by Helen Rutter
Why did Cinderella get kicked off the soccer team?
Because she kept running away from the ball.
After Alex, Matthew, and Josh have all packed their sleeping bags and been picked up, I try to tell Mom that I’m still feeling too sick from all the Haribo to go to soccer, but she doesn’t believe me.
“You do this every week,” she says as she packs Chloe’s dance things into a bag. I try to look more ill, but she isn’t buying it. “I’ve got to take your sister to dance rehearsal. Do you want to come to that instead?” I shake my head. “Your dad’s filming. Come on, Billy, make it easy for me.”
I feel like saying, “Make it easy for me! You have no idea how hard my life is.” But then I think about my drum kit in the garage, my microphone, my sleepover, and all my other presents, so I don’t say any of that. I definitely don’t want to go to a stupid dance rehearsal, so I get my goalie gloves and cleats and go and listen to music in the car.
When we get to the soccer field, Mom just lets me out in the parking lot, shouts “Bye, sweetie. Good luck!” through the window and pulls away. By the time I see Blakemore, it’s too late—she’s already driven off. I have to stop myself from chasing after her. There’s panic rising in my tummy. I feel really sick, and it’s definitely not the Haribo this time.
With all the excitement of my birthday, I totally forgot to check who we were playing. It’s Beeston Rovers again—Blakemore’s team. I look around, desperate for an idea, somewhere to hide, and then I see Ellie. Standing on the sidelines, her hands in her pockets, her red hair blowing into her face. I think I must be losing my mind. Why would she be here? I look and look. Again and again. She is still there. She sees me looking and gives me a little smile. I’m not sure if she remembers me or if she’s just smiling because I’m staring at her. I kind of smile back. When my coach shouts at me to warm up, I tear my eyes away from her and jog over to the others.
As I’m jumping up and down in the goal to keep warm, I spot Blakemore on the other side of the field, grinning at me as he’s kicking a ball between his feet. When the whistle goes, I realize he’s playing up front, so I can’t avoid him. I tell myself it can’t be too bad—with everyone watching, what’s the worst he can do? I can’t stop glancing over at Ellie, who’s standing with her dad.
Just then the ball hits me hard in the chest. I lose all the air in my body in a split second and fall to my knees. Then I see the ball just in front of me and jump on top of it. I’ve saved my first goal of the match! Now I really have to concentrate. I don’t want to look stupid in front of Ellie. When I look up, I realize that Blakemore’s the one who struck the ball into my chest. He’s clearly not happy that I’ve saved it.
As the game goes on, I’m letting in as many as I’m saving, but it’s not too bad. With every Beeston goal comes a loud hoot and a cheer from him—“Poor B-B-Billy Plimpton” or “Bad luck, B-B-B-Billy Plimpton.”
He’s pretty clever in some ways. He knows how to hide what he’s doing just well enough to get away with it. Grown-ups don’t know what to do with him. When I look over at Ellie, she looks bored or sad … I can’t tell which one.
It’s Beeston’s corner kick, and I’m trying to get into a position where I can see what’s happening. Corners are always the worst. At my height, I can’t see a thing. Blakemore’s right on top of me. Moving me around the goal with his shoulders. Making himself really tall and towering above me. When the ball comes into the box, everything goes into slow motion. It flies over Blakemore and is heading my way. I raise my arms up and jump as high as I can. He twists his face around, sees that I’m going to reach it, and shoves me hard.
Time speeds up again. I go flying towards the back of the net. My head hits the back post, and I feel dizzy for a minute as I lie on the ground, like I might faint. I shake my head and blink a few times, and as I’m about to get up he’s there, standing over me with a grin on his face.
“Billy, you need to be more careful,” Then he gets down and whispers into my ear, “Maybe instead of you teaching me math, I should be teaching you how to speak.” He kneels down and puts his hand hard on my chest, not letting me up. “Do you want to ask me for some help to get up?” I know he’s not going to let me up until I ask him.
