Huda and Me by H. Hayek (summer beach reads TXT) 📗

shiny gift stores and waits patiently as we wander the polished aisles. I pick a small golden camel with a shiny red blanket on its back. Huda finally decides on a green lantern, and I pay with a hundred-dollar note I’ve surreptitiously pulled from the bottom of my bag.

‘You never know, brother, a genie might pop out and give us three wishes,’ Huda giggles.

I don’t have the heart to tell her it isn’t a lamp.

Amira beams when we show her our souvenirs. She fiddles with the red blanket on my camel, lifting a tiny latch, and it pops open like the boot of a car. I can’t wait to put something secret in it, like Tic Tacs.

‘Who wants dinner?’ Amira asks us.

‘Yes, please,’ I say as I tuck my camel into the front compartment of my bag.

Huda grabs her tummy and squeezes it with both hands. ‘I’m starving!’

I notice a toilet sign nearby and check my watch. I’m unsure how I’m meant to work out when to pray, with all the time differences and changing of countries, but Dad always tells me it’s about having the right intention.

‘Amira, do you mind if I use the bathroom for a minute, please?’

‘Sure!’ She walks us over to the entrance. ‘I’ll be waiting right here with your sister. Call out if you need anything.’

I walk through the grey door, hoping there’ll be no one inside so I can do my wudu – and that there’ll be enough room to lift my foot into the sink. That’s always the worst bit about doing wudu in a public place. That, or someone walking in on you and wondering what the heck you’re doing washing your feet in a sink.

There are five cubicles and they’re all empty. The place is clean and smells like air freshener. Pretty good for a public toilet. I roll my sleeves up to my elbows and turn on the tap. The water’s freezing cold.

I quickly wash my hands and rinse out my mouth. Then I splash water in my nose, on my face, and on my arms, three times. I wet my palms and run them across the top of my head so that my hair gets all damp. The iciness of the water gives me a chill but makes me feel fresh at the same time. Like I’m rinsing all the bad stuff away. Like Aunt Amel is disappearing down the drain, along with all the water dripping off me.

The tap stops running automatically, and I bend to untie my shoelaces then slip my right foot out of my shoe. I hop around on my other foot as I take off my smelly, three-day-old sock with wet hands. There’s nowhere to put it without getting it dirty or drenched, so I hold it between my front teeth. The pong is revolting.

I lift my right foot and cram it into the sink, hit the tap again, and let the water run between each of my toes. I’m rotating my foot around a bit, to make sure water gets all the way up to my ankle, when I hear chatter outside and the grey door into the bathroom swings open. The shock of being sprung makes me lose my balance, but my foot gets caught in the sink, stopping me from falling backwards. A boy about my age is standing in the doorway staring at me. I spit the sock into my hand.

‘Ummm … sorry,’ he mutters.

We both stand there frozen for a moment.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. He’s frowning, but not in an angry way – more like he feels sorry for me. His eyes look like little blue triangles in the reflected bathroom light.

‘I’m fine!’ I try dislodging my foot from the sink, but my hand slips on the wet sink in the process and I fall back onto the floor. I laugh to try and look like I’m cool – even though I am clearly not.

The boy stretches out his arm to help me. He’s wearing the same grey T-shirt that Omar bought from the surf shop at home a couple of weeks ago. I realise that he speaks like me – with an Australian accent. It’s not what I’d expected, here in Dubai.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking his arm and pulling myself up. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to leave, so I pull my sock on and try to slip my foot back into my runner. I’m still dripping and I fumble.

The boy glances down at my shoes. ‘Oh, wicked, you have those awesome new basketball sneakers!’

‘Um … yeh … my dad got them for me at the end of last term,’ I say as I finally get my runner back onto my foot.

‘I’ve been begging my parents for them for ages, but they won’t budge. Do they really help you jump higher?’ he asks.

I’m a bit embarrassed that this conversation is taking place in the toilets, but also relieved he’s noticed something other than me hanging off the sink with a sock in my mouth

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘They’re pretty comfy, though, and they look cool.’ I chuckle.

The boy smiles. We both know that these are the coolest runners ever, or at least this season. ‘I’m joining a new basketball team next month,’ he says.

‘I’m on a team too. Where are you from?’ I ask as I wipe my face with a paper towel. My brain is starting to work again now that I feel a little less wet and my shoes are back on.

‘I’ve moved to a new suburb in Melbourne. I think the team’s called the Williamstown Warriors,’ he says.

My mouth drops open. ‘No way! That’s my team!’

I can’t believe it. We’re probably living around the corner from each other.

The boy grins. ‘Whoa! I’m Michael, by the way.’ He sticks out his arm again, and this time we shake hands.

‘I’m Akeal.’

‘Huh?’

‘Akeal.’

Michael says my name to himself twice, like he’s practising how to say it. ‘So, why didn’t you have your shoe on?’ he asks. ‘And