Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 6

  “The Taj Mahal? Yeah. Apparently it was built for one of our kings as a holiday home. It’s the royal equivalent of a caravan.”

  Hafiz looks at me blankly. I’m guessing they don’t do caravan holidays in Syria. I take a bite into a crispy, golden chip. The potato inside is creamy and soft. I’m so hungry it tastes like the most delicious food that ever existed. We eat in silence for a few moments, then Hafiz turns to me.

  “What’s the best story you’ve ever heard?”

  I look at him in surprise. I really did not see this question coming. “Oh – I’m not sure. Why?”

  Hafiz looks back at the Pavilion. “It doesn’t matter.” He seems embarrassed. I don’t want him to be embarrassed. I don’t want anything to change how easy things are between us.

  “I just need a moment to think,” I say. “Do you mean a fictional story or a real-life story?”

  “Either.”

  I flick through my mental filing system. I think of the bedtime stories my parents used to tell me when I was young. Stories about dark forests and scary wolves and sappy princesses and magical kingdoms. I used to love being told stories but none of them stand out as the best I’ve ever heard. I try to think of some real-life stories I’ve heard. And then I remember one my dad told me about how, when he was first starting out as a music journalist at the age of eighteen, he managed to blag his way onto the Rolling Stones’ tour bus. That was a great story – but it would involve talking and thinking about my dad and that definitely would not be great. Then I think of the stories that inspire me every single day.

  “I really like Malala’s story,” I say. “You know, the girl who was shot by the Taliban.”

  Hafiz nods.

  Then I realize that the last thing he probably wants to hear are stories about violence and war. “I don’t mean that I like the fact that she was shot. I hate that fact – obviously. But I love that she didn’t let fear stop her – that she kept doing what she believed in and campaigning for girls to have the right to an education. Anyway, why do you want to know?” I say, quickly shifting the focus back on to him.

  Hafiz takes a sip from his drink. “I’m trying to find a story,” he eventually replies.

  “What for?”

  “For me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Hafiz sighs. “It’s because of something my dad once told me.”

  “What was it?” I stop eating. A sure sign that I’m truly gripped.

  “He told me that we are all born with a story inside us.” He places his hand on his chest. “A story that will help us get through all the challenges we face in life.” He glances sideways at me.

  I nod. “OK. And how do we find out what our story is?”

  Hafiz sighs. “Apparently we’ll know it when we find it.”

  “But what if we never find it?”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  I take a moment to let this sink in. It’s weird. I don’t quite understand what he’s saying, but I really like it. I really like the idea of being born with a story inside me. “So that’s why you asked me?”

  “Yes. It’s something I’ve been asking a lot.”

  “But you still haven’t found your story?”

  He shakes his head. “I guess I should stop looking. It’s probably just a myth anyway.”

  I frown. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “You do?” His face lights up.

  “Yeah. Maybe I could…” I break off, feeling embarrassed.

  “What?”

  “Maybe I could help you find it.”

  “Seriously?” Hafiz smiles. Then his smile fades. “I’m not sure it works like that. My dad told me he wasn’t able to help me. I think we each have to find our own.”

  “Oh, I see.” I gaze up into the clear blue sky and picture a story out there somewhere, waiting for me to find it. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. “But how will we know when we do?”

  Hafiz shrugs. “I’m not sure. My dad just said that I’d know; he said that when I heard the story that was mine it would affect me deeply. Do you think that sounds dumb?”

  “No! I think it sounds seriously cool.” I smile at him. “And I think your dad sounds seriously cool too.”

  HAFIZ

  I told Stevie about the story idea and she didn’t think I was crazy, she thought it was “seriously cool”. The day that started so badly is now turning into the best I’ve had in a long time. I’m about to say “thanks to God” like I always used to when good things happened, but I resist. I stopped saying it years ago, after the war started. When I first set out on my journey to the UK I got into the habit of saying “God willing”, like so many others on the refugee trail. Now I don’t talk about God at all.

  “You must really miss him – your dad, I mean,” Stevie says.

  I nod.

  “If it’s any consolation I know how that feels.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” Stevie starts fiddling with the ring pull on her can of Sprite.

  “How?” I stare at her curiously.

  “I haven’t seen my dad for a long time either.”

  “How long?”

  “Two years, seven months and one day.” She pulls the owl from her bag and smiles at it. “Thanks for helping me win this.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “I love owls, don’t you?”

  I nod. I want to ask her why she hasn’t seen her dad in so long but it’s obvious that she wants to change the subject. My phone vibrates in my trouser pocket, but I ignore it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say before eating another chip. A taxi zooms past, cutting up a bus. The bus driver leans out of the window and yells a stream of curse words. That’s another random thing I’ve gained since leaving Syria. I now know how to curse in seven different languages.

  “Why are you sorry?” Stevie asks.

  “That you haven’t seen your dad in so long.”

  “Oh. That’s OK. I’m kind of used to it now.”

  The chip I’m eating almost gets stuck in my throat. I don’t ever want to get used to not seeing my family. My phone starts vibrating again. My throat tightens. The only people who have my new mobile number are Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria. Why would they be phoning me? I take my phone from my pocket and my heart sinks. It’s Uncle Samir. “Sorry, I’d better take this,” I say to Stevie before answering the call. “Hello.”

