by Melody James
But once the document’s open in front of me, it’s seems silly.
Ben may die. I can’t write dumb horoscopes for Jessica Jupiter. Instead I open a fresh file and start typing.
When my brother was younger, he’d give everyone in the family a huge hug and a kiss before he went to bed. He refused to go to bed until he’d said goodnight to each of us ‘properly’. One evening Mum asked him why it was so important to say goodnight ‘properly’.
‘In case I die when I’m asleep,’ he told her.
My brother knows he has an illness which will never get better. It took us a long time to explain that he wouldn’t die suddenly in his sleep, but we all know he will probably die before us. We just hope it’s not soon.
Our family life is built around my brother. He needs a lot of care and therapy and exercise. We all take it in turns. Sometimes I forget I’m a teenager. Sometimes I forget I’m me. Sometimes it feels like I’m just his sister and not as special as he is.
I get tired of explaining to people that my brother’s illness isn’t catching. I get tired of having to keep the house clean so he doesn’t get infections. I get angry when we have to cancel so many family outings because my brother’s too ill. I get worried by my mum and dad worrying. And I get scared that if my brother does die, they’ll be too sad to love me any more.
But that’s on a bad day.
On a good day, our house is filled with love and laughter. Helping with my brother’s therapy makes me a special part of a special team. And, because we all know life is fragile and that the world can be tough, we are kinder to each other than any family I know. My family doesn’t just look after my brother, we look after each other. And we laugh whenever we can. I’ve learnt strength and courage from my little brother, and patience and love from my parents.
If you asked me if I’d change anything, I’d change only one thing. I’d make a cure for my brother because I don’t want to imagine my life without him.
I attach my article to an email, type in the webzine’s address and send it from my hotmail account. Cindy will never know it’s from me. My username’s Newshound95.
‘Gemma, love.’ I look up and see Dad standing in front of me.
I catch my breath. ‘How is he. Is he . . . ?’ The words stick in my throat.
‘He’s stable.’ I can hear relief in Dad’s voice. It washes over me. ‘I’m going to take you home so you can get some sleep.’
‘What about Mum?’
‘She’s staying.’ Dad takes my bag and swings it over his shoulder; then puts his arm round me and steers me towards the door.
Mr Harris clears his throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I sit in.’
It’s Friday afternoon. Cindy’s called a planning meeting for next week’s edition.
I stifle a yawn, wishing I was home. It’s been a long week. Mum’s practically been living in the hospital, waiting for the antibiotics to start working. But so far, nothing’s fighting the bug and Ben’s still hooked up to machines with a round-the-clock watch.
I check my phone for the 498th time in case there’s news, but there’s no message icon flashing in the corner. I slide it back into my pocket and try to concentrate on the deadline meeting.
As soon as Mr Harris takes a chair beside the door, the door swings wide. Mr Harris ducks and Will rolls in like a thundercloud. ‘No article from me this week,’ he announces. ‘My contact’s pulled out, and with no interview, there’s no story.’
‘There’s still the weekend,’ I offer. I’m sitting behind my usual desk, David and Phil opposite, Jeff leaning on their desk. ‘Can’t you find a new contact?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Will stares down at me. ‘Like I’m tripping over stab victims.’
Sam’s lolling in his chair, feet on desk. ‘Hey, Will, any chance you could chill and give Gemma a break?’
Will flashes him a look, but shuts up. I give Sam a grateful smile.
‘Don’t forget Mr Harris has joined us today,’ Barbara reminds us gently. She’s sitting beside Cindy, smiling sweetly.
Cindy’s not. Cindy’s face is like stone. I guess she’s trying not to crack her make-up. She and Barbara look like they’re playing Good cop/Bad cop. I follow the fantasy, amused by the thought of Cindy drawing a Colt 45 out of her backpack.
‘Sit down, Will.’ I picture her pistol-whipping him into a seat, then wiping his blood from the muzzle. ‘I want to get started.’
I want to get finished. Fear kicks in. Perhaps Mum’s not texting because it’s bad news. Perhaps I should just go straight home. I fight the urge to leave, reasoning that Dad would text me to come home if there was bad news.
