by Kim Slater
I can almost feel Maryam’s eyes burning into the top of my head as I slump over my tiles.
Twenty seconds before the end of my turn, I come up with pathetic L-A-C-E. Twelve measly points.
I don’t want to look at Maryam, but after a few seconds I glance up anyway. She isn’t laughing, she isn’t looking at me at all. She is focused on her tile rack like it’s the only thing in the room.
She plays J-E-T-E-S for fourteen points.
Then she spins her tile rack around to show me her letters. It feels like I’m cheating.
‘Don’t look so shocked,’ she laughs. ‘This is how you will learn.’
She points to her rack.
‘Do you see how I could have played J-E-L-L-Y for twenty points using the double-letter square and the L of your word?’
She’s going easy on me. She played a word worth fewer points because she thinks I’m useless.
‘I am playing tactically,’ Maryam explains. ‘Now I have used up the available E and the triple-letter square, I am guessing you will find it far more difficult to get a decent score from the other letters.’
Let me get this right. She’s choosing the best word to put obstacles in my way, making my game more difficult. She’s not being kind, she’s being ruthless.
‘If I can force you to miss a couple of turns because I am using all the best letters, your overall score is going to suffer, see?’ She smiles like she’s doing me a favour.
I do see, and I can’t help smiling too. It’s a different approach I’ve never considered before.
Maryam glances at my tile bag and then her eyes lock on to mine. ‘In Scrabble, as in life, the most obvious action is not always the most effective.’
PLAYERS CAN ONLY PLAY ONE WORD PER TURN.
Second period in the afternoon is Biology and we are learning about animal behaviour.
I ignore the tight, wet balls of chewed-up paper that Oliver and his gang ping over at me. Every so often, one hits my back or my head and his gang all make a dinging noise. I ignore that, too.
‘Can’t you move somewhere else?’ one of the girls on my row hisses at me.
I look around but there’s only one spare seat right at the back on Oliver’s row.
We’ve got a supply teacher this session because our usual teacher is off ill. The stand-in teacher has come up with a quiz. She numbers the class rows, one to five. ‘So to recap, all rows will compete against each other. Each row is presented with a question and if that row gets it wrong, or doesn’t know the answer, it’s up for grabs for extra points to the other rows.’
The questions start easy and get harder. Ten minutes in, all the rows are on level pegging and the teacher ups the difficulty.
‘Row one, what is the term used for the process where ducklings and other baby birds recognize their mother immediately after hatching?’
Row one look blankly at each other.
‘Dunno, miss,’ someone mutters.
‘Anyone else?’ She scans the class.
I happen to know that the process is called imprinting, discovered by Konrad Lorenz, an Austrian scientist. But if I volunteer and try to say the word ‘imprinting’, I know I’ll be lucky to get past ‘imp’. So I don’t raise my hand.
Nobody speaks up.
‘OK, so that process is called imprinting,’ the teacher confirms. ‘Write it down in your exercise books, please.’
Row two get their question wrong: an example of instinctive behaviour in animals.
I can think of two examples; a spider building a web or a newly hatched turtle moving towards the sea. I stay quiet and nobody else answers it.
‘Row three,’ the teacher calls. ‘Bats, owls and hamsters are active during the twilight hours. What do we call animals who display this type of activity?’
‘Nocturnal, miss,’ someone on row three calls out.
‘Good try but that’s the wrong answer, I’m afraid. Anyone else?’ the teacher looks around the class.
The answer is crepuscular, like Neville.
Heat channels through my face and hands. The bottom of my back is hot and damp.
If I can call the answer out, my row will move ahead, we might even win the quiz.
I repeat the word silently. Crepuscular.
It sounds fine in my head, with no stammer mucking it up. I really want everyone to see that I know the answer. For once, I want to be the smart one in class, like I used to be before the stammer got worse.
My fingers are wriggling, my arm is itching to fly up into the air.
