I stand there motionless. For a moment I actually think about doing what Price says – faking an injury so he can come on and play. But then something else takes over. For months and months I’ve had to deal with people like Price – total strangers who hate me just because I wasn’t born on the same patch of earth as them. And for months and months I’ve had to take it. Ignore the stares and the insults, tolerate being spat at and pushed and shoved around. But not any more. I don’t have to take it any more. He has no right to tell me what to do, no right to speak to me in that way. And I’m going to show him what I think of him and his hate in the best way I can – through my feet. I take a deep breath and head outside.
Stevie
I stand by the edge of the playing field and watch as the two teams file onto the pitch. At first I can’t see Hafiz but then he appears, slightly behind the others, his hair tied back in a ponytail. It’s weird because normally I’d rather watch beige paint dry than watch football, but the fact that Hafiz is playing has put a whole new slant on things. As he walks past I feel something dangerously close to excitement. I really hope he plays well.
The two teams gather in huddles around their coaches. I imagine Mr Kavanagh giving some kind of cheesy pep talk about playing for the pride of the school and country – or whatever it is football coaches say. Then the players get in their positions, Mr Kavanagh blows his whistle and the game begins. Even though I know nothing about football it doesn’t take me long to realize that Hafiz is really good. He streaks up the pitch like a bullet, constantly chasing after the ball. He’s so fast he makes the other players look as if they’re playing in slow motion. Just a couple of minutes into the game he kicks the ball at the goal. The other team’s goalkeeper only just manages to save it.
“Unlucky!” Mr Kavanagh calls.
I smile as a couple of Hafiz’s teammates run over to slap him on the back. Who knew that football could be such a feel-good experience? The goalkeeper kicks the ball out and it arcs high in the air, coming down halfway up the pitch. A player from the other team gets it and starts running towards the goal. In a flash of red, Hafiz is on his tail. My heart starts pounding as I watch him race up beside the player and kick the ball out from under his feet.
“Yes!” Mr Kavanagh yells. “Lovely play.”
Hafiz passes the ball to another player, then starts racing up the pitch again, calling back over his shoulder. The player passes back to Hafiz. He’s still quite a way from the goal but he brings his leg back and strikes the ball hard. It goes soaring into the air, then curves round and zooms into the corner of the net.
Hafiz’s team erupt in cheers. Even the players standing on the sidelines, the substitutes, join in the cheering. Except one. A boy from our class called David Price. For some reason, he’s looking really angry. Hafiz disappears in a bundle of his teammates. I’m so happy for him I want to jump up and down yelling too – something I never thought I’d feel watching football!
Things continue like this for the rest of the first half – Hafiz chasing the ball all over the field, running as if his life depended on it, and being involved in every attempt at a goal. When the whistle blows for half-time the score is three–nil to Lewes High and it would have been much higher if the other team’s goalkeeper hadn’t been so good. I watch as Mr Kavanagh calls the team over into a huddle. I see Hafiz looking around for me and he waves and grins. I feel so proud of him. But then, as the boys break away from the huddle and grab their water bottles, David Price goes over to Hafiz and says something in his ear. Hafiz turns round and shoves him on the shoulder. Price stumbles backwards and falls onto his back. But something doesn’t feel right about the way he falls. It looks too theatrical.
“Sir, Hafiz attacked me!” Price calls out to Mr Kavanagh, who has his back turned.
Mr Kavanagh goes running over. Price is still lying sprawled on the floor. But Hafiz didn’t push him that hard. He’s faking it. He has to be. Mr Kavanagh says something to Hafiz. Hafiz shakes his head. Then David Price says something, clutching his shoulder like he’s in agony. Mr Kavanagh turns to Hafiz and looks really cross. Hafiz pulls off his football shirt and throws it down. As he marches back towards the changing rooms David Price gets to his feet, his face twisted into a sly grin.
HAFIZ
Do you remember the story I told you about the boy who couldn’t control his temper? Dad’s voice echoes as I make my way back to the changing room. But I push the memory from my head. I don’t want to think about that story.
I can’t believe I just did that. I let Price win. But when he said that all Syrians were terrorists and rapists, I had to get him out of my face. I didn’t even push him that hard. There’s no way he should have fallen over like he did. I bet he’s used to diving to try and get a free kick. I slam into the changing room and go over to my bag. Every time I blink I see the look of disappointment on Mr Kavanagh’s face.
“Why did you push him, son?” he asked me.
What could I say? I’ll never tell tales. So Price got what he wanted and I’m off the pitch. I should have known it was too good to be true – that I’d never fit in here. My teammates are all going to hate me and … Stevie! What about Stevie? She will have seen what happened and is going to think I’m some kind of thug. I quickly pull on my jumper and shoes and stuff my boots in my bag. Uncle Samir spent a fortune on those boots and now it’ll all be for nothing. I consider climbing out of the window, trying to slip away unseen but then the door bursts open and Stevie marches in. Her face is flushed. She looks really angry. I take a deep breath, prepare myself for whatever she’s about to yell at me.