‘We need a lead article, Will.’ Cindy taps her pen on her desk. ‘Can’t you pad out the info you’ve got?’
‘Pad it out?’ Will glowers at Cindy. He’s perched on the back of his chair like the king of the vultures. The whole room knows there’s no way he’s turning anything in without tough facts, hard evidence and tight prose.
Mr Harris leans forward. ‘What about using one of the articles submitted by the students?’
Cindy’s jaw tightens. ‘There’s only been one this week, and I’ve not had a chance to read it.’
‘Is it the document from Newshound95?’ Phil points at his screen. ‘Someone’s saved it in the webzine folder.’
‘Yes.’ Cindy shifts in her seat. ‘But how are we all going to read it? We still haven’t had our printer installed.’ She gives Mr Harris one of her icy glares. He looks at the floor sheepishly – like he’s the pupil and she’s the teacher.
‘I have told the IT Department,’ he stammers. ‘I’ll chase it up again tomorrow.’
‘Dave.’ Phil looks at his brother. ‘If I send it to the printer in the IT suite, will you go and fetch it?’
As David nods, Phil does a quick headcount and starts mouse-clicking. ‘I’ll print one out for everyone.’
David heads for the door.
My heart’s hammering. Newshound95. That’s me. In three minutes everyone in this room is going to be reading my article while I watch.
I think back to last week’s meeting: Cindy dumping every article sent in. Will’s scornful critique of the school dinner item. I feel sick. I’m so not up to a round of mass criticism right now.
I resist the urge to plunge my head into my backpack and throttle myself with the zip. I decide that would probably attract even more negative attention than my article.
Jeff takes a comic book from his bag and shows it to Phil, grinning.
Phil’s eyes light up. ‘Watchmen.’
‘Original,’ Jeff tells him.
Phil takes it and turns it over carefully, like he’s handling a copy of the Domesday Book. ‘It’s the only graphic novel to be included in Time magazine’s All Time One-hundred novels,’ he breathes.
Cindy looks perplexed. ‘There’s a comic in the Top Hundred?’
Jeff scratches at a patch of Tipex on his jeans. ‘Comic book,’ he corrects.
‘Graphic novel,’ Phil re-corrects.
While they twitter in the background like the dawn chorus, my heart’s thumping out a killer riff. I’m watching the door like a condemned man waiting for the jailer to fetch him for the noose.
David’s footsteps start clicking towards the storeroom. Here comes the jailer. I put my hand to my throat. Who needs a noose? My throat’s already too tight to swallow. My palms break into a sweat. As the door opens, I fight the urge to run. I steady my breath as David passes out the stack of copies in his hand.
Mr Harris takes one like a kid accepting candy. ‘Is this the first reader submission you’ve had?’
‘We had a couple last week,’ Cindy answers briskly.
‘But you decided not to print them?’ Mr Harris asks.
‘We had enough material of our own.’ Cindy doesn’t mention the mass-binning, but the memory is tattooed on my brain.
Numbly, I accept my copy. My hand trembles. I’m not ready for this kind of public scrutiny. I fee
l like a politician in a courtroom. ‘A-are you sure there weren’t any others in the folder?’ I ask Phil forlornly.
‘Just the ones from last week—’
‘Hang on.’ Mr Harris holds up his hand. He’s already engrossed in the article. I scan the room. Will’s reading; Jeff too. David’s gaze is already near the bottom of the page. Sam’s nodding his head as he scans his copy. Even Cindy’s got past the first few lines.
‘I like it,’ she says, looking up.
I grab my chair in case I fall off. I’m shaking.
‘It’s great.’ Mr Harris is flapping his copy. ‘Who sent it?’
Cindy shrugs. ‘The email just said Newshound95.’
Will sniffs and I glance at him, trying to ignore my heart hammering holes in my chest.
His gaze lifts off the page. ‘It’s real.’
‘You like it?’ I blurt.
He flashes me his ‘ditz’ look. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I stare at my knees. ‘Yeah, I like it.’
As my voice trails away, Sam speaks. ‘I think it’ll make a great lead article.’
