“Make my eyes roll?” Hafiz looks at me blankly. “I do not understand.”
“Like this.” I stop and roll my eyes in fake pleasure.
Hafiz laughs. “Ah, I see. So it’s almost as good as Syrian coffee then.”
“Is Syrian coffee different to the coffee over here?” I ask as we carry on walking.
“Yes, very different.”
“Really? How?” We start weaving our way along Sydney Street, past the vegan shoe shop and the Indian street food restaurant.
“We call it kahwa and we drink it really strong and thick, in tiny cups.”
“Like espresso?” I breathe in the scent of incense as we walk past a New Age shop. The blackboard outside is advertising dolphin CDs and tarot readings with someone called Psychic Bob.
“Kind of – but not quite.”
I glance at Hafiz, worried that talking about Syria might be upsetting him, but he’s smiling.
“Sometimes we have it with cardamom – you know, the spice?”
I nod. “That sounds nice.”
“It is. So where is it that we’re going for this coffee?”
“Just here.” I point to Has Bean on the other side of the road.
“Cool.”
We cross over and enter. It’s even hotter in here than outside and I feel a bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face. Damn this stupid school shirt. I think of school. I wonder if I should phone in pretending to be my mum but quickly decide against it. It will be a lot easier to forge a sick note than fake a call. I wonder if Hafiz is aware of the school attendance policy.
“So – uh – do you know what you have to do if you have a day off sick?” I ask as we join the queue at the counter. “From school, I mean.”
“I am not sick.” Hafiz’s smile fades.
“No, I know, but I take it that’s the excuse you’re going to give for why you left this morning.”
Hafiz looks puzzled. “But it is not why I left this morning.”
“Oh. OK.” I contemplate asking him again why he walked out of school but decide against it.
“Don’t worry,” Hafiz says, his expression deadly serious. “I don’t even know if I shall be going back there again.”
“Oh.” I’m shocked at how disappointed this makes me feel. And then my obvious disappointment makes me feel embarrassed, which in turn makes me feel even hotter. I want to clamber into the fridge with all the juices to try and cool down. We don’t say anything more until we’ve been served. Hafiz orders an espresso. I order a small black Americano – even though I could really do with a large. My guitar fund will be down to zero soon if I’m not careful. Once our drinks are ready we take them over to a table in the window.
“OK, so while I can totally understand you not wanting to come back to school, I’m sorry to hear it,” I say as we sit down. “And I hope nothing really bad happened this morning to make you want to leave.”
Hafiz shakes his head. “It’s just … I don’t like being where I am not welcome.”
“But you are welcome,” I blurt out, way too eagerly. I stir my coffee – even though there’s nothing to stir. I never take it with milk or sugar. To me, anything that waters down the taste of the coffee is a crime, like the really poor cover version of an epic song.
“Thank you.” Hafiz takes a sip from his tiny coffee cup. “So, how did you get to be so good at the guitar?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’m that good.”
“You are. I mean, I do not really know much about music but I know that when you played it – it – made me feel something. Like, in here, you know.” He puts his hand over his heart.
“Really?” Hafiz saying this makes me feel all kinds of happy.
“So, tell me.”
“Practise, I guess. I’ve had a guitar ever since I was a little kid. My dad always bought them for me, before he… I need a new one though,” I say, quickly steering the conversation onto safer ground. “The one I have at the moment is getting too small – or I’m getting too big. But it’s taking a lot longer than I thought it would to save the money.” I sigh and gaze out at the street. The words to a random song lyric start appearing on the window:
Strumming
broken
heartstrings
and
hoping
for
a
tune.
HAFIZ
I stare out of the café window at the people streaming by. This place is even better for people-watching than the Latakia souk. There are people with hair every colour of the rainbow and outfits that look more like costumes for a show – a really crazy show. I wonder why Stevie hasn’t been able to get a new guitar – why her parents won’t buy her one. I have a feeling maybe they can’t afford it. I glance at her across the table as she scribbles something in her notebook. She looks as if she might be poor. The ends of her jumper sleeves are ragged and fraying. And the collar of her shirt is off-white, as if like she’s had it a long time. I decide it’s probably better not to ask and take another sip of my coffee. Despite adding two sachets of sugar it’s not nearly as sweet and strong as Arabic coffee. I miss the silver coffee pots from back home. I miss the ceremony of pouring the coffee into shot glasses. I miss seeing the friendly faces as we all drink together. I miss it so much it makes me ache.
“So, when did you last play football?” Stevie asks as she stuffs her notebook back in her bag. I wonder what she writes in there.
“Not since I left Syria,” I reply, glumly.
“How long is that?”
“Two years.”
“What? How come?” Stevie’s pale face flushes. “Sorry, is that a really dumb question?”
“No. It just took me a lot longer to get to the UK than I expected.”
“But you have family here, right? Your uncle and aunt.”
I nod. “But it still took ages getting to France, and then applying for asylum once I got to Calais took over a year.”
