You Must Be Layla Read online

  And it doesn’t hurt that it made the other boys laugh!

  Layla twirled away from Peter with a flourish, poking her tongue out and winking at him cheekily. ‘Yallah. Let’s go, boys!’ she yelled at her new-found clique before skipping away from the stunned bully.

  ‘What class do we have now?’ Layla turned to Ethan and Seb, as the group began dispersing to their various classes, Peter still standing by himself on the hill.

  ‘Oh, hmm. I think we have design and tech! Yaass!’ Seb replied. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about him–’ Seb pointed back over his shoulder to Peter, ‘–he’s in a different class. He’s a bit of a loner. Nobody really talks to him or pays him much attention anyway.’

  Layla nodded (Alhamdulilah!), then turned to Ethan. ‘Is tech like woodworks class?’ She hoped it was. Layla could barely contain her excitement.

  ‘It’s, like, building things. It’s super fun, we just get to muck around with tools all class and make really cool stuff.’

  ‘Yeh, and we can play whatever music we want too! It’s so good!’

  ‘AND Mr Gilvarry lets us get away with heeeeeappppsss.’ Ethan smiled at Layla, who could barely contain her glee.

  Y-A-A-A-A-S! FINALLY! This is my time to shine.

  Tech class, as they called it, was in a building on the outskirts of the school, across the oval. They trudged across the field, passing bad jokes and banter back and forth around the group like a football. Eventually, they reached the building.

  ‘C’mon, it’s on the top floor!’

  The group climbed the stairs, Layla trailing her hand along the wall, feeling the cool concrete against her fingertips. At the top, there was a long hall and at the far end stood Mr Gilvarry, leaning in the tech room doorway.

  ‘Welcome!’ Mr Gilvarry had a huge belly and an even larger moustache. His red beard was full and bushy and looked like it had never, ever seen a comb. He reminded Layla of a jolly bus driver. As the students milled into the room, Layla slowed to a walk and took in the scene in front of her. The workshop smelled like an industrious combination of pine, wood shavings and varnish. The room was filled with rows of wooden workbenches with dark yellow clamps on each edge. The back wall was covered in hand tools of every shape and size: hammers, screwdrivers, chisels, saws, planes … and a whole bunch of things she had never seen before. On the right-hand side of the room stood a large bench saw, bandsaw and router, and on the other side stood a number of wooden sculptures that looked like they were previous students’ works. It was magical. The roof was made from glass, so the sun shone in brightly, lighting the workshop like a showroom. OMG – there were even a couple of digital 3D printers in the corner!

  Layla couldn’t stop herself from squealing. Are we going to be allowed to use all these machines to make things?

  She could print off cool shaped beads and jewellery with that printer for a start, and maybe even make some nice wooden jewellery boxes. Gosh, she definitely could have made a go-kart for that competition if she were allowed to use all this stuff. And, mate, there was enough in here that she might even be able to build that treehouse! So many possibilities!

  Mr Gilvarry leaned on a workbench and began the class. ‘You’re going to build four things this year, one new project every term. You can also come in and use any of the equipment during lunchtimes, and even after school, if you let us know in advance. The workshop is yours, students – make the most of it!’

  This. Is. The. BESTTTT!

  Walking to the front gate of the school that afternoon, Layla breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn’t so bad. What was she so worried about this morning? She could fit in to this place, even if she looked a bit different. Actually, she couldn’t wait for the year ahead. Hanging out with cool boys, building things, making people laugh, and maybe being able to eat smelly food in front of everyone else without being embarrassed; this was it. MMGS had been a great idea. She just had one or two problems to sort out first … Layla pushed the thought of getting kicked out of class into a little box in her brain, alongside Peter, then slammed shut the door of the vault.

  Focus on this goodness right now, she told herself.

  The crowd around her thickened as people started jostling and running toward the bus that had just pulled up. Layla’s foot caught on an uneven slab of concrete, and she felt herself flying forward unexpectedly, her face slapping the ground.

  Ohhhhh, Janey Mack!

