by Alex Wheatle
Suddenly, I was nudged in the back. I closed my eyes in dread, thinking it was Carmella. My knees went all funny and the inside of my head felt like someone was shovelling coal into it like it was one of those ancient train engines. For a moment I couldn’t move. I slowly turned around, fearing the worst.
“Blakey! What’s the matter with you?”
I breathed out a massive sigh of relief. It wasn’t Carmella. It was Alice Stanbury. What could Alice Stanbury, one of the prettiest girls in my year, want with me? Maybe she was gonna tell me how tragic I’d looked when I jumped down the stairs and terminated my ankle. Her dimples weren’t looking so cute.
“I was told to give you this,” Alice said, passing me a folded piece of paper. “I’m not supposed to tell you who it’s from, but it’s definitely not me! You got that?”
I nodded. Before I went on my way, Alice put her hand on my arm and gripped it real tight. “Did you hear what I said? The message is not from me. If you say that it was, Bernice will be paying you a visit.”
“OK, I get it,” I said.
Alice marched off, looking back at me as if I’d broken into her bedroom and let Timothy Smotheram crap on her favourite dress. With everyone rushing around me, I stood still and opened the note. The writing was very small but neat. It read:
Meet me by the long-jump pit after school on Monday – C
The C had to be Carmella. I’d already given up any hope of taking her out this weekend and now I’d have to spend it worrying about meeting up with her on Monday. She was obviously tired of me avoiding her and wanted to officially end all interest in me. She would tell me she’d started to go out with Muscle Freak. I slowly folded up the note, banked it in my back pocket and made my way to Woodwork class.
I was the last one to arrive. Mr Cagney was at his table wearing an enormous pair of goggles. He was about to show us how to cut out a fish shape from a thin piece of pinewood. Our task for the lesson was to saw out the fish and stick it on this darker piece of wood. When we finished, we had to sand both bits of wood down and varnish the whole thing. I thought if I made a good job of it, I’d give it to my dad to hang up. He could do with looking at something other than the TV.
I decided to work on a bench in the corner, so I grabbed my wood and tools and hoped no one would bother me. A Polish kid, Gregorio Smolarek, was working at the bench next to me, but it was cool because he didn’t chat too much. In fact, the only thing the Great Smo, as Gregorio was known, ever did say was, “The English are soooo stooopid!”
I was still thinking about the note that Carmella had sent me. Meet me by the long-jump pit.
It was possible that Carmella might invite all her friends to laugh at me. Everyone in town might be there, even the Mayor. Sky News might be in the ends. I could hear the reporter in my head. Breaking news! We can confirm that Welton Blake has been officially rejected!
Nicholas Fumbold skipped up to me and interrupted my thoughts. “Can I have another insult, Blakey?”
“Another cuss? Are you nuts?” I said. “I know you told Broxslater that I sold you a cuss. He taxed me this morning!”
“You sold an insult to Timothy today.”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
Fumbold didn’t answer.
“I’m not selling cusses,” I insisted.
“You better,” Fumbold warned me with a sneaky grin.
“You can’t make me! As of today, I’m ending my insult business.”
Fumbold moved closer to me. When his mouth was a centimetre away from my ear, he whispered, “If you don’t sell me an insult, I’ll let Broxslater know you sold a cuss today, and what’s more, I’ll tell him the cuss is about him. By the end of the day, Blakey, I think you’ll be back in business.”
I didn’t answer Fumbold, but fear took hold of me. I was convinced Broxslater’s fists could break mountains and karate chop pyramids. His neck was the same size as an oak tree trunk. And, of course, he had that moustache. From what I’d read, most of the evil people in world history had moustaches. Hitler, Mussolini, Fu Manchu, the Super Mario Brothers, Osama bin Laden, Dick Dastardly, Bernice Cummings’ dad, Mr T in Rocky 3 and this pizza delivery boy who always gave me a weird look. Broxslater could join that list and not be shamed. I’d look like an extra tomatoey pepperoni and olive pizza by the time Broxslater finished punching my face.
