by Kim Slater
‘That’s very good of you.’ Oliver narrows his eyes at Maryam. ‘But I don’t think there’s that much I could learn from you.’
Mrs Adams frowns and leans forward, pinning me to the spot with her magnified eyes.
‘What about you, Finlay? I’ve been waiting for a budding champion to walk into this library for years and now I’m lucky enough to have two very good players in you and Oliver.’
‘I d-don—’
‘You do? That’s splendid. Maryam will organize . . .’
I shake my head and look away from her.
‘It’s OK, Finlay,’ Maryam says. ‘You don’t have to decide now.’
Oliver grins.
‘Look, take some time,’ Mrs Adams says. ‘You can come and see me any time if you have any questions about the process.’
She looks so hopeful.
‘I d-don’t kn-know if I w-want to,’ I say at last.
‘He’s shaking like a leaf.’ Oliver sniggers. ‘How is he going to manage to play a game under pressure?’
‘Oliver.’ Mrs Adams sighs. ‘If you’re not interested in extra coaching and you’re here to try and undermine a fellow student, then you might as well leave right now.’
Oliver stares at his feet.
‘I’ll review the situation in a week’s time when we’ll have a play-off in the library. I can’t say any fairer than that.’ Mrs Adams peers down at Oliver through her spectacles. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind and you want to take the extra training with Maryam?’
Oliver smirks and shakes his head.
‘Next week I’ll make a decision about who will represent the school and who will be the substitute,’ Mrs Adams says. ‘You’ll both get to take part in the championships, either way.’
‘I’m the best,’ Oliver says as he starts to walk away. ‘We all know that.’
Mrs Adams shakes her head and sighs as she watches Oliver leave but she doesn’t say anything. For all of three seconds. ‘I’m pleased you’re going to take up the offer of extra training, Finlay,’ she witters. ‘I can clear a space for you in here most lunchtimes. And at weekends, I’m sure that my colleague at the youth club will be happy to provide a place for you and Maryam to use for training purposes.’
I think about confessing my worries about speaking at the championships as a reason for pulling out.
But then Mrs Adams says something that changes everything.
‘Of course, if you won a national title at such a young age, you’d create a media frenzy, Finlay. Everybody, all over the country would see what you’d achieved.’
Everybody. All over the country.
Although I’ve never wanted to be famous, or rich, or anything else lots of people at school seem to want to be, I suddenly realize that taking part in the championships could give me the one thing I want most in the world.
To make my mum proud.
I don’t know if or when I’ll get to see her again, but what if?
What if I do find Mum? What if (even though a big part of me thinks it’s totally crazy and I’m mad for even thinking it) she does live with Alex and his dad?
I’d want her to be proud of me. I’d want her to see that although words have beaten me in one way, I’ve conquered them in another.
Even if Mum doesn’t live with Alex, winning the championships could give me a way to finally make contact with her. Wherever she is now, there’d be a brilliant chance that she’d see my photograph if it was plastered all over the newspapers and possibly even on the TV.
A warm feeling channels down my arms and legs. Suddenly, I feel unstoppable.
‘I’ll d-do it,’ I say.
SUBSEQUENT WORDS PLAYED WILL BRANCH OUT ON TO SURROUNDING SQUARES.
The afternoon lessons pass in a bit of blur.
Miss Poole’s History lesson starts in 1831 in Ohio at the beginning of the travels of the Mormons. Five minutes before the end of class we’re in 1847, the Mormons have reached the Great Salt Lake and I’ve barely heard any of it.
I’m worried Alex might not make contact again. He might be fed up because I just cut him off last night.
When the final bell rings at the end of the afternoon, I pile into the corridor with everyone else and let the crowd-swell carry me to the main doors.
Someone thumps me hard in the back and sends me crashing into a girl.
‘S-sorry,’ I say. When she turns around, I see it’s Maryam.
She shakes her head in disgust at someone behind me.
