Black Sheep Read Online Free

have been published.
    Mum kissed my forehead and squeezed me again. I felt a bubbling inside me then, a surge of pride and satisfaction. This was what Mum had been preparing me for: greatness. And with 13 GCSEs to
sit and at least 10 predicted A and A* grades, I was well on my way.
    Don’t get me wrong: I’m not big-headed or anything – that’s just how Mum taught me to express myself. It’s hard to shake that kind of habit.
    But although I was pleased, a tiny part of me felt bruised. I had really wanted to take my ‘A’ Levels at my current school, a well-respected private school in Dulwich, but Mum
insisted that I apply to Oak Hill. She also insisted that I drop my favourite subjects – French and Spanish – and apply to do Sciences and Mathematics.
    “Oak Hill is far more prestigious than your school,” Mum had said. “And they have a much higher number of students getting into Oxford and Cambridge. You’re better off
there, Misha, where the top students are.”
    “I suppose so, Mum,” I nodded. It was easy to agree with Mum. I had been doing it all my life. “It’s just that I really like my teachers – and the Sciences
aren’t my forte.”
    “You can do anything you put your mind to, Misha,” Mum had said firmly. “I don’t have to tell you how complex this society is, darling. The whole system is riddled with
racism. Black people need to work twice as hard to succeed and as a black woman, it’s not enough for you to be good, or even very good: you have to be the best.”
    It was a sort of mantra, a regular part of our life together as single working mother and only daughter:
be the best, work hard, never use your race as an excuse
. I knew that was why,
when Mum finally started earning enough money to be able to get a mortgage, she bought a house near the best independent girls’ school in south London, far from Brixton where I was born,
where she grew up.
    At the time, I couldn’t understand how Mum could bear to be so far from Gran, so far from the familiarity of Brixton and the Caribbean community there, and live in such a white suburb but,
as I got older, I began to figure it out. Mum didn’t want to be near other black people, especially black people on estates, ‘low class’ black people: ‘ghetto people’.
As far as Mum was concerned, we were better than them. We were upwardly mobile: educated, cultured, refined and as far away from state benefits as you could get.
    “If black people are going to get ahead,” Mum would say, “we’re going to have to stop segregating ourselves. We need to get rid of our ghetto mentality. We need to aim
higher, to be the best. That is what I want for you, Misha.”
    Mum hugged me again, looked at her watch and said briskly, “I’ve got to go, darling, I’ve got a meeting with the mayor in less than 45 minutes... on a Saturday, would you
believe?” She drained her coffee cup before pulling on her grey wool coat. Then she reapplied her lipstick and smoothed her hair. “There,” she said, knotting a purple silk scarf
around her neck and throwing her shoulders back. “How do I look?”
    “Fantastic, Mum.” I wondered why she still had to ask. People regularly mistook us for sisters. With her smooth nut-brown skin and dazzling smile, Counsellor Dina Reynolds –
Mum – was one of those many black women who just did not seem to age. I hoped I would inherit that from her side just as I hoped I wouldn’t inherit early greying from Dad’s.
    Just then, my mobile vibrated. A text. I picked it up and read the message:
    Hey sweetness. I wanna c u 2nite. I’ll cum 4 u @ 8. D.
    My heart fluttered ever so slightly. I had to look away to hide my smile from Mum. Thankfully, Mum’s Blackberry vibrated too, giving three sharp rings. She turned towards it to look at the
screen.
    “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed. “I completely forgot: Auntie Loretta got us tickets for the Alvin Ailey performance at the Royal Albert Hall tonight! And it’s