A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  ‘Evening, Neville,’ I call.

  He looks over and twitches his nose. He’s my best friend and I don’t care if that sounds crazy. Neville doesn’t give a toss how I speak and I don’t care that he doesn’t speak at all. We understand each other perfectly.

  Soon, Alex’s score is lagging. We’re both coming up with standard words and there’s nothing unusual about the game at all.

  Until the message box pops up again, twelve minutes in.

  I’m knackered from football training, but I’m not making excuses, you’re really good. How long have you been playing, Finlay?

  Chit-chat is frowned upon during both face-to-face and online play. No talking, which suits me just fine.

  I stare at the message box and the words in it. It has blocked off part of the board.

  It’s my turn. I was planning to play M-O-C-K-E-D, using the D of one of Alex’s words and placing the K, worth five points, on a double-letter square. But I’ve already forgotten the exact letter layout and the total points I’ll score.

  Before it affects my game any more, I click on the tiny cross up at the top right and close the message box down. I play my letters and wait for Alex to play his word.

  Within seconds, the box pops up again.

  How long have you been playing for, Finlay?

  I tap in my reply.

  Since I was six.

  Maybe he’ll stop chattering now.

  Another couple of turns each and then I play my next word that gets me forty-two points and brings the score to 278–199, my favour.

  That’s when the box appears again.

  You’re REALLY good! Soz for delay, went to make a cuppa but could only find this weird lapsang souchong stuff !

  My stomach lurches. I’d forgotten about that tea, the strong smell of it. Mum used to drink it all the time. I thought it smelt of old kippers.

  Great to find an online pal, Alex types.

  I’d hardly call us mates, we’ve only been playing for nineteen minutes.

  Got no mates at sch, he says. Glad I’ve met you!

  I think about telling Alex I know how that feels but I’ll sound like a loser. I like how he seems to be looking up to me.

  That must be tough, I reply.

  Another turn each and that should complete the game.

  Where do you live? he asks. Just rough area.

  Alarm bells start jangling in my head.

  Be great if we could be mates in real life, he continues.

  Might as well be straight about it, whether it offends him or not.

  Sorry, don’t exchange personal details, I type.

  He’s getting Scrabble confused with a chat forum.

  No probs. I’m not a 40-year-old psycho . . . honest!

  I grin at that. Maybe I’m being too paranoid. Alex seems all right, but he’ll never improve his game if he keeps chattering on.

  The Scrabble clock clicks to 20:00 minutes. Game over.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard to say goodbye but the message box has disappeared. He’s already logged off.

  I sit on the floor in front of Neville’s cage, open the door and scoop his warm body into my hand.

  ‘Do you think I’ve found a new friend, Neville?’ I ask him.

  I settle him on my stretched-out legs and he sits back on his hind paws and looks up at me. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I grin. ‘We’re n-not all anti-social like you. Having friends is a good thing when you’re a human.’

  Syrian hamsters, like Neville, are solitary animals. They’ll fight if they have to share their cage, sometimes to the death. But Russian hamsters become very close with their mates and get depressed if they’re separated. Which is quite nice, I think, in a funny sort of way.

  I would be like a Russian hamster if I were a rodent. There’s no fun in being lonely all of your life.

  Tuesday, 12 May

  Dear Mum,

  It’s very late, but before I go to sleep, I want to tell you what happened today.

  Oliver had a go at me again, but this time I got him good. I whacked him with my rucksack, and I think I might have disjointed his shoulder or something because in the afternoon, I spotted him across the playground with his arm in a sling. I know you won’t approve, Mum, but you don’t know what he’s like. He totally deserved it, so I’ve decided not to waste any more time worrying about it. Which is harder to do than it sounds.

  I keep wondering if he’s going to report me to Mr Homer, though. I won’t deny it if he does, but if I tell Mr Homer the truth about how Oliver makes my life a misery every day, Dad will get involved and then everything will get even worse. I’ll just say I hit Oliver and that will be that. Anyway, like I say, I’m not worrying about it. Honest.

