by Humza Arshad
‘Nah, man, I’m sure they’ve just realized that every day they hold me back from being a superstar is another day they have to live in miserable poverty.’
‘Yeah … or there’s gonna be a catch.’
‘A catch? What catch? Why’d there be a catch?’
‘I dunno,’ replied Umer. ‘Mums can be tricky like that.’
Ah, man, I hate catches. What kind of catch could it be? Knowing my mum, it would be pretty bad. I was going to have to play this one carefully.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘all I know is that, one way or another, I’m getting that camera.’
‘Great,’ replied Umer. ‘And, after that, all that’s left to do is make the track better.’
‘What are you talking about, man? The track’s amazing!’ I snapped.
‘Yeah, it’s good … It’s just … you know … not … very good.’
‘Whatever. It’s gonna be great when it’s done. We can work on it more in our music lesson this afternoon. Mr Turnbull said he’s got something to show us.’
Let me tell you about Mr Turnbull. For a guy who’s, like, seventy per cent bald and wears socks with his sandals, Mr T is a sick musician. He can play pretty much every instrument there is, mix tracks on a computer, and write a beat so tight it makes my dad look generous. He ain’t like the rest of the teachers. He’s a pretty cool guy. That’s why he’s helping us with the track. When things work out, maybe I’ll make him my producer and rescue him from this place. A lot of big stars do charity work. That could be mine.
‘Now, children,’ said Auntie Uzma, ‘what have you been studying this wee–’
But she never finished the sentence, because that was when we heard the crash. Something heavy in a nearby room had fallen over with a boom! It was followed immediately by a terrible scream.
At the time I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure, but, if I had to guess, I’d have said it sounded exactly like a librarian being squashed by a bookshelf …
CHAPTER THREE
Punishment Time
We were out at lunch break when the ambulance men finally carried the librarian through on a stretcher.
‘Poor Mrs Finigan,’ said Umer, watching the old lady being loaded into the back of the ambulance. ‘Crushed by the books she loved.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I replied. ‘If she’d been stood in the early readers section, maybe she’d be OK. But some of those later Harry Potter books are massive. It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed. I told you reading was dangerous.’
‘Two teachers in two days,’ said Umer. ‘That’s pretty bad luck.’
‘Well, Finigan ain’t really a teacher, so it probably only counts as a half. That ain’t too bad.’
‘I always liked her,’ said Umer, frowning. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
You know, whatever his failings (and there’s loads of ’em), you’ve got to give it to Umer – he’s a good egg.
‘Come on,’ I said, putting my arm round his shoulder. ‘Let’s go get some lunch.’
Five minutes later we were queuing up in the canteen. It smelled healthy, in the worst way. That over-boiled vegetable stink – like a wet dog in a hot car, or a fart in a sauna, or my dad’s pants in the microwave (seriously, that’s a thing that happens at my house). Anyway, you get the idea. Nasty.
‘Ah, man, I hope it’s not mystery stew,’ I said, trying to stand on tiptoes to see what was being served. ‘The only mystery is how long it’ll take to throw up afterwards.’
‘I don’t mind it,’ said Umer. ‘I just pretend I’m eating something I like that’s been put through a blender.’
‘Does it taste better that way?’
‘A bit,’ replied Umer. ‘I definitely gag less.’
At that point, Wendy Wang walked by, holding her tray.
‘What is it, Wendy?’ I asked, leaning over to see.
‘More delicious mystery stew,’ she said, inhaling the aroma of her stew until it fogged up her glasses.
‘Ah, man. You can’t actually like it, can you?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’ replied Wendy. ‘It’s got a balanced mix of nutrients and flavours. It’s a perfect-sized helping. And it goes great with a nice glass of cool tap water.’
‘Really? That’s your serving suggestion, tap water? Man, this lunch is more depressing than when my dog died.’
‘What did he die of?’ asked Umer.
‘Depression,’ I replied, and stepped up to the front of the queue.
