Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

by Siobhan Curham

  “OK,” I say. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.” I’m filled with panic as I realize that I threw my old shirt out, and I don’t have any others.

  “I think she should give it back right now,” Priya says.

  And now I can barely breathe. I have to get out of here, away from them. Even Hafiz. I should never have tried to make a friend. I pick up my bag and I run.

  HAFIZ

  Stevie has disappeared and I don’t know what to do. Yesterday she left school at afternoon break and she hasn’t been back since. Some of the girls in our class are calling her a thief but I know there has to be more to it than that. She would never knowingly steal another person’s shirt. There must be some misunderstanding. I’ve tried calling her but her phone is switched off and when I went round to her house this afternoon after school there was no one in – or no one who wanted to answer the door anyway. I don’t know what to do. Downstairs I hear the murmur of Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria chatting while they get the dinner ready. There’s been no word from Athens. I don’t know if my parents are still there or if their papers have been processed and they’re on the move again. And I still haven’t heard anything from Aahil. I hate all this not knowing. It’s like being cut adrift at sea. I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. Sinbad didn’t give up when he was cut adrift. He kept swimming until he found hope and safety. That’s what I must do too. I need to keep swimming.

  Stevie

  My life can now be summed up in the grimmest of maths equations:

  Miss Kepinski seeing me at the food bank + stealing Lucy’s shirt = never being able to set foot in school again.

  I’ve been off sick since I ran out of school yesterday. Although I’m sure everyone will know that I’m not really ill. The news of my shirt theft will have spread through the school like wildfire, especially as the shirt belongs to school royalty. There’s no way Queen Bee Lucy is going to let this drop quietly. The only thing that is keeping me vaguely happy is the thought that at least now everyone likes Hafiz. Including Lucy. A picture of Hafiz and Lucy pops into my mind. They’re sitting in the back row at the cinema. And now my stupid imagination zooms in on a close-up of their hands, which are entwined. I walk up and down my bedroom, which takes precisely three seconds. This has got to be the worst room ever for pacing. I wonder if Hafiz went to the cinema with Lucy and her friends. I picture them all huddled together, discussing how terrible I am. The thought of Hafiz thinking of me as a thief makes me so ashamed.

  I pick up my Little Book of Big Song Wisdom and start flicking through. What would Dad think if he knew what I’d done? There’s no page in the book titled SONGS FOR THIEVES TO STEAL SHIRTS TO. Clearly he expected greater things from me. I stop on the page titled SONGS FOR WALLOWING IN MISERY TO instead, and search my record collection for anything by The Smiths.

  HAFIZ

  Number of months since I’ve seen Mum and Dad: twenty-five. Number of days since I’ve seen Stevie: three. For some weird reason I feel almost as sad about not seeing Stevie as I do about not seeing my parents. But I can’t think about that now. I have to push these thoughts aside. I have a game of football to play. Our match is away this time – at a school on the outskirts of Brighton. I can tell as soon as our minibus pulls up that we’re in a very different neighbourhood to Lewes. The houses near the school are tatty and rundown. Most of the front gardens are full of junk. The school isn’t much better either. The walls are crumbling and the paintwork is chipped. We drive past a sign saying WELCOME TO PRESTON HIGH. Someone has sprayed a red line through the word HIGH and replaced it with Hell. The minibus drives round to the back of the school and parks alongside the playing field. The grass is patchy and worn.

  The whole way to the game I’ve avoided eye contact with Price. It hasn’t been that difficult, to be honest. Since the assembly, my other teammates are being really friendly. It’s only now, as we get off the bus, that I look at him.

  “You’d better not mess up,” he mutters as he walks past me.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I reply. Price doesn’t realize that he’s doing me a favour saying stuff like this. It doesn’t intimidate me, it does the opposite. It helps me to raise my game, to prove him wrong.

  After a quick warm-up we take our positions on the pitch. Mr Kavanagh has put me on the left wing and moved Price to centre midfield – something which definitely won’t help things between us. Not that I care. The ref blows the whistle and we’re off. Within seconds, all of my stress about my family and Aahil and Stevie has gone. My vision narrows until it’s just me and the ball and the desire to win. Price quickly gets possession and I race into a wide space in front of the goal.

