A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  I thought about making you a card, I really wanted to. But I couldn’t bring myself to say so to Mr Cawthorne, in the end. See, Mum, it makes a difference that you haven’t died. It’s like the rules no longer apply because you’re just gone.

  I’ve done everything I can think of, to find out where you are. I’ve googled every possible spelling of your name, married and maiden surnames, old addresses. I even rang the IT firm you used to work for, but I got nothing. If I were a twenty-five-year-old man, I might get a bit further. I could pay for a private investigator to help track you down or at least make enquiries with the people who knew you.

  But soon as I speak to anyone on the phone, I just sound like a sad little kid that’s trying to find his mum and nobody takes me seriously at all.

  I’ve tried to talk to Dad about it but soon as I mention your name, it’s like this heavy curtain comes down over his face. His features set into that same grim look, like when you two used to argue and you’d make him feel stupid with all your clever words.

  A couple of months after we’d moved house, I holed myself up in my bedroom and wouldn’t come downstairs at all. I’d been trying to make a video message for my old mates, but the words wouldn’t come out right. Dad came in to try and talk me into coming down for tea and my webcam recorded our conversation. I’ve watched it so many times, when I close my eyes, it’s like I can see it playing in my head:

  ‘W-w-what if Mum n-needs our h-help?’ I shout at him. ‘W-what if s-s-s-something’s happened to her, and she can’t get b-back home? We can’t just f-forget about her.’

  ‘Trust me, Finlay, your mum is OK.’

  ‘But h-how do you know that?’ I yell. ‘Have you heard from her and n-n-not told m-me?’

  ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything from your mum. I give you my word that if I do, I will tell you.’

  ‘Then h-how do you know she’s OK?’ I scowl at him. You can see me balling my hands into fists on the video. ‘How do you know she’s n-n-not waiting for us to f-find her?’

  If you watch closely, you can see a CHINK [14] appear in Dad’s ‘face curtain’. But what it reveals isn’t light or hope. It is the blackest darkness, like when there’s been a power cut and not a single glint of light is left.

  Dad says, ‘I know your mum’s OK because she took her name off our joint bank account. She cancelled her running magazine subscription and she even told the lady who takes her yoga class she wouldn’t be coming any more. She changed the parental contact details at your school into my name only.’ Dad grasps my shoulders and looks at me, his eyes dark and shining. ‘That’s how I know, Finlay. She doesn’t want to be found.’

  You told everyone who mattered you were going, Mum. Except for me and Dad. You didn’t tell us anything at all.

  There has to be a reason, an explanation. People like you don’t just disappear.

  Do you still think of me as your son if you chose to leave me behind? Or have you forgotten me already?

  I don’t think I will ever forget you.

  Love,

  Finlay x

  A PLAYER WILL WIN FIRST TURN OUTRIGHT IF THEY SELECT A BLANK TILE.

  Later that morning when I get to school, Mrs Adams pokes her head out of the library doors as I walk past.

  ‘Now, Finlay, don’t go forgetting about your Scrabble game with Maryam this lunchtime.’ She speaks slowly, like I might have a problem understanding. ‘Afterwards, we can have a chat about the game and Maryam might even give you some tips on how to improve.’ Her voice follows me down the corridor.

  I turn and give a little nod, swallowing down a sickly taste.

  Speaking to Maryam means forcing words out, like pushing crusty old toothpaste through a bunged-up tube.

  First, there’s double Maths to get through but I don’t mind that. Numbers are practical and straightforward, and best of all, it’s a subject where hardly any talking is needed.

  In Scrabble, it doesn’t matter if you know the meaning of a word, it’s the score that is more important to the game.

  Mr Trevor asks for volunteers to solve the equation on the whiteboard.

  Predictably, there is silence.

  ‘Finlay, we haven’t had the benefit of your maths expertise for a while, why don’t you have a crack at it?’

  My heart slumps into my shoes. A few teachers think that speaking in front of everyone will help cure a stammer. Mr Trevor is one of them.

  A flash of laughter erupts from the back row.