“That’s terrible.” Stevie looks so genuinely horrified that I feel some slight comfort – it’s always good to be reminded that not everyone in the UK hates us being here. The worst thing is, I’m one of the lucky ones. I met people in France who’d been there for years. People whose only hope of freedom was risking their lives trying to escape on the back of lorries and, when they failed, getting badly beaten up by the police.
“Can I ask you a question?” Stevie looks me straight in the eyes.
“Of course.”
“Do you want to be here?”
I look around the coffee shop. “Here? Sure. It is nice.”
“No, not here here. Here in the UK.”
“Oh.” I finish off my coffee. “No, not really.”
“I thought so.”
“Why?”
“You seem so sad.”
I sigh. There was a time when I was known as the joker, in my class, my family, my football team, always the one who made everybody laugh. Nothing is the same any more – not even me. Then suddenly, randomly, I think of my dad’s theory that we are all born with a story inside us that somehow relates to our life. What if mine has changed from a fun adventure to a heartbreaking tragedy?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Stevie says, looking worried.
“You haven’t. It’s just weird.”
“What is?”
“How much has changed. I never used to be sad.” And then I feel a spark of my old self light up inside me. I don’t want my story to be a tragedy. I look back at Stevie. “Where do you go when you want to have fun?”
“What, here in Brighton?”
I nod.
Stevie’s face lights up – then clouds over again. “Oh – but – it’s by the sea.”
“That’s OK. Come on.” I take a deep breath and get to my feet. My story is not going to be a tragedy.
Stevie
I follow Hafiz out of the café, feeling slightly confused. He’d given me the most definite impression that he hated the sea. But now
he’s striding off along Sydney Street and I’m having to run to keep up – which isn’t much fun, given the whole school-jumper-sauna thing.
“Where is this place then?” he calls to me. “Where you go to have fun?”
“On the pier.” I feel a sudden stab of doubt. I really hope Hafiz gets ironic humour, otherwise my idea of fun is going to flatline fast.
“The pier?” Hafiz frowns.
“Is that OK?” I say, half wanting him to say no so that I can avoid any potential awkwardness before it begins.
But he nods. “Yes, of course.”
We walk down to the front and head towards the pier. The sea is sparkling like a sheet of blue glass in the sun. The second I see it I feel better. And there’s something so soothing about the sighing sound of the waves. I want to slow down, drink it in, but Hafiz is walking even faster. I’m starting to feel uneasy. I should have thought of something else to do. Something that isn’t ironic and is far away from the sea. He seems so tense again. We cross the road and walk past the kiosks at the pier entrance. Music is pumping from speakers above the entrance – some stupid hip-hop song about gangsters. I swear I was born in the totally wrong era when it comes to music. I’ve got ninety-nine problems and misogynistic lyrics are definitely one. I breathe in the smell of sugary doughnuts and vinegary chips. Seagulls squawk overhead, making me think of my annoying feathery alarm clock, Shriek-Beak. If someone had told me when I woke up this morning that I’d end up on Brighton Pier with Hafiz, I’d have sworn I was still dreaming. A couple of older girls walk past and I see them looking Hafiz up and down, checking him out. This is all new territory for me. Not only being out with a boy, but with a boy as good-looking as Hafiz. Yeah, well, looks aren’t everything, I want to tell the girls. Hafiz does get bonus points though, for being a boy of very little ego. Or at least, that’s how he seems.
“Where on the pier is it?” he asks, still looking stressed.
“Down there, in the arcade.” Oh please, please, let him get irony.
We walk together along the wooden slats, past kiosks selling candyfloss and sticks of rock and a really tacky selection of china horses, cats and dogs. Hafiz’s face is getting grimmer by the second.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say, coming to a halt. “In fact, let’s not. Let’s just go back.”
He stops and frowns at me. “Why? You said it would be fun.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure you’ll think it is…” I take a deep breath. “Do you know what irony means?”
“Irony?”
“Yes, as in, an ironic sense of humour.”
He nods. “Yes. It is when you say something but you mean the opposite. Like sarcasm.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Correct. And do you like irony?”
“No,” he replies and my heart sinks. But then he starts to grin. “I was being ironic.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I say, before starting to laugh for real.
We carry on walking along the pier, past the glass case containing the waxwork dummy of “The Great Fortune-Telling Zoro” and into the arcade. The noise inside is deafening – a crazy mix of trumpet fanfares and jaunty tunes and machine-gun fire and racing cars. I lead Hafiz past the wall of fruit machines – and the grim-faced men playing them like their lives depend upon hitting the jackpot.
“Ta-da! This is where I come when I want to have fun.” I gesture at the claw machine with a grand flourish. The assortment of cuddly toys piled up inside peer at us mournfully through the glass.
HAFIZ
She likes the claw! I look at Stevie and grin.
She frowns. “We don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I know it’s kind of lame.”
“Lame?”
“Stupid – and before you say it, I know it’s rigged. I know hardly anyone ever wins. Ever. But that’s what makes me love it – it’s the ultimate challenge.”
“Me too!”
She looks shocked. “You know this game? You like it?”
