I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 30: I'll never forgive you for making me so pathetic

           Cross-legged on my pastel violet floor, I scowl at my reflection. I pull down a section of curls from my hairline only for it to barely reach my shoulder. Unbelievable. Twenty-three months have passed since my head was shaved — my hair should definitely be longer by now. I didn't even buy new extensions.

Sucking my teeth, I dump the detangling brush next to the blow-dryer on the floor to pick up a parting comb. Despite the below-desired length, by the time I'm done with the box braids, my arms are ready to fall off. Braiding your own hair should be considered an extreme sport. I could've put it on my list of extracurriculars.

I twist my spine in both directions to hear it crack before I pry myself off the floor and nearly fall over as my vision blacks out for two seconds. The ants scuttle to the edges just in time for me to see movement outside. My heart skips.

Miles.

He jogs out of their front garden, focus on his iPod as he selects music for his run, loose grey tee and shorts beaten by the wind. My breath fogs up the glass. Look up. Look up.

He doesn't. He shoves the iPod into his pocket and runs past my window without so much as a glance. Why is looking at you the only thing I use my window for lately?

I slump against the piles of books functioning as a windowsill. With A-levels well underway, I've not seen him for weeks — much less talked to him, apart from minute conversations outside the sports hall before shared exams, or when one of us has a morning paper and the other an evening one and we bump into each other on the bend to Cleavers Grove.

Not that I care that much. I don't care.

I jolt upright. If Miles is going on a run now, he might pop into Barua's in half an hour to get a Powerade or a snack bar.

I trip over the cord of the blow-dryer in my hurry to get to my drawer cabinet. Regularly checking the time, I spread baby blue glitter to my eyelids, hook a few Amazigh coins into my braids, and change out of my stained maxi to a much nicer tier skirt. With a final check in the mirror, I hurry down the stairs to peer into the living room, where Iya and Baba watch the evening news.

I attempt a casual voice. 'I was gonna get some Parma Violets from Barua's. Is that okay?'

Iya's eyes narrow the moment they rise to me. 'You look pretty.' She continues before I can thank her. 'I hope you are not wastin time braidin your hair when you're supposed to be studyin.'

'I definitely was not doin that.'

Baba nods without looking away from the screen. 'Don't be long. Maghrib is in forty minutes.'

Why does he think I'll take forty minutes at Barua's? He doesn't know, does he? I retreat from the living room archway before my panic can manifest into physical signs, though my voice is slightly more high-pitched when I call a salut into the house.

It hasn't rained in a week and pollen irritates my eyes the moment I'm out the door. I do my best to scratch only the corners and bottom lid so I don't smear glitter all over my face. By the time I turn out of Cleavers Grove, my feet have sweat enough in my flip-flops for each step to be preceded by the suction of my heel peeling from the plastic.

The air conditioning inside Barua's is a blessing. The clock beside the television, turned to the same BBC news Iya and Baba are watching, shows that Miles left twenty-seven minutes ago and I beat down a smile as something tickles my chest. He should be here any minute.

I pick up a packet of Oreos to feign interest in the ingredients list but I've barely read past fat-reduced cocoa powder before the bell chimes and my head snaps to the door.

It's Mrs Sharma.

My shoulders slump and I return to the Oreo packet, though my eyes soon find the clock again. It's exactly thirty minutes since Miles left. Then it's thirty-two. And thirty-five. Maybe he's gone a different route or isn't craving an after-run refreshment.

After fifteen minutes of checking bags of crisps for pork gelatine or alcohol, I have to admit I've missed him, and drag my feet back home. Only when I return to my room after Maghrib do I realise I forgot the Pharma Violets. Baba definitely noticed — that's why he wouldn't stop smiling weird when I came in.

I change my thobe and kufi back to my original Roobarb and Custard t-shirt and jersey skirt before I drop into bed.

What am I so disappointed for? I shouldn't be this disappointed. It's just Kilometres. The world's not ending.

I grimace at my lavender ceiling. I'm going to solve Miles. Screw Dr Colas, I need to figure this out or how else am I supposed to prepare?

Hugging my pink Ikea hippo, I fixate my mind on him. Which isn't hard. How do I tell if I fancy him or if I just want to be mates?

I've never fancied anyone before. Not properly. Sure, I took turns inserting myself into the role of Celine and Jesse every night for weeks when I first saw Before Sunrise at thirteen so that I could experience an ethereal romance in Vienna with both of them — then Pride and Prejudice, then Reality Bites, then Monsoon Wedding — but that's not the same as Miles, who's my neighbour and not a film character.

I've never had mates either. Not properly. Just the kind of friends you have as a kid because you happen to exist in proximity to one another, but playing ayanga-ayanga or jump rope hardly creates an emotional bond.

Maybe I don't have emotions.

Probably do, right? Cause I cry at Pikachu's Rescue Adventure.

This is stupid. I don't even like Miles, much less fancy him. I'm just confused by him announcing that he's gay out of literal nowhere. It's the possibility that I could fancy him that's teasing me, the fact that there's a chance. But I don't actually fancy him.

And even if I did, what's the probability he'd reciprocate even a fraction of it? Pretty minimal. Just cause he's gay, doesn't mean he's attracted to me. He's not. Miles doesn't see me when there's anyone else around.

My grip tightens on the polka-dot body of the hippo. I cram it against my chest as something grazes the inside of my ribcage. Miles is friends with Tristan and Lysander. Justified or not, it doesn't matter.

He's never going to look at me when there's anyone else around.

Notes

Maghrib: Sunset prayer