  ‘Is it f-four, Finlay? Or maybe it’s f-fifty-f-five.’

  I press my palms into the desk but my hands still shake.

  ‘Oliver,’ Mr Trevor bellows, ‘if you’re feeling cleverer than usual this morning, perhaps you’d like to provide us all with the correct solution?’

  The laughter dies down.

  ‘Come up to the front, Finlay.’ He’s all upbeat and jolly. ‘You can tell us the answer and then pop it on the whiteboard so we can all see it.’

  My face feels hot when I stand up. Maybe I can get through this without saying anything at all.

  Not everyone needs words to get stuff said. There’s this actual whistling language called Yupik that Inuits in Alaska still use. Words get lost across massive mountain ranges and crazy-steep canyons. The best way to talk to other people over long distances is by whistling.

  Children who speak Yupik learn to whistle their own names. I wonder what Finlay would sound like? If I knew, I could whistle it instead of juddering through all those false starts before my name finally pops out. I could even whistle my maths answer to Mr Trevor right now.

  Something small and hard hits the back of my head as I walk over to the whiteboard. An eraser bounces off into the corner of the classroom.

  Silently I solve the equation and write the answer on to the board. I can see Mr Trevor’s mouth moving but he sounds as if he is underwater. I wipe my clammy hands on my trousers and try to breathe normally when I walk back to my seat. It feels like I’m in one of those dreams where you need to run fast but you can only walk like an astronaut.

  There are snorts of laughter from the front row behind me and I can see Oliver in the back row ahead of me. His mouth is in the ‘F-F-Finlay’ shape but blood is rushing in my ears and I can’t tell exactly what he is saying.

  Then Mr Trevor claps his hands and the sounds around me become crystal clear again.

  ‘Calm down,’ Mr Trevor’s voice booms, ‘or you’ll all be staying in at break.’

  I purse my lips and pretend I’m whistling in Yupik. I blow out the air but I don’t actually make a sound, not a whisper. Oliver Haywood, you are a sad, ugly loser. I could whistle that right in his face if I were an Inuit and he’d never even know what it means.

  When the bell rings at the end of the second Maths session, I sit on the little patch of scrubby grass behind the Science Block and read through my anagram notebook, just for something to do until it’s time to go to the library.

  I hardly ever go into the bull ring, as I call the dining hall.

  Once, my parents had been arguing for about a week over something. I could hear them even though they always closed the kitchen door. After that, Dad booked a surprise long weekend to Seville in Spain for Mum’s birthday.

  Seville is a beautiful city but they haven’t banned bullfighting, like Barcelona has.

  The tour guide took us to a bull ring and told us how they drugged the bulls so all the odds were stacked against the animal.

  ‘People can be horribly cruel, Finlay,’ Mum said. ‘Never forget that.’

  In the dining hall, I am one of those bulls. I even feel drugged.

  It doesn’t matter if you sit quietly in a corner minding your own business or near the lunchtime supervisors, someone always starts prodding you for a reaction.

  I pull a small plastic bag out of my rucksack. There wasn’t much in the house to bring for lunch, so today it’s just a slice of bread and jam, an apple and an out-of-date yogurt.

&nb
sp; With Dad rushing about so much, he sometimes just forgets to get anything in apart from stuff for tea on the way home, but today it doesn’t matter because I’m not hungry at all.

  I feel a bit nervous, which is silly.

  I’m starting to wonder why I agreed to play Scrabble with Maryam in the first place. She used to play for Pakistan, she’s going to turn me into pizza topping.

  By the time I reach the library doors, I’ve convinced myself that the whole thing is a really bad idea. My throat feels dry and tight, as if the words are already lining up in there, ready to spill out in a stammer-fit the second I open my mouth.

  You don’t have to do this.

  It’s that voice in my head that encourages me to stay silent because it knows what an idiot I make of myself. Today, I think the voice is correct. I really don’t have to put myself through this: I can just say I forgot about the game.

  I manage to take just three steps in the other direction when the library doors whoosh open behind me.