Just as I start, “W-W-W-Will …” Ellie comes into view. She’s stormed onto the field and looks furious! She grabs Blakemore by the shirt and pulls him off me. Then she pushes him away, hard. He just turns and walks back up the field, singing loudly.
She offers me her hand, but I just get up as quickly as I can. I can’t look at her. Then she says, “I’m sorry for my stupid stepbrother. He’s an idiot.”
Her stepbrother! She can’t be related to Blakemore. I’m so confused, I feel really strange. When the referee comes over and asks if I’m okay, I say that I’m dizzy, and he tells me to go sit on one of the benches.
I’m trying to take it all in when Ellie brings me some juice and a cookie from the clubhouse. She smiles and sits down next to me. “Are you okay?”
“Y-y-yes, I’m u-used to iiiit.” She just sits and looks at me as I speak, and waits. Just like she did when I met her at cross-country.
“You shouldn’t have to get used to it,” she says sadly.
“Do you l-live with him?” I ask.
“God, no! My dad married his mom. I just go over every other weekend, and that’s too often, if you ask me. I wish my dad had never got involved with that stupid family.” I don’t know what to say then, so we just sit there in silence and watch the game. Then out of nowhere she says, “My dad used to have a stutter when he was a kid.”
“Did he?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. I’ve never met anyone in real life with a stutter before. I think I’ve made myself believe that I’m the only one. I don’t know what to say. I have so many questions, but the first one that comes out is “Was it like mine?” I remember the crying cat lady from the documentary and the man having the stammer fit. I wonder if his was like one of theirs.
“I don’t know. I never heard it.” She goes on watching the game.
“Well, I am g-g-going on a course next week that’s going to get rid of miiine,” I say. I haven’t told anyone about the course—I haven’t even heard back from them yet. So I’m not sure why I blurt it out to Ellie.
“Really?” she asks.
I just nod.
“Ever since my dad moved in with them, William and his stupid brother, Dillan, have been awful.” She leans back and rests her head looking up to the sky, the sun making her hair look like it’s been lit up. “They both had this idea that their folks would get back together, even though by the sounds of it their dad is a pretty nasty dude. When my dad proposed, I suppose they realized there was no chance of that happening. Dillan takes it out on William. Treats him pretty badly.”
“I saw him once, I think,” I say, remembering the older boy’s angry face.
“That might be why William’s so horrible—not that it’s an excuse. That, and the fact he absolutely HATES school.”
“Really? I can’t imagine B-B-Blakemore hating s-s-s-school. He looks like he loves stomping around, b-bullying everyone.”
“Oh, no, he hates it. Whenever I’m over at my dad’s, William’s always trying to get out of going to school. They end up dragging him crying into the car some mornings. He finds everything difficult; he could barely read in elementary school. They have done loads of tests to find out why. Not that any of that makes it okay to be a horrible person.” We sit for a while, both looking up to the sky, until she says, “Are you coming to the Music Lounge next week for the rehearsal?”
“Yes. Definitely!” The words have left my lips before I can even think about what I’m saying.
“Wow! I’ll get to hear you drum after all.”
When Coach tells Mom about my “head injury,” she feels really bad for making me play, so I get to lie on the sofa and watch movies all afternoon while she reads the newspaper.
“Can I get you anything
, sweetie?” she asks as she goes to the kitchen. It’s quite nice being looked after, I think. Maybe I should be injured more often.
“Just some juice, please,” I say feebly. “Oh, and some chips?”
“Coming right up,” she says, putting her paper down on the coffee table. A headline down at the bottom of the page catches my eye.
Electrical Stimulation of Brain Trialed as Aid to Treating Stutter
I sit up and grab the newspaper. It’s all about sending electrical impulses to the brain. I quickly rip out the article before Mom comes back—I’ll read it later. I’ll hide it on my pin board, underneath all my lists. Just as I’m folding it up, I see at the bottom of the article it says that they are just at the pilot stage and it will not be ready for the public for at least another five years. Thank the gods of speech I don’t have to wait for this to be ready—five years is way too long.