‘Rice or potatoes?’ said Moira, the dinner lady with the long face.
‘Which is worse today?’ I asked.
She looked at me for a moment to work out if I was being rude or not. She seemed to decide it was a fair question.
‘The rice,’ she said, scratching her hairy chin. ‘It’s burnt.’
‘Excellent. One portion of potatoes, please,’ I replied.
She plonked the mushy white potatoes on top of my steaming stew and turned to serve Umer.
We ate as quickly as you can eat something that looks like it came out of a blocked drain, then we ran off to the best lesson of the week: music with Mr Turnbull.
‘Shouldn’t you boys still be at lunch?’ asked Mr Turnbull, who was busy placing a recorder on every seat in the music room.
‘We wanted to get started on the track,’ I said, opening his laptop. ‘What’s the password for this?’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ he said, closing the laptop. ‘I’m pleased to see how enthusiastic you are about it all, Humza, but we’re going to be doing some work on the recorders today.’
‘Recorders?’ I spluttered. ‘Why would we do that? We’ve got real music to make.’
‘We can make music on the recorders,’ he replied.
‘That ain’t music! Have you heard the noise this class makes when they get a hold of those things? It’s like someone beating a donkey with a dolphin!’
‘That’s a very vivid image, Humza,’ he said. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever described my lesson like that before.’
‘Exactly! I’m a lyrical master,’ I said, opening his laptop again. ‘We’ve got to get this track mixed so I can share my gift with the world.’
‘Look,’ said Mr Turnbull, closing the laptop again before putting it out of reach on a shelf. ‘If you can get through the assignment I’ve set for you, then, once the rest of the class are working on their compositions, we can have a look at your track. Deal?’
‘Hmm,’ I said, thinking his offer through. ‘I don’t think Eminem has to work under these conditions, but I guess I’m gonna have to live with it. Deal.’
Umer and I took a seat and started mucking about with the recorders until the rest of the class came in.
What followed was an hour of the worst noise you can get out of thirty-five healthy kids. Seriously, Mr Turnbull must meditate or something because any normal person would go nuts if he had to do this even twice in a lifetime.
‘OK, boys,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘Come and grab a seat at my desk.’
‘Finally!’ I said. ‘There’s only ten minutes left!’
‘I’ve got something good to show you. Ten minutes is all we need.’
Umer and I dragged our seats over to Mr Turnbull’s desk while the rest of the class worked on permanently damaging their hearing. Mr Turnbull opened up his laptop and the audio mixing software he used. I saw the file name at the top: ‘Badman Demo Rough’. The track wasn’t much to speak of yet, just a rough recording of some of my rap lyrics (though they’d need to be updated, as I’d tightened them up a lot since then). And below that were some beats that Mr Turnbull had been experimenting with.
‘Now, I’ve had a little tinker with it since you heard it last. Made a few improvements. Have a listen,’ he said, handing us each a pair of headphones.
As he hit PLAY, all the colourful boxes along the timeline began to glide to the left. Each little rectangle – red, blue, green, yellow – represented a bit of the track. Maybe it was a drumbeat, maybe it was a vocal, but as they slid past
the playhead we could hear them kick in through the headphones.
‘DAMN!’ I said, too loudly, because I couldn’t hear myself. ‘THIS IS SOUNDING GOOD!’
Mr Turnbull smiled and made a ‘shh!’ sign. Whatever the beat was that Mr T had come up with, it was incredible. And the bass … I couldn’t even figure out what I was hearing – it was like an explosion going backwards. Then my vocal kicked in. Hmm, I thought, I can do better than that. I definitely had a better performance in me. And my new lyrics were ten times as good – though there were still a few tight rhymes in this version:
‘My rhymes are so sick, other MCs sicken.
Best not speak when I’m eating fried chicken.
But my local KFC ain’t a halal one.
So I gotta drive to Taply with my dad and mum.’
The playhead skimmed over the last of the coloured blocks and the track came to an end. Umer and I grinned at each other.
