by Kim Slater
‘I thank you for doing that, Finlay. But I failed both of us when I didn’t report him.’ She looks down and her voice drops to a whisper. ‘You see, when I spoke up at my old school and told the teachers, it just made everything worse.’
I rub my still-sore elbow and think of the times I’ve lied to Dad about a bruise or a torn blazer, to stop him coming into school. The teachers always think they can deal with bullies . . . but the teachers aren’t always there, in the quieter corridors or the dark corner of the cloakroom. They can’t stop things happening every single second of the day.
Sometimes, it might just be a push or a snigger. It might be hardly anything at all, not enough to report them for, anyway. But all those tiny things add up to something bigger that makes you hate yourself when you look in the mirror.
‘I-it’s not y-your f-fault,’ I say gently. ‘D-don’t feel b-bad.’
A fat tear rolls down her face and plops on to the cover of the book in her lap.
‘I thought myself stronger now, but I suppose we all try to tell ourselves that things have changed, when in fact, they’ve probably got even worse.’
I try to smile, but there is nothing I can say to help. Then the late bell rings, and we both get up and hurry our separate ways.
Wednesday, 20 May
Dear Mum,
Sometimes, there is the odd day that part of me feels thankful you left us.
There. I said it.
Today is one of those days. I’m glad you aren’t here to see what I’ve turned into. I’ve drifted through the day like a ghost, like a person that used to exist but nobody notices any more.
When I was younger, you were always so strong. It must have SAPPED [11] your energy trying to help me with my stammer, even though it wasn’t that bad then. Imagine that stammer magnified by ten times, and you’ll be a bit closer to understanding what it’s like now. On days like today, I feel glad you’re not here because I know I’d be such a disappointment to you.
You would say, ‘Speak out, Finlay. Be strong!’
But that’s easier said than done.
See, nobody knows I’m different until I start to speak. That moment you see the realization dawn in their eyes – the embarrassment, the amusement, sometimes the pity – and you realize they can’t wait to get away from you. That’s the moment something cracks a bit inside, deep down where no one else can see.
Maryam understands because she’s different too, in lots of people’s eyes. Different in a way she can do nothing about. Like me.
Course, we’ve both found ways to try and be less different. I can change what I want to say at the last minute, or word-swap, to make the sentences a little bit easier to get out.
And Maryam hides away inside herself, when she should be screaming out and refusing to listen to Oliver’s crap.
Nothing ever really works, we both know that.
Even so, I’ll try anything to stop the words from falling out like broken matchsticks. Even if that means holding my tongue when I’d really like to speak.
But there’s a price to be paid for trying to be invisible. Sometimes, swallowing down words makes my throat feel raw and it makes my stomach ache. Why am I the only one at school who has to look like a JABBERING [21] idiot when I try to say my own name?
I haven’t found an answer yet. I’m not sure there is one.
Maybe it’s the same as the reason you left home, Mum. That I did something bad, that I somehow deserved it. I want you to know I’m trying hard to be better now. I’m going to make you proud of me.
I’m going to show you I’m a boy worth knowing.
Not a ghost.
Love,
Finlay x
‘E’ IS THE MOST VERSATILE VOWEL TO HOLD.
Thursday
I was up until late last night, writing in my journal and thinking about how the stuff Maryam went through at her old school still affects how she feels and what she does.
I didn’t get a chance to talk to her at all yesterday because the sixth-formers had their mock exams. But yesterday wasn’t all bad. Oliver and his mates were on a sports trip, so I could relax for once.
This morning, it takes a couple of minutes after my alarm goes off before it dawns on me that today is the day I go head to head with Oliver. Mrs Adams will finally decide who she wants to put forward as the main contender in the school championships.
The morning goes quickly. Lessons aren’t too bad; all the teachers are winding down now for their staff-training day tomorrow and I only get hit twice with Oliver’s paper spit-balls.
When I get to the library at lunchtime, Oliver is already seated at the table, waiting.
‘You boys get yourselves comfortable and I’ll go and get two glasses of water,’ Mrs Adams chirps. ‘I’ve closed the library to general use.’