‘What’re you looking at?’ Oliver snaps at her. ‘Why are you even in our country?’
I twist around and find he’s so close I can smell his sour breath.
‘I suppose you think you’re the Scrabble king now, you loser,’ he growls in my ear. ‘As if you’re good enough to play in the championships.’
‘Yeah, it’s Oliver who was supposed to be the one going to the championships, you moron,’ his mate Darren calls out.
‘Shut it, you idiot,’ Oliver snaps at him, his eyes darting around to see if anyone heard. ‘I wasn’t even bothered about going, anyway.’
Hot, clumsy bodies push and pull all around me. I feel a bit dizzy and turn back around but Oliver barges past, so now he’s in front of me.
‘You do realize you have to make a speech if you win, right?’ He laughs. ‘You’ll have to thank people and stuff. But you can’t even say your own flipping name, you loser. You’re gonna be such a laughing-stock, I can’t wait.’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
‘S-see y-ya, don’t wanna b-be ya!’ Oliver laughs and drops back to join his mates.
I look for Maryam to ask her if she’s OK, but she has disappeared into the crowd.
I loiter around the side of the building until I can see that Oliver and his mates are safely on the bus. Dad is only five minutes late.
When I climb into the van, he’s on a hands-free call, chatting to some bloke about the job in Brighton and he stays on the phone for most of the journey.
The van motors through the traffic and I stare blankly out of the window. When I think about speaking in front of lots of people at the championships, my chest feels all tight. I imagine standing at the front of a room packed with people who are belly-laughing at my pathetic efforts to spit out a few mangled words. In the front row, Oliver and his mates point and yell, telling everyone what a loser I am.
The van turns into the next street and we drive slowly past my old primary school. Mum used to pick me up from here when I was younger. We’d walk home together, call for ice creams in the summer and kick dry orange and yellow leaves at each other in the autumn.
I feel the tightness in my chest loosen off a bit.
National Scrabble Champion. I can imagine that newspaper headline, complete with my photograph so Mum is in no doubt it’s me.
Maybe she’ll see it at breakfast time, when she’s alone in a kitchen that looks just like ours used to be. Her eyes pop – her face lights up. A hand flies to her mouth. She’s been searching everywhere and she’s found me at last!
‘Bloody hell, Finlay, snap out of it!’ Dad bangs the steering wheel, making me jump. ‘Three times I’ve asked you now.’
The van has stopped outside the Co-op.
‘S-sorry,’ I say.
‘Well, which is it? Sausage, or fish fingers with your chips and beans?’
I’m not even hungry.
‘F-fi—’
‘Fish fingers it is then.’ Dad jumps out of the van.
I try to go back to the comforting pictures of Mum but they’ve lost all their colour.
Now, all the images in my head just look flat and unreal.
WORDS CAN SPREAD OUT FROM THE INITIAL WORD PLAYED, IN ANY DIRECTION.
After we’ve had tea, I leave Dad making a list of what he needs to take with him to Brighton tomorrow, and I shoot upstairs to my room.
A second after I log in, the message box pops up.
Fancy a game? A
My stomach is c
hurning with relief, but also with nerves. How I can get Alex talking about his stepmum again without it looking obvious?
There’s so much at stake.
Sorry I broke off early yesterday . . . had the runs!! I type.
I don’t know where the fib came from, but it sounds convincing.
Bad luck, he replies.
Usually, I’d want to stop the chatter and get on with the game but I need to keep Alex talking without raising his suspicions.
Just remembered you had trouble last night . . . you OK? Your stepmum OK?
Yeah, everything’s blown over, he says.
Think. Think. What else can I say about it?
Your stepmum sounds a bit moody.
I need him to talk about her.
Yeah, she can be. Your mum the same?
Now what do I say? My mum left her family too, like your stepmum? Or I could say: Actually, I think your stepmum could be my mum.