The teacher’s eyes fix on to mine. She recognizes the signs that I might speak up.
‘Your name?’ she consults her class plan.
‘F-F-Fi—’
She opens her eyes wide, questioning again. ‘Name?’
I imagine the back row, just waiting for me to mess it up. I take a deep breath and try again.
‘F-F-Fi—’ It just won’t come.
Oliver and friends erupt into hysterical laughter but the teacher has finally clicked that I’m finding it difficult.
‘Come on, you can do it. Take your time, we’re all behind you.’
‘Yeah, we’re behind him all right and it’s not a pr-pretty si-sight,’ Oliver quips.
The other rows turn round to watch me.
It feels like someone’s holding a Bunsen burner close to my face. I think my whole head might actually blow off any second.
‘Miss, he’s useless, he can’t even –’
‘One more word out of you and the whole class gets a detention.’ She points her finger at Oliver and everyone groans. ‘We’ll be respectful and wait until this young man can tell me his name.’
She raises her eyebrows and smiles at me. ‘Your name?’
‘J-J-Jack,’ I manage.
I can say Jack. I can’t say Finlay without a real struggle. Some days, I can’t say Finlay at all.
‘Miss, he’s an idiot, his name isn’t –’
‘Enough,’ the teacher snaps, glaring Darren into silence. ‘Now, Jack, are you going to have a go at answering the question?’
Muffled laughter from the back row.
I take a breath. Can I risk it?
If I break it into two halves, the word might be easier to say. I can do it.
Crep-uscular.
If I put my mind to it, I know I can do it.
‘It’s n-no use asking J-Jack, m-miss,’ Oliver yells from the back. ‘W-we’ll be here all d-d-day.’
Pockets of sniggering break out around the class.
‘Do you know the answer or not, Jack?’ the supply teacher asks, impatient now.
My fingers stop wriggling.
I shake my head.
The word is still there, wanting to be spoken, but I swallow it down like a lump of cold gristle.
‘Well, that was a hard one,’ she sighs. ‘The answer is crepuscular. Write it down, please.’
AFTER EACH TURN, PLAYERS SELECT FURTHER TILES FROM THE TILE BAG.
Soon as the bell rings, I grab my bag and head for the classroom door. Dad’s in Brighton so no lift tonight but if I can get a head start and get on the bus first, I might avoid running into Oliver.
I can see the first school bus is in and it’s filling up fast.
‘How you doing, J-Jack?’ Oliver clamps his hand down hard on my shoulder and his mates gather round us. ‘It is J-Jack, isn’t it?’
I try to shrug his hand off but he grips harder, even though he’s using his bad arm which is still in a sling. Other students stream out of the school on either side of us but nobody gives us a second glance, they all just want to get home.
‘My shoulder’s almost back to normal now, so I thought I might repay the compliment,’ Oliver snarls. ‘I could’ve reported you but I kept my mouth shut, so I could give you this.’
He reaches for something Mitchell is holding and I see too late, it’s a cricket bat.
I manage to get my hand up just before Oliver cracks the bat down but my elbow takes a hit.
I cry out in pain.
‘That’s the first time I’ve heard him say owt without stuttering,’ Darren says.
Oliver laughs. ‘It’s his fingers I want. Let’s see him play Scrabble when a couple are broken. Hold him still, lads.’
‘St-stop!’ I yell. ‘St-stop it!’
Darren and Mitchell grab an arm each and Oliver moves in front of me, pulling his arm out of his fake sling so he can get a better swing with the bat.
His face is pale and dotted with angry, red spots. His eyes look crazed and dark.
I feel like I can’t get enough air. I think I’m going to be sick.
‘Hold his hand in front, Daz,’ Oliver instructs. He begins to raise the bat.
‘Move on, lads, you’re causing an obstruction,’ Mr Homer calls from the entrance steps. I twist round to catch his attention and he frowns, takes a few steps forward. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘Nothing, sir, just having a bit of fun,’ Oliver calls and drops the bat down by his side, out of Mr Homer’s sight.
