Being Me Read Free Page B

that.
    I wake up to music. I can just about make out the clock on the wall. It says 2 something am. I’m on the sofa. Some old-time music is playing and Mum and Dad are dancing slowly in the room, chewing each other’s face off. Mum’s dress is beautiful and looks like it’s about to drop off. Dad’s trying to help it on its way. I push myself up off the sofa.
    ‘Eughh! Mum! Dad! Get a room!’ I say.
    They carry on with the face-chewing like I’m not there.
    I haul myself to my feet and stagger up to my bedroom.
    MTB knocks and comes into my room. I guess he stays up as late as me nowadays. He sees my boots bucket and asks the score and says well done, even puts his arm around me. But I’m mad at him for not tidying up, for not looking after Mum (he says he hates cleaning up sick and why should he?) and for, well, being my brother. I kiss him anyway then tell him to get out and let me sleep.
    Lying back, I imagine myself in five years’ time. Will I be Adele Vialli, Greatest Football Player on the Planet? Or Adele Vialli International Jewellery Thief? I hear Mum and Dad stumble up. I’m half awake, half dreaming. Boys say girl footballers are all lesbians, but girl players have got hot bods. Faye White got a medal from the Queen. Her Majesty had better get a red carpet ready for me! I imagine the Queen and me having a kick-about at Buckingham Palace.

CHAPTER 5
BLACK BOYS & ITALIANS
    I’m in Dad’s car on the school run.
    ‘I saw that Marcus play yesterday,’ Dad says. ‘Scored and ran the game. Smart player, Marcus. Your boyfriend.’
    I say nothing, just wait for it. Marcus must have played against MTB and made him look average. I hide a smile.
    ‘Why don’t you go out with a good Italian boy?’
    I knew it. ‘There are no Italian boys,’ I say. ‘We’re not in Italy. You mean good white boys.’
    ‘It’s not that he’s black,’ Dad says. ‘It’s that he’s what do you call it? Ghetto. He lives on a council estate. Those places are full of thieves and dealers and gangsters...’
    I turn on my phone and bring up a game. Sometimes I can’t be bothered to answer my dad, he’s so prejudiced.
    Dad keeps on. ‘It’s like you don’t even like your own people,’ he says. ‘You should be proud to be Italian. Or white.’
    ‘It’s not me having the identity crisis here, Dad. Marcus is not a black boy. Marcus is a boy. And I happen to like him. Anyway, your own mum was black.’
    Dad looks at me finally. ‘What gives you that idea?’ he says.

    ‘You showed me her photo, remember? I said she looked dark, and you laughed and said that’s because she was part-Egyptian.’
    Dad laughs again. ‘Ethiopian. She did say her father was Ethiopian, but I don’t know. She didn’t talk about it much.’
    ‘Doesn’t that make you and me black?’ I ask him.
    Dad laughs. ‘It makes you and me Italian!’
    I’m fed up with Dad again. He twists everything. I concentrate on playing the game on my phone.
    ‘Got out the wrong side of the bed, did you?’ Dad says after a bit.
    ‘My bed’s against a wall. I get out the same side every morning.’
    ‘Metaphorically.’
    ‘Shut up, Dad.’ I make out I’m texting so Dad can’t talk to me anymore. For once, the school gates can’t arrive fast enough.
    There are thirteen reasons why I don’t like school. They are (in no particular order):
Official titles:
What I call them:
Maths.
Boring
Maths II.
Double Boring.
English.
What Ho Forsooth
Biology.
Body Bits.
Chemistry.
How To Blow Things Up.
Physics.
How To Electrocute Your Brother.
Art.
Ear Choppers.
History
Old Stuff.
PSHE.
Why To Persuade Boys To Wear A Condom.
French.
Adieu.
German.
Mein Gott.
PE
Faster! Higher! Sweatier! F**k Yeah!
Remedial.
Let’s Bring The Mad, the Bad and the Plain Confused Together In One Classroom And Watch What Happens.
    I walk into the school grounds, my head still throbbing from arguing with my dad.

CHAPTER 6
MIKAELA MY FRENEMY
    Sometimes Art is good and sometimes it’s