  ‘Finlay, you’re right on time,’ Mrs Adams calls and steps out into the corridor. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all morning.’

  She propels me back around and we walk into the library together.

  All morning, I’ve imagined the entire Scrabble club, including Oliver Haywood, gathered like a small mob around the table where Maryam and I will play like bugs under a microscope.

  But when I get inside the library, nobody is in there at all, apart from Mrs Adams and Maryam.

  ‘We’re closing the library for half an hour this lunchtime so you and Maryam get to play in peace.’ Mrs Adams smiles and bustles back towards her office. ‘That OK with you, Finlay?’

  ‘Th-th—’

  ‘You’re very welcome. Would you like a glass of water?’

  ‘Pl, pl—’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  I bite down on my tongue.

  Maryam steals a glance at me, rolls her eyes and grins.

  THE FIRST WORD MUST BE PLACED IN THE CENTRE OF THE BOARD AND UTILIZE THE ‘STAR’ SQUARE.

  Everything is laid out on a small table ready for play. There’s the Scrabble board, set on a proper turntable, a tile bag and even a professional-looking digital timer.

  Mrs Adams comes back with two glasses of water.

  The strip light above us lights up the board so it is stark and bright. Everything feels out in the open.

  Maryam sits down and I shrug off my blazer and hang it over the back of my chair.

  ‘Anything else you need, Finlay?’ Mrs Adams asks.

  I don’t want to speak and look stupid but there is something else I need.

  Maryam leans back in her chair, watching me.

  ‘C-could we use m-my, m-my –’

  Try as I might, I can’t get past the simple word ‘my’.

  Maryam stares, like she’s only just seeing me for the first time.

  ‘Would you like to write it down, Finlay?’ Mrs Adams asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Spell it out in Scrabble tiles?’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Tiny beads of sweat bubble across my upper lip.

  ‘C-could we use m-my t-tile b-bag?’ I manage eventually.

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Adams says. ‘No problem at all.’

  She scurries off to fetch something.

  I slip Mum’s tile bag from my rucksack. The muted tinkle of the tiles on the board sounds like whispered secrets.

  ‘How long have you had a stammer?’ Maryam asks softly.

  People usually snigger or whisper behind my back. Nobody ever asks me anything directly about my stutter.

  My face feels hot and I look away but she waits for an answer.

  ‘F-f-forever,’ I say, because that’s what it feels like.

  I used to think I had a bit of a stammer before Mum left, but I realize it was nothing, compared to now.

  Maryam wins the draw and begins the game with V-E-X-E-D, using a blank tile for the X and earning her a very respectable thirty-two points.

  My heart begins to thump faster as I study my tiles and realize an explosive way to use one of Maryam’s E’s. I add two of my letters above and below it, to make H-E-X, scoring twenty-five points because I use two double-letter squares.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Maryam says.

  I catch movement from the corner of my eye and lose concentration for a moment as my body floods with dread at the prospect of Oliver barging in on our game, but it’s just Mrs Adams, edging closer to watch.

  My heart sinks when I pull a J as one of my tiles, but when Maryam plays K-I-T-E for nine points, I’m able to use the J on my next turn, playing J-A-C-K-S and taking in a double-word square for a tasty thirty-six points.

  A couple of turns later, Maryam hits back with Q-U-I-P-S, earning forty-eight points by using a triple-letter square.

  One of us lands a good, hard jab and then a couple of turns later, the other one recovers and comes back with a left hook.

  Seventeen minutes in, the score is 172–149 to Maryam.

  For the next couple of turns, Maryam continues to pull slowly ahead. When I glance at the clock again, I realize we have just two minutes of play left and the score is now 211–179 to her.

  ‘You get the last turn, Finlay.’ She smiles.

  I nod and stick my hand into the tile bag. I don’t mind losing, Maryam is obviously a much better player than me. And then I land the Z.

  As I place it on my tile rack and begin to fiddle around with my letters to see what I can get, the realization hits me. My anagram training kicks in and the nonsensical mix on my rack suddenly reads B-A-Z-O-O-K-A.