Cindy’s nodding. ‘It ticks all the boxes. It’s interesting, honest, well-written and inclusive.’ She looks at Mr Harris. ‘It really was a great idea to ask readers to submit.’
Wow. She’s shameless. She hated the idea of reader submissions.
I wait for Will – Mighty Lord of Truth and Justice – to call her out. But he keeps his mouth shut.
Suddenly we’re a team.
And my article’s been accepted. And not because I’m the editor’s best friend. Or because I’m writing easy-to-read trash. It’s because Cindy, Jeff, Sam, David and Phil all like my work. Even Will likes it. Pride rushes through me, then stops dead.
I wrote this because of Ben. Because he’s lying in hospital fighting an infection that might kill him. My article shivers in my hand.
I wish with all my heart that this success hadn’t come from his suffering.
The sun is shining, clearly grateful that the clouds are letting it get a glimpse of the Cup Final.
I feel sadness twitching in my chest. Ben should be here, warm in the sunshine, helping me cheer Treacle on, not stuck in a hospital bed fighting for breath, his temperature spiking.
It’s Friday after school and a soft wind is rippling the pitch. Parents, cutting work early, crowd the sidelines. Savannah is on the other side of the pitch hovering by Jason Brown, a Year Ten boy who is one of today’s linesmen. He is also Definitely Datable and the perfect antidote to Josh. I’m standing in my usual spot. Jeff is next to me, hands in pockets. I’m glad he’s here. He doesn’t know about Ben. And that feels good. Because just having him standing beside me, like there’s nothing wrong, makes me feel like everything is normal.
‘Where’s your notebook?’ I ask him. ‘Aren’t you writing a match report?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he assures me. ‘I’ll remember every move.’
Green Park High hasn’t been in a final for years. The Year Nine girls’ team is the talk of the school. I even overheard Treacle’s name mentioned in a corridor yesterday – by people who don’t even know her.
Treacle’s huddled with Karen, Jing-Wei, Anila and the rest of her teammates on the far side of the pitch.
I check the opposition. The Stavely Grammar School team are warming up in their half. They’re all about six foot tall. Green Park are going to be stampeded by a herd of supermodels.
‘They don’t look like Year Nines,’ I whisper to Jeff.
He grins. ‘Perhaps they sent the basketball team by mistake.’
Nerves flutter in my stomach as the players fan out. For a moment I forget about Ben. Treacle’s face to face with the Stavely captain. She’s calling the toss.
‘Did we win it?’ I ask Jeff.
As he shakes his head, the ref blows his whistle and the Stavely centre forward punts the ball to her teammate.
I remember playing footie in the back garden with Ben. It was so cold that day. Is that what made him ill?
Germs make you ill, not weather. As Mum’s voice echoes in my head, Stavely hammers towards goal. Treacle’s been outpaced by a winger who gets the ball down the side and knocks it forward. Annie Hale, our goalie, gets a hand to it, but fails to keep it out. I groan: 1–0 to Stavely.
It feels like the end of the world. I take out my phone and check in case it’s beeped a message alert. Mum promised she’d text if Ben’s condition changed.
No message.
I force my attention back to the match, one hand wrapped round the phone in my pocket. I want it to buzz. But what if it buzzes with bad news? I’m as tense as a guitar string by the time Treacle takes a corner, firing a fierce side-footer which leaves Stavely no chance. Hope fires through my heart as Jing-Wei knocks it in and levels the score.
Ben will be OK. He has to be.
Stavely makes the first foray forward in the second half. The striker reaches the edge of the box and passes the ball. Her teammate loses control. Karen knocks it clear.
Yes!
I find myself pressing close to Jeff, the excitement almost too much to bear. If we win, Ben will be OK. His temperature will go down and he’ll be OK.
But what if we lose? I stop making wishes.
Savannah runs to collect the ball and throws it to Jason. Somehow she makes it look as if she is performing a perfectly choreographed dance manoeuvre. Jason seems suitably impressed. I look back at the players. Treacle’s red-faced and puffing, never still for a moment, her eyes following the action.