  “Over here!” I call. But he ignores me and tries to get past one of their defenders instead. The defender wins the ball and runs off down the wing.

  So this is how petty Price is going to be. He’d rather we lose than help me to score.

  “Price, next time pass to Hafiz!” Mr Kavanagh yells from the sideline.

  Price scowls. I run after the ball and win it from one of the other team’s midfielders. I turn and make a break down the wing. Out of the corner of my eye I see Preston’s players closing in. I activate the Hafiz rocket, and go flying through them. I’m running so fast it feels as if I’m flying. Price is running up from the midfield, his hand raised.

  “Pass it to me!” he yells.

  I look up. I could strike from here. I have a clear shot on goal and I’ve scored from further back than this before but Price is now closer and he’s free. I pass the ball over to him. It lands right at his feet. He shoots. The ball goes flying over the crossbar. The Preston fans jeer. Price’s face flushes red as our teammates all groan in disappointment.

  “That was a crap pass,” he mutters as he runs past me.

  What?! “It landed right at your feet!” I call back. “What do you want me to do next time, hand-deliver it with a bow on top?”

  “All right, lads, cool it down,” Mr Kavanagh calls over to us.

  But he doesn’t have to worry. Price isn’t winding me up, he’s proving to be all the motivation I need.

  Five minutes later I score the first goal. By half-time, I’ve scored a hat-trick.

  Stevie

  I put the needle on the vinyl and the haunting opening chords of “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths fills my room. It’s Friday. Traditionally the happiest day of the week … for people who have a social life. But not for me. Especially now. It’s official. After months of fighting it off, I’ve finally caught Mum’s depression. I’ve given in to the darkness, let it swallow me whole, and here’s the weirdest thing: in some ways it’s a relief. Not to have to bother trying any more, to just give up and let go. I used to think there was nothing positive about having a mum with a mental illness but now I know I was wrong. There’s a massive positive – she’s so wrapped up in her own crap she hasn’t even noticed me slip under. And that’s exactly how it feels, like slipping under. I once read somewhere that drowning is the nicest way to die – once you stop fighting it and just let it happen. But then I think of the woman on the boat with Hafiz and how awful it must have been to watch her baby torn from her arms by the sea. To watch her baby slip under. I bet she screamed and wailed. Because parents are supposed to care about their kids.

  “WHY DON’T YOU CARE ABOUT ME,” I feel like yelling down the stairs to Mum, “LIKE YOU USED TO WHEN DAD WAS HERE?”

  When I told her I needed to stay home from school because I wasn’t feeling well she didn’t even bat an eyelid. She didn’t even ask what was wrong. She didn’t even ask how I was well enough to do my paper round but not go into school. All she can think about and talk about and stress about are the stupid benefit payments. I pick up my guitar to try and distract myself.

  Selfish

  selfish

  selfish…

  I strum angrily at the strings. One of them breaks with a sickening thwang. Great. I hurl the guitar and it hits the corner of my dresser and ricoc
hets onto the floor. There’s now a massive dent by the sound hole. I slump down on my bed, tears burning my eyes. I’ve broken my guitar. The last guitar that Dad gave me. Not that it matters. I’ll never be able to live a life like Lauren LaPorte. I’m going to be stuck here, in this stupid room, in this stupid house, taking care of Mum for ever.

  “Heaven knows I’m miserable now,” Morrissey sings, as if he’s right there, inside my head, wailing my thoughts into life.

  What if I just gave up totally?

  I mustn’t give up totally. Anne Frank. Malala, Stevie Nicks, Hafiz.

  Hafiz. I miss Hafiz. I wonder what he’s doing. Who he’s with. He’s had an entire week at school now without me to mess things up for him. He’s probably friends with everyone. He’s probably dating Lucy. I hate Lucy. I sigh. I lie down. I put a cushion over my head. I’m so horrible. I’m the one who’s done something wrong, not her. She’s the one who should hate me. I stole her shirt. Even if I didn’t know it was hers, I knew it wasn’t mine when I took it from Lost Property.

