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checking white girls and it ain’t right. Is it my fault though? And anyway, there’s plenty of other black boys out there. She can check them, can’t she? She shouldn’t be going to war with me over my one boy. I flick through all the texts he’s sent me and count the number of his kisses till I fall asleep.

CHAPTER 9
LEAVES & SHOWERS
    It’s Saturday morning at Hough End Playing Fields and as soon as I step out of the car, rain smacks my face. I look at the pitch. It’s a lake. We’re late. Dad shoves me into the changing room. Inside, everyone’s moaning, nobody wants to play.
    ‘My hair’s going to be ruined!’
    ‘I’ve got asthma!’
    ‘I can’t swim!’
    ‘I wanna go home!’
    Miss Fridge is fighting on all fronts. ‘Mud? Mud is good for your skin,’ she tells the wannabe Miss Worlds. ‘And remember, it’s the equivalent of two Detentions, but only if you play!’ she tells the conscripts. Asthma? Stick your inhaler in your gob, girl, that’s what it’s for!’ she tells the sick-notes. ‘Think of the England places, girls!’ she yells to everyone, finally.
    As there’s no escape, everyone starts to get their kit on. The gale must have got worse because from outside my dad shouts, ‘I’m getting drenched, is everyone decent? Can I come in?’
    He gets screams as a reply.
    ‘No way!’
    ‘I’m starkers!’
    ‘Aaagh!’
    Drama queens, all of them, I think.
    ‘Poor thing!’ Mikaela’s mum says of my dad. She’s been sitting in a corner of our changing room. She takes out a little silver compact, checks her lipstick, then leaves the dressing room to ‘look after’ my dad. I think, yuk.
    The referee comes in. Everyone pleads with her to declare the match abandoned but she’s having none of it: ‘If eleven players are not on that pitch in two minutes I’ll award the match to the opposing team! I’ve got a hundred essays to mark after this!’
    The referee turns away. Mikaela calls out to her, ‘Will you be issuing paddles, then, bitch?’ Everyone cracks up at this. It’s so not Mikaela.
    The ref turns back. ‘Who said that?’
    We’re all suddenly busy adjusting our socks. The ref looks to Miss Fridge. Miss Fridge shrugs that she didn’t hear. The ref glares at Mikaela, but leaves.
    We troop out. Dad dashes to the car park. When he comes back he’s holding this huge golf umbrella that advertises his bank. Some touchy-feely argument starts up between Dad and Mikaela’s mum about the umbrella. She’s doesn’t like the umbrella so she’s attacking it and Dad’s trying to fend her off. She catches the umbrella, points to the logo and wags her finger disapprovingly. Dad tugs the umbrella out of her grip.
    Miss Fridge gives us a quick blast from the touchline. ‘Mikaela, Adele, remember you’re on the same team! Think England!’
    She couldn’t have made it plainer. Cooperate or she won’t write us up good. We’re best friends again, as it happens.
    Mikaela’s mum is standing in the rain with an arm out to ward off Dad, who’s spinning his umbrella, teasing her with it, inviting her to come under it. There are a few other parents on the touchline.
    I get this flashback. My mum stumbling onto the pitch. Trying to attack the referee. I shake it off.
    The referee holds the match up briefly while a bloke in a boiler suit tries to corner a stray chicken that has run onto the pitch. It flutters and squawks and soon has twenty four school girls chasing it across the field. Miss Fridge yells she wants to sign it up, which has us all laughing like crazy. It’s a fast chicken, nobody can catch even a feather of it. Finally the boiler bloke dives and grabs it by a leg. He hauls it off upside down, still squawking and flapping. The chase has warmed us all up. Suddenly the conditions don’t seem so bad. The match starts.
    Mikaela collects the ball. She speeds away from two tacklers and passes it to me. I trap it under my foot, zip across the goal mouth and smack the ball to Sorayah