by Mike Revell
Maybe he was running late. He’d probably be here in a bit.
“He’ll put you on,” Danny muttered. “He’s got to.”
Then the players lined up on the pitch, and Danny ran to the center circle. I shoved my hands in my pockets against the cold. It got dark so early now that the floodlights were on, and I looked up at them, wondering what would be happening in the story if I’d jumped instead of fighting it.
Westfield was a good team. Their players were big and strong—the kind of kids who looked like Year 9s even when they were still in Year 7. They started the game confidently, and why wouldn’t they? They had a 4–1 lead in the bag.
They snatched the ball quickly and almost broke through, but Scott Charles slid in and made the tackle. He passed it out to Aaron on the wing, and all of a sudden we were away.
Aaron sped down the sideline and Westfield couldn’t get back in time . . .
“Cross it!” I yelled, running along the edge of the pitch. “Get it to Danny!”
Aaron swerved it in, and Danny rose up and connected with a perfect header.
Just like that we were 1–0 up. Two more and we’d be through to the next round!
The goal must have stung Westfield, because they soon cranked up the pressure. I was still annoyed at Mr. Matthews for not letting me play, but I quickly forgot about it because I didn’t have a second to think. By half-time they’d had most of the ball and we’d barely got back inside their half.
At the break, Mr. Matthews brought round a bowlful of sliced oranges. As he moved past, he nodded at me and said, “Warm up.” An electric surge shot through me. I glanced over at the home crowd again. I could see the scout making notes on his clipboard. But there was still no sign of Dad.
I tried not to get too disappointed, but I really thought he’d come this time. Where was he? Was it me? Was it because I fought the tug of the story?
I jumped up and down to get warm, shaking the thoughts from my head. As soon as this match was over, I’d stop fighting the tug, but for now I needed to focus.
This was it. I was playing in front of the academy scout.
I lined up right beside Danny when the whistle blew. Westfield kicked off and tried to keep possession, but Danny rushed in to pressure them and I scampered round, cutting off their options.
Frustration bit and they went for a long ball—and that was when we struck.
Dom intercepted the pass and threaded it through to me and I ran at them, just ran without caring. The change of pace must have thrown them off guard, because I got by one and then past two and a lane opened up for me to slot in Danny . . .
The crowd roared as he latched onto the pass and tapped the ball past the keeper to send us 2–0 up. I glanced across, dodging excited thumps and bear hugs. Mr. Matthews was grinning like mad. The scout looked right at me, then scribbled something on his pad.
But we still needed one more.
Down by two, Westfield started to panic. You could tell by their quick, snappy passes. They wanted to control the game, but their plan had fallen apart and now they didn’t know how to react.
Aaron intercepted a ball and played me onside down the right wing. I quickly looked up, trying to find Danny, but they had him well marked. Time was running out. I had to do something.
The defender lunged at me with an outstretched leg, and I dinked the ball past him and ran round and into the box. Everything moved so slowly now. The keeper crouched low, watching me with wide eyes. Another defender was closing in. People were calling out, shouting different things, but I didn’t hear any of it.
I didn’t even think—just reacted.
I rolled the ball left, past the second defender, and smashed it with my left foot.
It was my wrong foot, but I didn’t have time for anything else.
The ball rocketed into the left post—
It ricocheted—
And rolled across the line. It was in. It was in!
An explosion of noise erupted and the crowd ran onto the pitch. Students and teammates and even one or two teachers rushed on to mob me and I fell tumbling back onto the grass.
Crushing pain shot through me every time someone leapt onto the pile, but I didn’t care.
“You’ve done it!” they said.
“We’ve won! We’ve won!”
The referee’s whistle trilled five long blasts as he tried to get everyone under control. I didn’t know how long it was before I could finally get back up. I brushed the grass off my elbows and straightened out my uniform, and my cheeks burned from the giant smile that wouldn’t leave my face.
The game got back underway, but before long the ref blew the whistle again—three sharp blasts. The cheers rang out louder than before. I stood there in the middle of the pitch, taking long, deep breaths, letting it all soak in.
“We’re through!” Danny yelled, dragging me into a hug. I winced at the sharp pain in my ribs. “Well played, mate. Really well played!”
“You too,” I said. “Talk about a good header.”
He shoved me away, ruffling my hair.
The school chant started up in the background, ringing out over the emptying field.
“Lads,” called Mr. Matthews, and I turned to see him standing there beside the scout. He beckoned us over. “There’s someone here who wants a word with you.”
I glanced up at the sky, wondering if Mum was up there somewhere. Wondering if she saw. Wondering if she had anything to do with it.
There were no hummingbirds in my stomach anymore.
Just a tight ball of excitement shuddering away, ready to burst.
29
All the way home, my stomach squirmed.
Trials at Cambridge Academy! If only Dad had come to the match. It would have been the perfect game to see. I knew I’d been annoyed about not starting, but the second half was brilliant.