‘I know that witch from Pakistan has been teaching you cheat techniques,’ Oliver snarls, when Mrs Adams disappears. ‘So I’ll give you a choice. Let me win and I’ll leave you both alone. Or there’s the other choice . . . and I don’t need to tell you how miserable that will make you and your bomber girlfriend.’
I hold Oliver’s stare and a thin wire of heat rears up from my belly. If it’s the last thing I do, I want to beat him in this game because I know now how much he wants to win.
‘Ready to start?’ Mrs Adams appears with our water.
Oliver breaks eye contact and gives Mrs Adams a sickly smile.
‘Ready, miss,’ he says politely. ‘Your turn first, Finlay.’
It feels like there’s a knot, hard as a nut, lodged in my throat.
We select our letters and Mrs Adams starts the timer.
I play C-R-W-T-H for my first word.
No vowels for him to use. No helping him in any way.
Mrs Adams taps the word into her iPad just as Oliver opens his mouth to object that it isn’t allowed.
‘Excellent play, Finlay.’ Mrs Adams beams. ‘A crwth is an ancient stringed instrument.’
Oliver comes back with G-R-E-W, using the W of my word.
There’s a tap at the library door and I spot Maryam’s face peering through the glass panel. Mrs Adams springs up to let her in.
‘Careful,’ Oliver whispers, plunging his hand into the tile bag. ‘Make me look stupid and I will make the headscarf girl suffer.’
I reach for my letters and build up C-R-E-T-I-N underneath the C of C-R-W-T-H.
I smirk at Oliver, and Maryam gives an involuntary snort and quickly claps her hand over her mouth. Oliver’s eyes flash sparks at both of us and I allow myself a small smile. Mrs Adams turns to Maryam and asks her to keep track of the scoring.
While they are speaking, Oliver leans forward.
‘I don’t have to lay a finger on her,’ he whispers. ‘I can hurt her really bad with just words.’
I think about Maryam’s eyes, puddled with misery. How she stares into space when she starts thinking about what happened at her old school. The way she couldn’t bring herself to tell Mrs Adams or Mr Homer exactly what Oliver had said to her.
Do I really want to put her through that and worse, just because I’m too proud to let Oliver win a silly practice game? I feel confident that Mrs Adams knows exactly who the best player is.
I ignore my high-scoring letters and play T-A-N. Three points.
Maryam is trying to catch my eye. She has full sight of my letters from where she is standing. She’ll be baffled as to why I’m not playing the high-scoring words I could be.
Oliver’s confidence balloons.
He plays A-X-I-S, S-T-O-R-K and J-O-B.
I play R-A-G, B-A-N and A-M.
Mrs Adams frowns.
Maryam lets out a sigh behind me.
The timer sounds and Oliver stands up, holding his fists in the air.
While I put the tiles away, he smiles widely at Mrs Adams. ‘Told you I was the best, miss,’ he says with a grin. Before he leaves the table, he leans forward and whispers to me. ‘By the way, F-Finlay, you’ve still got che
wing gum in your n-n-nit-infested hair.’
While Maryam speaks to a concerned-looking Mrs Adams, I race out of the library to the toilets to look in the mirror. I thought I’d managed to get all the gum out on Tuesday night, but there are still a few sticky bits clinging to my hair.
I stare at myself in the mirror. After my game with Oliver, I realize he will never leave Maryam or me alone until he’s top dog at the Scrabble club again. He can’t stand not being the best, even though me being chosen for the championships doesn’t even affect his Duke of Edinburgh.
As I leave the toilets there is a yell.
‘Finlay, wait!’ Maryam flies down the corridor behind me.
I slow down but I don’t stop.
‘Finlay, what on earth was that?’
‘I d-don’t want to t-talk about it,’ I say, striding on towards the playground and looking straight ahead.
‘You’re going to have to talk about it. Mrs Adams is actually considering withdrawing you from the championships altogether and putting Oliver forward on his own.’
The floor swims beneath me.