  Layla felt her face burn red with embarrassment. Layla hoped nobody had noticed, but she could feel the eyes of everyone around her. As she pushed herself up into a sitting position. People got out of the way, but nobody really offered to help. Pretend nothing happened, Layla told herself, and smiled at the few people who had stopped and were looking at her with sympathetic eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m all good! I was just surveying the footpath and needed to get a closer look!’ Layla tried a lame joke, forcing herself to sound cheerful even though her hands stung.

  Glancing down, Layla located the source of the pain. Her palms were shredded. Layla shook her hand in front of her, searching for somewhere she could run cool water over her wounds.

  As Layla looked around, she felt someone come up behind her, blocking the sunlight. The menacing presence seemed to lean down, then Layla heard a whisper in her ear.

  ‘Get your towelhead face out of our school. In fact, get out of our COUNTRY. You’re not welcome here,’ the voice uttered, dripping with venom.

  Layla whipped around to face her accuser. A boy loomed above her, towering and brooding. His eyebrows were dark and his face twisted and mean, but the sun was behind him, so Layla couldn’t see his features properly.

  ‘You better watch yourself, dirty Ay-raaaab,’ he spat, his voice still low to avoid attracting attention from the passers-by.

  Behind him stood Peter, and Layla realised why the boy who attacked her seemed familiar. He must be Peter’s older brother. Layla’s mind raced.

  Okay, somehow I’m gonna need to really show them that they don’t scare me. It’s now, or never. Layla braced herself for the uncomfortable moment ahead and stood up. Just act like you don’t even care …

  ‘Hahahahaha!’ She forced a laugh out, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘You’re calling me a dirty Arab? You can’t even say the word right … I’m not even really Arab! I’m from Sudan, so I’m African and I speak Arabic. You can’t even insult me right!’ Turning her attention away from the older boy, she started to address Peter. ‘And you needed your big brother to help you out, Peter? Couldn’t even handle me yourself?!’ Layla watched Peter’s face darken with each word she uttered.

  Every dope Queen needs an arch enemy.

  A crowd had gathered around the three students at Layla’s loud announcement, the bus schedule all but forgotten. In an effort to keep her quiet, the older boy had stepped forward and growled at Layla again.

  ‘SHUT UP!’ he’d warned, eyes wide and darting left to right furtively.

  Layla wasn’t gonna be silenced. Her parents had taught her to yell in the face of injustice.

  ‘YOU WANT ME TO BE QUIET?’ she yelled, throwing her hands up. ‘You’re the one being mean to me!’

  The two boys stood in front of her and Layla’s eyes met Peter’s. He stepped forward aggressively.

  Is he going to touch me? Layla wondered, the first tendrils of fear creeping into her. Yo, he looks like he actually wants to hurt me.

  ‘Your type doesn’t belong here!’ Peter spat the words out, inches from her face. Then his palms came up and he pushed Layla backward.

  Layla stumbled.

  ‘Why.’

  Push.

  ‘Don’t.’

  Push.

  ‘You.’

  Push.

  ‘Just.’

  Push.

  ‘LEAVE!’

  On saying the last word, Peter pushed Layla so hard that she fell off the kerb and right onto her bottom.

  There was an eerie silence as Layla looked around. Lots of
people were recording the whole thing on their phones. But Layla’s mind went blank as she sat on the ground, frozen. What on earth was happening? She unthinkingly began to straighten her headscarf, pulling one side down so it was even again. If someone was going to put this on Snapchat – which she knew they would – at least her headscarf should look neat!

  ‘You’re not even Australian. Why don’t you go back to where you came from?’

  With that, Layla snapped. Like hell this kid was going to tell her that she wasn’t Australian.

  ‘Oi! I am Australian, you fool! Why don’t you go back to where YOU came from, you convict! Why don’t you go back to England? Oh yeah, they sent you away – they wouldn’t want you back anyway!’

  For the second time that afternoon, Layla scrambled to her feet. This time however, she walked right up to Peter and without thinking, closed her eyes, then jerked her head forward, and headbutted him.