‘Sir, that was amazing!’ I said, taking off my headphones.
‘It’s incredible!’ said Umer.
‘Thought you’d like that,’ Mr Turnbull said with a smile. ‘It’s been fun to play with. I don’t get to do enough of that any more.’
‘Is that cos you gave up on your dreams and became a teacher?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, something like that,’ he said, laughing, and he closed the laptop. ‘Now, come on – we’d better start packing up.’
‘Aw, sir, can’t we do some more work on it?’ I begged. ‘I’ve got to redo my vocals. They’re well out of date.’
‘Not today, boys. Come and see me in the week and we’ll find some time.’
Man, I couldn’t get that beat out of my head for the rest of the day. Mr T had outdone himself. Imagine if every teacher was like him … School would actually be good!
The afternoon went pretty quick after that. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even mind Auntie Uzma being weird. Well, I didn’t mind it that much. She pinched my cheeks a lot and told a story about how I wore a dress for a month when I was three, but I was too busy thinking about the track to let it get me down.
When the bell went at 3 p.m., I was out of my seat and flying down the stairs before you could say, Humza, come back! I haven’t dismissed the class yet! I just wanted to get to that shop again and stare at that video camera for at least an hour. Maybe I’d ask them if I could touch it.
But as I got to the main doors I stopped dead in my tracks. There in front of me was a sight no boy ever wants to see: Dad talking to the headmaster. Uh-oh. I’d been so happy about the track I’d totally forgotten about my punishment. But I knew my dad hadn’t. Dads never forget. I had to get out of there fast.
It looked like they hadn’t seen me yet, so I turned on my heel and ran back the other way. If I was quick, I could get out the side exit and take the long route round. Sometimes putting off a punishment is the best option available.
‘Where are you going?’ said Umer as I sprinted past him.
‘Danger that way! Meet me at the shop,’ I said and disappeared round the corner. As I ran out the back door, I felt pretty sure I was home free. Then I spotted her, standing in the side gateway, staring straight at me …
‘Oh, hi, Mum,’ I said, skidding to a halt. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘You and I need to have a little chat,’ she said, walking slowly towards me.
‘Uh … I’m meant to meet Umer in a minute. Can it wait until later? Maybe February?’
‘Do you want that camera or not?’ asked my mum.
She had me there.
‘All right,’ I said, folding my arms. ‘I think we both know I need that camera. So what’s the catch?’
‘No catch. You’re just going to have to work for it.’
‘Work for it? But I’ve already got a full-time job. I go to school!’
‘And you finish school at 3 p.m. So I’ve arranged a job for you in the afternoons.’
‘Child labour’s illegal! This ain’t Victorian times.’
‘After-school jobs are fine. And if you can make a go of this one for a whole month, then I will make a contribution towards this camera of yours.’
‘Really? How much?’
‘Say … half?’
Hmm, it was actually a pretty good deal. But it all came down to one thing:
‘What am I gonna be doing?’ I asked.
‘Every day, for two hours, you will be helping out with your uncle, Grandpa.’
‘Grandpa? Why? What help does he need? All he does is sleep!’
‘Now that your auntie is going to be busy at the school, someone has to look after Grandpa.’
‘Can’t he look after himself?’
‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
‘Aw, man, this is totally unfair! I don’t want to spend two hours a day with Grandpa. He smells like mothballs and daal.’
‘I don’t see that you have many options. Not if you ever want to own this video camera of yours.’
I could see she was right. Damn. I hate it when mums are right. They get this little glint of power in their eyes, like a cat messing with its prey. The only way I could win this was to play by her rules, so that at least eventually she’d have to cough up her half of the money.
‘Fine. It’s a deal,’ I said. ‘But I ain’t changing his nappy. No camera in the world is worth that much.’
Mum just smiled. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘What about Dad?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s here. Inside. Isn’t he with you?’
‘Your father’s in the school? I don’t know anything about that. What was he doing?’