  Something good happened today, too. I met this new player online. His name is Alex. I’m not sure why, but for some reason, I think that maybe, just maybe, we might become proper friends in real life. He sounds like he might be going through the same stuff I am at school and he seemed really interested in me.

  If you were here, you’d probably say I had an over-active imagination. You’d be sitting at the kitchen table studying your sales figures. And you’d be drinking that horrible tea you like – lapsang souchong.

  Weirdly, that’s one of the strange things Alex mentioned.

  It got me thinking about how I used to come downstairs to run my homework by you or tell you something about my day.

  You always listened.

  Dad isn’t a very good listener and he won’t listen to any talk at all about you. He even gets annoyed if other people mention you.

  Like the time Dr Khan referred me to a speech therapist just after you’d left us. She didn’t give me any exercises to help with my stutter; she just asked a lot of questions, and most of them didn’t have anything to do with speaking at all.

  Afterwards, when Dad went in, I had to wait outside her office – but he didn’t shut the door properly. I heard her telling him that you leaving so suddenly could be the reason my stutter had got so much worse, so quickly.

  Dad stormed out and yanked me up from the chair. He gripped my hand so tight I thought my bones would be permanently BUCKLED [16]. I had to run beside him just to keep my fingers attached.

  He said he wasn’t angry. But he looked it.

  Then he asked if I fancied a burger and a milkshake and to sit by the canal for a while.

  I said no because his voice sounded stretched and a bit high and I could see that the twitch in his jaw had started, like it used to when you two had an argument.

  When we got home, I wished I’d said yes because there was only egg and beans for tea. Anyway, after all that, he just put the footy on TV and seemed completely normal again.

  These days, Dad’s so busy with work, he’s got no time for anything at all. He comes home to make our tea, wolfs down his food and then goes back out again until late. Sometimes, he falls asleep in his chair all night without taking his coat and boots off. He says he’s got to take the work while it’s there, now it’s just me and him, looking after each other.

  Things are fine at home, so don’t go worrying about us.

  Since I learned how to iron in our Home Skills lessons, nobody laughs at my school shirts because I don’t wear them all creased up any more.

  Love,

  Finlay x

  THE PLAYING GRID IS SIZED EXACTLY FIFTEEN SQUARES HIGH AND FIFTEEN CELLS WIDE.

  Wednesday

  I don’t mind that it’s raining heavily. I’m just glad I’ve managed to get through the day without running into Oliver and his cronies.

  Since Dad spotted the bruise on my forehead yesterday, he’s decided he’s going to pick me up in the evenings, like I’m still at primary school.

  I waited in the toilets until I knew all the school buses had left before I came outside to wait for my lift.

  Dad knows other kids tease me about my stammer. He gets really angry about it and sometimes he even tells me I should just thump whoever is
giving me bother.

  Once, he even showed me how to make a proper fist like a boxer, so I don’t break my thumb when I punch someone. Dad can’t seem to understand I’m not like he was when he was a lad.

  He’d probably be pleased if he knew I’d clobbered Oliver yesterday, but then I’d have to explain what Oliver was doing at the time.

  I watch up the road for Dad’s white van to appear, with ‘Paul McIntosh, Your Local Plumber – no job to big or to small!’ emblazoned on the side. He’d painted the sign himself, to save money. When Mum spotted the spelling mistakes, Dad tried to paint in the two missing O’s, but it looked all squashed up and messy. He said it didn’t even matter because most people around here wouldn’t know it was the wrong spelling in the first place.

  But Mum refused to go out in Dad’s van after that, even to Aldi to do the food shopping.

  A text pings through. I pull my phone from my blazer pocket, shielding it from the rain with my other hand.

  Will be about 30 mins late, delayed on a job. Sorry, Dad.

  Great. There’s no point waiting out here and getting soaked through – so I dash back inside and head for the library on the first floor.

  It feels really weird in school when everyone has gone home but I kind of like it. My footsteps echo on the metal-trimmed stairs and I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder to check if Oliver is behind me.