Chapter 11
Basketball Trial
My last lesson of the day was English with Miss Thomas. I found myself sitting worrying about how I would get home without Broxslater seeing me. Should I just find Carmella and get my rejection over with, rather than waiting till Monday?
In one half of my mind, Broxslater’s fists were changing into Thor’s hammer. In the other half, Carmella flew in a plane trailing a banner that said in massive red letters: REALLY SORRY, BLAKEY, I HAVE TO REJECT YOU COS I’M SOOO IN LOVE WITH MR MUSCLES.
Then it hit me. I had basketball practice after school. I didn’t have to worry about escaping Broxslater’s radar. I’d be making my way to the gym. Fumbold and Broxslater could be looking for me all over the place, but they’d never guess I was in the sports hall. This sudden thought made me smile.
After English ended, I hot-toed to the changing room next to the gym. Getting changed into blue shorts and a green vest was the captain of the B-ball team, Trevor Laing, along with the king of deodorant, Bruno Tardelli; the longest kid in our year, Philip Cribbins; and Gregorio Smolarek, the Great Smo. They were all bigger than me. I was proper glad to see Trevor there – he had a dob of kindness about him.
I was the last to get changed. I joined the others in the sports hall and Mr Purrfoot was waiting for us. He had a white sweatband around his head and was showing off a tight T-shirt which exposed his man-boobs. I was thankful that he was wearing tracksuit bottoms instead of his usual tight shorts.
Mr Purrfoot was bouncing a basketball and the sound it made echoed around the hall. “Where are Keith Hill and Valin Golding?” he asked.
“They weren’t at school today, sir,” Philip Cribbins replied.
“That’s a shame,” said Mr Purrfoot. “We have a game on Tuesday afternoon and we need to practise. We need …”
Purrfoot suddenly noticed me. He stared at me for five seconds. I might as well have been an alien eating some weird munchies in that cadazy cantina in Mos Eisley in Episode IV. “Welton,” Purrfoot managed after the shock had sunk in. “You … you want to join the basketball squad?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ve got zero ratings at cricket, football, running and hockey, so I thought I’d try basketball.”
“That is splendid, Welton,” Mr Purrfoot said. “I admire your enthusiasm.”
Bruno Tardelli and Philip Cribbins chuckled. I don’t think they admired my enthusiasm.
“It is not how good you are but the willingness to take part,” Mr Purrfoot said, pointing a finger at everyone. “Let that be a lesson to you all. Welcome to the squad, Welton.”
Mr Purrfoot’s little speech made me feel a bit better.
I glanced at Trevor and he clenched his fist at me. “Go for it, Welton!” he yelled.
Everyone is good at something, I thought to myself. If I did all the training, I could be one of the best basketball players in the year in a month from now. Girls would be begging for me to go out with them. Carmella might be tempted to fire Muscle Freak and swap him for me. Alice Stanbury might give a damn about my ankle. The future looked all happy ever after.
“Right, follow me, lads,” Mr Purrfoot ordered.
He led a variety of stretches to warm up, which ended with running on the spot. The sweat was pouring off me and I wondered when we were going to start practising with the ball. I didn’t have long to wait. Purrfoot picked up the basketball and told us to stand in a circle. “Be alert,” he said. “Catching practice!”
Purrfoot looked at Bruno Tardelli but threw the ball hard at the Great Smo. The Great Smo caught the ball easily and chucked it at Philip Cribbins. Philip t
ossed the ball over to me and I dropped it. Purrfoot shook his head, but Trevor encouraged me. “Come on, Blakey! Focus!”
“Welton is new to the squad, so let us go easy when we throw the ball to him,” Purrfoot suggested.
Everyone passed the ball around at rapid speed until they moved it to me with a gentle lob. It wasn’t the look I was going for.
After ten minutes, we began dribbling with the ball from one end of the court to the other. Purrfoot gave me the ball when it was my turn and said, “Take your time, son.”
I did take my time, as I was going at about a quarter the speed of everyone else. But I managed to get to the other end of the court without losing control of the bouncing ball. I felt good! Man! LeBron James? I can do what you do!