I rushed to the door and nearly dropped the key. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad.
“Dad?” I called.
There was no reply.
I called out again, but there was still no answer.
I moved through the house, opening every door, my excitement draining with every step. He wasn’t in the living room. The study was empty too. In the kitchen, there was a plate covered in toast crumbs and a mug with some coffee left in it, but no Dad.
I walked out through the dining room and on my way I noticed the back door was open.
Dad never left the back door open. My heart quickened. Were we being robbed? Was there someone upstairs? I thought of my TV and my PlayStation and almost went up to check they were still there, but something stopped me.
There was banging outside.
I hesitated for a second. Was it Dad out there, or someone else?
It sounded like the noise was coming from the shed.
The shed where all Mum’s paintings were.
I slipped out through the back door. The shed light was on. I could see someone through the nearest window and I knew right away it was Dad. He lifted something up—a painting, it had to be—and chucked it out into the garden.
My throat dried up. It wasn’t just one painting on the grass. It was three—now four, now five—all piled up one on top of the other. What was he doing? Why would he throw them around like that? For months he’d never set foot in there. Neither of us had. Not until the other day.
And now he was wrecking it. He was wrecking everything.
“No!” I shouted, but it didn’t come out like a shout, it came out like a squeak.
My knees quivered. A few minutes ago I was dancing in the clouds, but now the game felt like it’d happened to someone else.
Dad chucked out another painting. He slammed the door. I imagined the wood rattling, the dust and cobwebs shaking free. He grabbed the nearest picture and smashed it on his knee, throwing the broken fragments into the bushes.
“No!” I yelled again, and it was louder this time.
My legs caught fire and I ran. Dad glanced up, but didn’t sto
p. He was already reaching for the next painting.
I needed to stop him.
I had to stop him.
But I wasn’t going to get there in time.
It happened in slow motion. He lashed out with his foot, kicking right through a canvas.
No . . .
Didn’t he realize? Didn’t he care?
“What are you doing?” I cried. I grabbed his arms and pulled him back, willing him to stop. “Those are Mum’s!”
“Get off me,” he spat, shrugging me off.
He reached for another painting, but I jumped in his way. He stopped, glaring at me. His face was set, like a stone mask.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said. I tried to hold his gaze, but his eyes burned into me.
“Get out of my way, Owen.”
Behind him the twisted, tangled remains of the paintings were scattered in the weeds and the mud. There were flashes of color on some of the larger bits of canvas. I could just make out a few stars and something blue that could have been a wave.
“Mum painted these,” I said, but it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes narrowed and he barged past me and snatched another painting.
I grabbed hold of it but Dad yanked and pulled and even though I was gripping with everything I had, the canvas was slipping out of my grasp.
“Let . . . go!” Dad said, ripping it out of my hands and chucking it into the bushes. He kicked at it, but swung his leg so hard that he missed. It was almost funny, except there was nothing humorous about the look on his face.
He knelt down, pressing his knuckles hard into the grass.
“Why?” he said. He wasn’t shouting now. It came out more like a whimper. “Why?” That was all he said, as his fists dug deeper and deeper into the mud.
“You’re scaring me,” I said. This wasn’t my dad. This was an animal—a wild thing.
“Dad,” I said, louder this time.
Finally he looked up, breathing heavily. He held his head in his hands. His knuckles were smeared with dirt and there was grime under his fingernails.
“Why?” he said again.
He was shaking, his shoulders heaving up and down with every ragged breath.
“Dad?” I said.
I knelt down beside him. The ground was wet. I could feel it soaking through to my knees. I knew my trousers would get dirty, but I didn’t care. I just wanted Dad to stop crying. I reached my arm around his shoulders.
“Why won’t they come?” he said, in this sad voice that made my stomach freeze.
“What?” I said. “Why won’t what come?”
“The words! They used to be so easy. I thought I had it. I thought this was how to get better. But it’s not . . . it’s not.” His voice got quieter and quieter, until it was barely there at all. “My story,” he muttered. I didn’t know what to do, so I squeezed him, I just squeezed him closer. “The words are gone, Owen. Just like she is. What do I do? What do I do?”
It was my fault. Half of Mum’s paintings were wrecked. They littered the ground around us, and it wasn’t Dad who did it, it was me. I was the one who’d stopped his writing. I was the one who’d made him like this. It was all my fault.
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling sick now.
“No,” he said. “No. Neither do I.” He picked up a fragment of painting. “But she would. She always knew what to do. And she’s gone. She’s gone . . .”
He was shaking again, crying silently into the wet mud.
I don’t know, I’d said.
But it was a lie, wasn’t it?
Because I did. I did know. I didn’t want to go back into his story. I didn’t want to live those pages. But I had to. I had to, because it was the only thing that could stop this.
Up in my room, I sent a text to Danny.
I’ve got to go again.
That was the truth. Even if it meant missing the academy trials altogether. I had to help Dad.