  I roll onto my side and I see the letter from Miss Kepinski that arrived in the post this morning. She said that she’s worried about me, that she’d really like to talk to me. I crumple the letter up and throw it on the floor. The record comes to an end. I hear Mum’s footsteps creaking on the landing and it gives me the tiniest pinprick of hope. Maybe she heard me throwing the guitar. Maybe she’s come to check that I’m OK…

  “Stevie,” she calls. “Could you pop to the shop and get some painkillers for me?”

  HAFIZ

  One thing I’ve learned these last few years is that nothing is permanent. Even the things you think will definitely last for ever, the things that can’t be broken, like your family, your school, your entire country, can all crumble away in no time at all. But something else I’m learning is that sometimes this can work in your favour. When I started at Lewes High I never thought I’d make any friends, that I’d be on my own – an outsider – for ever. But now here I am, on a Friday night, out in town with a whole group of people. OK, so I can’t really call them my friends, they’re actually friends of Lucy, but they’re talking to me and they want to be with me.

  We’ve come down to Cliffe High Street. The sun is setting, painting the tips of the cobblestones gold, and the restaurants and pubs are bustling. A busker is singing and playing guitar on the bridge. I don’t recognize the song but it’s happy and uplifting – the perfect soundtrack to the summery scene. Then I remember Stevie and how she played in the guitar shop. If only she were here too, then it would be perfect. She hasn’t been back to school all week. Miss Kepinski told me that she phoned in sick but I can tell that she’s worried about her. She keeps asking me if I’ve heard from her but I haven’t.

  Lucy smiles at me. There’s no denying she’s incredibly beautiful, especially now she’s not in her school uniform. She’s wearing a short skirt made of faded denim and a tight, white vest top that ends halfway down her tanned and toned stomach. She looks perfect. But that’s the problem. Perfect is dull to me. I turn away. The two other boys in our group – James and Will – are also on the school football team and they’re talking about one of my goals.

  “Where’d you learn to curve the ball like that?” Will asks me.

  “Yeah, it was sick, bruv,” James slaps me on the back.

  “I’ll have to come and watch you play,” Lucy says, linking her arm in mine. Why is she doing this? “If you want me to, that is?” She looks at me. Up this close I see that her brown eyes are flecked with amber.

  “Oh – yeah – sure,” I stammer. Get a grip, Hafiz! my inner commentator yells. This is a terrible display! I’m not sure why I feel so unsettled by Lucy’s suggestion. She’s been so nice to me this week and she looks amazing. But … but she isn’t Stevie.

  Stevie

  Hafiz is with Lucy. I take a step back into the shop doorway and try to remember how to breathe. I blink hard, then look back out into the precinct. I wasn’t seeing things. They’re still there. Hafiz is with Lucy. My worst nightmare has come true. OK, so they might not be holding hands in the cinema but they’re standing in the middle of Cliffe High Street and her arm is linked with his! How has this happened? How have things changed so quickly? Now I’ll never be able to be friends with him again. As this realization sinks in I feel sick. My life is officially over. School was bad enough last year when I had no friends but at least back then I didn’t know what I was missing. This past couple of weeks with Hafiz gave me a taster of what life could be like but now it’s been snatched away. I can’t go back to being a social outcast again. I can’t watch him being friends with everyone else and going out with Lucy. I can’t.

  A woman barges out of the shop, tutting at me for blocking her way. I pretend to look in my bag for something and glance back at Hafiz. He’s wearing skinny black jeans and a bright white T-shirt. His hair is tied back in a ponytail, making his cheekbones even more pronounced. He says something to Lucy. I picture a speech bubble coming from his mouth with the words, I love you! I need to get a grip. I need to get away. I need to leave and never come back.

  I watch as Hafiz and Lucy and the rest of her golden gang head into the coffee shop. I turn and start marching away from town. I turn and start marching towards the cliff.

