Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

by Siobhan Curham

  I think of the day Stevie and I followed our hearts to Brighton and how right it felt. The feeling that I don’t belong here, with these people, at this café, grows stronger and stronger.

  “Where would you like to go, Hafiz?” Lucy asks.

  “I’m really sorry but I have to go home,” I say, finishing my coffee.

  “What?” Lucy’s eyes widen. “But it’s still early.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I – I need to help my uncle with something.” Ooh, lame attempt at an excuse from Hafiz, my inner commentator mocks. But I don’t care. I can’t do this any more. I need to find the one person in this town who makes me feel like I fit.

  Lucy’s red lips start to pout. I get the feeling she doesn’t end up on the receiving end of “no” very often.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, getting to my feet.

  “Message me,” she says, and there’s something about the way she says it, like it’s a command, that instantly makes me want to do anything but message her.

  “Sure,” I mutter before saying goodbye to the others and walking away.

  I don’t go back to Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria’s. Instead I walk straight up the high street and keep walking till I get to Stevie’s turning, then continue down the narrow cobbled street, mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say. Hi, I was just wondering how you are… Hello, why haven’t you been in school…? Hey, I miss you… No, that last one is way too corny.

  I get to Stevie’s door and knock loudly. I see a movement out of the corner of my eye and notice the curtain in the downstairs window twitching. She’s in! I take a deep breath and prepare to deliver my opening line. The door opens and I take a step back. It’s not Stevie, but a thin woman with long brown hair, wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She has a faded kind of beauty. There are dark shadows under her eyes as if she hasn’t slept in a very long time.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “I – uh – is Stevie in?”

  “Do you know where she is?” the woman says. She looks scared.

  “No, I – I thought she’d be here.”

  The woman, who I assume is Stevie’s mum, starts chewing nervously on the corner of her thumbnail.

  “I don’t know where she is,” she says. “I sent her out to get some painkillers over an hour ago and she still isn’t back.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to make of this. “Maybe – maybe she’s gone to the record shop.”

  The woman stares at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Hafiz.” I hold out my hand. She just looks at it. OK, this is getting seriously awkward, so I run my hand through my hair, like that’s what I was meaning to do all along. Another lame attempt from Hafiz, my inner commentator jeers. “I’m Stevie’s – her friend from school.”

  “Oh. I see.” She frowns. Maybe Stevie hasn’t mentioned me. I don’t quite know why but this makes me feel really disappointed. “The one from Afghanistan?” she says eventually.

  “No, Syria.”

  “Oh.” She glances anxiously up the street. “Where do you think she is?”

  “The record shop, maybe,” I say, louder this time, so it might actually sink in.

  The woman shakes her head. “We – she’s got no money to spend on records.”

  “Oh.” I glance around, unsure what to do. “Is she OK?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She hasn’t been at school since Monday. Is everything all right?”

  The woman looks at me blankly. A seagull squawks on a rooftop behind me, making me jump.

  “I should go,” I say. I don’t want to go. I want to stay and make sure Stevie gets home safely but the woman is so jittery I don’t think I’d be helping.

  “Do you think she’s OK?” she asks, tightening the belt on her dressing gown.

  This is fast becoming one of the weirdest conversations I’ve ever had.

  “I’m sure she is,” I reply. “Could you tell her I came round? Ask her to give me a call?”

  “She’s got no credit on her phone.”

  “Oh. OK. Well, if you could tell her I came round?”

  “Mmm.” The woman looks up and down the road again. I’m not sure she’s heard a word I was saying.

  As I start walking down the street I hear the door closing behind me. When I get to the bottom of the hill I stop and sit on a wall. I need to know that Stevie gets home safely.

  Stevie

  By the time I get to the top of Mount Caburn it’s almost completely dark. Apart from the sheep, there’s no one to be seen for miles. The rolling hills, which looked so beautiful in the dying sunlight, have now turned to black mounds on the horizon. The tightness in my chest loosens. I can breathe again.

  The walk here was tiring but refreshing. It feels good to be so far away from everybody and everything. I sit down on the grass and look up at the sky. The first of the stars are starting to appear. I lean back on my elbows and gaze up at them. I think of the universe stretching on and on to infinity. I think of all the time that’s gone before and all the time that’s yet to come. Really, my Lost Property shirt drama is like a tiny speck of dust – the split-est of split seconds in the grand scheme of things. And yet it feels as if the pain I’m in is going to last for ever. One of the stars is winking brightly. It reminds me of a song in my dad’s record collection called “When You Wish Upon a Star”, from a Walt Disney soundtrack he had as a little kid. I hear the lyrics echoing around my head. I keep my eyes fixed on the star. According to the song, when you wish upon a star your dreams come true. I’m pretty certain there’s no scientific evidence to back this up. But one star-related fact I do know is that everything in the universe is made from the dust of exploded stars. Everything, including us. I look at the way the star’s shining so brightly. We might be made of the same thing but I feel zero in common with it. But then our minds aren’t made from stardust. Our minds aren’t made from anything apart from thoughts – and stories.

