‘You changed after everything, you know.’ Ma stands up, taking off her yellow gardening gloves slowly. ‘I alwaysnoticed it in you. It took you so long to move forward, and I just don’t want that to happen again.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ I insist. More for myself than for her.
If last time had left me broken and hollow, I’m not sure I have it in me to go through that heartbreak again.
Chapter 7
Maya
Despite Ma’s insistence that I get out of the house and start looking for a job, I spend the week holed up at home. Venturing out before only led to running into Dina and I’m not sure if I’m prepared for that to happen again.
It’s one of those days when I’m languishing in bed that my phone buzzes. I reach for it, thinking that it must be Isabel, but it isn’t. It’s a Google alert with my name that I set up years ago. I’ve spent a little too much time scouring the internet for the responses to my retirement announcement since I got back and it hasn’t exactly helped things. But I also feel like I can’t look away.
Now, I click on the alert, and the headline appears in my screen, bold and bright: ‘Maya Alam’s TORRID history’. My stomach drops, but I click through to the article, my eyes scanning it quickly. It’s not the worst piece about me, though it basically has no facts to speak of. There’s speculation about my time on the team, how I was on the sidelines after my first couple of games, the rumours about me being unpleasant to work with. I’ve seen it all before. But, of course, I can’t help but go down to the comments, my heart beating fast as I do. I know that I should just close my phone and put it away. But it’s like a drug, being in the media. Having people who you have never met think theyknow so much about you – engage in speculation about you.
@coyotea: Thank GOD she’s gone!
@sealixir: The Vikings are sooo better off without her.
@yakar: She couldn’t play football to save her life, no wonder she retired.
@deliverykail: This is why India never makes the world cup – they all SUCK at football!
@warthawk: Women’s football is full of total hacks and too much drama – and all they want to do is complain!!!
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, finally putting my phone away. But my heart is pumping fast and I feel like there’s adrenaline coursing through my body.
I need to find a way to deal with it, so I go downstairs, pulling my trainers from the shoe rack.
‘Maya?’ Amma is standing at the kitchen door, a wooden spoon in her hands. ‘Are you … OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie quickly. ‘I’m just … I’m going to go out for a run.’
‘Oh.’ Amma seems to be trying to hide her surprise, but I read it in her wide-eyed expression just the same. I’ve barely left the house since I got back. I definitely haven’t just nipped out for a run. ‘Well … OK. Will you come back for lunch? I’m making daal makhani.’
‘Yes, yeah. I’ll be back … soon.’ I finish tying my shoelaces and give Amma a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I jog around the neighbourhood for a little bit, the cool air and the rush of blood through my body feeling like relief. Thoughts of that news article and the accompanying comments are still buzzing around somewhere in mybrain, but they’re dull now. Instead, I’m thinking about this place, being back home. My memories of the past start rushing back as I pass familiar places: Victoria Park, where I used to hang out with my friends after school, the hidden off-licence near it where we would buy cheap meal deals for lunch. And finally, somehow, I stumble outside my old secondary school.
I pause to catch my breath, looking up at the building. Despite all the years that have passed, Westbrook Secondary School hasn’t changed even a tiny bit. There’s the car park always filled to the brim, the big block of a building with no colour other than grey, black or white to be seen on it, the cold glass doors, the too-small windows that barely let enough light or air in. And, of course, the football pitch that used to feel massive back when we played on it but now makes me wonder how it even contained our teams during matches. It feels strange to see it again, to think about all of our practice sessions, our matches. It feels so long ago and yet so recent at the same time.
‘Maya? Maya Alam?’ A familiar face appears in front of me, a much-needed interruption to my reminiscing.
My mind scrambles for the name of my old principal before it suddenly comes to me, just at the right time.
‘Ms Jacobs,’ I say, trying to smile with as much enthusiasm as she’s showing me right now.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, beaming at me. ‘I thought you were still in America.’
My smile almost falters. I guess the news hasn’t travelled here yet. Or Ms Jacobs is too busy running a school to keep up with football news.
‘No, I’m—’
‘You have to come in and see everyone. They’ll be soexcited to know you’re here!’ Ms Jacobs interrupts me, putting out her half-lit cigarette. I’m thankful for the interruption, since I don’t really know how to explain why I’m here in the first place. But I’m also not sure what she means by everyone wanting to see me.
When she ushers me inside the school, I have no choice but to follow her. I think about trying to make up some kind of an excuse to leave, but my mind is drawing a total blank.
I follow Ms Jacobs through the familiar school hallways as she talks about all of my various successes and how proud the school has been to have me as an alumnus. I can barely focus on the conversation because my chest tightens with each passing minute. If they were proud of me before, how will they feel now that I’ve failed?
