by Kim Slater
I give a quick nod. At the end of my appointment, I’ll tell her I’m not coming any more.
‘Did you manage to write anything in your notebook?’ Freya asks.
I delve into my inside blazer pocket and pull out the notebook, sliding it across the table towards her.
‘I don’t know if I’ve done it right,’ I mutter.
She shakes her head and pushes the notebook back towards me.
‘It’s your notebook, Calum. If you want to, you can open it and read out what you’ve written. But that’s your choice.’
Strange. Linford said her job was to vet every word, to try and catch us out.
‘Like I said before,’ Freya continues, ‘it’s not homework. You’re not being tested in any way, OK?’
I nod.
‘You can relax. There is no right or wrong way to do this.’
I look at her but my mouth feels dry and I can’t think of what to say.
‘So . . .’ She beams and takes a sip of water. ‘What did you manage to get down?’
I take a big gulp of my own water and open the notebook.
‘I wrote a list of things I like doing in my spare time.’ I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks. ‘Just stupid stuff.’
Freya sits back, folds her pale, freckled hands into her lap and waits.
I stare at my own scrawl on the first page. Why did I even bother writing this drivel?
‘Stuff I like doing.’ I read out the heading and wish more than anything I could dig a deep hole right now and jump in it. ‘Number one. Watching films.’
‘Well, would you know it, a man after my own heart!’ Freya sings in her lilting accent. ‘What kind of films?’
‘Dunno, all sorts.’ I shuffle in my seat but I can’t seem to get comfy. ‘I like action films. And sci-fi, I suppose.’
‘OK, have you watched any independent films at all?’
I shake my head. I don’t know what she means.
‘It’s my favourite genre of film,’ she says. ‘Carry on.’
I look at the next thing on my list and I feel my cheeks burn harder.
‘Number two. Writing screenplays.’
I waft the edges of my blazer a bit. The room didn’t seem this hot when I first came in.
‘You write screenplays? Why, that’s just fantastic, Calum.’
I glance over at her to see if she’s smirking at the thought of someone like me writing a script, but she isn’t. Smirking, I mean. She actually looks impressed.
‘They’re not like proper plays or anything,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, they’re not very good.’
‘Have you got one with you?’ Freya leans forward. ‘A screenplay you wrote that you can let me read?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Are you in a writers group or anything?’
I have to smile. She must think I’m some kind of professional writer or something.
‘Why is that funny, Calum?’
‘There’s nothing like that round here, and anyway, I don’t write proper screenplays like in the films. Mostly I just do it in my head. That’s why I’m not entering the Expressions competition.’
She throws me a puzzled look and I remember the flyer in my rucksack. I pull it out of the side pocket and hand it to her.
‘But this would be perfect,’ she breathes when she opens it up. ‘I mean, this is a fantastic opportunity.’
‘Not for me, miss.’ I shake my head. ‘What am I going to write about? Council estates and corner shops? I don’t think so.’
Freya stands up quickly and for a moment I think I’ve annoyed her, but she walks over to her desk and slides open a drawer.
She takes out a DVD case and holds it up so I can see it. On the cover, there’s a scruffy lad sneering at the camera and sticking two fingers up.
‘Have you watched this film?’
I shake my head again. I don’t think Mr Fox would be too pleased if he knew Freya was encouraging students to watch this sort of thing.
‘Why don’t you watch it and tell me what you think when I see you on Friday?’ Freya hands me the DVD. ‘Then you can try to tell me again that working-class life isn’t interesting.’
Reluctantly, I take it from her. It doesn’t look like my sort of film at all.
I remember then I’m supposed to tell her I’m not coming to any more sessions, but instead I find myself nodding as I slide the DVD into my rucksack.
At break-time I meet up with the lads in the outer courtyard.
‘So how did bowling go on Friday then, Cal?’ Linford play-punches my arm.
‘Yeah, good,’ I say.
He glances at Jack but he doesn’t say anything.