  HAFIZ

  We all sit down at a round silver table inside the coffee shop. Lucy takes a sip of her drink, some kind of iced coffee, topped with butterscotch syrup and a mountain of whipped cream. I think of the coffee shop in Brighton where I went with Stevie. I can never imagine Stevie ordering a drink like Lucy’s – and that only makes me miss her more. I tune back into the others’ conversation. Lucy’s friend Imogen is asking her where she got her lipstick.

  “New York,” Lucy replies. “It’s called Sex Bomb.” She purses her bright red lips and Imogen giggles. Lucy’s wearing a lot more make-up than she does at school. Her eyelashes are long and black like spiders’ legs and her face is covered in something beige and powdery. It makes her look like a doll. I prefer the way Stevie does her make-up. It’s more like a work of art. Lucy’s is more like a mask.

  The girls start talking about perfume. I turn to Will and James. They’re talking about music, arguing good-naturedly about who’s the greatest hip-hop star. There’s something about the way they banter with each other that sends a pang of loss through me. I miss Aahil and the way we used to laugh and joke like this. I take my phone from my pocket and check it for messages. Nothing. I try and focus back on the café and Lucy and her friends. But now it feels as if I’m watching them through a screen. I don’t belong here. I don’t fit in with these people. I’m used to this feeling. For the past two years I’ve had to slip into new worlds like I’m putting on new outfits – but none of them have fitted. Until I met Stevie.

  “Are you expecting a message?” Lucy asks, nodding at my phone. She must have noticed the disappointment on my face.

  “What? Oh no, not really.”

  “Have you heard anything from that Stevie girl?” Lucy’s other friend, Lily, asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I still can’t believe she stole your shirt,” Imogen says, shaking her head in disgust.

  Lucy sighs. “I know. And she still hasn’t given it back. She’s such a coward, running out of school like that, not having the guts to apologize.” She places her hand on my arm. Her fingers are long and thin and golden like the rest of her and her nails are painted pale pink. “Oh well, at least you don’t have to hang out with her any more.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Now you’ve got us.”

  “Oh.”

  The others all smile like I’ve just won some kind of prize. But all I feel, yet again, is the hollow pain of loss.

  Stevie

  The path up to the clifftop is so steep it tears at the backs of my legs and makes my lungs burn. But I keep walking faster. I like the pain. I need the pain. It distracts me from all the hurt I’m feeling inside. As I get cl
ose to the top I see a sign on the edge of the path warning of the steep drop below. It shows a black stick figure tumbling to his doom. I stop and peer over the wire fence; the drop is so sheer it makes me dizzy. I look out over Lewes. I’m so high above the town now it’s like looking at a map. I think of tiny versions of Hafiz and Lucy somewhere down there, laughing and joking and linking arms. I turn and carry on up to the top.

  I let myself through the gate behind the golf club and onto the Downs. The view is stunning and – even though I feel horrendous – it still takes my breath away. The velvety green hills are dotted white with sheep. I stop for a moment and look around. Now what do I do? I’d been so desperate to get away I hadn’t really given any thought to what I’d do when I got up here. The sun has set and the sky is a deepening blue, streaked with gold and pink. Why does it have to look so beautiful? Mother Nature, why can’t you give me a break? I don’t need Instagram-able sunsets, I need dark storm clouds and howling winds and driving rain. I turn slowly, scanning the horizon for inspiration. One thing’s for sure – I can’t go back into town and I can’t go home. I spot the outline of Mount Caburn in the distance. Apparently, Mount Caburn was once an Iron Age fort. I’m not entirely sure when the Iron Age was but I know it was long, long time ago, like way before Jesus. I turn and start marching towards it.

  HAFIZ

  “What shall we do now?” Lucy asks, finishing her drink.

  “We could go down to the river,” Imogen suggests.

  “Or the Priory,” Will says, taking her hand. Ah, so they’re together. Then I look at Lily and James. What if they’re a couple too? That just leaves me and Lucy. Lucy, who linked arms with me and keeps staring up at me through her long, spider-leg eyelashes.