HAFIZ
When I get to the form room most of the class are there but Stevie isn’t. My heart sinks. I sit down at the empty table and remind myself that I can handle this. I’ve been through way worse. The Asian girl walks in with a couple of her friends. She sees me sitting on my own and smiles. Once again her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“So, have you remembered how to speak English yet?” she asks.
“I never forgot,” I reply. One–nil to Hafiz, a commentator-style voice remarks inside my head, just like it used to when me and my friends dissed each other. But back then was different. Our banter was like a friendly match. Whatever is going on with this girl definitely feels like a grudge game between deadly rivals.
“Are you trying to be clever?” the girl asks, her voice louder. The other students’ chatter quietens.
I shake my head. “Some of us don’t need to try.” Excellent strike! the commentator inside my head cries. Two–nil to Hafiz!
“Wow.” She shakes her head deliberately slowly, then turns to her friends. “You’d think he’d be grateful, wouldn’t you? You’d think he’d be polite, being given a place in our school. No wonder no one wants asylum seekers if that’s how you act.” One of the girls looks away, like she’s embarrassed, but the other nods in agreement.
Two–one, the commentator in my head mutters. She might have scored but it’s the kind of goal that involved a deliberate foul. There’s something about her knowing look that makes me mad. Because she doesn’t know anything at all. She doesn’t know about what I went through to get here. She doesn’t know about the millions of people stranded all over the world right now with nowhere to call home. She hasn’t felt the pain of having to leave family and friends, not sure you’ll ever see them again. I feel anger building. The kind of raw, hot-headed anger that could earn me a red card. Walk away, Hafiz. The commentator inside my head has now morphed into Khalid, my coach at Hutteen. I pick up my bag and get to my feet.
“Where are you going?” the girl asks, looking genuinely surprised.
“Away,” is all I trust myself to say. It’s a weak attempt on goal – it hits the crossbar and bounces off.
The bell for registration starts bleeping. I march out of the classroom and along the corridor against the tide of students now pouring in. For a moment I panic that I don’t know which way to go. The endless corridors all look the same with their shiny floors and harsh strip lighting. I keep on walking against the tide.
I hate it here. Doesn’t that Priya girl get that? I DON’T EVEN WANT TO BE HERE! I want to yell at the top of my voice to all the students staring at me. This prized possession that you think I’m here to steal – this place in your school, your town, your country – I never wanted it.
I reach the door at the end of the corridor, push it open and stride out into the sunlight.
Stevie
“What are you doing?” I stare at Hafiz as he barges past me, out of the school gates. “Where are you going?”
He stops, stands frozen for a moment, before turning to look at me. His face is flushed, his eyes look angry. “Away from here,” he finally replies.
“Oh. Why?” I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. “Has something happened?”
His eyes flit back and forth up and down the street. “I need to go.”
“OK.”
He turns and strides off. As I watch him the weirdest thing happens. It’s like my mind has become disconnected from the rest of my body and while it’s telling me I ought to go into school, my feet have taken on a life of their own and have started walking after him.
I follow Hafiz to the end of the road. Then, as he turns to cross, he spots me. “What are you doing?” he asks. He’s frowning, but only slightly.
Following you, I want to reply. But that would definitely make me seem like a stalker, and even though I probably am a stalker, I don’t want him to know it. “I – uh – need to go too,” I say.
“Oh.” He tilts his head to one side, like he’s not sure how to respond. “Where are you going?”
I shrug and try and think of a reply. Where am I going? But then he smiles. And the dimples appear either side of his mouth. And everything feels OK again and I can’t help smiling too. “So – uh – this is slightly awkward.”
“My dad told me a story once,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “It was about a silk merchant who was on his way to sell his goods at a bazaar – a bazaar so big and so full of people it could make him a fortune – but halfway there he lost his map.”
“What did he do?” I ask, not sure why he’s telling me this but keen to steer the conversation away from the fact that I just blatantly followed him out of school.
“Well, at first he panicked and then he cursed, and then, when he was about to give up and go home, he saw an eagle high above him in the sky. He watched the way the eagle let the wind carry it and he decided to do the same.”
“What? Fly?”
Hafiz laughs. “No. He decided to let his heart carry him. He set off on his journey again and every time he came to a crossroads he asked his heart which way he should go.”
“Did he get to the bazaar in the end?”
Hafiz shakes his head. “No. But he ended up somewhere even better. And he had a lot of really cool adventures along the way.”
“I like that. It’s kind of like saying we should use our hearts as a satnav – a heart nav.”
“Exactly. So shall we give it a try?” Hafiz looks at the junction in the road. “Which way?”
I close my eyes and picture a satnav and a little red arrow appears in my mind. “Right,” I reply.
Hafiz smiles. “Come on then, let’s go.”
We both turn right and cross the road.