Not my best idea, it could scare Alex off. I really want to find out more about who he lives with but I don’t want him to get tired of me asking questions. I’d like us to be friends.
My mum is away atm, I type. With work.
Quick as a flash he comes back.
What does she do?
She has her own IT company.
Cool! What’s it called? Alex comes back quickly.
This is turning into a big fat spiderweb of lies.
She doesn’t like me giving out her details online. Soz, I write back.
I wait for Alex to enter his first word on the board but nothing happens.
My dad is in IT, he says. I’m a bit of a computer whizz, too!
I’m pleased we’ve moved away from the subject of Mum now, I’ve got a chance to find out a bit more about Alex himself.
The back door slams and I hear Dad call goodbye as he leaves the house to do a couple of local jobs.
Cool. My dad has his own joinery business.
I travel with my dad during sch hols, Alex says. He works in Manchester, London, Nottingham & Glasgow. You anywhere near any of those places?
He comes to Nottingham. He comes to Nottingham!
I imagine meeting up with Alex, going bowling or to the cinema. We could even play Scrabble, here at my house. And then I remember that he doesn’t know the real me. He doesn’t know about my stutter.
Let’s get the game started, I type, hoping Alex doesn’t notice that I haven’t answered his question.
We’re ten minutes into the game but I can tell that Alex’s heart isn’t in it.
He’s coming up with really short words that have tiny scores, as if he’s putting no effort at all into playing. I don’t want to decimate him by playing up to standard. That’s not what friends do to each other.
So, do you get to speak to your mum when she’s working away? he types.
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. I want to find out information about his family, not the other way round.
I try to think of an answer that’s not an outright lie. It’s difficult.
She rings or emails if she can. Haven’t heard from her much this time.
Why’s that?
Dunno, just haven’t spoke to her for a while.
Before he can reply, I type again.
What does your stepmum do for a job?
A short pause, then:
She’s like your mum . . . doesn’t like me talking about it online.
I suppose I asked for that one.
We finish the game and Alex says he hasn’t got time for another so we say our goodbyes and he logs off.
I look around. I can feel the silence of the house pressing up against my bedroom door. Dad will be out for ages but I hear a couple of scratches from Neville’s cage.
I wait a few minutes but he doesn’t poke his head out to say hello.
Thursday, 14 May
Dear Mum,
When I close my eyes to go to sleep, I go through this daft routine in my mind where I run through the reasons you might have left.
I don’t know why I do it but it started the first night you’d gone and I’ve just kept going with it.
Some of the reasons are:
• Someone ABDUCTED [14] you. Obviously I don’t like this one because you might’ve got hurt, but in a way it’s my favourite, because it means you hadn’t got a choice but to go.
• You lost your memory. Maybe you went somewhere up north or down south like you’d been doing those last few months, for an important meeting. You lost your memory and you still don’t remember anything about who you are or where you came from. After two years? It could still be possible, I guess. If I ignore the fact that Dad said you’d planned to go.
• You got lost. Yeah, I know. Getting lost in the UK for two whole years isn’t really possible.
But that’s the best thing about my reason-for-leaving routine: anything counts and anything is considered. I’m still thinking of reasons. And now Alex has planted a new reason in my head that I don’t like one bit.
• You left to start a new family, somewhere else.
I know this sort of thing happens. But it’s the kind of thing I thought only happens to other people. Could it really be possible that I’ve met your new stepson online?
Surely, that wouldn’t be so much a coincidence as a miracle.
Some nights, I pray that I’ll have a dream which reveals the truth about what really happened to you – or at least gives me a clue. Anything.
And I pray hard that one day, you’ll come back.
But now I’m starting to realize that hoping you’ll come back is pointless, because even when I do dream about you, nothing ever works out the way I want it to.
In my dreams, you just pick up your handbag and suitcase and walk out the door without looking back. And the reason is obvious. It’s always the same.
You just don’t want us any more.