“What happened?” she says. “What did he say to you?”
I pause before replying. Does this mean that she understands what happened, that she knows I was provoked?
“I saw David Price talking to you,” she answers, coming over to me, “and I could tell that whatever he said wasn’t nice. What was it?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I don’t want to repeat those words, don’t want to say them out loud, especially not to Stevie.
“He was totally faking that fall too,” she continues, her green eyes sparking with indignation. “There’s no way you pushed him hard enough. And he started grinning as soon as you left.”
My anger builds again.
Stevie starts pacing up and down the middle of the changing room. “You should tell Mr Kavanagh. I can tell him what I saw too. There’s no way you should be in here. You should still be out there – playing.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I lost my temper. I pushed a teammate.”
“But he did say something horrible to you, right?”
I nod. “Can we just get out of here?”
Stevie sighs.
I head for the door and hold it open for her.
“You played brilliantly,” she says, with one of her shy smiles. “I really enjoyed watching you and, trust me, that means loads, because I’m not normally the greatest fan of football, as you know. But you were easily the best player on the pitch.”
My cheeks flush. “Thank you.”
But as I trudge out of the changing room, my heart deflates like a burst balloon. I played brilliantly – but I threw it all away.
Stevie
I get home feeling weary and drained. Hafiz barely said a word after leaving school. It was horrible to see him so dejected. And then, just when I think things can’t get any worse, I walk into the cottage to find Mum sitting at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed and in her coat, hunched over and sobbing.
“Mum! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Th–the assessment,” she stammers. “The benefits assessment.”
My heart sinks. I should have insisted on going with her. I shouldn’t have gone in to school. I crouch down on the floor in front of her.
“Did you have a panic attack?”
She nods. Now I can see that she’s trembling. I take hold of her hands. They’re icy cold.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can
arrange another date. I can call tomorrow – tell them you missed the meeting because you were ill.”
“I didn’t miss the meeting.” She pulls her hands from mine and clasps her head. “I had a panic attack after the meeting – on the way home.”
“Oh.” I lean back on my heels, trying to make sense of things. Maybe the stress of it all caught up with her. “Well, at least you went to the meeting. At least it’s all done now.”
“They’re going to stop my benefits,” she mutters through her hands.
“What?”
“They’re going to stop my benefits. They’re going to stop my benefits. They’re going to stop my benefits.” Her voice is getting shriller and higher and she starts rocking back and forth.
“But why?” I look at Mum’s hollow face and haunted stare. Surely anyone can see she’s ill just from looking at her. “What did they say?”
Mum keeps rocking.
“Mum! What did they say? Why are they stopping them?”
She stops rocking and hugs her knees. “They don’t believe I’m ill. I could tell. The questions they were asking. It was like they were trying to catch me out.”
“But what did they actually say about your payments?”
“They said they’d be sending a written report about our meeting to the Department for Work and Pensions and they’ll write to me with their decision.”
“Wait, so you don’t actually know what their decision is yet?”
Mum’s eyes fill with tears. “Not officially, but I know what it’s going to be. I know they’re going to stop my payments.”
How do you know? I want to say. But I don’t want to risk upsetting her any more.
“They tricked me,” she whispers.
“How?”
“They started asking about you.”
“What? Why?”
“They wanted to know how I could be a good parent to you if I wasn’t able to work.”
“Oh, Mum.” I feel sick.
“I didn’t want…” Mum starts crying again. “I didn’t want them to think that … I didn’t want them to take you away from me, so I pretended … I pretended that I’m not as bad as I am.”
For a horrible moment I don’t have a clue what to say or do. I sit back, lean against the hall wall to try and ground myself. Anne Frank. Malala. Stevie Nicks. Hafiz. You need to be strong just like them, I tell myself. But then I think of Hafiz on the football pitch – the way he pushed David Price, how upset he was afterwards. People aren’t superheroes. We all have a breaking point. I look at Mum, still rocking backwards and forwards. I take a deep breath. This is not my breaking point.
“It’s all going to be OK,” I say to her firmly. “Tomorrow I’ll go online at the library and find out what to do if they do stop your payments. There must be someone who can help us and I’m going to find out who.”
Mum looks at me through red-rimmed eyes.
“Do you want a camomile tea?” I say, getting to my feet.
She nods.
“And then shall I brush your hair?” Mum loves having her hair brushed. It always calms her down. She nods again.
“Right.” I go into the kitchen and switch on the kettle. This is not my breaking point.
HAFIZ
Even though I’m deliberately late for school Stevie isn’t in the form room when I get there. Neither is the teacher. David Price is, though. He smirks at me as soon as I walk through the door, but I manage to stay calm. Last night, when I was lying in bed, I allowed myself to remember the story my dad told me about the boy who couldn’t control his temper. He told it to me after I got a red card in a match for losing my temper with the ref. In the story the boy’s father gives him a bag of nails and tells him that every time he gets angry, he has to hammer a nail into their fence. On the first day, the boy hammered over thirty nails into the fence, and it was really hard work. So, over the next few weeks, the number of nails dwindled, as the boy realized that it was easier to control his temper than spend hours hammering in the nails. His father praised him for his good work but then he made him take the nails out and look at how the fence was now covered with holes. “These are the scars your anger leaves,” the father told his son. “No matter how many times you say sorry, those wounds will never properly heal.”