Darren and Mitchell release my arms and the three of them push through the crowd towards the bus.
Oliver turns back and grabs my arm.
‘I’ll get you next time and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll never get the better of me, you wimp.’
I shake him off and start to move in the opposite direction. As I walk, I pray my legs won’t buckle and give way.
It takes me about forty minutes to walk home from school. It feels strange when I open the front door and step into the house. The silence feels thick and heavy, like it doesn’t want me there.
I close the door behind me, leaving my bag and shoes in the hallway.
My elbow throbs where Oliver whacked it. When I touch it, I can tell there’s going to be a big bruise soon.
In the sitting room I sit by the window but I don’t put the telly on.
A group of teenagers I recognize from my year at school walk by, rollerblades slung over their shoulders. The boys wear beanie hats and the girls have their hair tied up in ponytails. Roller Planet is on the Castle Marina retail park, about a twenty-minute walk from here, but I’ve never been. I’ve heard people at school saying there’s dance music and flashing lights. I imagine it’s a bit like the ten-pin bowling place me and my mates used to go to in Mansfield.
When you sit quietly, the house isn’t as silent as you first think. Our ancient refrigerator buzzes for one thing. A dog barks nearby and I can hear kids playing football in the next street, squealing and laughing.
We had a different house and different neighbours before Mum left. You could sometimes hear three-year-old Jack who lived next door, clonking the wall with his toys as he walked upstairs. His brother, Seth, was my class. A group of us used to play cricket up the top end of our street, away from where the cars were parked.
Later, when we went in, Seth used to play his electronic keyboard but Mum and Dad never minded the noise coming through the wall. I’d probably still be mates with Seth now if we hadn’t moved. I’d probably have loads of friends.
Dad said it was best we made a fresh start in a new place once Mum left, but it didn’t really feel like that. It felt like we were running away.
He kept saying it would get easier. He said that given time, we’d make a great, new life for ourselves, just me and him. He’d smile when he said it but his eyes still looked just as sad.
I remember asking him how long it would take, but he didn’t have an answer.
There’s a theory that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to get really good at something.
‘Bill Gates got access to a high school computer at the age of thirteen. That’s how he got his ten thousand hours of programming in,’ Mum said.
‘And in the ten thousandth hour he created Microsoft!’ Dad grinned. ‘So what are you waiting for, Finlay?’
Mum always used to laugh at the sarky stuff Dad said, but the last few months before she left, his joking around just seemed to make her angry.
‘You can achieve anything you want to, Finlay,’ she’d say, looking straight at me and ignoring Dad. ‘So long as you put in the hours and believe in yourself. Never let anyone tell you that you can’t do it. Especially people with zero ambition.’
Dad didn’t laugh then.
The ten-thousand-hour theory doesn’t apply to everything. I reckon I’ve spent a hundred thousand hours trying to figure out why Mum left and I’m still no nearer to the truth. But I guess the theory might just come in useful for getting me to the Scrabble championships.
If I can put the hours in and forget about the fact that I’ll have to talk in public, I might have a chance of pulling it off.
I’ve got plenty of time to think of an excuse if I change my mind. I could say I’ve got laryngitis or something. If I convinced Mrs Adams and Maryam I was ill, that would definitely get me out of it.
Worries are buzzing around my brain like wasps in a glass of pop. They crowd in, angrily, demanding answers. I can’t seem to find out what I need to know about Alex’s mum during our online chats. Deep down, I know the idea that his stepmum and my mum are the same person can’t possibly be true. But I can’t let it go. Not until I know for sure.
I’ve also been thinking about how cool it would be to meet up with Alex if he came to Nottingham. I know that can’t happen unless I start to trust him, tell him where I live and stop worrying about him finding out about my stammer. It’s great chatting online like normal mates. So surely there’s no harm in telling him a bit more about me.