“That was pretty good, son,” Purrfoot remarked. “Next time, try to go a bit faster.”
I felt even better when Philip Cribbins got himself in a tangle and fell over. I couldn’t resist smiling to myself.
“Don’t worry about it, Philip!” Trevor called out. “Better luck next time.”
I could see why Trevor was the captain, because I was sure the rest of us were thinking, What a clumsy clown!
Gaining confidence, on my next turn I went a bit faster than my first run. Again, I kept control of the bouncing ball. When I got to the end, I even tried a shot into the basket. I was about two metres wide, but I heard encouragement behind me. Purrfoot was clapping politely.
“That’s it, Blakey,” Trevor shouted. “Next time try to compose yourself before the shot.”
“Good effort, Welton,” Purrfoot added. “Slow down a bit when you’re preparing to shoot.”
As I waited for my third turn, I imagined a crowd of Monks Orchard High fans clapping and cheering my shots into the basket. Carmella was among the spectators, with Muscle Freak. They were breaking up just as I scored another two points.
Philip Cribbins went next. After seven long strides the ball escaped him. He veered left, trying to rescue the situation, but stumbled and fell over again. The ball bounced down to the other end of the court. Purrfoot shook his head with his hands on his hips.
Trevor went to fetch the ball and passed it to me.
I took a few deep breaths. Welton, time to bounce up the gears, I told myself. I ran at full speed, bouncing the ball to the right of me. I was in control.
I glanced at the basket and ran towards it, still at full pelt. This could be soooo awesome if I can shoot the ball into the hoop. Then, out of the corner of my right eye, I saw a door open at the far end of the hall.
Carmella walked in. She instantly spotted me and sat down beside the door. My eyes returned to my task, but all I saw in front of me was a big white brick wall. I just couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t have any time to push out my arms to stop the crash. I kissed the white bricks with my forehead and dropped to the ground like a pancake sliding down a kitchen wall.
Everything went blurry. I think I blacked out for a while.
*
Something wet was on my forehead. My eyes opened. I found myself lying on my back staring at the lights hanging from the ceiling. Someone had placed a smelly towel under my head. It stank of toxic armpits. Four heads were looming over me: Mr Purrfoot, the Great Smo, Trevor Laing and Bruno Tardelli. I could smell Bruno’s deodorant. Drops of my blood spotted the gym floor. My head felt like Darth Vader had used it for lightsaber practice.
“Don’t move him,” Purrfoot instructed. “We must wait for the ambulance. I have to call his parents.”
As Purrfoot disappeared, the Great Smo said, “Why didn’t you stop? I mean, how could you not see the wall? It’s very biiiigggg. And white. You English are soooo stooopid!”
I looked around for Carmella, but she had disappeared.
*
The ambulance took me to Monks Orchard General Hospital. Just as the doctor finished inserting four stitches into my forehead, Mum arrived. As usual she went over the top, holding my face tenderly between her hands like I had been attacked by a mad bear. “Lord have mercy, Welton! They told me you had a fight with a wall?”
“I’m OK, Mum!” I said. “It’s just a scratch.”
Purrfoot told Mum what had happened. “Your son was performing his drills so well, but for some reason that I cannot explain, he ran into the wall.”
“Thank you for staying with him, Mr Purrfoot,” Mum said.
“That’s all right, Mrs Blake. If Welton feels OK by Tuesday, I hope he can join the squad for the game. He’ll have to wear a protective plaster or something.”
“You want me to be in the squad for the game on Tuesday?” I said, not quite believing it.
“Yes, we do,” said Purrfoot, smiling.
Suddenly, I felt a lot better. If my brain hadn’t hurt so much, I would’ve got up and danced and done that sliding on the knees thing that footballers do after they score a great goal.
I wondered if I should write Carmella a note and tell her to meet me after the basketball game on Tuesday instead of on Monday. She wouldn’t be able to resist me if I scored a spaceship load of points. And with stitches in my forehead, I’d look even cooler. The first stage of my mission to win back Carmella was in progress.
“You can be first or second substitute,” said Trevor. “Philip Cribbins gets tired after about twenty minutes. He’s clumsy, but because he’s so tall he’s useful. He’s good at the tip-offs that start a game.”