Love,
Finlay x
PLAYERS TAKE THEIR TURNS IN A CLOCKWISE DIRECTION.
Friday
Definition of a good morning at school = keeping out of Oliver’s way. So I suppose you could say I had a good morning.
At lunchtime I went straight to the library for my first training session with Maryam. It felt great having somewhere to go instead of sitting round the back of the Science Block or outside the PE store, waiting for the bell to go.
Sixth-formers can wear what they like but Maryam is dressed in school uniform and wears a black headscarf with sparkly silver dots all over it.
Her skin is smooth and pale brown and her eyes are dark and glitter with something that looks like a cross between amusement and mischief.
‘Hey!’ She plonks herself down at the table that Mrs Adams has set up for us in a quiet corner of the library. ‘Been looking forward to this, have you?’
Maryam’s English is excellent. Her accent sounds strong and proud and the way it mixes in with the local slang she’s picked up is addictive to listen to.
‘You don’t have to do extra training, you know, if you don’t want to. But Mrs Adams has got her hopes firmly pinned on you and Oliver.’
I shift around in my seat.
‘Lucky Finlay, eh?’ She sticks out her tongue and grins.
Maryam is not what I expected. At all.
From a distance she seems shy, aloof, even. She wasn’t this chatty in front of Mrs Adams.
‘Don’t say much, do you?’ She pulls a face. ‘If I had a stammer, I’d still want to be heard.’
I look at her.
‘I mean, if your eyesight was not so good, you would still look at the world around you, yes?’
She’s being very direct and I’m being very quiet. There’s a feeling in my chest like when I bolt my food down too fast.
‘No matter if you ignore me, I am used to it,’ she shrugs. ‘Nobody wants to talk to the headscarf girl around here.’
I don’t want Maryam to think I’m racist or anything. And I am grateful she’s giving up her time to help me impro
ve my game.
So I try.
‘Th-th-thanks f-for –’
I know exactly what she’s thinking. ‘Stammer’ and ‘stupid’ mean the same thing to most people.
I wait for her to laugh at me but her expression doesn’t change.
‘Th-thanks f-f—,’ I mumble.
‘Go on.’
‘Th-thanks f-for c-coaching me,’ I croak finally.
‘You are most welcome,’ she says, and spins the board round on its turntable. ‘Better get started.’ Maryam reaches for a laptop on the chair next to her. ‘First thing I will show you is a way of getting much better at Scrabble without even touching the board. Intriguing, yes?’
She gives me a quick demonstration of some word-game software.
‘It is a word-study tool, used by the top players. You must schedule in half an hour each day to train on it,’ Maryam says, closing the laptop again. ‘Within one week or perhaps two, you will notice improvement in your play.’
I like the idea of training up on software, and for the first time, I feel relieved that Dad is away in Brighton. He moans about the amount of time I’m spending on the computer as it is.
Maryam glances at her watch.
‘We have time for a quick game. Let’s see what you can do, Finlay McIntosh.’
I put my tile bag on to the table.
‘Pretty,’ she says, running a finger over the delicate embroidery. ‘Did you sew this?’
She gives me a cheeky grin.
‘M-my m-mum.’ I scratch at a mark on the tabletop.
Mum would’ve loved the fact I was training with Maryam, an ex-national player.
‘Does she play Scrabble with you, your mother? What is her name?’
I shake my head and look down at my hands. I don’t know why I’m letting it get to me.
‘I am so sorry,’ Maryam says, softly. ‘Have I upset you?’
I shake my head. ‘Her n-name is Ch-Christa. Sh-she l-left.’
Maryam looks at me for a long moment but she doesn’t say anything else about Mum.
We select our first seven tiles and I draw first turn.
‘Let’s go.’ Maryam starts the timer.
I shuffle my letters around and will my fingers to stop wobbling. Nothing jumps out at me from my rack. I can’t get the letters to start joining up in my mind.