  “Hafiz! Where are you?” He sounds so serious. My stomach churns. Has he heard from Syria? Has he heard bad news?

  “Uncle Samir, what’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I should be asking you,” my uncle replies. “Where are you? Why aren’t you in school?”

  “What? But how…?”

  “Your teacher rang me. She was worried. Some students told her that you walked out of class before the day even began. What happened? Where are you?”

  I sigh. “I – I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “So why didn’t you go home?”

  “I needed some fresh air.” A car pulls up in the queue of traffic beside us, a hip-hop beat pounding from the stereo.

  “It sounds like you’re in a pub!”

  “I’m in Brighton.”

  Stevie starts shifting awkwardly on the bench next to me. “Have you been busted?” she whispers.

  I shrug and give her a weak grin.

  “Brighton! What are you doing in Brighton?” Uncle Samir exclaims.

  “I’m getting some fresh air.” I’m embarrassed by how lame this sounds.

  “Go home immediately,” Uncle Samir says. “Your aunt has been so worried.”

  “OK,” I say, but inside I feel really fed up. I can’t go home immediately, I want to yell. Maybe I’ll never be able to go home again. Stevie shifts slightly closer to me and gives me a sympathetic smile, as if she can read my thoughts.

  “Do you promise you’ll go straight home?” Uncle Samir asks. />
  “Yes,” I mutter, balling up the rest of my chips and throwing them in the bin.

  “Good. We’ll talk about it when I get back from work.”

  “OK.” There it is again, that stupid, pathetic word that always pops out when all I really want to say is “no”. No, I don’t want to go straight back to your home. No, I don’t want to talk about it. No, I don’t want to keep doing what everybody else tells me.

  “Bye,” Uncle Samir says, and the line goes dead.

  Stevie

  We spend most of the journey back to Lewes in silence. Ever since the phone call, Hafiz has shuttered himself off again, his head tipped forward, his hair tumbling down over his face. It must have been his uncle who called. I wonder how he found out Hafiz wasn’t in school. Maybe he’d asked the school to keep a close eye on Hafiz, or maybe they have a new policy and ring your parents if you don’t come in. What if they’ve rung Mum? She won’t have been able to call me, as she has no credit left on her phone, but what if she knows I’ve bunked off? She probably won’t even care. I stare out of the train window, thinking of what Hafiz said about trying to find his story. If only he didn’t have to find it on his own – I’d love to help him find a story to make him happy.

  The train pulls into Lewes. I wonder if Hafiz is going to say anything at all before we go home. I try to think of something to say to him but everything I come up with sounds stupid.

  “Thank you,” he says suddenly as we head through the station and out into the sunlight.

  “You’re welcome. Uh – what for?”

  “For today. It was fun.”

  “Oh.” I feel a surge of relief. “Yes. I had a really good time … and I’m not being ironic,” I add.

  He laughs. “Me neither.”

  “I hope you don’t get into trouble – about, you know, school.”

  “Thank you. You too.”

  We reach the junction that leads to his road.

  “So, I’ll see you then?” I try to make it sound like a question, hoping that Hafiz will say yes and tell me when.

  But he just nods. “See you.”

  I start heading home, my happiness fading with every step.

  As soon as I open the door to the cottage I know that something is wrong – something has changed. The pile of post that had been accumulating on the hallway floor has gone and I hear a banging sound coming from the kitchen. I make my way down the darkened passageway. Mum’s facing the sink, thumping a cup on the draining board over and over again. She knows. The school must have called her. My stomach lurches.

  “Mum,” is all I can manage to say.

  She stops banging the cup and slowly turns to face me. Her hair is tangled and her face is streaked with tears.

  “Mum, I’m so sorry I—”

  “They’re going to stop my benefits,” she says. “I had a letter from them.”

  “Oh.” Now I don’t know what to feel. Relief and worry churn inside of me.

  “Look.” She takes a crumpled piece of paper from her dressing-gown pocket and shoves it in my hand.

  I uncrumple it and read. It’s from the Department for Work and Pensions. It doesn’t seem to be as bad as Mum thinks. “They’re not saying they’re stopping your benefits; they’re just saying there are some changes and inviting you to a medical.”

  “It’s the same thing!” Mum goes over to the table and slumps down into one of the chairs. “I’ve seen this on the news. Since they’ve changed the system, loads of people are having their claims turned down. They reassess you so they have an excuse to stop paying you.”

  I sit opposite her and clear my throat, preparing my special calm-Mum-down voice. “I’m sure they won’t, Mum. They just want to meet with you, and see if you’re still ill.”

  “But how can I go to a meeting? I can’t leave the house.” Her voice is shrill.

  “Do you want a cup of camomile tea?” I walk to the cupboard. The box of teabags is empty. The whole cupboard is empty. I take a deep breath, remind myself that it could be worse, the school could have rung her. I’ve had a great day in Brighton with Hafiz and I haven’t been busted. “Why don’t you give me your cash card and I’ll go and get some food and some more tea?”

