Suddenly it’s as if my red bib has morphed into the red shirt of my national team. Now I’m not just playing for my own pride, I’m playing for Syria’s too. I’ll show that sneering, pale-faced boy. I’ll show him what we Syrians can do. I line the ball up for my free kick. It’s several metres out of the penalty area, but I’ve scored from here before. Mr Kavanagh blows the whistle and one of my teammates calls for me to pass to him. But I ignore him. I run up to the ball, stretch my leg back and kick. Time seems to stand still as everyone watches the ball arc into the air, then come flying back down. The goalie crouches, ready to leap. The ball is coming in high – is it too high? My heart pounds as I will it to go into the net. Please, please, please! Yes! The ball slots into the top right-hand corner of the goal, just out of reach of the goalie.
“Whoa!” Mr Kavanagh yells from the sideline.
And suddenly my teammates are all around me, slapping me on the back and grinning.
“Nice one!” one of them says.
“Quality,” says another.
“Are you sure you’re from Syria?” Mr Kavanagh calls out. “You sure you haven’t come from the Man United academy? That was a superb goal.”
I nod and laugh. “Oh, yes, I am from Syria.” I look Price straight in his beady eyes as I say it.
He glares and looks away.
Stevie
I stop off at the newsagent’s on the way home from school. In Cunning Plan Number Two, I’ve decided to ask Tony, the shop owner, if I can take on an extra paper round. I’m so worried about telling Mum she’s got to call the helpline – and what might happen when she does – that I need to have some good news to share too. I have to find a way to make more money, just in case we end up losing the little we get.
“Good afternoon, Stevie!” Tony calls to me from behind the counter. As usual he’s sitting on his stool doing a crossword. Whenever Tony isn’t serving a customer he’s doing a crossword. He says he’s addicted to them and that when he dies he wants his epitaph to be in the form of a crossword clue: No longer with us (4 letters).
“Hey, Tony.” I go over to the counter. “I was just wondering if you had any other paper rounds available.”
He puts down his crossword and looks at me from beneath his bushy white eyebrows. I love Tony’s eyebrows. They’re so expressive it’s like they’re creatures in their own right, who just happen to live on Tony’s forehead.
“Your timing is exquisite, my dear!” he booms. Tony used to be a Shakespearean actor and he still projects like he’s on a West End stage. “The young man who delivers to Malling during the week has just quit.”
“Malling?” My heart sinks. Malling is an estate on the other side of town. I had been hoping to get something a little closer to home, but beggars can’t be choosers and right now I’m practically the dictionary definition of beggar.
“Yes. Do you fancy it?”
“Please.”
Tony’s eyebrows fold down into a frown. “But what about your weekend round?”
“I still want to do that too.”
“Seven days a week? Are you sure?”
I nod. “I need the money.”
Tony’s eyebrows return to their default position. “Well, I have to say I admire your work ethic. Shame more youngsters today don’t take after you.”
“Thank you.” Something about the way he’s smiling at me reminds me of Dad and the way he used to smile when he listened to me play the guitar. I look away, at the rows of sweets lining the counter.
Tony picks up the big ledger containing all the details of the paper rounds. “So when can you start?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“That would be great.”
“Wonderful! Come in ten minutes early and I’ll talk you through the route.”
I try not to think about how early this is going to be. “Thanks, Tony.”
“No problem.” He picks up his crossword. “Now, I don’t suppose you can help me with six across. I’ve been stuck on it for half an hour.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Female domestic servant. Six letters, beginning with s.”
“Skivvy?” I reply. The irony isn’t lost on me.
All the way home I focus on the extra money I’m going to be earning to stop myself from stressing about Mum and her benefits. At least now I know that we’ll have regular money for food. And, if Mum’s payments don’t get cut, I might even be able to start saving for a guitar again.
I let myself into the cottage and see that the living-room door is open. Mum’s sitting in the old armchair by the window. Although she’s still in her dressing gown, her hair is freshly washed and brushed and she’s reading a book. I breathe a small sigh of relief.
“Hey, Mum.”
“Hi, Stevie.” She puts her book down and looks at me anxiously. “Did you call them?”
“Yes.” I perch on the edge of the sofa. “But they, uh, they said you had to call.”
Mum’s face falls. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know. They said that they had to speak to you personally. But don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I take the letter from my pocket. “Why don’t you call them now?”
“I don’t have any credit on my phone.”
“Use mine.” I take my mobile from my bag and hand it to her. “And I have some good news,” I say, desperate to halt the gloom that’s rapidly filling the room. “I have a new paper round – for during the week as well as weekends. So that’ll mean more money.” I look at her hopefully but if anything this news only seems to make her more stressed.
“What do I do? Who do I call?” she says, frowning at the letter.
“Just call the number at the top. You need to press two when you get through – for the benefits office – and then you might be put on hold for a bit, but don’t worry, someone will answer.” I really hope she gets somebody less blunt than I did this morning. “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
“What?” She looks at me blankly, like I’m speaking in a foreign language. I hate it when she gets this stressed.