What do you call friends who love math?
Algebros.
When the bell goes for break on Wednesday morning, my heart sinks. A whole twenty-five minutes I have to spend with him. When I walk into the room, no one is there and I am tempted to turn and run, but as I spin around, there he is.
“How’s your head, Billy?” he says, smirking. Behind him is Mr. Osho.
“What happened to your head?” asks Mr. Osho as we make our way in.
“Juuust s-s-soccer at the weekend, sir. We p-played against each other. Nothing to do with school.”
“Bad tackle?” he asks, looking pointedly at Blakemore.
“W-w-well, sir, it was almost a textbook goal,” I say, putting on my best sports commentator voice and holding an imaginary microphone to my mouth. “Beeston Rovers are pushing up now, and they have won a great corner. The pressure is really on for Hartwell. Richards c-c-c-crosses the ball in high to Blakemore. Blakemore seems blinded by the lights of the stadium. Wh-wh-what’s happening? B-B-Blakemore has mistaken Plimpton’s head for the ball! These are d-devastating scenes of soccer. Plimpton’s head f-f-flies in off the post and straight into the back of the net. Textbook.”
Blakemore can’t help but laugh at this.
“Sounds painful, Billy,” says Mr. Osho, “It clearly hasn’t knocked any of the funny out of you, though, has it?”
I feel a bit different with Blakemore when Mr. Osho is here, like I can be more myself, without being so terrified.
“Okay, boys, it seems like this is more important than ever. I’m going to do some marking, and you can work on this week’s homework. Sound good?”
“Fine,” we both say at the same time, although the way Blakemore says it is very different from the way I do.
I’ve already finished my homework, so I just wait for Blakemore to get his out.
“What you looking at?” he mumbles, and I see Mr. Osho looking up from his desk.
“I’ve already done mine, so I’ll just help you,” I whisper. Mr. Osho goes back to his marking.
As Blakemore gets his math homework out, I see his other books in his bag, all frayed and bent. His math book is covered in doodles of skulls and crossbones.
“Nice skulls,” I whisper.
I can tell he wants to say something mean, but he looks at Mr. Osho and stops himself.
The homework is all algebra. As he is looking for the right page in his book, I can see that he hasn’t done any of the previous homework sheets. They’re all just scribbled over or blank. I look at him and can see his cheeks going red as he flips through the pages. He has the look on his face from the exam. Like a little boy. I can see that he really doesn’t want to make a start, so I say, in a half whisper, “H-how about I show you how I would work the first one out and then you can do the second?”
“How about you just do it for me?” he whispers.
“How about,” comes Mr. Osho’s voice, cutting across our whispers, “I check your work at the end? So I know that you understand what you have written?”
I give Blakemore an apologetic look and shrug. I take out my pens and hand him one.
By the time the bell goes, we haven’t managed a single question. I kept explaining it over and over and showed him the working out until he nodded, but then when it was his turn, he still couldn’t do it. It was like he just couldn’t see it, like his brain was getting stuck.
“This is so pointless,” he says.
“It’s a bit like me with speaking. The harder you try, the worse it gets?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” he says, closing his book.
“How was that, boys?” Mr. Osho says, gesturing to have a look at the book in Blakemore’s hand.
“There’s nothing to show you,” mumbles Blakemore.
“Pardon, William?”
“There’s nothing to show you, okay?” Blakemore shouts. “I can’t do it. I won’t ever be able to do it. There’s no point in me even being here—it’s embarrassing.” Even though he sounds angry, he looks like he’s going to cry, I can see tears forming in his eyes. I can’t believe it: William Blakemore crying.
“Okay, not to worry. These things take time. You’re not going to give up on him, are you, Billy?”
“N-no, sir,” I say, and in that moment I actually mean it. I want to help William Blakemore. As I’m leaving, Mr. Osho says, “Billy, can you stay back a minute?” and we watch Blakemore skulk off, his shoulders low.