HAFIZ
We follow our hearts around the corner and down the road and into the station and over to the ticket machine and down to the platform and onto the train to Brighton. It’s only when the train’s pulling out of the station that reality hits me. It’s my second day at school here in the UK and already I’ve walked out and not only that, I’ve walked out of school with a girl I barely know. When I first saw Stevie following me I was annoyed. I thought she was going to try and persuade me to go back. But as soon as she said she needed to leave too I felt so relieved. And she understood the story about the silk merchant. It was like she was saying, I get you. I’m not going to judge you like all the others. And now we’re sitting here, on the faded, frayed seats of the train, and it’s speeding up, out of the tunnel and into the countryside, and I have no idea what to say or do.
I glance at Stevie, sitting opposite me. She’s gazing out of the window at the rolling hills of the Downs. Her thin fingers are tapping out a beat on her thin legs. The sun is shining in long rays of gold on the velvety grass and the sky is deep blue, with just the thinnest white wisps of cloud. Even though I miss Latakia I have to admit the scenery here is awesome. The hills are so round and smooth and I’ve never seen so much green.
Stevie sighs. “I’ve never done this before,” she says in a quiet voice, like she’s afraid of being overheard.
“What?” I say.
“Skived off school. I mean, I’ve dreamed about it loads of times. Like, every five minutes – every five seconds when it’s PE.” She smiles and her whole face softens. “But I’ve never actually done it. Have you?”
I shake my head. I’ve had no reason to before. I always enjoyed school back in Syria. Not that I’m all that studious, but I loved being with my friends.
“Did you…? Did something bad happen? This morning?”
I look out of the window, watching the outline of the hills go up and down and up again. “Not really. I just…”
“It’s OK. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Have you ever wished that life was like a movie and you could just press the – press the pause button and rewind back to the happy bits?” I ask, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the window.
> Stevie laughs. “Oh yes. I feel like that right now, actually.”
“You do?” I look back at her. Her bright green eyes meet mine. Her black eyeliner is even thicker than yesterday’s. She looks fierce and vulnerable all at once.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. With you. It’s my way of pressing pause.” Now it’s her turn to look away.
A recorded announcement comes on over the speaker system on the train, telling us we’re approaching a station. It’s the stop for the university campus that Uncle Samir works at. I slump back in my seat and feel a flush of shame. What would my uncle think if he could see me now? After everything he’s done to get me here – the torturous legal process that took almost a year, the endless court hearings and trips to France. How is this any way to repay him?
“That’s where our local football team play,” Stevie says, pointing to the huge stadium that’s looming into view. “Brighton and Hove Albion. I thought you might be interested – if you – if you like football.”
“I love football.” I look at the majestic curves of the stadium and inside my head I hear the roar of a crowd. I look away and the roar fades. How can I think about fun things like football when I don’t even know what’s happening with my family and friends? When I don’t even know if they’re—
“Why do you love football?” Stevie asks.
I remember how she said she didn’t like football yesterday but from the way she’s looking at me she seems genuinely interested. “I love it because it is when…” I break off, trying to find the right words. “It is when I feel the most – alive. Does that make sense?”
Stevie nods.
“Especially when I play it. Then nothing else matters. All I think about is the game.” I study her face to see if she understands what I’m trying to say. She’s nodding thoughtfully.
“We all need something like that,” she says quietly, before looking back out of the window.
I wonder what her thing is – if she even has a thing – but I’m too shy to ask.
“So, where do you want to go then, when we get to Brighton?” Stevie says.
I look out of the window, at the rows and rows of pastel-painted houses snaking down the hillside. “Anywhere really … apart from the sea.”
Stevie
As I follow Hafiz off the train and across the crowded platform to the ticket barrier I have two thoughts on my mind. One: don’t say anything mean about football even though you think it’s completely pointless. And two: why doesn’t Hafiz want to see the sea? I mean, coming to Brighton and not seeing the sea is a bit like going to Florida and not seeing Disney World. Not that I’ve got any burning desire to see Disney World – in my opinion it’s on a par with football in the pointlessness stakes. But I can tell from the way Hafiz’s face clouded over that not wanting to see the sea is a conversational no-go zone – along with all things Syria and dissing the so-called “beautiful game”. I rack my brains for somewhere else we can go. There’s the Lanes, of course, but I’m not sure Hafiz would be into boutiques and jewellery stores.
We make our way through the crowded concourse and outside I’m hit by a wall of heat. Earlier I’d taken my school tie and blazer off, but I can’t remove my jumper, owing to the expanding-cleavage-skanky-bra situation. It’s not fair. It was rainy and cold for most of the holiday. Why does summer finally decide to show up now, when I have to dress for winter?
“So, which way should we go?” Hafiz asks as we make our way past the burger stand and the taxi rank.
“Left,” I reply. The streets to the right are all residential and straight ahead leads down to the sea.