‘How do you know this person isn’t a pervert?’ Maryam had asked me, when I told her I’d really like to meet up with Alex.
‘I j-just know,’ I said.
‘So, now you have developed psychic abilities that allow you to see who you are playing online? This will be very useful in your gameplay, Finlay.’
I wished I hadn’t bothered mentioning it to her at all. ‘I c-can just t-tell, OK?’
Maryam looked thoughtful. ‘There is one way you can be sure,’ she’d said eventually. ‘Skype him.’
I hadn’t thought about doing that.
The 5.32 to Lincoln rumbles past the back of the house and I realize I’ve been sitting staring out of the window for nearly an hour.
My stomach is grumbling, so I head into the kitchen to make a sandwich. Dad’s left some bread and when I look in the fridge I see there’s a slab of cheese and a pack of fat sausages.
Later, Alex and I start a game online.
Fancy a chat on Skype? I type in the message box.
Sure! His reply comes straight back. Give me five mins. You start.
So much for Maryam’s suspicious mind.
I play my first move and check Skype is open and that my webcam is on. After seven minutes, I check back to see if Alex is ready for our call.
You all set up? I ask. What’s your Skype name? I can call you now.
My digital clock ticks on a couple more minutes. I look out of the window at the endless grey sky, scudded over with clouds.
Maybe my message didn’t send properly. You set up now? I try again. Shall I call you?
The screen flickers and I look at the online Scrabble board. It doesn’t look quite right and then I realize why.
There is no little head and shoulders icon on his side. Alex is no longer online.
It’s nine o’clock and I don’t feel tired at all. I sit down next to Neville’s cage and wait for him to get up.
After a few seconds, I hear shuffling inside his house.
‘Hello, Neville,’ I call softly, laying down on my front and pressing my face up to the bars. His little furry face appears in the doorway of his plastic house. He sniffs the air and walks over to me.
‘Crepuscular, crepuscular, crepuscular,’ I say.
Neville snuffles and moves away to inspect his food bowl.
‘Maryam is s-suspicious of Alex,’ I tell him. ‘If we’d Skyped, I could’ve proved he’s who he says h-he is. But now . . .’
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Neville has found the bits of broccoli I’d sprinkled in his food bowl earlier.
‘Maybe something came up at home and A-Alex had to log off suddenly,’ I say. ‘I mean, stuff h-happens, right? Maybe his stepmum has found out he’s chatting online to a boy c-called Finlay.’
As I say the words, my eyes prickle. Only an idiot would fantasize that such a far-fetched thing could happen.
But I can’t stop doing it, I just can’t.
‘Maybe Alex is t-telling her all about me, right now.’
Neville looks up sharply from his food. His cheeks have expanded like tiny puffballs, full of broccoli and seeds. His beady black eyes bore into me. Even Neville can’t stretch the truth this far.
He turns and scurries back into his little house, as if he can’t wait to get away from my ridiculous ideas.
PLAYERS MUST KEEP THEIR LETTER RACKS REPLENISHED WITH A TOTAL OF SEVEN TILES THROUGHOUT THE GAME.
Saturday
My first thought when I wake up on Saturday morning is that there’s no school today, no Oliver to dodge.
My second thought is that it’s Dad’s second night away in Brighton.
I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
My elbow is sore and bruised, and the silence of the house fills my head until it’s almost like a roar.
I run through all the things I could do while Dad’s away, all the infinite possibilities.
I could actively not eat chips or beans or sausages or flaming fish fingers, for a start.
I could go bowling or to the cinema and hang around the market square afterwards. I could lean against one of the massive stone lions outside the Council House and watch the goths and the drunks squaring up to each other.
I could get the last bus home and walk through Victoria Park, where several people have been mugged recently, just to feel the fear and survive it.
OK, maybe not that last one.
The point is, I could do all these things and more, if I wanted to. But it is all stuff that’s not a lot of fun to do on your own.