Can't I Just Kick It?

by Helena Pielichaty

  “No, but…”

  “And are you telling me that Megan and the others aren’t taking it seriously?”

  “No, but…”

  “So it’s just you that isn’t taking it seriously?”

  “No…” I said, my head pounding. Dad always did this: twisted things so I got confused.

  He yanked his seat belt on. “I hope you aren’t telling me I have been wasting all my time, energy and money on the Parrs when in fact I could just have taken you down the park with your cousins every weekend for a kickabout instead.”

  “No, no way. I do take it seriously; it’s just that…”

  But he pounced again before I could finish. “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. You do take football seriously, so that means you are keen to up your game, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll admit at the moment you aren’t doing that because you’re inconsistent. Brilliant one minute, poor the next…”

  “Only because—”

  “Only because what?”

  Like earlier with Hannah, this would have been the perfect opportunity to tell him about the headers. But as I drew in my breath and plucked up the courage, he came out with the very reason I hadn’t told him before. “You see, you don’t know. You don’t have a clue, and that’s precisely why you need coaching by someone with a bit more experience. Someone who isn’t scared of making unpopular decisions. Someone like Layla Hodge.” And with that, he started the engine, thinking he’d won me over with his argument.

  I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Why did he always blame Hannah? Why couldn’t he see it was down to me and me alone? “Dad! Why don’t you ever listen? I don’t want to play for another team. I like it in the Parrs. I fit in. Not in a massive way, but in my own way. Like … like…” I fumbled around for something that would get through to him. My eye caught the sweet-pea motif on a stray business card lying on the dashboard. “…Like in a bunch of flowers.”

  Dad stopped the engine. “What?”

  I twisted right round to face him so I could explain better. “Remember you showed me once how to put a bouquet of flowers together?”

  He nodded.

  “You put one expensive eye-catching flower in the centre, right, like a bird of paradise, or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, well, that’s Gemma. She’s the eye-catching bird of paradise.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then you add three or four varieties of something not quite as unusual but still quality – like roses.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, that’s Megan, Lucy, Nika and Eve. The roses. Then you stick in a couple of sprays of chrysanthemums, because they’re hardy and long lasting – that’s Holly and JJ…”

  I was on a roll now, but Dad’s smile had slipped, as if he’d guessed what I was going to say next. I carried on anyway. “Finally you add a few stalks of those tiny white bobbly things to pad out the whole bunch…”

  “Gypsophila.”

  “That’s it. Well, that’s me. I’m the one who puts the ‘filler’ in gypsophila! No matter who trains me or how long I practise that’s all I’ll ever be.”

  Dad shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? You see yourself as a filler? My daughter? Filler?”

  “Filler,” I repeated. “Like it or lump it.” I leaned forward and switched on the radio.

  13

  What I should have added was that even filler has its uses. That players like me and Petra and Amy weren’t brilliant, but we were still part of the team. That we’d be missed if we weren’t there. But I was wiped out from all the arguing and all the tension of the match. I think Dad was, too. We drove home, not in silence exactly, and not in a bad atmosphere, just … I don’t know … in a strange kind of quiet, letting everything sink in.

  Half an hour later, Dad pulled up outside the garden centre. The car park was almost full. “I’d better go and help out,” he said.

  “I’ll get changed,” I told him.

  “OK. Mum’ll be over shortly.”

  “Great.” I nodded.

  We parted with a clumsy, awkward hug.

  I made my way home, round the path that ran along the front of the main building, across the field used for the camping display in summer and over to the gate leading to our house.

  As soon as I let myself in, I headed straight upstairs, shrugged out of my kit and climbed into bed, pulling the duvet over my head. Going to bed at lunchtime was not my usual post-match activity and it definitely shouldn’t have been that lunchtime, given the Halloween party, but it felt the right thing to do.