  Peter dropped like a sack of potatoes, and the crowd broke out into chaotic jeers and screams.

  Layla felt like she was coming out of a trance.

  Ya-nhar-aswad!

  Janey Mack.

  Holy Mary Mother of Divine Grace.

  Her mind raced. What had she done?

  Peter’s crumpled body lay on the pavement in front of her. Looking back up, she noticed that his older brother was gone. But moments later, he reappeared, with a teacher in tow.

  ‘That’s her!’ Peter’s brother said, pointing at Layla. ‘She’s the one who picked a fight with Peter!’

  With a sinking feeling, Layla realised who this man was – the Chair of the Board. Mr Cox. He was the one person who had not wanted Layla to join the school, but the principal had overruled him.

  Things were about to get very interesting.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE couch was very comfortable. Too comfortable. Layla knew that she was in trouble, but she could happily sit on this sofa all day, the cushions a cool cocoon. She was in the waiting room outside the principal’s office, which was in the main reception building she had come into only this morning.

  What a wild first day.

  The carpet in the room was dark blue and lush, and a low wooden oval table sat in front of Layla, displaying assorted magazines and an enormous bunch of local flowers in the middle. The vase holding the flowers was beautiful; slender and shapely, the blues and greens of the glass reminded Layla of the ocean, matching the gentle quiet in the room. Soft light filtered in through the one window to her left. A large painting of the shore hung above Layla’s head, and above the squat bookshelf hung a noticeboard with posters on all sorts of exciting activities: a robotics competition, classes for rowing, skiing, maths. Layla thought they looked interesting, but realised she might not last long enough at the school to get to try any of them.

  SAD FACE.

  She sunk further into the deep black leather seat, stroking the smooth velvet feel of the arm and wished the couch would swallow her up so she wouldn’t have to deal with this whole mess.

  What came over me?

  She tried to rack her brain to understand what had been going through her mind when she decided to deck Peter, but all she could remember was being told she wasn’t Australian, being shoved into the ground and then seeing red. She hated it when people said that. And then when she went back to Sudan they said she wasn’t Sudanese either. Layla furrowed her brows, angrily.

  KMN. Like, who am I then? Who is Peter to tell me that I’m not AUSTRALIAN!

  Layla’s fists balled up with anger as she started to get wound up again. It was just so unfair. People yelled similar stuff to her family on the street too, though Mama usually laughed in their faces. Why did people care so much about it anyway?!

  Gosh, what I’d like to say to that–

  ‘Layla?’

  Uh-oh. Layla’s train of thought was interrupted, and she was rudely returned to reality. Her mum and dad had just walked into the waiting room. She was angry at Peter, but it was Mama and Baba she was really worried about! Layla was downright terrified of her parents’ disappointment. The look on their faces as they entered the ornate room did not bode well. The twins bounded in behind her parents, their loud voices quietening as soon as they entered the room. Even they knew this wasn’t a place or time for celebration.

  ‘3amalti shnu ya bit?!’ Baba’s steely soft voice asked Layla what she’d done in Sudanese Arabic. His voice might have been low, but Layla could hear the danger and disappointment in his tone.

  Her stomach twisted and she lowered her face, unable to meet her father’s eyes. Both parents stood in front of Layla on the sofa, clearly not interested in sitting. The twins had different ideas, jumping onto the couch next to Layla.

  ‘Wow, this is so comfy!’ Sami squealed, momentarily forgetting the gravity of the moment.

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Everyone whispered sharply at the same time, and Sami snapped his hand up to cover his mouth and muffle the laugh that immediately followed.

  This is going to be majorly awkward.

  The meeting with the principal was short. Peter and his brother had reported that Layla picked a fight with Peter for no reason and attacked him at the school gate. As such, Layla would be suspended, put on probation and her scholarship was no longer guaranteed. For Layla to come off probation and renew her scholarship, not only would she need an excellent academic year, the principal said she needed to go above and beyond to prove that she wanted to be at this school and that she was committed to learning, inclusion and mutual respect. Mr Savage had been kind, but firm in his disappointment and decision.

