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the back. ‘That’s a great name, bro! Why didn’t I think of that?’
    â€˜Little brother got there first, bro. Stay in your lane!’
    Yusuf looked over at me. ‘So, Ali, have you ever ridden amotorbike?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Would you like to ride out with us one day? There are some great roads outside South London, clear and fast. And we’ve got a rally coming up in a few weeks, too. Funds going to charity.’
    I smiled and shook my head. ‘Nah, bro, I think I’ll have to pass. I’m not much of a risk taker. Not anymore.’ I ruffled Jamal’s hair. ‘Got to keep my feet on the ground.’
    Yusuf raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and looked over at Usamah. ‘Suit y’self, bro. Usamah, you’re coming, innit?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t miss it, akh.’
    â€˜ I wonder if Zayd’s sister likes guys on bikes… ’ The thought just popped into my head, out of nowhere and an image flashed before me: the girl in the red trainers and me, speeding through the countryside on a motorbike. She was laughing, holding on tight. Thrilled.
    So much for keeping my feet on the ground…

8
    The tension in the house was too much for me. What with Mum on anti-depressants and the kids bouncing off the walls, I was just about holding it together. I had really wanted to continue working on my secret drawing of Mr Light Eyes’ hands but the kids didn’t give me any space at all. Between breaking up their squabbles, making their lunch and keeping the house from becoming a tip, I had to deal with Malik who had been clingy all afternoon, crying whenever Taymeeyah teased him. Even Abdullah was on edge. He kept tugging at my sleeve and signing, ‘What’s wrong with Mum?’ I found it really hard to reassure him when Mum had basically retreated to her room and refused to talk to anyone, let alone sign with Abdullah to let him know that she just needed a bit of space.
    That was when I decided to set them all up at the table with some paints and paper. That kept Taymeeyah and Malik busy for about thirty minutes but it was better than nothing. By that time, Zayd was back from his Saturday job and I was like, ‘Bro, you need to take over. I need to get out of here.’ But then I noticed that Abdullah was still at the table, hunched over his paper, totally engrossed. I stepped up behind him to take a look and gasped with surprise. Abdullah had painted a figure in a box surrounded by angry black and red swirls. Allaround the box were words like ‘tired’, ‘scared’, ‘Mum’ and ’tears’.
    â€˜Abdullah,’ I called out, touching his shoulder. Immediately, he shielded the paper with his arm but I gently moved it away. ‘What does the picture mean, babe?’ I asked.
    He shrugged. ‘Means what it says,’ he signed.
    And that was when I got the idea to introduce Abdullah to my world, the world of art as an escape. You don’t need to be able to hear to be able to appreciate beauty, or know how to use a box of paints.
    I would start in the morning.
    But first, I had to save what little sanity I had left: I had to get out of there and Rania’s house was just where I wanted to be when things got too hectic at home.
    We had developed a Saturday ritual over the previous six months: Taymeeyah and I would go over to Rania’s house to escape the boys for the night. In the run-up to the exams, Rania and I had studied while the younger girls played, but now that school was over, we spent the evening talking, eating, doing henna and cackling over silly YouTube videos. Occasionally, we would listen to an Islamic talk. But with the Urban Muslim Princess event just a few weeks away, Rania had me working on her fashion show: the backdrop was my main responsibility, but I was also meant to be both Creative Director and one of the models on the catwalk.
    â€˜And to think,’ I grumbled,