by Humza Arshad
‘Jelly Baby?’ she said, holding out a little white paper bag full of sweets.
‘Uh … where’s Mr Turnbull?’ I asked.
‘Oh, poor man,’ said the woman. ‘He has gone loopy-loopy-mad and lost his job.’
‘Loopy-loopy-mad? What you talking about? Mr Turnbull ain’t mad,’ I told her.
‘Oh, I’m afraid he is. Yes, yes, he is,’ she replied with that same weird smile. ‘That poor man is wearing shoes on his hands and gloves on his feet, and a hat glued to his bottom, of all places.’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘He ain’t done that! You’re making it up!’
‘Why would I make it up? I am just here to help,’ she said, still smiling, still holding out the bag of Jelly Babies. ‘So many ill teachers right now, so much misfortune in one school. Thank goodness for all the local aunties, offering to help.’
‘But what about my track? We’re meant to record it today!’
‘Oh no, no,’ she replied. ‘Today we are singing songs about delicious food, and then we are trying those foods, and then we are singing more songs and eating more foods! Won’t it be wonderful?’
‘What is it with you and food?’ I yelled. ‘I get it: aunties like feeding people, but this is getting ridiculous!’
‘Hey!’ she suddenly snapped. ‘We will have none of that kind of talk! We aunties are here out of the kindness of our hearts. But if you continue with that I will send you straight to the headmaster.’
‘Don’t even worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’m going there anyway! Come on, Umer.’
‘Can I have a Jelly Baby?’ asked Umer.
‘No!’ I snapped, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off in the direction of the headmaster’s room.
Mr Offalbox was sitting behind his desk when we ran in. Actually, he was sort of sitting all around it. He was so big for the room he had to lean forward a little so he didn’t bang his head on the bookshelves behind him.
His great big gorilla arms covered most of the surface area of the desk, making his laptop look like a birthday card. He hunched over the tiny machine like he was guarding it from being stolen by other, smaller apes.
‘In trouble again, are you?’ he said before I could speak.
‘No!’ I replied, offended. ‘I mean, yeah, I suppose, but I’d have come here anyway.’
‘What’s all this about, boys? I’ve already had Wendy Wang writing lines in the corner all morning. That was unsettling enough for one day.’
‘Where’s Mr Turnbull?’ I demanded. ‘There’s some weird old auntie in his room.’
‘Ah, yes. You’re quite fond of Mr Turnbull, aren’t you, Humza?’ he said, nodding his head. ‘Well, your concern is appreciated. I had a call from his doctor this morning. She explained that he’s not been doing too well. He’s been suffering from nervous exhaustion and will be requiring some time away from work.’
‘Nervous exhaustion?’ I replied. ‘Have you met him? Nothing fazes that man. I’ve seen sloths more uptight.’
‘Nonetheless, he’s been under rather a lot of pressure apparently and will need to recuperate at home for a time. Thankfully, though, Mrs Jahib has been kind enough to step in and fill his position for the time being. She has some truly original ideas about combining music with food. So hurry back to class or you’ll miss out.’
‘But …’ I protested.
‘No, Humza – now!’ snapped Mr Offalbox.
It was useless. He wasn’t listening. Umer and I trudged back to class in stunned silence.
It was the worst music lesson ever. Worse than that. Worse than detention, mystery stew and not having a proper phone combined. The other kids seemed to enjoy it somehow. They were playing stupid songs about food on their recorders and tambourines, then eating whatever they’d sung about.
Mrs Jahib had brought in a whole suitcase of different treats. But I wasn’t hungry. I just sat at the back and shook my head. Why did no one care about Mr Turnbull?
‘This is terrible,’ I said to Umer.
‘Uh-huh,’ he agreed, then continued work on his song about doughnuts.
‘What are you doing, man?’ I snapped at him. ‘Stop supporting this! You’re betraying Mr T!’
‘I’m just doing what the teacher asked,’ said Umer, looking a bit hurt by my accusation.