  When I get to the first floor, a mildewy stink mixes with the earthy rain that’s trickling in through the old metal-framed windows. I stop for a moment and dip my finger into a pool of rainwater that has settled on the inside windowsill like a splash of silver paint.

  You wouldn’t think it to look at it, but rainwater is mildly acidic and over a period of time, it can disintegrate even the toughest rock. ‘Disintegration’ is a long word, but it would only be worth sixteen points on the Scrabble board.

  Most people think that

  Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

  is the longest word in English. It comes from the Mary Poppins musical, contains thirty-four letters and is worth fifty-six points. But I know a longer word:

  Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.

  Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis is a technical term for lung disease caused by breathing in silica dust. It’s very nasty. It has forty-five letters in it and is worth seventy points. But as you only ever have seven letters to play with in Scrabble, you could never play any of these words in real life. Knowing they even exist at all is a bit frustrating.

  I push open the library doors and step into the warmth. Hushed voices are coming over from the far corner behind the bookcases where Mrs Adams, the school librarian, stands. She’s got eyes like a hawk that are really good for spotting people who are messing about or defacing books.

  ‘Nice to see you, Finlay.’ She says it loud and slow, as if I were deaf. Or stupid. Or both.

  ‘I hope there are no more overdue library books in that rucksack?’

  I shake my head and wonder if Oliver has grassed me up yet.

  ‘Have you come for the club?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well, it’s your lucky afternoon.’ She beams, beckoning me to follow her.

  I’d like to sit in a quiet corner, spill out my Scrabble tiles and practise anagrams like I always do when I get any free time in the library, but instead, I follow Mrs Adams.

  She leads me behind the bookcases, where a group of students are sitting quietly around three or four tables. Two sixth-formers shuffle around the groups, watching.

  ‘We’re one player short,’ Mrs Adams points to a spotty Year 10 boy sitting alone, who I’ve seen around school.

  It’s then I realize this is the Scrabble after-school club.

  I take a step back.

  ‘Come on,’ she chides me. ‘Don’t be nervous. Liam will teach you how to play, won’t you, Liam?’

  Liam shrugs.

  I want to tell her that my dad will be here very soon and that, anyway, I only play online, but the words are bunching up in my throat, so I seal my lips before I make a complete fool of myself.

  ‘I know you’d like to have a go at Scrabble, I’ve seen you playing with your tiles in here before,’ Mrs Adams says.

  Everyone is listening. I feel a trickle of sweat slide down the hollow at the bottom of my back. I can’t just stand here in silence.

  ‘I d-d—’

  ‘You do? That’s good. Sit down there and Liam will explain the game. OK, Liam?’

  ‘But miss, I—’

  ‘Just do it, Liam.’

  ‘I’ll give him a game, miss,’ a familiar voice calls from behind me. ‘In the interests of good sportsmanship and all that.’

  I turn around to see Oliver Haywood walking across the library towards us.

  My face and neck begin to prickle.

  ‘That’s very admirable, Oliver,’ Mrs Adams says, scowling at Liam. ‘You’re a lucky boy, Finlay. Oliver began studying the game as part of his Duke of Edinburgh Award and now he’s our star player. If he carries on improving, he’s in with a chance of representing us at the championships in a few weeks’ time.’

  It feels like I’m watching myself from a distance, like it’s all happening in slow motion. Oliver is a sports fanatic; I never had him down as a geeky board-game player.

  I feel cornered, like a rat in a cage but there’s nothing I can do.

  Liam skulks off and Oliver sits down, never taking his eyes off me.

  ‘I’ll do my best to teach him, miss,’ he says slowly, glancing down at his sling. ‘Even though my shoulder is really hurting.’

  EACH LETTER TILE EARNS A DIFFERENT SCORE WHEN PLAYED.

  As soon as Mrs Adams walks away, Oliver leans forward and grabs my wrist hard with his good hand.

  ‘I’ll paste you into the ground, you little freak,’ he hisses, digging his fingers into the soft tissue of my forearm. ‘Not just at Scrabble, either. I’ll get you back when you least expect it, for knackering up my shoulder.’

