what Dad said all Muslims do. And though I’d be surprised if Sunya’s dad was a terrorist, Dad told me that you never can tell and even the most innocent-looking people have explosives in their turbans.
When we walked through the door, a dog came bouncing up to Sunya. It was black and white with long ears and a wet nose and a tiny tail that wagged madly. Sammy the dog looked like an English pet and not a Muslim one. I sighed with relief. He was normal. And so was everything else. Sunya’s house was no different to mine. In the lounge there was a cream sofa and a nice rug and a mantelpiece that had all the right things on it – photos and candles and vases full of flowers not sisters. The only Muslim thing in the whole room was a picture of fancy buildings with domes and spires. Sunya said it was a holy place called Mecca and I laughed ’cos that was the name of the Bingo place down the road from our flat in Finsbury Park.
The kitchen was the most interesting. I’d expected it to smell of spice and have lots of big bowls full of exotic vegetables. But it was just like my kitchen except nicer ’cos there was a packet of Coco Pops on a shelf but no alcohol bottles and the bin just smelled of rubbish.
Sunya’s mum made chocolate milkshake and put a curly straw in my glass. She wore a blue headscarf and had Sunya’s sparkly eyes but her skin was lighter and her face was slower. More serious. Sunya’s face is fast. It changes ten times a minute. Her eyes grow and shrink and her freckle jumps about and her eyebrows wiggle when she talks. Sunya’s mum is calm and kind and clever. She’s got a strong accent, not like Sunya, and my name sounds different when she says it. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman who would marry a bomber, but you never know.
We drank our milkshakes in Sunya’s room. We were thirsty ’cos we’d been jumping off the bed and seeing who could stay in the air the longest. ’Cos I am Spider-Man, I had to touch the ceiling and try to stick there for as long as possible. And ’cos Sunya is Girl M, she had to flap her hijab and try to hover above the carpet. In the end it was a draw.
A whole clump of hair had come free from Sunya’s pink headscarf, the most I had ever seen. It was thick and glossy and nicer than all the hair in those shampoo adverts where the women toss their heads from side to side. And I said it was so sad that The Koran made her cover up her hair like it was a bad thing. Sunya slurped the last bit of chocolate milkshake and said I don’t cover up my hair because it is bad. I cover it up because it is good . This was confusing so I kept quiet and blew a chocolate bubble. Sunya put down her glass and said Mum saves her hair for Dad . No other man can see it. It makes it more special and I asked Like a present and she said Yeah . I thought how much better it would have been if Mum had saved her hair for Dad rather than showing it to Nigel, and I said I understand .
Sunya smiled and I smiled and I was just wondering what our hands would do when her mum came into the bedroom with some sandwiches. There were cheese ones and turkey ones and they were cut into triangles, but I couldn’t eat them. I’ve always hated that game Pass The Parcel ’cos the music never stops on me so I never get to open anything. And Sunya’s hijab looked exactly like pink wrapping paper and I imagined her disappearing, bright and sparkly and perfect, before I could sneak a look under the outer layer.
Sunya had her mouth full of bread so I couldn’t tell what she was saying at first. But then she swallowed and said Do you miss Rose and it was the first time we’d talked about her since the storeroom nine days ago.
When we walked through the door, a dog came bouncing up to Sunya. It was black and white with long ears and a wet nose and a tiny tail that wagged madly. Sammy the dog looked like an English pet and not a Muslim one. I sighed with relief. He was normal. And so was everything else. Sunya’s house was no different to mine. In the lounge there was a cream sofa and a nice rug and a mantelpiece that had all the right things on it – photos and candles and vases full of flowers not sisters. The only Muslim thing in the whole room was a picture of fancy buildings with domes and spires. Sunya said it was a holy place called Mecca and I laughed ’cos that was the name of the Bingo place down the road from our flat in Finsbury Park.
The kitchen was the most interesting. I’d expected it to smell of spice and have lots of big bowls full of exotic vegetables. But it was just like my kitchen except nicer ’cos there was a packet of Coco Pops on a shelf but no alcohol bottles and the bin just smelled of rubbish.
Sunya’s mum made chocolate milkshake and put a curly straw in my glass. She wore a blue headscarf and had Sunya’s sparkly eyes but her skin was lighter and her face was slower. More serious. Sunya’s face is fast. It changes ten times a minute. Her eyes grow and shrink and her freckle jumps about and her eyebrows wiggle when she talks. Sunya’s mum is calm and kind and clever. She’s got a strong accent, not like Sunya, and my name sounds different when she says it. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman who would marry a bomber, but you never know.
We drank our milkshakes in Sunya’s room. We were thirsty ’cos we’d been jumping off the bed and seeing who could stay in the air the longest. ’Cos I am Spider-Man, I had to touch the ceiling and try to stick there for as long as possible. And ’cos Sunya is Girl M, she had to flap her hijab and try to hover above the carpet. In the end it was a draw.
A whole clump of hair had come free from Sunya’s pink headscarf, the most I had ever seen. It was thick and glossy and nicer than all the hair in those shampoo adverts where the women toss their heads from side to side. And I said it was so sad that The Koran made her cover up her hair like it was a bad thing. Sunya slurped the last bit of chocolate milkshake and said I don’t cover up my hair because it is bad. I cover it up because it is good . This was confusing so I kept quiet and blew a chocolate bubble. Sunya put down her glass and said Mum saves her hair for Dad . No other man can see it. It makes it more special and I asked Like a present and she said Yeah . I thought how much better it would have been if Mum had saved her hair for Dad rather than showing it to Nigel, and I said I understand .
Sunya smiled and I smiled and I was just wondering what our hands would do when her mum came into the bedroom with some sandwiches. There were cheese ones and turkey ones and they were cut into triangles, but I couldn’t eat them. I’ve always hated that game Pass The Parcel ’cos the music never stops on me so I never get to open anything. And Sunya’s hijab looked exactly like pink wrapping paper and I imagined her disappearing, bright and sparkly and perfect, before I could sneak a look under the outer layer.
Sunya had her mouth full of bread so I couldn’t tell what she was saying at first. But then she swallowed and said Do you miss Rose and it was the first time we’d talked about her since the storeroom nine days ago.
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