‘She ain’t a teacher. She’s some kid’s auntie. She’s only qualified to cook daal, pinch cheeks and make older cousins feel bad they ain’t married yet. She definitely ain’t no Mr Turnbull.’
‘I’m not saying she is, but what can we do?’ asked Umer.
‘I don’t know yet,’ I replied, staring hard at Mrs Jahib. ‘But I’m gonna figure it out.’
As I walked out the school gates that afternoon, with my head down, I reminded myself that the only good thing about such a terrible day was that it definitely, absolutely, without doubt couldn’t get any worse … And then Dad grabbed me by the collar and yanked me into a minivan.
I thought I was being kidnapped for a second, until I saw the rest of the cricket team in the back. My dad might try to kidnap one or two kids at once, but not twelve. There must be something else going on.
‘What the hell, man?’ I yelled. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cricket match!’ said my dad with a grin. ‘We are late!’
He slammed his foot down on the accelerator and we took off like a rocket. I barely managed to get my seat belt on as we tore out of the school lane and into the high street, narrowly missing an old lady and her terrified dog. I was pretty used to my dad’s terrible driving, but the rest of the team had no idea what was going on. They were doing their best just to stay inside the vehicle. Cricket equipment and school bags were flying about all over the place as the van bounced round corners and over hills. Kids screamed and turned green as we raced through the streets at breakneck speed.
‘Slow down, Dad!’ I shouted. ‘You’re gonna get us all killed!’
‘I will slow down,’ he shouted back, ‘after we get there!’
I was pretty sure he was enjoying this. I mean, why wouldn’t he be? He was combining his three favourite things: driving badly, cricket and ruining my life.
‘Humza!’ shouted Jamal Jones from the back. ‘Tell your dad we’re sorry. Tell him we’ll behave and do whatever he tells us if he just stops the van.’
‘Sorry, Jamal,’ I shouted back at him. ‘He won’t listen to me. All we can do is pray for a quick death.’
But a quick death didn’t come. Somehow we managed to get there in one piece with only Imran Yusuf losing his lunch. Unfortunately, he’d had second helpings of kheer for dessert, so it wasn’t a pretty sight. (Picture a kind of rice pudding that already looked like sick before you ate it. Now picture it all over a minivan and you get the idea.)
We staggered out of the van like a dozen four-foot zombies and collapsed on the grass. You had to give it to my dad: having learned to drive on the streets of Karachi, he could handle himself behind the wheel. Don’t get me wrong, it was a horrible experience – I’d rather eat a book than go on a driving holiday with him – but, if you’ve got to do some dangerous driving, he’s your man.
By the time Imran had finished throwing up, Dad had found where we were meant to be playing and began shepherding the team towards the cricket field. I say ‘cricket field’; it was more like an area of dirt where slightly less of the grass was dead. Like a filthy little oasis, in a really filthy desert.
‘What is this place?’ I asked my dad.
‘This is the other school’s playing field,’ he said, sounding excited.
‘What school?’ I asked, starting to feel nervous.
‘Grungle’s Academy,’ he replied.
‘You what?’ I cried. ‘Lester Grungle’s Academy for Aggressive Boys? Are you insane?’
‘Do not be such an elderly woman,’ replied Dad, shaking his head.
‘Have you even heard of this place?’ I said, desperate to talk some sense into him. ‘Rumour is they ate one of their dinner l
adies! The school motto is “A punch in the face”. Even the teachers are on day release from prison. We can’t play them! We shouldn’t even be here!’
‘Sounds like someone has pre-game nerves to me,’ chuckled Dad.
‘I’ve got pre-getting-murdered nerves!’ I yelled, but he wasn’t listening.
‘Ah, here they come now,’ he said with a broad smile.
The rest of our team had fallen silent. I turned to see what everyone was staring at. The other school were making their way across the wasteland towards us. Damn … I’ve never seen an under-twelve with a beard, but somehow they’d found one. They had one kid who was over six feet, another kid who was built like a fridge, one with facial tattoos and another half dozen or so who could have been extras in Mad Max.