  He looks around, checks nobody is listening. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why Homer’s not called you into his office?’

  I shrug my shoulders. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing he’s got me worried.

  ‘It’s because I haven’t grassed you up, that’s why.’

  I wait. I know there’s more coming.

  ‘I’ll give out my own punishment when I’m ready.’ He grins and jabs his fingers in harder.

  I snatch my arm free and pick up the tile bag, giving it a shake.

  ‘Choose some g-good letters, F-F-Finlay.’ Oliver laughs. ‘You’ll need them. Oh, yeah, and ask for a miracle while you’re at it. You’re gonna need one of those to beat me, too.’

  I clench my jaw and dig deep into the lettered tiles.

  Oliver might have the upper hand when it comes to intimidating people, but I can still teach him a lesson in my own way.

  Oliver plays S-K-I-N-T. Quick as a flash I play T-W and T around his I.

  T-W-I-T.

  I look at him.

  He sticks his hand in the tile bag and glares back at me.

  ‘You’ll know all about what it feels like to be a massive twit,’ he growls, placing his new tiles on the rack.

  While I rummage around for three new letters, he plays I-N by the side of my T, making TIN. Three piddling points.

  I smile and reach for the X on my rack. I place it above Oliver’s I, straight on to a pale blue, double-word square. Eighteen tasty points for me.

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to say?’ he laughs out loud. ‘“Xi” isn’t a word, you moron. Play again.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You can’t have those points, you stinking cheat,’ he raises his voice. ‘You can’t just make up words.’

  Mrs Adams strolls over, arms folded.

  ‘What’s the problem here?’ She looks at the board and frowns.

  ‘He’s clueless, miss,’ Oliver says. ‘He can’t even spell properl
y. “Xi” isn’t a word; he can’t claim eighteen points for that.’

  ‘Actually, “xi” is a word, Oliver, it’s the name of a Greek letter.’ Mrs Adams smiles at me. ‘One of the most popular two-letter words played in Scrabble, in fact.’

  I smile back at her, just to get at Oliver.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this stupid game,’ Oliver snaps, throwing down the tile bag.

  ‘Now, now, come on, Oliver,’ Mrs Adams answers. ‘Your Duke of Edinburgh Award is all about helping others.’

  Oliver clenches his jaw and refuses to look at me while Mrs Adams stands and watches our next few turns.

  Oliver plays T-U-R-N, C-L-A-S-P and B-O-O-K.

  I play S-O-U-K, which is a Middle Eastern marketplace; add to existing letters to make V-E-N-T-R-O-U-S, meaning ‘adventurous’ – which gets me a score of sixty-five; and then, even though I have the letters to make up a higher-points word, I play T-H-U-G with a smirk in Oliver’s direction, for the satisfying score of watching his face turn a deep crimson.

  When the score reaches 358–179 in my favour, Oliver tips over his rack of letters, shoves his chair back and stalks off without saying a word.

  One of the sixth-formers, a tall girl who is wearing a headscarf, looks over. She gives me a little, mischievous smile.

  Mrs Adams shakes her head in disapproval as she watches Oliver leave.

  ‘I think, Maryam, we have a little Scrabble dark horse here,’ Mrs Adams says, looking at the girl and then back at me.

  ‘I think you might be right, Mrs Adams,’ the girl replies.

  Mrs Adams bends down closer to me.

  ‘So, Finlay, are you ready for your next challenge?’

  I look back at her.

  ‘Wh-wh—’

  ‘Is that a yes? I am pleased.’

  ‘Wh-wh-what –’

  ‘What is it? Well, your challenge is to play Maryam, in here tomorrow lunchtime.’ Mrs Adams grins and switches to a loud theatrical whisper behind her hand, as though Maryam can’t hear. ‘Don’t tell anyone but Maryam used to be a member of the Pakistani Youth Scrabble Team.’

  I look at Maryam. Tiny black sparkles twinkle at me from the edge of her headscarf.