Free You're Not Proper by Tariq Mehmood

reception, bolted to the changing rooms, grabbed my clothes and rushed back. Shamshad was already in the hallway. Dad was talking to the receptionist.
    As I went past Shamshad, she hissed, ‘Just wait and see.’
    Dad had snapped out of wherever he’d gone and said, walking out of the reception, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m still proud of you.’
    I didn’t reply. I was stung by the word ‘still’.
Still,
I thought, you mean because I came joint first or because I came joint first with Shamshad.
    Getting into the car, Dad said, ‘And on Saturday, me and you are going out to celebrate, just the two of us.’
    I threw my stuff on the back seat and sat in the back of the car. ‘D and D,’ Dad chuckled. ‘Daughter and Dad.’
    â€˜Oh, yeh,’ I thought to myself, ‘D and D, that’s a new one. As if you’ll remember this on a match day.’
    On the way home, I thought about the look on Shamshad’s face when I said what I did to her before the start of the race. It was worth everything she was going to do to me. At last, for once, me, little miss goody two shoes, me, the little doormat, had slapped her in the face. Dad said something about what I wanted to do on Saturday. I ignored him. He started humming a Pakistani song. I was rummaging about in my bag looking for my mobile. I had a text from Mum:
How did you do?
    I text her back:
Ask Dad.
    A moment or so later, Dad’s mobile buzzed. He got a text. Still humming, he looked at his mobile and stopped humming.
    I was thinking about D and D when I got home. Dad had never said anything like that. I tried to work out why he’d said this. It wasn’t just Dad, but Mum had also been different towards me ever since I wanted to be a Muslim. It certainly wasn’t because of the race. Maybe they were trying to get me back on track, whatever that was. And the way Mum had sat with me, for Halloween, the way she’d stroked my hair and spoken, it wasn’t like her usual, ‘Yes dear, fine dear, love you dear, blah, blah, blah.’ No, for once I really felt she was there, for me, with me, just for me. And now, I had a special Saturday coming up with Dad…
    I was taking a bag of rubbish out when Mum got back from work, but she didn’t say anything to me. No hug. No, ‘Hello, I’m back!’ No ‘Well done.’ Nothing. She went straight into the living room, and yes, Dad was up to his usual, glued to the telly, beer in hand. She turned the television off. Dad didn’t protest. They looked at each other, in a strange sort of way. Mum saw me standing by the door, walked past Dad and shut the door.
    I did what I do, when
it
takes over our house and ran to my bedroom, jumped on the bed and said aloud, ‘Well, Saturday, you’re just a hoax.’
    But Saturday did come. And before it came, Mum and Dad talked to each other, in heavy, sad voices. Waiting for Saturday, I tried to catch their words, but they were just words, everyday words, about shopping, and work and just normal everyday chores, but wrapped in something dark, something unmentionable.
    Saturday did come and by the time it came,
it
was gone. And on this Saturday, Mum came and woke me up with a kiss. And this Saturday, Mum was wearing a beautiful dress. At first, I thought I was waking up in a dream, but then I heard Dad calling me, ‘Breakfast ready in five.’
    I looked at Mum. She looked at me. I touched my ear, waiting for the smoke alarm to go off. Me and my Mum burst out laughing.
    And this Saturday brought a beautiful, sunny, blue sky. And Dad didn’t watch the match. I floated about during the morning trying to work out the big secret that Dad had lined up for me.
    All throughout the breakfast of burnt toast and greasy eggs, I kept trying to work out my surprise. Monday was a bank holiday and then we had a teacher-training day on Tuesday, so maybe D and D meant Dad was going to take