“A cup of tea? Do you want me to make you one?”
“No!” she snaps.
“Right.” I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. No! You mustn’t cry! I hurry from the room and upstairs. I fling myself on my bed. Don’t break. Don’t break. Don’t break, I tell myself. You can’t break. You have to be the unbroken one. I shut my eyes tight to stop the tears from coming. Anne Frank, Malala, Stevie Nicks, Hafiz.
HAFIZ
After football training I’m starving and tired. But for once it’s a good tired because it’s my body that’s exhausted, not my mind. As I let myself in the front door I hear the low murmur of Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria chatting in the kitchen.
“Hello,” Uncle Samir says, looking up from his laptop as I join them. “How did school go?”
I dump my bag on the floor and sit down beside him at the table. “It was OK.”
Aunt Maria pours me a cup of fresh mint tea.
“And how was football training?” Uncle Samir asks.
“Good.”
“Did you play OK?”
“I think so. I’ve been picked for the team.”
“You have?” Uncle Samir’s face lights up.
“That’s great,” Aunt Maria says with a smile. “Well done!”
“Thank you.” Even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know I don’t deserve it, this makes me feel good.
“I was wondering if you’d like to come to the mosque with me this evening,” Uncle Samir says. I notice him and Aunt Maria exchanging glances.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure?” Uncle Samir stares at me intently. “It might help you.”
“Help me what?” My shoulders tense. Why is he asking me this now? He knows I’m not interested. He hardly ever goes to mosque anyway.
“Get closer to God.”
I have
to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. Closer to the God who allows so much hatred and violence? Closer to the God who tears families apart? No, thank you. “I’m sorry. I’m really tired after football.”
Uncle Samir nods. “OK. No problem. In that case you can help me with something.”
“What?”
“We need to come up with ways to raise money for the library at the refugee centre, so that we can buy some books.”
“Couldn’t we ask people to donate books?” I ask, adding a spoonful of sugar to my tea and taking a sip.
“We could – and we are – for English books. But it would be good to get some books from the refugees’ countries, by their favourite writers. To help them feel more at home.”
Again, I have to stop myself from laughing. It takes a lot more than books to make a person feel at home. Then I have a flashback to the night on the boat, and the leather-bound collection of poetry by my namesake – the Persian poet Hafiz – being swept from my grasp into the raging sea. My dad gave me the book the day I left. It was his most treasured possession. And it was taken from me. That was the moment I gave up on God – when I realized he’d given up on me.
I look at Uncle Samir – at his broad shoulders and thick brown hair. He and my dad look so alike it hurts. It’s a constant walking, talking reminder of what I’m missing. If my dad were here now he’d be full of ideas. The thought of raising money to buy books would make him so excited. I can see him now, pacing up and down the kitchen, scratching his head as he thinks, telling us a fable to demonstrate the importance of books, about a king who saved his people by telling them stories, or something. And now I can see my mum, too, standing to one side, shaking her head as if to say, What is my husband like? but gazing at him so lovingly.
I get to my feet – horrified I might be about to cry. “C–can I help you later?” I stammer. “I need to take a shower.”
“Of course.” Uncle Samir nods and looks back to his laptop.
“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” Aunt Maria says.
“Great,” I reply. But I’ve completely lost my appetite.
Up in my uncle and aunt’s guest room I take my phone from my bag and lie down on the bed. I still don’t have a reply from Aahil. I click on to my Google account and start writing my daily email to Dad. I’ve done this since I arrived in the UK and got my new phone. I don’t bother WhatsApping or texting him. He doesn’t have a smartphone and I don’t even know if his old phone is still working. So I send emails in the hope that at some point he’ll be able to log on to his account and see them.
Hey Dad – and Mum!
I hope you are OK. All is good here. I got into the school football team today. I showed them how we Syrians play!
I stop typing. Unlike my message to Aahil, I tell my parents the good stuff. I don’t want them to worry about me. I don’t want them knowing that they shouldn’t have bothered sending me here – that it was all a massive mistake. I want to make them happy.
I return to my email.
I know it must be hard to get reception where you are but if you do get the chance please send me or Uncle Samir a message, just to let us know you’re OK. And tell Mum I’m really missing her. I miss you too, Dad.
Your loving son,
Hafiz
Stevie
I can’t sleep. I went to bed super early to try and compensate for the fact that I have to get up even earlier than Shriek-Beak but I … just … can’t … sleep. Mum went straight back up to bed after her phone call to the helpline. They’ve told her that she has to go to her meeting with them this week; that they can’t come to see her. I’ve offered to go with her, even though it would mean missing another day of school on my first week back, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s burying her head in the sand – or under the duvet – again.