  What the actual fotonias! This was unbelievable! Peter and his brother lied! Not only had they insulted her and pushed her to the ground, but they couldn’t even admit it? And they walked away without even a scratch!

  Layla’s jaw had been clenched and her teeth started to grind together as the principal talked, her reputation being dragged through the mud in front of her eyes. Mr Savage hadn’t even asked her what happened. This was soooo unfair.

  Layla had opened her mouth to interrupt the principal and correct the record, but her mother had other ideas. Layla felt a strong, sharp squeeze on her upper arm. OUCH! Looking around, Layla saw her mother giving her the scariest side-eye she’d ever seen. Don’t even dare talk, that look said. Layla shot back a message with a glare: WHAAAAT! For the Love of Alllllllahhhhhhh! The teenager couldn’t disobey such an obvious instruction though – Sudanese culture was all about respecting and listening to your elders, particularly in situations like this. So, she stayed silent – furious, fuming and frightened.

  The car ride home was even more excruciating.

  As soon as they buckled their seatbelts, Baba met her eyes in the review mirror. ‘We will talk about this fi-al3asha,’ he said, meaning that this would be discussed at dinner, like all important family affairs.

  That was that.

  Layla felt that if she opened her mouth, she would either start screaming or crying or both. Neither option would help, so she did nothing at all. The twins, in an attempt to cheer her up, told a couple of her favourite lame jokes, but nothing was working. Her arm throbbed from where Mama had squeezed her earlier.

  Layla peered over the back of the driver’s seat, trying to hear any conversation between her parents. Nothing! The two were sitting in silence, both looking straight ahead. Her parents were usually talking about work or listening to the news on the local ABC radio station. Not today. It was like they were going to a funeral. Mama, in the passenger seat, sat with an inscrutable look on her face, hands folded in her lap and resting on the sparkling material of the toub she wore. It must have been an important day at work, as she was wearing one of her fanciest toubs, the traditional married Sudanese woman’s outfit. After about ten minutes, she pulled out her iPad and began answering some emails.

  Baba, driving, gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual – his knuckles white. But that was the only indication that Baba was frustrated, aside from the distinct lack of any conv
ersation.

  Even the twins were at a loss. Sami, sitting next to Layla, looked at her forlornly, and took her hands in his. His baby face looked up at his big sister, brown eyes wide and hopeful.

  ‘It’ll be okay, Layla,’ he whispered reassuringly.

  Layla nodded, her stomach feeling sick for the second time that day.

  At dinner, she finally got her chance to speak. After everyone had been served the main – cosa bi-al-bashamel, a zucchini bechamel dish that Mama loved but Layla hated – Mama put her utensils down and looked at Layla.

  ‘So, what happened. Min ra2yatik?’ said Mama, asking the teenager to explain the incident from her point of view.

  Layla regaled the family with the story – the pushes by Peter, the insults, being told to go back to where she came from, calling him a convict, headbutting him. Halfway through, tears that had been threating since the car ride home started to overflow.

  ‘I know I did the wrong thing, Ma,’ she choked, after finishing the story, wiping snot from under her nose. ‘I know I shouldn’t have snapped, or called him names, or been violent. I know you think that we should always be the better ones in a situation, like the Prophet Sallah-Allahu-3lahi-Wasalam always was. But Peter was so awful, and no one was telling him to stop or helping …’

  Layla’s body heaved with sobs, heavier now. She didn’t know what was going on, or how to handle this kind of thing. No one had said anything like this at ISB. There, everyone had been different. People might have been mean, but they never told her to leave the school. Or the country. Why were they so cruel at this fancy school where people were supposed to be smarter, richer and better together? Better together, that was pretty much the school’s motto!

  ‘Do you know who those boys are, Layla?’ Baba asked.

  Layla shook her head. What did he mean?

  ‘Peter and his older brother, Jack – they are the Chair of the Board’s sons. They are a powerful family at the school, habibti.’