  I transfer all seven of my letters on to the board.

  ‘Bingo,’ Mrs Adams gasps. ‘You got a Bingo!’

  I utilize Maryam’s S and a triple-word square and B-A-Z-O-O-K-A-S earns me 119 points.

  Mrs Adams chalks up the final score: 211–298. To me.

  THE ‘STAR’ SQUARE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BOARD EARNS THE FIRST PLAYER A DOUBLE-WORD SCORE.

  Maryam reaches over to shake my hand. ‘A brilliant finish. Congratulations.’

  ‘Very well done, Finlay,’ Mrs Adams drawls, like I’m a three-year-old. She pulls up a chair. ‘I feel a little silly now, assuming you didn’t know how to play the game yesterday.’

  Maryam starts to bend the board into a funnel shape and all the tiles tumble into a long, narrow pile.

  ‘Y-you haven’t t-taken a ph-photograph,’ I say, even though it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  ‘A photograph?’ Maryam’s eyebrows knit together.

  ‘Of th-the b-board.’

  ‘That’s not common practice, apart from championship games,’ Mrs Adams says.

  A couple of weeks before she left, Mum took a photograph of every single one of our finished games.

  Maybe she meant to take them with her for memory’s sake but I found them in an envelope in my desk drawer.

  I shrug and reach for the tile bag.

  ‘So, you are not a member of a Scrabble club, Finlay?’ Maryam asks.

  ‘N-no,’ I say. ‘I p-play on-on—’

  ‘Online,’ Mrs Adams says, stretching out the word. ‘He plays online.’

  When people finish my sentences, the flow of words sometimes seizes up completely. I can’t really blame people for doing it, they’re bound to get fed up of waiting.

  I watch all the letters mix and tangle into one big mess as they fall into the bag.

  ‘There’s no substitute for the excitement of playing one to one,’ Mrs Adams comments.

  I’m not going to join the after-school club, if that’s what she’s hinting at.

  We all look up as someone raps on the library-door glass. My heart begins to bump against my chest, like it’s trying to burst out.

  ‘Ah, excellent timing.’ Mrs Adams beams as she gets up.

  A face presses against the glass and I suddenly feel very sick.

  ‘Come in, Oliver.’ She unlocks the library door and Oliver sl
ouches in, leaving Darren and Mitchell waiting outside.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a lunchtime club on today.’ Oliver glares over at me.

  ‘There isn’t,’ Mrs Adams says lightly. ‘But I’m glad you dropped by, Oliver. I have a little proposal for both you . . . and Finlay.’ She looks at Maryam.

  I catch my breath before it chokes me.

  Please don’t ask me to partner up with Oliver, I silently repeat in my head.

  ‘How would you boys feel about getting some extra coaching in, with a view to entering the National School Scrabble Championships?’ Mrs Adam’s face lights up. ‘You’d get to represent the school.’

  There’s a weird mix of excitement and dread sloshing around in my stomach.

  ‘I thought you said I was going to be the one representing the school.’ Oliver folds his arms in a huff.

  ‘Well, if you cast your mind back, what I actually said is that you were definitely in with a chance, Oliver.’ Mrs Adams has got this habit of closing her eyes when she speaks and her eyelids flicker like she’s having a bad dream. ‘If the school puts two players forward, that will increase our chance of success.’

  ‘I’m not playing with him,’ Oliver says sulkily. ‘He can’t even speak properly.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ Mrs Adams’s voice sharpens.

  Entering the championship might mean I’ll have to actually talk to people. I’ll have to say my name and school at the very least . . . in front of crowds of people.

  I loosen my tie and hold my collar away from my neck to get a bit of air in.

  ‘Maryam has very kindly agreed to coach both of you,’ Mrs Adams says.

  ‘How come she’s not entering if she’s so good?’ Oliver says slyly.

  ‘I played competitively for three years in Pakistan,’ Maryam replies. ‘But it was my uncle’s dream, I am afraid, not mine. But I am very happy to help you both to improve your game.’