Suddenly I catch my breath, heart dropping like a stone. A Stavely forward swings a cross forward. Her teammate meets it with a header that clips Annie’s glove and sails over the line.
I look at my watch. Five minutes to go and Stavely are one goal up. Green Park must be exhausted, but they push harder than ever. It feels like they’re fighting for Ben. Go, Green Park! Treacle drills a low effort into the arms of Stavely’s goalie. The goalie sends it back up the field, but Anila’s hammering towards it and steals it from the Stavely defender. She dribbles it back down the pitch. Treacle’s yelling for the ball, poised at the edge of the box. Glancing up, Anila passes, Treacle takes the ball and crosses it to Jing-Wei who slices it into the back of the net.
The crowd roars like it’s Wembley and the ref blows his whistle.
‘Penalties!’ I catch my breath, trembling as the teams stumble to a halt.
‘Worse than that,’ Jeff murmurs. ‘Sudden death.’
Sudden death. I can hardly breathe. Whoever gets one goal up first, wins.
On the other side of the pitch Savannah links arms with Jason. Treacle’s bent double, her long black ponytail sweeping the grass. Hands on hips, she gets her breath back.
The players stretch and pace at the centre of the pitch. I can feel their nerves as their coaches start picking players for the penalties.
Miss Bayliss points to Jing-Wei, then Anila, then Treacle.
I grasp Jeff’s arm. ‘What if she misses?’
He puffs out a long, slow breath and shakes his head, not answering. He groans in dismay as Stavely get their first penalty in.
Jing-Wei squares up to the ball and backs off. With a short, sharp run-up, she lobs the ball into the back of the net.
I’m hanging off Jeff’s sleeve like a kid, hardly breathing as the Stavely captain lines up for her penalty. Annie’s in goal, arms stretched like an eagle, eyes fixed on the ball. The Stavely captain shoots wide and misses! I swallow back a cheer, my gaze fixing on Anila. If Anila gets this one in, we’ve won the Cup.
She places the ball and walks away, clenching and unclenching her fists.
Then she turns and runs. Her kick fires the ball forward and sends it sailing over the goal.
No!
It’s still 1–1.
Treacle’s pacing the goal, watching Stavely’s striker take position.
I can hardly stand still as Annie manages to knock Stavely’s attempt clear. They’ve missed aga
in.
Come on, Treacle!
She puts the ball on the spot and backs away. I see her eyeing the goalie, then the net. Suddenly she rushes forward, her boot striking the ball with a satisfying thump. It soars through the air, brushing the tips of the goalie’s glove, and lands smack in the top right corner of the net.
The perfect penalty and we’ve won the match.
And the Cup!
I throw my arms up and yell. ‘We won! We won!’ Grabbing Jeff, I jump around him like a deranged chimp. He’s punching the air. Half the crowd is roaring with triumph. They start streaming on to the pitch.
I let go of Jeff and head for Treacle. Savannah gets to her at the same time and the three of us jump up and down in a group hug like three demented Tiggers. ‘You were brilliant!’ I gasp.
Her face is shining. ‘Not bad,’ she grins.
‘Not bad? You’re a star!’ Savannah cries.
Jeff appears beside me. ‘Fantastic penalty,’ he says to Treacle.
She’s still beaming. ‘I can’t believe it!’
Her teammates swarm round her, hauling her away towards the changing room.
‘I’ll wait for you!’ I call over their heads.
Then I stop. I’ve forgotten about Ben. I was so caught up in winning, I forgot. Guilt rushes at me. I shouldn’t have let him slip away like that. Panicking, I check my phone.
No message. Why did I stop thinking about him?
‘Are you OK?’ Savannah asks. I can see Jason hovering behind her, talking to Jeff.
‘I’m fine. It’s Ben.’
Savannah instantly looks panicked. ‘Have you heard from the hospital?’
I shake my head. ‘Mum said she’d let me know if his temperature went down, but I still haven’t heard anything.’
Savannah grips hold of my hand.
‘Savannah, are you coming?’ Jason calls.
She looks at me. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’
‘No, it’s fine. You go with Jason.’
‘Seriously, if you want me to stay, just say.’
‘But what about Jason?’