‘OK,’ said Dad cheerfully. ‘Time to get changed.’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘Where?’
‘Right here.’
‘Here? There ain’t no changing rooms here!’
‘You don’t need changing room,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No one is watching. No one cares.’
‘What? What about the psychos on the other team? They’re watching!’
‘Don’t be so stupid, boy!’ said my dad. ‘They are professional young men. They will not laugh. Now strip to your knickers!’
This sucked so, so, so, so, so, so, so bad. I can’t tell you how bad this sucked. The other team began to crack up almost immediately as we started getting into our cricket gear. They were pointing at us and making comments.
I felt like an idiot. My dad didn’t seem to notice. He was just talking to their teacher. I say ‘teacher’ – he looked like a gang leader. He had an eyepatch, a ton of piercings and chunks shaved out of his hair, seemingly at random.
When we were changed, a few members of the other team walked over to us.
‘Uh … all right?’ I said to the bearded guy.
He stared at me like I was roadkill.
‘We hate cricket,’ he said in a voice much too deep for any twelve-year-old. ‘We hate cricket so much.’
‘Ah, man! Me too!’ I replied, relieved that we had something in common.
‘They make us play it for discipline,’ said the guy who looked like a fridge.
‘They make me play it for discipline too!’ I told him, excited by the thought that we might get along after all.
‘It fills us with anger,’ added the facial tattoo guy. ‘We’re going to take that anger out on you.’
‘Oh …’ I replied, the excitement fading from my voice.
‘Come on, son,’ called my dad from over by the stumps. ‘Stop making boyfriends. Time for cricket!’
‘Ah, man,’ I groaned. ‘Please don’t listen to anything that guy says. He ain’t stable.’
‘Is that your dad?’ asked bearded guy.
‘Uh … yeah, but only biologically.’
‘Then this is on you,’ he said, giving me a long, hard, bearded stare, before walking away with the rest of the team.
‘Why does everyone keep saying that?’ I cried.
‘I think you just made another enemy,’ said Jamal Jones, bumping my shoulder as he walked past me and on to the field.
For the first time since this had all begun, I was grateful we were playing cricket. Don’t get me wrong, I still hated cricket, but at least it wasn’t football or rugby. Imagine if we were up against these guys in a rugby match. I’d spend the next year in hospital if I was lucky. But, with cricket, at least you barely get anywhere near each other. How much damage could they really do to me? It would probably all just be insults and intimidation.
And then they bowled the first ball. I say ‘bowled’, but this wasn’t any type of bowling that’s ever been seen in cricket before. It was more like they loaded a cannon and fired it into my face. I was up to bat first, and their bowler was the guy who looked like a fridge. I’ve never seen such muscles on a kid. His bicep was as big as my chest. When he threw that ball – overarm and with all his force – I didn’t even see it fly. One second it was in his hand, the next second the whole world turned black …
When I came to, the first thing I was aware of was terrible music. Real wedding party stuff. Had I fallen asleep at a wedding? I couldn’t remember. If it was a wedding, they had an awful singer.
I opened my eyes to see Dad on the seat next to me in the van, singing at the top of his lungs. He looked happy. More than happy … excited. Then it all began to come back to me. The cricket match, the other school, the opening bowl …
‘What happened?’ I murmured.
‘Oh, he is awake!’ shouted my dad over the music.
‘What’s going on? Why are you happy?’ I asked.
‘We won!’ he replied. ‘We beat the other team!’
That didn’t make any sense at all. What had I missed? I looked back and saw the rest of our team in the van behind me. They weren’t celebrating like my dad was. They looked pretty miserable. And they all had big round bruises on their foreheads. I touched my head lightly.
‘Ow!’ I cried.
Looking in the wing mirror, I saw that I had a big red welt of my own right there in the centre of my forehead.
‘The other team were disqualified for disorderly conduct,’ said my dad with a big smile. ‘We won by default!’
‘Default?’ I said, still feeling confused.