Hafiz nods and we take the narrow road to the left of the station, underneath the huge dark arch of the railway bridge. We walk down the hill in silence, although all around us there’s noise. Traffic. Laughter. The thud-thud of a car stereo. The yell of a homeless man lying on sheets of cardboard.
“This must be really different for you,” I say. “Compared to Syria, I mean.” Crap! We’ve been here two minutes and already I’ve blundered.
But Hafiz nods. “It is. It reminds me a bit of Berlin. Especially the graffiti.” He nods to a painting of two policemen kissing on the wall of the multi-storey car park.
“You’ve been to Berlin?”
He nods. “Briefly.”
“What, on holiday?”
He laughs. “No, not exactly.”
Once again, I feel stupid but this time I’m determined not to make it even worse. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Not knowing anything about what you’ve been through.”
He frowns. “Why should you?”
“It’s such big news, the war in Syria. The refugee crisis. But I – I haven’t really read much about it. I’ve been a bit – distracted.”
He looks at me as if he’s trying to work out how to respond. I hope I haven’t made him angry. “It’s OK. You don’t want to know about it, trust me.” He stops as we reach a crossroads. “Which way?”
I close my eyes. It’s hard letting your heart guide you when your head knows that one of the best guitar shops in the world is just a few metres away. “Straight on,” my head replies.
HAFIZ
I follow Stevie along the street, my skin crawling with embarrassment. What must she think of me, saying I didn’t want to see the sea? I must have sounded so weird. I could see it in her shocked expression. She’s probably trying to figure out how to ditch me as soon as possible. She’s probably dying to get down to the pier and look at the waves crashing on the shore. She’s probably—
“Oh! A guitar shop! Do you mind if we take a quick look inside?” Stevie has stopped walking and she’s pointing to a store. The sign on the front says AMPLIFIED in bright red and yellow letters. The window is full of guitars.
“Of course,” I reply. I don’t know a thing about music but I’m glad to see Stevie look so happy. I follow her in.
“Hello, stranger,” a thin man wearing an old T-shirt that says AC/DC on it calls out from behind the counter. His hair is jet black and there are silver rings on all his fingers. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Hi. Yes, I – uh – had a few things going on at home,” Stevie stammers.
So she’s been here before.
“Have you come to see your friend?” the man asks. I scan the shop for someone who could possibly be Stevie’s friend, but all I see are a couple of older guys strumming random chords on electric guitars.
Stevie’s eyes light up. “Is she still here?”
“Sure is.” The man comes out from behind the counter and walks to the back of the shop.
Stevie turns to me and grins. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” I’m actually intrigued by this turn of events. It’s like one of the plot twists in my dad’s stories. I really didn’t see it coming.
We follow the man to the very back of the shop, past guitars of all shapes, colours and sizes. He takes an acoustic guitar down from the wall. It’s shiny and black, with a beautiful engraving of birds in flight.
“Here you go,” the man says, handing the guitar to Stevie. “So, how’s the fund going?”
Stevie’s smile fades. “Not too well.”
The man nods sympathetically. “Never mind. One day, eh?”
“Yes, one day.” Stevie sits down on a stool and carefully positions the guitar on her lap.
“Can you play?” I ask.
“Can she play?” The shop man laughs. He turns to Stevie. “Go on, show him.”
Stevie gently strums the guitar and tightens a couple of strings. Then she starts playing – properly playing – and a beautiful melody fills the shop. Even the guys trying out the electric guitars stop and watch. I feel a burst of pride, like the pride I used to feel when I watched a teammate score a goal. Then Stevie starts to sing and I almost forget to breathe. Her voice is so unusual and unexpected, so husky and raw. I grin but she looks right through me. It’s like she and the guitar have becom
e one and she’s totally lost in the music. After a while, she stops playing and we all burst into applause. The trance she was under is broken and her face flushes bright red.
“That was awesome, man,” the shop guy says, high-fiving Stevie. “Really awesome.”
Stevie shakes her head. “I’m so out of practice. I totally messed up the key change.”
“But that vibrato you did at the end,” the man says. “It was sweet.”
“Thank you.” Stevie hands the guitar back to him. “And thanks so much for letting me play her again.”
“No worries. You were born to play her.”
Stevie sighs. Then she stands up and looks at me. “Sorry about that. I just – I couldn’t resist.”
“Don’t be sorry. You were – that was great!”
“Really?” Stevie smiles at me. Then she purses her lips thoughtfully. “Do you like coffee?”
“I love coffee.”
Her face lights up. “Correct answer. You’ve just won the special bonus prize.” She picks up her bag and hoists it over her shoulder.
“What special bonus prize?”
“An invitation to the best coffee place in all of Brighton. Come on.”
Stevie
“Wait till you taste this coffee,” I say to Hafiz as we come out of the guitar shop and onto the bustling street. I blink as my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the sun. “It’s so good it will make your eyes roll – guaranteed.”
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 4