  Duvets are magical, aren’t they? Like a kind of protective shield. Nothing can get inside: no sounds, no bad stuff – nothing. Especially if you tuck all the corners round you like I did. I began to feel safe and cosy straight away, my head stopped throbbing and, unbelievably, I dozed off. The next thing I knew Mum was shaking me and saying, “Come on, lazybones, time to get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I mumbled.

  “Ready for what? Eyes rolling like bloodstained marbles, of course.” And without warning she peeled away the top corner of my duvet. Disaster! The magic seal was broken and all the day’s events came tumbling back. The penalty, all the stuff with Dad and Hannah and Layla Whatsit. I let out a groan and tried to burrow back under, but Mum wasn’t having any of it. “Oh no you don’t!” she said and pulled me gently but firmly upright.

  She was perched on the edge of my bed, an anxious expression on her face. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dad said you might be a bit upset.”

  I tried to sound chirpy. “Me? No, I’m fine. Raring to go.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t ask me anything else. “Good,” she said, standing up and unhooking my bee costume from the back of the door. She dropped it so it landed on my head. “Time to leave the hive, Clive!”

  “Cheers, Mum,” I said from somewhere beneath the heap of fur and polyester.

  14

  After I’d had a shower and bundled myself into the outfit, pulling it on over a brown polo neck jumper and thick black tights, I felt a bit more lively. Downstairs, Mum painted my face with some left-over theatre make-up my cousin had donated with the costume and straightened my antennae. She then left me to have some dhal soup while she got changed into her second-best salwar kameez.

  “Oh, Mum! You look lovely,” I said.

  “I know.” She beamed. “I thought the occasion called for a bit of sparkle.”

  Several of the assistants smiled at me as I passed them cashing up at the checkouts, but there was no sign of Dad. I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

  “Let’s get cracking, then,” Mum said as soon as we entered the cafe.

  From then on I was – yes, I’m going to say it – as busy as a bee. I didn’t have much choice. Mum kept passing me tray after tray of clingfilm-covered food to set out on the tables. “But, Mum, everybody’s bringing stuff,” I reminded her as yet another mini mountain of tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches was thrust under my nose.

  “Last one,” she promised. “Better too much than too little.”

  “You are so Indian!” I told her. “Food, food and more food.”

  “Don’t knock it.” She grinned. “Here, go stir these into the cauldron,” she instructed and tossed a huge bag of chocolate eyeballs at me.

  “Wow!” I said, peering into the cauldron and seeing for the first time what else was in there. Mountains of gruesome sweets: false teeth, jelly snakes, marshmallow fingers dripping in strawberry-flavoured blood. All miles tastier than the amaretti macaroons she’d set out for the grown-ups. I began to relax. Tonight wasn’t about football. Tonight was about having fun.

  The McNeils arrived at six o’clock, a whole hour early. The McNeils were never early! “Where do you want the ogre pus?” Mr McNeil asked my mum, his arms circled round a huge glass bowl of green jelly.
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  “Er … over there would be great,” Mum said, trying not to look flustered and pointing to one of the tables that was already so laden with food only half a centimetre of tablecloth was showing.

  “This all looks wonderful. Pity we can’t stay,” Mrs McNeil said. “We’re going trick or treating with some of the boys’ ghoul friends.”

  “Ghoul friends! Get it? Not school friends. Ghoul friends.” Daisy chuckled, nudging my elbow.

  “Clever,” I said.

  “Back round nine-ish,” Mrs McNeil declared, then vanished, leaving Daisy and Dylan blinking up at me.

  “Why have you come as a bumble-bee?” Dylan asked. “Bees aren’t scary. Bees are nice – they only sting in case of emergency. Then they die.”

  “Because bees are endangered and nothing’s scarier than that!” I said, repeating the reason Dad had given me.

  “Mmm. That’s more sad than scary, Tabinda,” Daisy told me.

  “Is that why you look sad?” Dylan asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your face says ‘sunshine’ but your eyes say ‘heavy frost’.”

  “Don’t be sad. It’s Halloween,” Daisy said.