“I hope you’re not too cross with me for asking you to do this?” he says, biting his thumbnail.
“No, sir.”
“Even though you won’t admit it, I know what’s going on, Billy, okay?”
I nod.
“There’s only so much I can do if you don’t talk about it. But I just want you to know that I’ve got your back. I won’t let this go on, okay?”
“I just wish everything was a bit easier, sir.”
“Me too, Billy. Sometimes there’s only one thing for it,” and with that he hands me a pair of drumsticks, takes out his trumpet from his desk, and says, “Shall we?”
* * *
At lunch I look around for Skyla. She’s been out of school all week, and I haven’t seen her since I got my joke book. This morning I asked Mr. Osho if she was okay, and he said she was due to come back in at lunch. I can’t see her anywhere, though, so I start eating my fries. I really want to do another show for her in the theater. To run through my talent show set again. As I’m leaving the lunch hall, she appears at the doors, looking scruffier than usual. Her hair is all over the place.
“Are y-y-y-you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Mom’s been really bad the last couple of weeks, so I stayed at home to keep an eye on her.”
“That s-sounds rough,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m back now, to the wonders of Bannerdale! What’s new?”
“I haven’t seen you since my b-b-birthday,” I say. “Your present is THE BEST thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Easy, tiger. I don’t think so. I just didn’t have any money, so thought I would make you something instead. It’s a bit lame.”
“No, I love it.”
I almost want to hug her. She looks so sad and alone and I don’t think she understands how much I love her present, but as I’m looking at her, I see Ellie walking down the hall and stop myself.
“H-hi, Ellie!” I say, trying to sound casual. She doesn’t hear me, and with that Skyla turns down the corridor.
“See you in class, Bilbo,” she calls.
* * *
When I get home, I look through all my old math books to remember how I learned algebra. When Chloe gallops by on an imaginary pony, she gives me an idea.
“Chloe, d-do you know what algebra is?”
“A disease?”
“Ha! No, it’s to do with math. Do you w-want me to show you?”
“I hate math.”
“I can make it about ponies.”
She still looks unsure.
“And I will give you one of my b-b-birt
hday chocolates.”
“Okay!” She gallops over and ties up her make-believe horse to the dishwasher.
Five of my birthday chocolates and a lot of unicorns and ponies in various imaginary pens later, I think Chloe has gotten the vague idea. Obviously Blakemore would tease me mercilessly if I suggested using horses and mythical creatures to do his homework, but I feel like I can give something like it a try. I just need to find out what he likes.
Doctor: I have some bad news and some very bad news.
Patient: Well, you might as well give me the bad news first.
Doctor: The lab called with your test results. They said you have twenty-four hours to live.
Patient: Twenty-four hours! That’s terrible! What’s the very bad news?
Doctor: I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.
My stammer has been so bad this week. It’s weird. Everything at school was getting better; my friends are awesome and my jokes are definitely getting funnier. The other afternoon on my daily visit to the Oaks, Granny Bread said that she thought she couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so hard. I was doing impressions of Mom and Dad giving me grief. I’ve got Mom perfectly now: “Billy Plimpton, get in here this minute. What on earth are five pairs of your shoes doing on my kitchen floor? It’s not a shoe shop. Treat this house with more respect, please, or I will lose it.” I sound exactly like her, the voice and the way she breathes in at the end of a sentence.
I had to call one of the nurses in when Granny Bread would not stop wheezing. The nurse told me that maybe I should “lay off the jokes for a bit.”
Granny Bread said, “NEVER!” really loudly and then burst out laughing again.
I even think that William Blakemore might not be as mean to me when I’ve found a way to help him with math. So you would think my stammer would get better, not worse. That’s not always how it works, though. Sometimes it makes sense and gets worse when I’m tired or stressed and things are all garbage, but sometimes everything seems fine and it just gets in the way for no reason. It’s so annoying.