‘Talking to the headmaster.’
‘Hmm, I wonder what that’s about,’ she said, looking puzzled. Suddenly I had that sinking feeling again. But it didn’t take long to find out why he was there.
‘Ah, there you are!’ came a surprisingly cheerful version of my dad’s voice.
I turned round to see him come bowling out of the school with a dangerous smile on his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked my mum.
‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here?’ replied my dad. Then he continued, before she could even answer, ‘I am here to make punishment for the boy!’
‘Ah, man! Isn’t one punishment enough? I didn’t even do anything!’ I said, but no one was listening.
‘The boy needs discipline,’ continued my father. ‘When I was his age, I had so much discipline I could hold my breath for one hour, not eat for a month and sleep for only six minutes a night. Pakistan Ministry of Defence tried to recruit me as a spy.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I said, not believing a word of it. ‘But instead you chose to come here and open a shop, yeah?’
‘Of course!’ he replied. ‘Still the best decision I ever made. I can guarantee you, whatever fool took that spy job does not own half as many toilets as me!’
My mum rolled her eyes.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I have discussed it with your headmaster and he has agreed to let you join the cricket team.’
‘Cricket? I don’t know how to play cricket!’
‘Yes you do,’ replied my dad. ‘It is in your genes. Like heart disease from your mother’s side.’
Mum frowned at him but let him go on with his rant.
‘He has let you join on one condition: I have arranged for the team to be coached by one of Pakistan’s most celebrated cricket captains –’
‘Oh no …’ I said – I could see where this was going.
‘Me,’ he added, with a satisfied smile.
‘You?’ replied my mum. ‘You are one of Pakistan’s most celebrated cricket captains?’
‘Of course I am, woman!’ said my dad. ‘I have won so many trophies I had to leave them behind in a warehouse in Karachi!’
Ah, man, he’s done this my whole life. Tells these stories about Pakistan and the things he did there. When you’re little you just bel
ieve them all, even though they’re ridiculous. I only realized last year that he probably never punched a bear so hard that it forgot it was a bear and let him raise it as a dog. But when you’re five that seems like a pretty cool thing for your dad to have done. These days it’s a nightmare.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I can’t do it, Abu-jee.’ (Abu-jee just means ‘Dad’, but it’s what I call him when I’m trying to get on his good side.) ‘Mum’s already punished me with an after-school job, so I won’t be around to go to practice.’
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘Nonsense! You cannot do an after-school job; you have cricket practice!’
‘Firstly, I’m not punishing you,’ said my mother. ‘I’m offering you an opportunity to work for what you want. Though I agree with your father: you do lack discipline. Secondly, there’s no reason why you can’t do both. How many nights a week will he practise?’
‘Eight!’ shouted my father.
‘Mohammed …’ she said with a hint of steel in her voice.
‘Fine, five at least,’ replied my dad. ‘Any less is impossible!’
‘The other boys will not be able to do five. I think three will be adequate.’
‘Three?’ shouted my dad. ‘How will he improve, with only three nights’ practice a week?’
‘Doesn’t he have one of the greatest coaches Pakistan has ever known?’ asked my mother.
‘This is true,’ agreed my father. ‘Perhaps three will be enough.’
‘Good,’ said my mother. ‘And three days a week, you will work for two hours helping Grandpa. Sundays will be your own.’
‘Helping Grandpa?’ said my dad. ‘Ha! I like this punishment after all!’
‘It’s not a punishment,’ said my mum. ‘It’s a job. One month gets you halfway to this video camera of yours,’ she reminded me.
‘Ah!’ said my dad, nodding his head. ‘Incentive. Very clever. I like this! Tell you what, if you become a valued member of the cricket team, then I shall pay for other half.’
Wow! That was unlike him. I knew he loved cricket, but to part with money? He must really care about this. He didn’t even ask how much.
‘What if I can’t do it?’ I said.
‘Then you will not get your camera,’ replied my mum.