Maryam seems shocked by how shocked I look.
‘Finlay, are you all right?’
I’m not all right. How could I have been such an idiot as to let Oliver get to me? Even if ‘Nicole’ turns out to be Mum, that’s not the end of it. I need to do well in the championships to prove to her I’m a son worth having. And if ‘Nicole’ isn’t Mum, then winning the championships is the only real chance I have to find her.
‘Finlay!’ Maryam grabs hold of my blazer collar but I shrug her off. I haven’t got time to explain everything to her now – I need to get back to Mrs Adams, to convince her that I should be the one entered into the schools championships, not Oliver.
I turn back towards the library and start walking.
‘Finlay,’ Maryam calls. ‘Please, speak to me.’
‘L-leave me al-alone!’ I shout, increasing my pace.
And she does. For the rest of the day.
IF A PLAYER IS NOT ABLE TO PLAY A WORD ON THEIR TURN, THEY ARE ENTITLED TO PASS, OR CAN EXCHANGE ALL THEIR LETTERS FOR NEW TILES.
I wait outside the locked library doors for the rest of lunchtime but the afternoon bell sounds before Mrs Adams returns.
As I drag myself to History, I get ready to deal with Oliver’s jibes about being the one chosen to represent the school, but when I get to the lesson, Oliver isn’t there. Still, I can’t seem to concentrate. Soon as the final bell sounds, I grab my bag and run upstairs, hoping to catch Mrs Adams before she goes home. My luck is in; I catch her locking up.
‘I’ve already told Oliver he’s our substitute,’ she says when I eventually manage to spit out enough words to make her understand that I want another chance to prove myself.
‘Y-you d-did?’ I haven’t seen Oliver all afternoon and now I realize why. He must be furious.
‘I’ve known you’re the better player all along.’ Mrs Adams nods, putting down her keys. ‘But I have to be seen to be fair, and if Oliver had also taken up Maryam’s offer of training and managed to improve, then I would have seriously considered him.’
I blow out a long breath.
‘As I explained to Oliver, he won today not because his game had improved but because your own game slipped for some reason. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you allowed him to win.’
I fidget but I don’t reply.
‘Maryam has explained to me some of the difficulties you’ve both had recently with Oliver,’ Mrs Adams continues. ‘I shall be speaking to Mr Homer about that tomorrow.’
I feel a lightness inside for the first time today – I’m so pleased that Maryam finally spoke up.
‘What I must be sure of is that you want to enter the championships, Finlay,’ Mrs Adams adds. ‘I’m aware I can be a little too . . . enthusiastic at times.’
‘Bossy’ is a far better word, but I decide to keep that opinion to myself.
‘I r-really do w-want to ent-ent—’ I nearly manage.
‘Enter? Good, well that’s settled then.’
I leave the library, relieved and drained. But mostly, I feel grateful that I have another chance.
For once, the quiet calm back home feels welcoming, even though I wish Dad wasn’t working away. I’m wound up inside, tight as a spring.
I find an ancient chicken tikka meal in the freezer and pop it into the microwave. I turn on the TV, scoff the ready meal and eat raspberry-ripple ice cream straight from the tub while watching three back-to-back re-runs of Family Guy.
I’m trying to get my mind to settle.
I wonder if I’ll ever find out the identity of the mysterious ‘Nicole’, or make a real-life friend of Alex. The two things seem to push and pull against each other. I’m scared that only one can win.
The light is fading rapidly outside, and soon Neville will be up. I think about bringing his cage downstairs so I’ll have someone to watch TV with.
Me and Neville don’t need words. When his little hands grip the bars and he looks at me, I know he understands.
People who know sign language move their hands, their faces and even their bodies to communicate with others. Like Neville, they let people know how they are feeling and they don’t even have to say one word out loud.
If I was deaf, people wouldn’t expect me to try and speak. But I’m not deaf, so everyone just thinks I’m stupid. Why does everybody put such importance on talking out loud? The spoken word is definitely overrated.
I can’t concentrate, so I turn off the TV, and that’s when I hear the noise.