‘Hey, guess who I saw going into that counsellor’s office when I was over at the Admin block this morning?’ Harry says.
For a second I think I’m actually going to throw up. Harry must have seen me sneaking into Freya’s office.
Linford’s eyes narrow. ‘Who?’
I get ready to explain that I had to go but I won’t be going again.
‘Immi Grant.’ Harry scowls. ‘Walked in like he owned the place, he did, looked through me like I wasn’t there while I waited for Miss Harris’s photocopying. I reckon he’s probably grassed you up for ruining his nosh in the dinner hall, Linford.’
I start to breathe normally.
‘I knew it. They’re trying to get me excluded through that flipping counsellor.’ Linford clenches his jaw. ‘They tried to see if you lot would grass me up and when that didn’t work, they’re trying it with that sponging Polack. Mr Fox is going to kick me out of this school for good, I know it.’
We all frown.
‘And speaking of snitches . . .’ Jack jabs his finger in the air.
Sergei Zurakowski walks by, looking at the floor.
‘Hey Immi, I hear you’ve been blabbing to the school counsellor,’ Linford yells after him. ‘You dirty grass.’
I feel a thread of heat begin to climb my spine.
Sergei carries on walking and he doesn’t look back.
‘You’d better not drop me in it, you loser,’ Linford growls, marching after him. When he catches up, he grabs Sergei’s tatty rucksack and spins him roughly round with it.
‘Please, stop this,’ Sergei gasps, struggling to keep his balance.
‘Only losers see the counsellor,’ Linford snarls, pressing his face closer still. ‘Sponging foreign losers, that’s what my stepdad calls you lot.’
Sergei glances at me as he picks his rucksack up off the floor. He’s going to tell him I had an appointment with Freya too.
‘What you looking at Calum for?’ Linford snaps. ‘It’s me you need to answer to.’
I take in a big gulp of air.
‘Go on, say it, Immi: I’m a loser,’ Linford demands.
Sergei says nothing.
‘What did you go and see her for, then?’ Linford grabs Sergei’s blazer lapels. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘M-my tutor, he sent me there,’ Sergei stammers, his eyes darting around the four of us. ‘I did not ask to go, this is the truth.’
‘So? They tried to send us too but none of us went there, snivelling like babies.’ Linford tightens his grip on Sergei’s blazer and pulls him in closer. ‘Right, lads?’
‘Right,’ Jack agrees.
‘Right,’ Harry nods.
‘Right,’ I croak, forcing my fingernails into my palms.
Sergei looks at me and I feel heat pouring into my face and neck. My mouth is so dry I can’t even say anything that might help to change the subject.
‘But you . . .’ Sergei starts to speak to me and then closes his mouth again.
‘But what? What were you going to say?’ Linford’s eyes are dark and wild. He spits the words out, peppering Sergei’s face with tiny flecks of saliva. ‘Tell me, you sap.’
I close my eyes for a split-second and prepare for him to tell the others he saw me at Freya’s office this morning.
‘Nothing,’ Sergei says qu
ietly. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Yeah, well I have nothing to say to you either.’ Linford snaps his knee up high and then stamps it down really hard, on to Sergei’s foot.
Sergei lets out a howl and hops back on his good foot, his eyes watering.
Linford grabs his rucksack and tears open the top flap. He shakes it upside down until every single item in there lies scattered over the smooth pastel flagstones.
Snatches of laughter fill the air as a group of students gather to watch the show.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ Linford snatches up a small photograph and hoots with glee. ‘A flipping circus act?’
‘Let’s see.’ Harry stands on his tiptoes and cranes his neck to see over Linford’s shoulder.
‘Please, give it back.’ Sergei lunges for the photo but Linford holds it high above his head and crumples it into a loose ball before tossing it aside and walking away.
‘See you, Immi.’ Jack laughs, grinding the photograph under his shoe as he follows.
I look down at the creased image and see a smiling man wearing striped trousers, tucked into long black riding boots. There is a tall feather in his cap. He sits next to a pretty lady who is dressed in a long, floral skirt and wearing a bright, twisted headscarf on her head.