  I think of Hafiz and what his dad told him about everyone having a story inside them. The truth is, we all have a million stories inside us. There are the stories we get from books and films and there are the stories we get from other people. And what about the stories we tell ourselves? I think of the story I’ve been telling myself about my life being over and my dreams being pointless and there being no hope of ever escaping my destiny of inheriting Mum’s depression. It feels like a horror story. But is it true? And then I have one of those realizations that, if my life were a cartoon, it would be shown by a zany light bulb flashing above my head: We’re all creating our own stories every single day.

  I sit up, and let this notion sink in. We should be able to create the kind of life stories we want but sometimes it’s so hard. I think of Hafiz— Don’t think of Hafiz! But I can’t help it. The pathways in my brain crack and fizz with thoughts of him. He would never have created a life story which saw him torn from his family and friends, just as I would never have created a life story in which my dad died. I look back at the stars. I would never have chosen the way he died, either. I would never have had him fall down those steps after the mugger pushed him, leaving me and Mum so plagued by if only’s… And I would never have created a mum who gave up. I’d have created a mum who was strong and feisty and fearless, a mum who was there for me. Then a thought occurs to me, like a shooting star blazing through my brain: I can create me. I might not be able to control the other characters in my life story but I can become the kind of hero I aspire to be. Anne Frank. Malala. Stevie Nicks. Hafiz.

  I hug my knees as more thoughts start leading me out of the gloom. I can’t control what happens with Mum or with our benefits, either, or even that stupid school shirt, but I can control how I react. I can choose to be happy and strong in spite of it all. I just have to figure out how. Suddenly I hear a noise behind me. I turn slowly – and see a pair of eyes glinting at me through the darkness.

  HAFIZ

  It’s now pitch black. I’m still on the wall and Stevie still
isn’t back. I must have been here for almost two hours, watching and waiting. It’s getting cold and I’m starving but I can’t go, not now, because I’m really worried. She can’t have gone to the record shop – it must have shut ages ago – so where is she? Part of me wants to go looking for her but if I do that I might miss her coming home a different way. So I’m stuck here. Waiting.

  A car goes by at the bottom of the hill. I hear laughter and chatter drifting down from the high street. I check my phone for messages. None. I count the bricks in the wall. Two hundred and sixty-seven. An uneasiness builds inside me, churning in my stomach, prickling at my skin. What if something’s happened to her? Something bad? What if she needs my help but I’m not there?

  I look up into the dark sky. The stars are shining brightly but there’s no sign of the moon. Maybe that’s gone missing too. I sigh and keep looking. OK, God, I’m going to give you one more chance. Please watch over Stevie. Please let her be OK. Please bring her home safely. It feels weird to pray again after so long. A bit like an awkward conversation with a long-lost friend. And please let Aahil be OK too, God. Please let him be safe. And my parents too. And please let peace come to Syria soon. I sigh. Close my eyes. A feeling of calm washes over me. Thank you.

  Stevie

  The eyes belonged to a sheep. But, trust me, that did not make it any less scary. I once read an article about death by farm animals – seriously, it’s an actual thing. Most of the victims were trampled by cows but one was listed as “death by sheep”. At the time I couldn’t figure out how a sheep could possibly kill a human but now I know – it probably crept up on them in the dead of night and gave them a heart attack!

  I run all the way back across the Downs, then down the steep path. I don’t stop until I reach South Street at the edge of town … and crash straight into someone.

  “I’m sorry!” I gasp, bending over to catch my breath.

  “Whoa!” a man cries. “Stevie?”

  Crap! It’s Simon from the record shop. I stand up straight. My sides ache.

  “Are you OK?” he asks.

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I just – I was just out for a jog.”

  He glances at my definitely non-jogging attire of skinny jeans and boots. “Jog? That was more like a sprint!” Thankfully he laughs. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Yeah.” I can’t help sighing though. I’m back for literally one second and I’m already looking like a total idiot.

  “Are you heading into town?” Simon asks, nodding towards the high street.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

  We cross the road and start walking back along Cliffe High Street. I wonder if Hafiz and Lucy are still around. At least I won’t feel so pitiful if they see me with Simon. There’s a certain amount of street cred to be had being seen in the company of the local record store owner.

  “I loved meeting Lauren LaPorte the other night,” I say, trying to make conversation.

  “Yeah, she’s awesome, isn’t she? Have you used the slide she gave you?”

  I shake my head. “My guitar broke.”

  “Oh no.” Simon seems genuinely horrified, as only a true muso would. “Well, if you’re looking for a new one, I just got some new classical acoustic guitars in. They’re going really cheap.”

  “How cheap?”

  “Ninety-nine quid.”

  “Oh.” I sigh. “That’s a little out of my price range.”

  “How much is your price range?”

  Now I feel really embarrassed. I wish I’d never mentioned Lauren. I wish I’d never bumped into him. I wish I’d stayed up on the Downs being haunted by psycho sheep. “About fifty,” I say. Although even this is a lie. Fifty pounds is practically all of the paper-round money I’m getting tomorrow.