It sounds as if someone just rattled the handle of the back door in the kitchen.
I sit really still, as though the sound of my breath will give me away. But give me away to who? I’m not expecting a caller.
There. There it is again, a sort of rattling noise.
It’s not windy out and visitors usually come to the front door and ring the bell.
My ears and hands feel hot but I’m not scared. It’s nothing.
I can hear my heart thudding louder with every second.
‘Grow a pair, Finlay!’ Dad would say with a laugh, if he were here now.
I stand up and creep across the room. From here, I have a good view of the kitchen. The back door itself is solid but to the left of it is a narrow, long window, with opaque patterned glass.
I’ve left the key in the lock. If someone were to smash the window, they could easily put their hand through and twist the key to open the door.
It will take about six strides to get to the door and snatch the key from the lock.
I take a step forward. At that moment, a shadow flits across the glass and disappears again.
Somebody is definitely out there.
The door handle rattles again and then there is a sharp knock. My stomach drops like a dead weight and I feel the ready meal and the ice cream sloshing dangerously together.
Another rattle, another knock. Then a muffled voice.
‘Finlay? It is me, Maryam. Open up.’
‘One s-second,’ I call.
My shoulders soften and I let out a little laugh. It sounds high-pitched and strange.
I quickly run the tap and take a deep slug of cool water, then I twist the key and open the door.
‘I thought you were never going to let me inside,’ Maryam says, stepping into the kitchen.
‘I h-had the T-TV on,’ I fib. ‘You sh-should’ve rung the d-doorbell.’
‘I remember you saying you always use the back door.’ Maryam frowns and holds something out to me. ‘I brought you the Advanced Anagram book I told you about last week.’
‘Th-thanks,’ I mumble and take the book without looking at it. I get the feeling it’s not the only reason Maryam has come over.
‘Finlay, I do not know what happened today. You were playing brilliantly and then you just went to pieces. You should have destroyed that idiot on the board.’
‘I kn-know. A-and I’m s-sorry I sn-snapp
ed at y-you earlier.’
‘It’s fine.’ She shrugs her shoulders, then narrows her eyes and peers at me. ‘Are you feeling OK? You look a little pale.’
‘F-fancy a g-glass of juice?’ I turn to the fridge.
‘Sure,’ Maryam says. ‘But let me cut the rest of those gummy bits out of your hair first.’
After she’s snipped the last of the dried-up goo out, I switch on the lamps and we sit down in the living room with our juice.
‘You t-told Mrs Ad-Adams ab-about Ol-Oliver,’ I say.
She nods. ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to face things, no matter how much you are dreading it.’ The wall of silence in the room has disappeared. It feels completely different in here now.
All it takes is having someone to talk to, and everything changes.
PASSING ON A TURN OR SWAPPING LETTER TILES INCURS A ZERO SCORE.
While we drink our juice, I tell Maryam that despite the disastrous play-off, Mrs Adams has still chosen me to go to the Scrabble championships.
‘Finlay,’ she says. ‘I have been meaning to ask you again about your online friend. The boy you were going to Skype?’
‘A-Alex,’ I nod.
‘Yes, Alex. Why weren’t you able to speak to him?’
‘His w-webcam was b-broken.’
‘I see.’ Maryam’s brows wrinkle together. ‘Tell me, Finlay, do you and Alex chat online, or just play Scrabble?’
‘We t-talk, we have lots in c-common.’
I remember how Maryam trusted me enough to share her bad experience at school. Maybe I should take a chance and do the same. Like Alex says, that’s what good friends do.
‘His m-mum died and he hasn’t got many f-friends . . . L-like me,’ I say. ‘Even th-though we haven’t m-met yet, we get on r-really w-well.’
‘Be careful,’ Maryam says. ‘You still don’t know who this person is. Oh, and Finlay?’
I look at her.
‘I am your friend.’
I smile.
I want to tell her not to worry about Alex. She doesn’t understand that he’s a genuine friend. She doesn’t know that he might hold the key to finding Mum.