  “And we beat the Belles four–one,” Dylan informed me.

  “Did we?” I asked, my heart leaping, then falling all at once.

  “Yes. In splendid fashion. Gemma did an upside-down kickle that highly flummoxed the ball-stopper.”

  “Cool,” I said, slapping a smile on my face and trying not to feel crushed for missing what sounded like a brilliant goal. “So, urm … do you want to look round the shop?”

  “Can we touch stuff?” Daisy asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Golly! How splendid!”

  They dashed off and I waddled after them. For a couple of minutes they bounced around like bargain hunters in the January sales before homing in on the Diwali candles and incense sticks. They’d just begun chanting spells over a brass incense burner when Nika’s family arrived. More earlybirds! Nika was dressed as a witch: pointy hat, broom, striped socks – the works. She looked … wicked. “My mum would like to know where we put the food,” she said.

  When I returned from showing Mrs Kozak the cafe, even more people had arrived and it was still only quarter past six. There were two vampires (Eve and Gemma), a mummy (Holly) and a grim reaper (Megan).

  “Hi,” I said to Megan.

  “Hi,” she replied.

  “I … um … I hear we won.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Her voice was so flat, I immediately assumed it was because of me going AWOL. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Don’t hate me.”

  She looked at me, her fake grey eyebrows meeting in the middle. “Hate you? What for?”

  “Giving away the penalty and leaving early. I felt really sick.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m not.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought you might be cheesed off with me.”

  “No.”

  “It’s just you seem a bit down … about winning.”

  “We didn’t win, though, did we?” she grunted from somewhere beneath her scowl.

  I felt confused. “But Dylan said we had.”

  Eve and Holly groaned. “Don’t set her off, Tabs. She’s going to start moaning about how winning four–one didn’t really count because Bend it like Becky and that lot have all left,” Holly explained.

  “She only went over to their coach afterwards and asked where they were!” Eve continued.

  “And their coach told her they’d all got too old for the team.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering Dad’s similar prediction for the Parrs. So it had already happened to the Grove Belles.

  “Bend it like Becky’s at Leicester’s centre of excellence.” Megan sighed. “I’ll never see her ugly face or save one of her hard shots again.”

  “There, there, petal,” Eve said, patting her on the shoulder, “there’ll be other Beckys.”

  “Yeah,” Megan said glumly, “I suppose.”

  Petra and Lucy arrived soon after. Their outfits were harder to work out. Petra was wearing a huge belted raincoat, dark glasses and a trilby. “Skulduggery Pleasant,” she told me after I’d guessed wrong six times. “Y’know. The book.”

  “Right.”

  “And I’m from another book. I’m Coraline’s ‘Other Mother’,” Lucy explained. She looked the scariest yet, with her eyes painted like buttons and long, curved fake fingernails. “Remind me not to pick my nose.” She laughed.

  I dredged up a smile. It was impossible to remain miserable when everyone seemed to be having a good time. Megan was soon laughing at something Eve was telling her, and even JJ, who’d sauntered in with her hands in her jeans pockets and her England shirt hanging out, seemed to be making herself at home.

  Hannah and Katie were almost last, arriving at ten to seven. They were evil fairies, their wings bent and broken, their teeth blacked out, their hair frizzed. It was weird seeing them without tracksuits, like when you bump into teachers doing their shopping at Sainsbury’s.

  But, of course, it was Amy who stole the show. Everyone stopped doing what they were doing and “ooh”ed when she made her grand entrance dressed as a jilted bride. Then we all laughed because she was walking exactly like a real bride coming down the aisle. She even had her mum carrying her train behind her.

  At first, Amy looked like a normal bride in a long white dress, her Marge-Simpson-high wig covered by a full veil, but as she got closer, you noticed the little touches – like the veil was actually a bit grey and torn and the posy she was carrying was made up of dead carnations. But it was the dagger, surrounded by congealed jelly-like blood, sticking out of her back that was the real attention-grabber. Even Megan admitted she was impressed.

