‘Remind me how into football you were before youdecided to try out for the school team,’ Deen says.
I blink at him, taken aback by this sudden turn in the conversation. ‘That’s … different.’
‘And remember how for all of your first year of secondary school you wore the wrong uniform because the real uniform was too expensive?’ Deen continues, as if I haven’t even spoken. ‘If I remember correctly, Ma literally had to write you a note to make sure the teachers wouldn’t give you detention every single day.’
‘Not that it stopped them from trying,’ I mutter under my breath darkly, remembering how some of those teachers seemed to take pleasure in anything they perceived as a slight from me. To Maya, though – perfect, teacher’s pet Maya – they were always willing to give the benefit of the doubt.
‘And how many times did you show up late to school?’
‘That was …notmy fault. It was Ma, and she was working all these nights at the time and Baba always had to be at the restaurant,’ I say defensively.
‘And do you remember the reason why you decided to try out for football in the first place?’ Deen asks.
Of course I remember. How could I forget? I had ranted and raved to Deen about her even back then. Maya Alam, the bane of my existence.
‘All of those cases are very different from this team,’ I say instead.
Deen raises his eyebrow even further up – it almost disappears into his hair. ‘Because you know them so well, after meeting them, what, a week ago? This club is run by the council so … yeah, it makes sense that they may not have the money to fork out on fancy football boots or football kit.’
I glare down at my plate of rice and chicken curry, moving my fork around even more aggressively so that it makes an unpleasant noise as it collides with the ceramic of the plate. Deen has a point, but I hate that he has a point.
‘And they’re young, of course they haven’t had exposure to football. You didn’t either until you actually got onto the team. And you joined the team for the wrong reasons too; doesn’t mean you didn’t end up loving it. But you didn’t start off as a football fanatic,’ Deen continues. He leans forward and gives me a small smile. ‘Look. You and I both know how difficult it can be when you feel like the people who are meant to look out for you don’t care about you. I mean … I felt like our teachers only saw me as a troublemaker and so that’s all I could be. Do you really want to be like one of those teachers who made us feel less than we were?’
I shake my head. ‘No … of course I don’t. But—’
‘I’m sure you’re different from those teachers,’ Deen cuts in before I can defend myself. ‘But my point is that you should remember back to when you were just like these girls. When you didn’t know anything about football, didn’t have the right kit, maybe when you felt like people around you didn’t really get you. What worked for you?’
The real answer is not one I can give Deen. It was Maya – it was my desire to do better than her. I was determined that anything she could do, I would do even better. I ran on sheer spite back then – maybe I still do, sometimes.
But I guess there were other factors too.
‘Jen,’ I say. ‘She … cared about us. She didn’t feel like a big, scary teacher who was out to get me. I felt like she actually wanted me to do well.’
‘OK, so, start there,’ Deen says. ‘Inspire your team inthe same way that Jen inspired you. That’s my final advice.’ He gives me a grin, and I have to wonder how Deen went from the troublesome kid who I hated being associated with to someone who suddenly seems wiser than his years. He used to skip classes, get detention every other day, and by the time he got suspended in his last year of college, our parents were starting to worry he might not even make it to graduation. Now, here he is: stable, grounded, responsible. Taking care of our mum and our restaurant, while I am floundering.
He gets up from the table and begins clearing away our dishes.
‘OK, enough about me. You want to finally clue me in on how your conversation with Ma went? Or did you still not have it?’ After he cowed out of it during lunch with her last week, he’s been putting it off again and again. But today was finally the day he was going to do it – so he texted me during practice – with many, many exclamation marks.
‘No, we had the conversation,’ Deen says. He comes back over to the table with a cloth, cleaning the surface and not meeting my eyes.
‘And how did it go?’
‘It was … I mean, as expected. Whatever.’ He shrugs his shoulders like he doesn’t care, but I can read the hurt in his words, in his voice. Of course, Ma wouldn’t have approved of his ideas. It’s not like she approved of my plans to go back to football.
‘Maybe you just need to do it,’ I say.
Deen stops his cleaning and looks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you have so many ideas, so many plans. You already know what you want this place to be. I bet youhave an entire menu in your head, and you probably have an entire Pinterest board full of decor ideas. Why don’t you just do it?’
‘Because Ma said it would be a mistake.’ Deen speaks slowly, like he’s talking to someone who has trouble grasping basic concepts.
‘You don’t have to listen to what she says.’
‘But she’s our mum.’ Deen sighs. He sits down on the chair opposite me again – or, rather, slumps down onto it. ‘I can’t just go against her wishes. This place was started by her and Baba. It would be disrespectful – you know it would be.’
‘Or would it be more disrespectful to let it fall to the wayside?’ I ask. ‘I know you don’t want to go against Ma’s wishes, but I don’t know if she’s ever going to come around. And you shouldn’t just sit around and give up on your own dreams, just because she’s too afraid of failure.’