‘But it is still a win!’ snapped my dad. ‘I told you I would coach you to victory!’
So this was what winning felt like. Hmm … I wasn’t sure I liked it after all. My head hurt, my teammates hated me and my dad had stolen all the glory for himself. All in all, this had been a pretty terrible day.
‘Who wants to go for UFC? My treat!’ shouted Dad over his shoulder to the rest of the team.
‘Ultimate Fighting Championships?’ asked Jamal, sounding surprised.
‘What? No!’ replied Dad. ‘Uzbek Fried Chicken! Half the price of upmarket brand.’
There were some uncertain murmurs from the back seats, which my dad took as a yes.
We sat in silence at the Uzbek Fried Chicken restaurant, eating the greasy meals that we’d had to pay for ourselves, cos one of the kids from the academy had stolen my dad’s wallet. I found myself wondering if this was what rock bottom felt like.
Turned out it wasn’t even close.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aunties, Aunties Everywhere
My forehead was still throbbing the next day as I sat in the canteen, finishing a third helping of biryani.
‘I just have to keep reminding myself,’ I told Umer, ‘it’s all worth it for that camera. What’s a small concussion in the grand scale of things?’
‘Exactly,’ he replied with a warm smile. ‘And that bruise will only look stupid for, like, a week or something.’
I could tell he was genuinely trying to be supportive, so I didn’t flick food at him, but it took a lot of self-control.
‘The only thing is though,’ he continued, ‘even if we do get the camera now, we haven’t got any music. And without Mr Turnbull’s help we’re not going to get any anytime soon.’
He was right. Without Mr T we were stuck … And then something struck me. Not about the track. I mean it literally hit me in the back of the head.
‘Ow!’ I yelled, as whatever it was pinged off my ear and landed in my food.
I turned round to see who’d done it, but there was no one there.
‘What the …’ I muttered.
I looked back down at the table and saw a button lying in my biryani.
‘Where’d that come from?’ I asked, just as another one whizzed past my nose and straight into Roberta Glott’s chocolate milkshake.
I looked over to see a group of kids laughing their heads off. Sitting in the middle of them was Bilal Bashir. He was sucking in his tummy as far as he could, then letting it go all at once. His belly bounced forward with such force it stretched the front of his shirt to bursting point.
PING! Another button tore from his top and f
ired across the room. The group surrounding him all screamed with laughter again. He’d lost so many buttons now that you could see his belly button staring out through the little gap in his shirt. He really could do with a larger size.
And that was when I noticed it. Looking around the room, I realized that all the school uniforms seemed a bit on the small side – a little tighter than they used to.
‘Huh,’ I said to Umer. ‘You know what … I think everyone’s clothes have shrunk.’
He looked up from his spoonful of sticky toffee pudding and nodded. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Mine have been feeling a bit tight lately too.’
And it wasn’t just the other kids. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t had to wear a belt for a few days either. What a weird coincidence. Everybody’s clothes shrinking at the same time. It could mean only one thing. Careless laundry! I would definitely have to have a word with Mum when I got home. How hard can it be to wash some clothes? I’d do it myself if it wasn’t so boring.
As we walked back to class, we passed Mr Turnbull’s room. The door was open and inside we could see Mrs Jahib handing out a toffee apple and a kazoo to each of the nursery kids.
‘Man,’ I said to Umer, ‘I wish I knew where Mr T lived so we could go round and see what’s happened to him.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Umer. ‘It does seem a bit out of character for him to suddenly go crazy.’
‘And, even if he is off his rocker, maybe his wife would still let us use his laptop for a bit? Just to get a copy of the track.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Umer.
‘Yeah, she’d probably just think we wanted to nick it.’
‘No, I mean she doesn’t have it. See?’ said Umer, pointing into the classroom.
And there it was. High up on the shelf, where Mr Turnbull always stored it for safekeeping, was his laptop. No one had touched it. Little round Mrs Jahib probably couldn’t even see it from her perspective.
‘Umer! You’re a genius!’ I cried.