I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 15: you're in my thoughts like a worm in my brain

                Iya sucks her teeth, lifting an arm to stop me halfway up the Asda Superstore car park. 'Stop dragging your feet,' she says slowly as if speaking to a four-year-old. 'You ruin all your shoes like this.'

I meet the impatience in her eyes with stubborn immaturity. I don't even want to be here — I hate going on food shops. Asda is always freezing and the lights are awful and it's too big. I always lose her in there. There's no way this town even has enough people to eat all that food. Being a nurse, Iya has met pretty much everyone in Sufsdale and we never make it through without her stopping to "catch up" with some rando in the cereal aisle. And it's a Saturday.

But I don't have therapy this week so she dragged me along to "pick up" Baba from work. Even though he has the car and we had to take the bus to get here.

I take the pound from her to fetch a trolley, smiling briefly as I press the coin in and the chain pops out. This is the only good part about big supermarkets. I practically lie over the handlebar as I push the trolley beside Iya. Her shopping list is two notepad pages, front and back. How much would it hurt if I squeezed myself into the child seat?

As she inspects the price per weight of different crushed tomato tins, I ride the trolley back of forth behind her. Until she snaps at me to stop acting like a child and I'm absorbed back into boredom.

After what could be five hours — could be ten hours — we reach Baba at the till. Though he's as chatty as ever with the customers, in the minutes between, his eyes droop. He had to be at work at six am today. When he spots us, a faint but genuine smile blossoms on his face.

'Hayati,' he greets Iya and she reaches a hand over the cash register to squeeze his.

Fake gagging, I grab the woven polypropylene bags from the trolley and move to the end of the conveyor belt. The bloke at the till beside us is throwing items into his bags at random and I spend so much time judgmentally staring at him for not knowing how to properly pack his groceries that ours pile up in front of me.

'What have you done today, habibi?' Baba asks as he scans.

'What have I–? It's two in the afternoon on a Saturday.'

He exchanges smiles with Iya. 'C'est tellement dur d'être un ado...'

We have to wait another fifteen minutes until Baba's shift ends. It's excruciating. I know I'm being a pain — it's not like my life is awful because I have to go to the shops with my parents but restlessness is an electric current in my body that culminates until I think my skin might turn inside out. I sing to myself as we walk to the car.

Digging out the keys, Baba glances at me over his shoulder. 'What if–' he opens the boot '–you spent all that time you use to memorise songs to learn the Qur'an?'

'What if you leave me alone?'

Iya covers her laugh with her hand. Baba's lips twitch too.

I glare at them. 'Some parents are supportive of their kids, but go ahead, laugh. I'm glad my existence is a constant source of entertainment for you two.' I cross my arms and they only laugh more. Iya nearly collapses over the trolley. 'What is so funny? You never even laugh at my jokes.'

'Your jokes aren't very funny, habibi.'

'My jokes are pure comedy,' I seethe as I grab the handlebar. 'You're just too old and bald to get them.'

Iya makes a sympathetic sound somewhere between a whine and a laugh, reaching over to pat his head fondly. 'I don't know about you, hayati,' he says, 'but I for one love being the parent of a hormonal teenager.'