Sergei crouches down and picks up the photo like it’s made of the finest silk. He presses it gently into the palm of his hand, trying in vain to flatten it again.
Anybody can see it’s already ruined but he carries on smoothing it anyway, as if the deep creases might magically disappear.
When I turn to walk away he realizes someone is still there and he looks up at me, dark eyes glistening under his overgrown fringe.
I meet his stare for just a second and his eyes seem to lock on to mine, making it impossible to turn away.
They are bottomless pools of misery and pain but I also see a flash of something raw and bright that refuses to be pushed aside.
I open my mouth to say thanks for not telling Linford about my appointment with Freya, but the words won’t come.
I step over his empty rucksack and run to catch up with the others.
All through my afternoon lessons I feel a warm glow when I remember Dad will be home when I get back later, even though it’s a Monday.
I can’t remember the last time he was home on a weekday.
I’d like to watch the cricket together on telly but that woman is coming round later. What was her name? Angie. Still, I can’t wait to meet her dog, I hope it’s a Jack Russell or a Staffie. I could take him for a walk down by the canal if she’ll let me, pretend he’s mine for a bit. I bet Amelia and Spike would love him.
The lads are standing in a tight knot at the school gate. They stop talking and break apart as I walk over to them.
‘Fancy a kickabout on the field later?’ Jack asks me when I join them. ‘We’re meeting down there at six.’
‘Nah, I can’t.’ For once, I’m telling the truth about my evening plans. ‘We’ve got people coming round to the flat, later.’
‘No worries.’ Linford looks at Jack and Harry. ‘We can manage without Cal.’
A tightness settles on my chest.
‘See you tomorrow then, yeah?’ I call as they walk off, but they can’t have heard me because nobody answers.
As soon as I open the door, I hear voices in the flat. It’s usually deathly quiet in here when I get home from school, so it feels strange, but nice.
I dump my rucksack on the kitchen floor and slip off my shoes before walking into the lounge. I see a pretty, slim woman with long pale hair sitting on our settee next to Dad. My heart begins to thump.
I glance around the room but there’s no dog in here. Maybe she tied him up round the back so Dad can surprise me with him later.
Dad stands up and strides over to me. He’s got his best jeans on and what looks like a brand-new T-shirt. And he’s had a shave.
‘This is our Calum.’ Dad beams, guiding me over to her like I might run off. ‘This is my lad.’
‘I am so happy to meet you, Calum.’ She’s got a strong foreign accent I didn’t expect, but speaks very good English. She holds out her hand. ‘My name is Angelika; Angie to my friends.’
‘Me and Angie met when I was on site doing some clearance work for a contractor at the university,’ Dad explains. ‘The wind took her umbrella off and I chased it down, brought it back for her.’
‘My hero!’ Angie giggles.
‘When you put your head out of that classroom window and we started talking, well –’ Dad’s face flushes like a schoolboy – ‘I thought all my Christmases had come at once.’
It’s embarrassing, watching the two of them.
She’s probably a cleaner at the university or something. According to Linford, his stepdad says they’re all coming over in droves and taking the unskilled jobs from local people.
The room smells of flowers and talcum powder. She holds out her hand.
‘Hello, Calum.’
‘Hello.’ I shuffle my feet.
There’s a beat of silence, then Dad says, ‘I’ll make us all a drink.’
He disappears into the kitchen and I feel like running after him.
‘Come. Sit here, Calum,’ Angie says, patting the seat next to her.
My head feels like it is being boiled.
‘So, Calum, what do you enjoy doing in your free time?’
I sit down and inspect my nails.
‘Dunno really. Watching films and footie mainly.’
Angie laughs, a silvery tinkle that feels out of place in our quiet flat.
‘OK, that is what you like watching. But what do you like doing?’
I’m distracted by the sound of the loo flushing across the hall. I can hear Dad pottering around in the kitchen, clinking cups. But if he’s in the kitchen, who is . . .