  “Right.” We walk on in silence for a bit, then Simon says, “What if I let you have it for fifty and you could pay the rest in instalments – say, a fiver a week?”

  “Seriously? But that would be – that would be…” Maths was never my strong point. “That would be a lot of weeks.”

  “Not really. And every artist needs a break. Just remember me in your first album credits.”

  “That is so never going to happen.”

  Simon shakes his head. “I’ve heard you play, Stevie.”

  My skin starts tingling with something dangerously close to excitement. “Are you – are you sure?”

  He stops walking and grins at me. “Yep. One hundred per cent. Come down the shop in the morning and we’ll sort it. Right, I’ve got to meet a mate.” He gestures to a nearby pub. The door opens and a man stumbles out, bringing with him a waft of beer and the sound of chatter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “OK. Yes. Thank you.” I can barely get the words out.

  I carry on walking along Cliffe High Street. The old-fashioned street lamps are spilling pools of orange light onto the cobbles. This part of town always makes me feel like I’m walking through the pages of a Dickens novel – especially at night. But I can’t get all literary now.

  I don’t know what to do. If I give Simon most of my paper-round money there’ll be nothing left for Mum and me. And yet, will I ever get a chance like it again?

  I hear the opening chords to “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd being strummed. A bearded busker is sitting on the bridge, cross-legged, hunched over his guitar. As I walk past I see a cap on the pavement beside him, glimmering with money. And suddenly I get another shooting star of an idea. What if I used my paper-round money to buy the guitar and then I used the guitar to busk? It could be a way of making more money. OK, so it would be a big outlay at first but I could look at it as an investment. It’s the kind of thing entrepreneurs and business owners do all the time. It’s called “speculate to accumulate”. I know this because one night when I was super bored I ended up watching a YouTube video on business skills called “How to Get Rich, Biatch” by an American business coach. Back then it had seemed like a total waste of ten minutes of my life but now I’m not so sure. I picture myself busking on the bridge in Cliffe High Street and I break out into a cold sweat. But even though the thought terrifies me, it would be a way of making money and also help me hone my guitar skills. And more than that, it would be a way of taking back control of my life story.

  HAFIZ

  I’ve now counted all of the bricks in the wall, all of the stars in the sky and all of the cobbles on my stretch of pavement. I’m about to start counting the leaves on a nearby tree when I hear footsteps coming down the hill. I step back into the shadows and watch and wait. I see a figure walking along the pavement. As she passes beneath a street light I see that it’s Stevie. I suddenly relax. She reaches her house and I’m about to go over when the door opens and the thin woman with the tired eyes comes flying out.

  “Stevie! Where have you been?” she cries, before grabbing Stevie in a hug.

  Stevie stands motionless for a moment, then returns her hug. “For a walk,” she replies.

  “A walk?” The woman steps back a little and stares at her. In the glow of the street light I see that her face is shiny with tears. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Have you?” Stevie sounds genuinely surprised.

  “Of course. I thought something had happened to you.”

  “I’m fine, Mum. I just needed to get out.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Stevie’s mum says. “I’m so sorry.”

  I frown. Why is she sorry?

  “That’s OK,” Stevie says.

  “Your friend was here.”

  “My friend?” Now Stevie sounds surprised. “What friend?” There’s something about the way she says this that makes me feel horrible. Like she doesn’t believe she has any friends.

  “The boy from Syria. I’m sorry, he did tell me his name but I was so worried about you I forgot it.”

  “Hafiz?” Again Stevie sounds really surprised and again I feel horrible. Why would she be so shocked at the thought of me coming to see
her?

  Stevie’s mum nods and grabs her arm. “Come on. Let’s go inside and get a cup of tea.”

  “Hafiz came here, tonight?”

  “Uh-huh. A couple of hours ago.” Stevie’s mum steps back into the house.

  “A couple of hours ago, but…” Stevie follows her. As she turns to close the door I see a huge smile on her face, so bright it seems to light the entire street.

  Stevie

  I follow Mum into the kitchen and watch as she puts the kettle on. Why was Hafiz here? He was out with Lucy. He was linking arms with Lucy.

  “Was he on his own – my friend – when he came round?”

  “Yes.” Mum opens the cupboard and takes out the tea. “Camomile OK?”

  “Sure.” Camomile is perfect. I need something to calm my racing mind.

  “Where did you walk to?” Mum asks.

  “Mount Caburn.”

  “Mount Caburn?” Mum looks horrified. “You were up on the Downs on your own in the dark?”

  “Yes. Well, it wasn’t dark when I first went up there.”

  “Oh, Stevie.” Mum sits down at the kitchen table. “I was so worried. I don’t know what I would have done if anything…” Her voice fades away to a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d lost you too.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sit down opposite her.

  Mum looks around the room and sighs. “Why have you been off school?”

  “What?”

  “This week. Why have you been off school?”

  I look down at the table, start picking at a peeling piece of the Formica. “I’ve had the flu.”

  Mum shakes her head. “You’re just like your dad. He could never lie convincingly.”

  I look at her confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been ill, have you?”

  I shake my head.

  “So what’s been going on? Your friend who came round here. Harry—”