That was a bit of a downer, but I could still be the super-sub.
“Let’s get you home,” Mum said. I could tell she wanted to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. “Do you still want to go to your dad’s tonight? You don’t have to.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “He’ll be expecting me.”
Chapter 12
Dad
I climbed the concrete stairs to our flat with my brain still aching a bit.
“I have to say congratulations, Welton!” Mum said. “Making it to the squad of the school basketball team. That’s a great achievement.”
Mum made it sound like I had just been chosen out of one million hopefuls to play the lead role in a new Star Wars film. If John Boyega can do it, then so can I. She hadn’t been this proud of me since I fried my first egg.
“I’m putting macaroni cheese in the oven,” she said. “God knows if your dad will have anything to eat at his place.”
“All right, Mum,” I said. “I’m gonna crash.”
I went to my room and looked in the mirror. I looked so cool with the stitches in my forehead. I tried a couple of bad-boy poses and reckoned Carmella wouldn’t be able to resist me. Apart from his freakish body, what did Muscle Freak have that I didn’t?
I packed a few clothes for my weekend stay with Dad, then lay on my bed waiting for my macaroni cheese, thinking about the basketball game next Tuesday.
*
After I’d eaten, Mum drove me to Dad’s. She called him just before we left, so when we arrived outside his place, Dad was waiting for me on the pavement. He was still in his white working overalls and this grey cap specked with paint. I climbed out of the ride and went to open the boot to collect my bag.
“Welton,” Dad called. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“What happened to your forehead?”
“Oh, I had an accident at school playing basketball today,” I explained. “I had to go to hospital to get it stitched up.”
“You played basketball?” Dad asked. He sounded really surprised, as if I’d just beaten up ten Brian Broxslaters in a street fight.
“Yes, I did!” I said proudly.
“Come here,” Dad said.
I went over to him and he studied my stitches like I was an expensive painting. “Angie!” Dad shouted to Mum. “Angie! Welton had an accident at school and you didn’t tell me!”
“I didn’t have time!”
Mum climbed out of the car. Dad was inspecting the rest of my head. “I’m his father! Don’t I deserve to be told if something has happened
to him? He’s my son as well, you know. Or have you forgotten that? You treat me with utter contempt, Angie! I might not live with you any more, but I’ve got my rights—”
“I didn’t have time to call you, Morris,” Mum spat back at Dad. “I was at work when the school called me and I just rushed out to the hospital. I’m sorry I didn’t think of you, but I was worried if my son still had a head!”
“I should’ve been told!” Dad argued.
“And I should’ve been told when you started to have an affair with the accounts girl in your workplace!” Mum fired back.
I stood there shaking my head. I couldn’t be bothered to stop them any more.
“That hasn’t got anything to do with it!” Dad yelled.
“Hasn’t it?! If you hadn’t messed about with her, we could’ve driven to the hospital together!”
Dad was about to reply, but nothing came out of his mouth. He dropped his head.
Mum marched back to her car, slammed the door and drove off at Fast & Furious speed.
Taking my bag from me, Dad led me into his one-bedroom flat. He had recently painted the walls a creamy colour. My nose was itching from the paint fumes. His pile of movies beside the TV were a metre high. He had a three-seater sofa that folded out into a bed with a couple of giant cushions in the corners. There was a framed photograph of me in my school uniform on my first day at Monks Orchard hanging from a wall. The bin in his small kitchen was overflowing with takeaway cartons and kebab wrapping paper.
“Are you hungry, Welton?” Dad asked, opening his fridge and fumbling about in the freezer. “I’ve got some cheese flan and some fish-in-batter I can bung in the microwave.”
I didn’t want to tell Dad that Mum had already fed me because she didn’t think he would have anything for me to eat.
“I’ll have the fish-in-batter,” I said.
“We can have some microwave chips with it,” Dad said. “It’ll make a sweet meal. I bet your mum thought I wouldn’t have anything, right? Well, she’s wrong. I went shopping in my lunch break. You can tell her that.”