A figure appears in the doorway. My mouth drops open and I jump up off the settee.
For a second I freeze, thinking he’s wandered in here off the street to cause trouble. And then Dad’s words come back to me: she’s bringing someone with her. The heat drains out of my face.
‘Calum, meet Sergei.’ Angie smiles. ‘He is my son.’
Sergei Zurakowski steps into the room. His face has turned the colour of the uncooked sausages on Mrs Brewster’s barbecue. He probably looks even more shocked than I do, if that’s even possible.
We stand staring at each other with open mouths.
Dad appears behind him holding a tray with four steaming mugs and a plate of custard creams.
‘So, I see you two have met at last.’ He beams, oblivious. He places the tray on the chipped pine sideboard.
Angie peers in turn at us both like she’s watching a tennis match.
‘Wait.’ Angie’s smile fades a touch. ‘Do you boys know already each other?’
‘From school,’ I say with a nod, tapping my fingers on the sides of my thighs.
‘Yes, we see each other quite a lot at school, don’t we, Calum?’ Sergei looks over at me, narrowing his eyes. ‘We were together briefly this afternoon, in fact. I ran into Calum and his friends.’
Very clever.
‘That’s brilliant! It’s a small world.’ Dad laughs. ‘Tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous about you two lads getting on but it looks as though the four of us are going to be a match made in heaven – eh, Angie?’
‘I do hope so,’ she says softly, watching Sergei’s face.
Dad grins and winks at me and I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
All I can think is, How the hell am I going to explain this to Linford?
Dad announces that our ‘guests’ will be staying with us a while.
Me and Sergei both look up sharply.
‘We thought we would surprise you,’ Angie tells us.
‘Makes no sense being stuck in a poky bed and breakfast when you can stay here with us.’ He beams at Angie and she nods.
‘Yeah, stay here in this poky flat that’s barely
big enough for the two of us,’ I mutter.
‘Calum, that’s enough!’ Dad snaps.
‘I would rather stay in the bed and breakfast.’ Sergei scowls at his mum. ‘The university said the staff accommodation would be ready soon, so why can’t we just wait? You did not say anything about staying here.’
‘Pete only made his kind offer at the weekend, Sergei,’ Angie replies. ‘Neither of us like the bed and breakfast. It is much better here, yes?’
‘No, Mama.’ Sergei folds his arms in a huff. ‘It is not better here, and anyway, what about all our stuff?’
‘I packed everything up today while you were at school.’ She beams. ‘Pete already brought it across here to surprise you!’
‘It is a surprise all right.’ Sergei glowers. ‘But not such a good one.’
Dad coughs.
‘Cal, I’ve put the camp bed and a quilt in your bedroom for Sergei.’ Dad’s keeping his voice jolly but his eyes are flashing me an unspoken warning to be nice. ‘Why don’t you two lads go and put it up together now, get to know each other a bit better? I’m sure you’ll soon be best mates.’
Sergei snorts.
I glare at Dad but he isn’t even looking at me. I walk out of the room across the tiny hallway and Sergei follows. Once we’re in my bedroom, I close the door.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I round on him. ‘Why are you even here?’
‘Do you think I want to be here, with you?’ Sergei takes a step towards me, his face thunderous.
‘Yeah, well you’re the one who’s come here. If you don’t like it, you can—’
‘Do you think this is my choice, to be here with you when you hate me so much?’ He raises his voice and I glance at the door, hoping Dad and Angie aren’t listening outside. ‘How was I supposed to know that Mama’s new boyfriend was the father of the school bully?’
‘I don’t believe this.’ I groan, sinking down on to my bed and holding my head in my hands. ‘This is seriously my worst nightmare.’
Sergei releases a bitter laugh. ‘Believe me, it is my worst nightmare also.’
I snap my head up.
‘Yeah, I bet it is. But this is my home and my dad we’re talking about. You don’t even belong here.’