I sit up in bed and stare out of the window. It’s just gone eight. The sky is turning inky blue. What if Mum doesn’t go to her reassessment? What if they stop her payments? What will we do? We could end up being kicked out of the cottage. I think of the homeless people who sleep in the shop doorways in Lewes and I feel sick. I picture Priya and her friends walking past me and Mum huddled together outside Boots, next to an old hat of loose change. I imagine Priya kicking the hat away and laughing. I get up and go over to the window. I need to do something to snap me out of this mood. I look at my Little Book of Big Song Wisdom, flicking through it for a song that might help me. But I draw a blank. Surprisingly, SONGS FOR THE SOON-TO-BE-HOMELESS weren’t all that popular back when my dad was a teen. You have your extra paper round, I remind myself. You’ll be earning more money. But my paper-round money will never pay all the bills.
I start pacing my bedroom, but that only makes me feel worse, like I’m more trapped. I sit on my bed and look at the Punk Jesus stain on the wall, hoping I might get inspiration for a song. But nothing. Then, when I can’t take any more, I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and quietly creep downstairs.
Outside in the twilight, the birds are singing their final song of the day. I head downhill, to the end of our street, then into the garden of the Grange. The Grange is an old stately home that was built back in 1500 or something. It has the most beautiful walled gardens, which are open to the public. I often come here when I want to write a new song. It’s a great place to come and think. I walk slowly around the flower beds, drinking in the colours. During the day the gardens can get packed, but now I’m the only one here. I imagine it’s my own private garden. What must it be like to be rich enough to own a garden this size? How is it fair that some people have so much – and other people, like me and Mum, have virtually nothing?
I follow the footpath through the gardens and out of the gate on the other side. Now what? I head away towards the junction just before the station. Lansdown Place – the road where Hafiz lives – is right in front of me. Men in work suits with undone shirt collars and loosened ties are spilling out of the pub on the corner, talking loudly. I cross over and start walking down the road. I wonder which house Hafiz lives in. Part of me wishes he’d appear from one of them right now. Another, bigger, part of me doesn’t. It would definitely look like I’m stalking him. And twice would be pushing my luck.
I follow the road down and around, until the tall thin houses turn into a row of shops. I walk past the art gallery and the printers and the barber’s shop. And then I hear the loud strum of a guitar coming from the record shop at the end of the parade. But it doesn’t sound like a recording. As I quicken my pace I hear a woman start to sing. It’s live! There’s some kind of gig going on.
The record shop is packed with people. I ease the door open and slip inside. Nobody notices me. Everyone’s watching the woman who’s singing at the front of the shop, next to the counter. She has long, flame-red hair and she’s wearing a tight denim shirt and jeans, with a red bandana and cowboy boots. I don’t usually like country music but her voice is so smooth and velvety and the way she’s playing slide guitar is mesmerizing. As I study the way she moves the slide up and down the strings my fingers twitch like they want to join in.
“Why do you hurt me like you do?” the woman croons into the microphone. “You make me feel all smoky blue.” Her full lips are painted dark red.
I stand at the back of the shop, watching her sing song after song. She’s called Lauren LaPorte and she’s from Nashville in America, which makes her seem even more exotic. As I watch I imagine that I am her; that I have left school and Lewes and I travel the world with my guitar, playing one-woman gigs in all kinds of random places. My skin tingles at how amazing this would be – how free I would feel. Finally, Lauren stops playing and Simon, the owner of the record store, asks us to give her a round of applause. I clap so hard my hands burn – and not just because of Lauren LaPorte’s awesome singing but because she’s given me a spark of hope for the future. She’s made me see how bright it could be. She’s made me see that there’s life beyond school and the cottage and Lewes. She’
s made me see that my music isn’t just a hobby – maybe, just maybe, it could be my ticket out of here.
I’m about to slip out of the shop when Simon notices me.
“Stevie, come here!” he calls.
Suddenly I feel guilty. Was I supposed to buy a ticket? Will he ask me to pay? I slink over, feeling really self-conscious. “Hi, Simon, I was – er – just passing and I heard the music so I thought I’d pop in.”
“That’s great.” Simon turns to Lauren, who’s signing one of her CDs. “Lauren, I’d like you to meet Stevie. She’s one of my regular customers and an awesome guitarist too.”
“Oh, I – I don’t know about that,” I stammer. Simon sometimes sells guitars in his shop and one time he let me try one. I played “Hurt” by Johnny Cash, which turned out to be one of his all-time favourite songs … which is probably why I made such a lasting impression.
“Hey there.” Lauren treats me to one of her beautiful smiles. Her teeth are bright white against the dark red of her lips. “Always good to meet a fellow muso.”
“Oh, I – I’m not really a muso. I don’t really…” I’m so in awe of her it’s like I’m standing in front of Stevie Nicks. She’s making me stammer like a fool. “I – I loved your songs.”
“Thank you!” Lauren offers me the CD. “Would you like one?”
“Oh – er – no, I – I don’t have any money on me, sorry. I was just passing and I didn’t realize you’d be here and…”
Simon grins. “Stevie’s more of a vinyl kind of girl, anyway.”
Lauren smiles. “No way! That’s awesome. And your name’s awesome too.”
OK, what is going on?! I seem to have been teleported into some kind of mind-bending parallel universe where one of the coolest singers I’ve ever seen is telling me that I am awesome!
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 8