After he told me that story I never got a red card again. I don’t care what Price says, I’m not going to let him get to me.
Stevie comes rushing into the room. Her long hair is messy and she looks really flustered.
“Hey,” she says, crashing down into the seat next to me.
“Hey,” I reply.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I was you!” Price calls out.
Stevie turns and glares at him. “Why not?”
“Haven’t you seen the stories in the papers about people like him?”
I feel anger prickling beneath my skin. Remember the story, Hafiz, I imagine my dad saying. Don’t stoop to his level.
I expect Stevie to turn back round but she doesn’t. Instead she gets to her feet.
“What do you mean, ‘people like him’?”
“Asylum seekers.”
The rest of the class, who’d been chattering away, fall silent. It’s a terrible silence. The kind that expects the worst.
“I’m proud to sit next to him,” Stevie says. “It’s way better than sitting next to a cheat.”
“What did you say?” I hear the scrape of a chair and turn to see Price get to his feet. His pale face and neck are stained with angry red streaks. In a split second I’m standing too.
“I said, it’s better than sitting next to a cheat,” Stevie repeats clearly.
“Ooh!” Priya says from the table behind us. “Stevie’s losing her temper over a boy.”
“And I don’t know what your problem is,” Stevie hisses to her. “You of all people should understand how Hafiz feels.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Priya asks.
“I’ve seen people picking on you before. How can you do the same thing to someone else?”
Priya slumps back in her chair, silent for once.
“Are you calling me a cheat?” Price says, coming over to Stevie.
My fists automatically clench.
“Yes, I am,” Stevie says. “I saw what you did in the football match yesterday.”
“It’s OK,” I say. I stare straight into Price’s beady little eyes. “I guess when you do not have the talent, cheating’s all you’ve got.” Perfect strike! One–nil to Hafiz! my inner commentator cheers.
“What?” Price takes a step towards me. I don’t break my stare.
“Why did you do it?” I ask calmly. “Why did you roll around on the floor like a big baby? Scared you weren’t good enough to win your place on the team?” And it’s two–nil!
“Shut up!” Price shouts. But before he can do or say anything more the door opens and the teacher walks in.
“What’s going on?” she says, taking in the silent classroom and all eyes on Price and me.
“Nothing, miss,” I say, sitting back down, my heart pounding with the joy of victory.
“Hmm.” She looks at us both suspiciously. “Sit down, Stevie. Go back to your seat, David.” Then she turns back to me. “I’ve just been talking to Mr Kavanagh in the staffroom, Hafiz. He’d like to see you in his office after school.”
Great.
Stevie
At lunch break Hafiz and I go to the library. I’ve told him I need to look up some videos on guitar technique – and this is what I usually do when I come here – but really I need to try and get some info for Mum. As I log on to a PC I think back to what happened in registration with David Price. I can’t believe I said those things to him. David Price is the kind of kid you never mess with. He’s always getting into fights and rumour has it his dad is some kind of small-time gangster who’s currently in prison for drug dealing. But I was so tired and fed up after everything that’s happened with Mum I just didn’t care any more. Hafiz was great to
o. I glance at him, sitting at a PC a couple of desks down from me, staring at something on his screen, his face deadly serious. I wish he hadn’t got off to such a bad start here. It seems so unfair, and now he has to deal with Priya and Price. But maybe after everything he’s been through, they seem trivial in comparison. I hope so.
I type “benefits and mental health” into the search engine. It brings up loads of articles and blog posts about people just like Mum. Story after story about benefits being cut after the recent change from the Disability Living Allowance to the Personal Independence Payment and the stress and pain it’s causing. I start feeling sick. Surely there’s something we can do. I know Mum doesn’t want anyone in our family to know but surely there must be someone official we could ask for help. Most of the mental health charities’ websites recommend getting a letter from your doctor to support a claim, so I look up our GP’s surgery. Their website says that they don’t have any appointments available for over a week, so I jot down their phone number and go into the corridor to call. The receptionist sounds as if she’s suffering from the same permanently frowning condition as Mrs Barber and at first I think she’s never going to give me an appointment. I end up getting so stressed she eventually takes pity on me and I manage to get an emergency appointment for Mum for tomorrow morning. I go back into the library, stare blankly at the screen and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Panic over, for now at least.
HAFIZ
“You wanted to see me, sir,” I say, poking my head round Mr Kavanagh’s door. He’s sitting at his desk fiddling with the strings on a tennis racket. Outside the air is full of the sound of chatter and laughter as the rest of the students make their way home.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Come in. Sit down.” He nods to the chair opposite him, puts the racket down and looks me straight in the eyes. “So, you going to tell me what that was all about yesterday?”
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 11