  Meanwhile, in the cafe, Mum was having to find extra tables to put food on – Holly’s cake alone took up half the counter – and Dad still hadn’t put in an appearance. He was coming, wasn’t he? I know we parted a little awkwardly earlier, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to disappear altogether.

  As if he’d been waiting to hear those thoughts, there was a crackling sound and the tannoy started up. “Is anybody out there?” Dad asked in an unconvincing spooky voice.

  “Yeah!” Everyone laughed.

  I swallowed. Please don’t let him start going on about bargain begonias. At that moment, all the lights went out. Every single one. The whole garden centre was plunged into darkness.

  “Oh dear,” Dad said. “What’s going on?”

  Nobody panicked. In fact, people “ooh”ed and “arrh”ed as various bits of costumes glowed – the twins’ ribs, Hannah and Katie’s hair boppers and Amy’s wig. Yes, her whole wig was glowing like a beacon. So this was why she’d wanted it uber dark. “Is it working? Is it working?” she asked. “It should be lit like the Statue of Liberty’s torch!”

  While everyone adjusted to the dark, someone grabbed my arm, making me jump. “Take this!” Mum’s voice hissed as she pressed a real torch into my hand. “Switch it on.”

  I did as I was told. A beam shone feebly on the floor as Dad’s voice continued. “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, we have light. Would the Parrs please follow my little moonbeam to the grotto while the parents make their way to Count Dracula’s Coffee Bar.”

  “Follow the lanterns,” Mum instructed.

  “What lant—” Before I could finish, a string of tiny paper pumpkin lanterns lit up at my feet, like cinema lights leading you to your seat.

  “Minty,” I heard Petra say.

  They did look minty. So did the cobweb-covered Christmas trees, their tiny lights twinkling on eerie branches outside the grotto’s entrance. If you concentrated hard you could just about imagine you were in a real forest, especially when the fog began to spread like an evil mist from the grotto entrance.

  “Now that is cool!” Lucy announced.

  “I’m loving it!” Eve declared.

  I felt a surge of pride dart through me. Dad had worked re
ally hard on this.

  Inside the grotto, fairy lights had been woven between the spiders and bats on the trellis so we could all find seats without breaking our necks.

  “Now what?” someone asked me. JJ, I think.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Now we begin.” Hannah laughed – a throaty cackle. “Everybody take one of these,” she said and handed round tiny glass bowls with battery-operated lights inside.

  We sat in a circle. I had Lucy on one side of me and Holly on the other.

  “Anyone scared?” Katie asked.

  “No,” we chimed.

  “Well, a bit,” Petra admitted.

  “Good. Because scary is what tonight’s all about…”

  15

  “First I want to kick off by properly explaining the whole reason for this shindig,” Hannah began. “The thing is, when you play in a team, getting together away from the sport is as important as playing the sport. Those of you who came to the summer tournament know all about that, don’t you?”

  I hadn’t gone on the summer tournament so I couldn’t join in with the “yes”es and nods.

  “Also, although some of you know each other really well from school, for the three or four of you who don’t go to Mowborough, there’s a bit of an imbalance. I know that Holly sometimes feels a bit left out, don’t you, with living the furthest away?”

  “Mmmff,” Holly replied as a bandage slipped over her nose.

  “Now, if you were all on the senior team, what we’d do to bond is go down the Queen’s Head for a few pints…”

  “…of orange juice,” Katie added quickly.

  “Oh, yeah. Orange juice, lemonade, herbal tea…” Hannah laughed. “But we can’t do that with you lot, so we thought we’d come here instead. OK? Y’all up for a bit of bonding?”

  Everyone cheered.

  “Right. The first thing we want you to do is sit next to the person you feel you know the least well on the team.”

  There was chaos then as everybody swapped places, stepping over trains and scythes and pitchforks. I was paired with Gemma, which was good because I didn’t know her well at all, but bad because I’m in awe of her. Bird of paradise meets gypsophila twig!