It wasn’t long before my phone vibrated with Danny’s reply. For a second, I hesitated. What if he was angry? He was upset when I missed the first game, but that was before he knew what was happening . . .
You can do it.
30
The next morning I was so concerned about making a plan that I forgot to prepare Dad breakfast like I normally did. When he slouched downstairs, he still had his bathrobe on, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Dark splodges spread under his eyes, and his skin was paler than ever.
“Owen,” he said, “about last night . . .”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, let me say it. I’m sorry. I really am. I had no right to do what I did. Those paintings, they’re yours as well as mine. It wasn’t right. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” I said, and I really meant it.
“Come on, now. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
I wished that were true, but it wasn’t, was it? If it wasn’t for me, Mum’s paintings would all still be intact. They’d be hanging up just where she’d left them. Dad would still be writing and he wouldn’t look like a sleepwalking zombie. It was all my fault.
And that meant it was up to me to make it better.
After roll call, I was the last one waiting in the classroom. Everyone else raced out as soon as the bell rang, but I couldn’t go. Not yet. There was something I needed to do first.
I had to speak to Mrs. Willoughby. Tonight was the first parents’ evening of the year. I was hoping that if I told her about Dad, she’d be able to help me. Maybe together we could get him to go back to his book.
“Is everything all right, Owen?” she said, peering up from her notes.
“Yeah,” I said.
I’d practiced this over and over in my head. I crossed my fingers, just praying it worked. It had to. It had been ages since the last jump and I’d stopped fighting it ever since the game. If Dad wasn’t writing, then I must have made him stuck by refusing to jump. I’d googled it last night, and found something called writer’s block, this thing where you couldn’t think what to write next. There were loads of people asking how to beat it, and the answers were things like:
• Take a thirty-minute break and come back to it
• Go for a walk to clear your head
• Try writing a different story
• Just write through it
If I was going to get back into the story, I needed to help Dad with number four.
“Um, Miss . . .” I said. I stood up, grabbing my bag. “You know this parents’ evening thing tonight?”
“Mhmm.”
“Would you be able to help me with something?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“It’s Dad. He’s not . . . he’s not coping very well at the moment. You know, with Mum and everything.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Willoughby looked up, making the Sad Face. But I didn’t mind, because if she was listening then hopefully she’d want to help with the plan. “Right. Yes, I see.”
“He’s been writing this book. They said it would help.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“His arts counselor. She thinks writing is a ‘powerful window to the soul that can help heal wounds,’” I said.
“I see.”
“And the thing is, you can tell it does help. The writing, I mean. When he’s writing, his eyes light up, like there’s this fire inside him. Which is good, because most of the time it’s not there.”
Mrs. Willoughby just listened.
“Anyway, he’s stuck,” I said. Now I’d started, I just wanted to get it over with. “I don’t think he knows what to do. And I was thinking if someone asked him about the book, if they said it sounded good—you know—maybe it would . . .”
“Encourage him?” she said.
“Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”
“You’re a lovely boy, Owen. This shows real initiative, you know that?”
I didn’t really know what she meant by that.
&nbs
p; “Do you like the plan?” I said. “Can you help me?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing abruptly. She turned away and in the reflection of the window she was wiping her eyes. “Yes, I can help you.”
31
“I don’t know,” Dad said, later that evening. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. I look like a zombie.”
He was in the bathroom, shaving for the first time in days. He thought I was making it up when I told him about parents’ evening, even though it was the millionth time I’d mentioned it. It was only when I dug out the letter that he believed me.
Now he was panicking and trying to get ready in a hurry, which always made bad things happen. He’d cut his skin or drop his toothbrush in the wastebasket again.
“You’ve got to go,” I said. “Everyone else’s parents will be there. If you don’t go, then I can’t go, and Mrs. Willoughby will mention it tomorrow and you’ll make me look like an idiot in front of the whole class.”
I waited outside the bathroom, messing around on my phone to take my mind off the plan. I was wearing my best T-shirt for good luck. It had a Superman design on it with a plane and bird’s wings over the top, so at first you couldn’t tell if was a bird or a plane or Superman.
I knew why Dad was nervous. It was because he hadn’t been out of the house in ages. He’d been to the counselor, but that wasn’t the same. It wasn’t real-life stuff, like going to the store or going to the movies with friends or meeting a teacher at parents’ evening.
Sometimes if I’d been injured and hadn’t played football for ages, I got nervous about going back to training. It was worse if was a game. I got pre-game nerves so badly that it felt like a volcano erupting in my stomach.
I decided life was a lot like football. You had to get your uniform on and go out and give it your best shot. Dad was still in the locker room. He was still getting his uniform on, still fighting off the pre-game nerves.
“Anyway,” I said. “Mrs. Willoughby wants to meet you. She said she’s one of your biggest fans.”
“Did she?” Dad said, over the buzz of the electric shaver.
“Yeah. She can’t wait.”