  “What am I going to do, Stevie? How are we going to survive without that money?”

  Her hands are shaking and I can feel her fear scuttling across the table towards me. “You’re not going to lose your benefits.” I look back at the letter and see a phone number at the top. “Why don’t you ring them – explain that you find it really hard to leave the house because of your anxiety? Maybe they can come to you.”

  Mum stops shaking. “Do you think they would?”

  “Yes. Of course.” The truth is, I have no idea, but I’d say anything right now to calm Mum down.

  She nods. “OK, I’ll ring them tomorrow. Or maybe…” She looks at me.

  “What?”

  “Maybe you could ring them for me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean—”

  “Please. You know how flustered I get dealing with things like this.”

  I sigh. “OK.”

  She smiles at me through her tears, the weakest of smiles. Then she fumbles in her purse and hands me her cash card. “Thank you. Go and get some food. But don’t spend too much, just in case…”

  Her unuttered words hang in the kitchen between us, in thick black letters: just in case we can’t get any more…

  HAFIZ

  I’m back at school. Despite having vowed to myself yesterday that I wasn’t ever going to set foot in this place again, here I am. Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria are here too. We’ve been called in to an early-morning meeting with my form tutor, Miss Kepinski, and the Head of Year, Ms Potts. The adults are discussing what can be done to make me feel more “at home”.

  “Would it help if you joined some of our after-school clubs?” Miss Kepinski says. “What do you like doing in your spare time, Hafiz?”

  I shrug. There’s no way I want to spend any of my spare time here.

  “He loves playing football,” Aunt Maria says.

  “Yes, back in Syria he was a star player,” Uncle Samir joins in, his face lighting up, making me want to groan. Doesn’t he get it? Those days are over.

  “Really?” Ms Potts looks at me over the top of her glasses. Her glasses make me think of the toy owl and that makes me think of Stevie. My only friend in this place – well, kind of friend. I wonder if she got into trouble yesterday too. I hope not. Something tells me she has enough to deal with.

  “I could have a word with Mr Kavanagh, the PE teacher,” Miss Kepinski says. “He coaches the Year 10 football team.”

  “That would be wonderful!” Uncle Samir exclaims, like she just said she’d got me a trial for Man United. “Wouldn’t it, Hafiz?”

  “Yes,” I mutter.

  “Well, that’s settled then.” Miss Kepinski writes something in her notepad. “I’ll try and catch him in the staffroom before registration. Find out when the first training session is.”

  “OK.”

  “Would that make you feel a bit better, Hafiz?” Ms Potts looks at me through her glasses, like she’s making double sure I’m not going to walk out of school again.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “And you’re sure there was nothing that happened yesterday to make you walk out?”

  I nod. One thing I don’t and never will do is tell tales.

  “OK then. We’ll see if we can get you a place on the football team. And if you ever feel like leaving school again, you’ll come and see me first, yes?”

  I look at Ms Potts and try not to laugh. “Yes, Miss.”

  “Excellent!” Ms Potts adjusts the pile of files on her desk.

  Miss Kepinski stands up. “I’ll go and grab Mr Kavanagh.” She holds out her hand to Samir. “Lovely to meet you, Mr Ali.”

  “Lovely to meet you too.”

  All the adults smile at one another and shake hands. I’m surprised they don’t slap each
other on the back, they’re so happy with themselves. Problem Hafiz solved, just like that.

  I follow Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria out into the corridor.

  “Are you OK?” Uncle Samir asks. He looks concerned and I feel a pang of guilt for being so cross with him. But what else am I going to do with all this anger inside me? I force myself to smile and nod.

  Once they’ve gone I head down the corridor that leads to Miss Kepinski’s form room. On the way I see a disabled toilet. I’ll wait here until the bell goes, then slip in. That way I can avoid a repeat of what happened yesterday. Everything’s lower down in here – the light cord, the sink, the hand dryer – so that people in wheelchairs can reach them. I picture my friend Aahil wheeling himself in here, grinning his crooked grin at me. I haven’t WhatsApped Aahil since I got to the UK. I haven’t been able to.

  Aahil lost his legs from his knees down in a rocket attack. After his injury my mum and dad became determined that I should leave. Aahil lost his legs and can’t leave Syria but because of his injury I have. How is that fair? How can I message him now I’m here? How would it make him feel? I stand up and lean on the low sink and look at my reflection in the mirror. I wonder if I’ll ever like what I see.

  Stevie

  Hafiz isn’t here. As I take my seat in the form room the realization fills my mind like a giant neon sign. Hafiz isn’t here. I tuck my bag under the table and sigh. It’s official. Today is going to be terrible. Not only has Hafiz left school but I’m supposed to be sorting out my mum’s benefits assessment and I’ve got PE. The only thing that could make this day even worse would be for the door to open and Ms Potts to walk in and tell us that we all have detention. The door opens – oh, come on, you have got to be kidding – and Hafiz walks in. I fight the urge to grin and end up making some kind of weird grimace instead.

  “Are you OK?” Hafiz asks as he sits down beside me. “You look like you’ve got toothache.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m just trying not to…”

  “What?”

  “Grin.” I pretend to search for something in my bag.