“Yes! And do you want to know the really weird thing?” My heart is racing with excitement now. “The really weird thing is that the first time I ever played the claw it was here, on this pier.”
Stevie’s eyes widen. “Really? How come?”
“I came here with my parents when I was six, when we were in the UK for my uncle’s wedding.”
“No way!”
I reach into my trouser pocket and pull out some of the money Uncle Samir gave me for lunch. I hand Stevie a pound coin. “Go on, have a go.”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, I can’t take your money.”
“Why not?”
“I have my own.” She pulls a faded purse from her school bag and takes out a coin.
I wonder if I’ve offended her. But she’s still smiling.
“Do you want to go first?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, go on, you go.”
As Stevie puts her money in the slot I feel relieved. It had been so horrible coming to the pier, being so close to the sea, but here in the arcade is like being protected inside a brightly coloured bubble. And it’s so noisy I can’t even hear the waves any more. I watch as Stevie moves the claw all the way over to the back corner of the glass box, where the head of a toy owl wearing a pair of huge round glasses is poking out from the middle of all the teddy bears. Her face is tense with concentration. Slowly, she lowers the claw. The silver fingers close around the owl’s head. I hold my breath as Stevie moves the claw upwards. This game gets me every time. Will she do it? the commentator inside my head cries. Will she win the elusive owl? But then, just as Stevie moves the owl back across the box, it drops from the claw’s grasp.
“No!” Stevie exclaims. I love how seriously she’s taking it.
“It’s a travesty!” I cry.
Her look of disappointment fades and she starts to laugh. “It is a travesty! That owl should have been mine – this claw is rigged!”
“Let me have a go,” I say. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to win that owl for Stevie. She stands aside and I rub my hands together and blow on them. “My lucky pre-claw ritual,” I explain.
She laughs. “Crap! That’s why I didn’t win. I forgot to do my lucky dance.”
“Aw, shame, I would love to have seen that.” I insert the coin and raise the claw. I move it over to the owl, then lower it. The fingers close around the owl’s back, but I can’t get a proper grip. The claw lifts the owl a couple of inches, then drops it. “Damn!” I shake my head. “This machine is definitely rigged.” I turn to Stevie. “Are you going to have another go?”
She looks in her purse and her smile fades. “Better not.”
I offer her a coin. “Go on. Have one more.”
She looks at the money, then looks at the owl. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“OK. Thank you.” She takes the money and is about to put it in the slot when I stop her.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Your lucky dance.”
“Are you serious?” Her eyes are sparkling.
“Do you want to win this owl or not?”
“Oh, I want to win it. I am determined to win it.”
“Well, go on then.” I stand back, fold my arms and wait.
Her face flushes pink and she grins. “OK, here it is.” She starts skipping round in a circle, waving her hands in the air. She looks so funny I have to stop myself from joining in. “There!” she exclaims breathlessly, before looking back at the owl. “Right, now I need to focus. I have some serious winning to do.”
I watch as she carefully manoeuvres the claw above the owl, then slowly lowers it around its head. I can tell immediately the grip’s a lot firmer this time. Stevie lifts the claw and starts bringing it slowly back towards us. My God, I think she might have done it! my inner commentator exclaims. The claw opens – and the owl drops down – into the winner’s tray.
“Yes!” I yell.
Stevie claps her ha
nd to her mouth in shock. “I did it!”
I slap her on the back. “Well done!”
“Thank you.” Stevie takes the owl from the tray and holds it aloft like a winner’s trophy. “This truly is the happiest day of my life.”
I frown. “Are you being ironic?”
She laughs. “Of course I am!” Then she holds the owl out to me. “Do you want it?”
“What? No! You won it.”
“I know, but it was with your money.”
I shake my head. “It was with your skill.” I suddenly feel starving. “Do you want to get something to eat?”
Stevie stuffs the owl in her bag and smiles. “Sure.”
Stevie
As Hafiz and I walk back off the pier I feel so happy I could do my fictional lucky dance all over again. And I’m not just happy that finally – finally! – I’ve beaten the claw. I’m happy because what just happened in there – me laughing and joking with Hafiz – me dancing in front of Hafiz – felt so good. I’m so happy I don’t even care about being swelteringly hot, or having spent nearly all of my remaining guitar fund on train fares and coffee and the claw. It was worth every penny to feel like this.
“What would you like to eat?” Hafiz asks as we reach the seafront road and wait for the signal to cross.
“Chips?” I suggest. Chips are probably the only thing I can afford.
He nods. “Sure.”
The signal turns green.
Hafiz is walking fast. I follow him towards the Old Steine and away from the sea and I get a waft of potatoes frying. I spot a kebab shop across the street.
“How about there?” I say, nodding to the shop.
Hafiz nods.
We each buy a bag of chips. I don’t have enough money to get a drink but Hafiz buys two cans of Sprite and hands one to me.
“Thank you.” I open it and take a sip and shiver as the lemony fizz erupts on my tongue. We sit down on a bench in front of the Pavilion.
“Wow!” Hafiz exclaims, gazing up at the domes and minarets. “It is just like that place in India.”
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 5