Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 7

  “Why are you trying not to grin?” Hafiz asks, slinging his sports bag down on the floor.

  “Long story,” I lie. It really isn’t long at all. In fact, it can be summed up in six words: Hafiz is here and I’m happy.

  Priya walks in. She looks stressed and tired – until she sees us and smirks.

  “So, are you going to run away again today?” she says as she walks past. My heart sinks. She must have seen me leaving school yesterday.

  “I wasn’t running away,” Hafiz says.

  “Oh, really?” Priya replies as she sits down behind us.

  I look from Hafiz to Priya and back again. She looks triumphant, like she just won a prize. He looks like he might be about to kill her. I knew something must have happened yesterday to make him walk out of school. And I should have known it would involve Priya. But why? Why would she want to pick on him?

  Before Hafiz can say anything else, the door opens and Miss Kepinski walks in. She’s wearing a dress covered in a large daisy print and as usual she’s smiling from ear to ear, like she didn’t get the memo that school totally sucks.

  “Great news,” she says, coming over to Hafiz. “I’ve had a word with Mr Kavanagh and there’s football training this afternoon, after school. He says you’re very welcome to join them.”

  “Thank you,” Hafiz mutters. He doesn’t seem thankful though.

  As Miss Kepinski takes the register I try and process these latest developments. Hafiz is back in school – that’s good. But something clearly happened between him and Priya yesterday. The thing I really don’t get about Priya and her mean-girl routine is that she gets picked on too. I saw her one day by the ticket machine at Brighton station and a gang of Neanderthal boys were calling her names because she’s Indian. I bet it wasn’t the first time she’s been racially abused either. You’d think it would make her more compassionate and less likely to want to hurt anyone else. Then the bell rings for first period and I feel sick. It’s time for PE.

  I used to love sports. Well, I used to love playing games outside with my friends back in London. There was a green in front of our house where all the local kids would congregate and play rounders or cricket. I even invented a game once for us all to play, called Water-Pistol Polo. It became so popular and caused so much mayhem some parents tried to ban it. Not mine though – they thought it was great. Mum was our water supplier, always happy to refill our pistols, and Dad told me that in the music industry getting a song banned used to be a badge of honour. When “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood was banned by Radio One it turned them into major stars. He told me I should be proud for creating a neighbourhood controversy. If only I still enjoyed games the way I used to, but here at Lewes High, PE doesn’t stand for Physical Education – it stands for Physical Excruciation.

  As soon as I get to the girls’ changing rooms I head straight for my usual spot in the corner at the back. Last night I practised getting changed so that no one would see my buttonless shirt. I mentally run through the drill, then I get my PE top out of my bag, turn my back to the rest of the room and slip out of my school jumper and shirt like I’m trying to break the Guinness World Record for Speed-Changing. If there was such a thing as Speed-Changing. Maybe I should invent it just so I can finally have a sport I excel at. For a terrible moment the back of my greying bra is on full display but within seconds – two seconds to be precise – I’ve got my PE top on. I stand frozen for a moment, wondering if anyone saw my bra and if Priya’s going to make some snide remark, but everyone keeps chattering away. I breathe a sigh of relief. Then, keeping my skirt on, I pull down my tights, removing my shoes last, so no one sees the holes in the toes, and then I wriggle into my shorts, under my skirt, so no one sees my knickers. I always wear my best pair of knickers on PE days – and, just to clarify, by “best” I mean the least faded. Once I’m changed I turn back to face the rest of the room and sit down on the bench.

  As always, Lucy Giles is still getting changed. Lucy Giles always takes her time getting changed. She’s like the exact opposite of me – in every way. Her hair is long and sleek and blonde and her body curves in and out in all the right places. She’s really rich too. She lives in one of the cluster of huge houses on top of the cliff, looking down on the rest of us – in more ways than one. I watch as she slowly unbuttons her crisp, snowy-white school shirt, revealing a lacy white bra, made all the more white against her honey-coloured skin. I see Priya watching her too, her expression a mixture of envy and awe. Lucy Giles is the only girl in our year that Priya wouldn’t dare try her mean-girl routine on. In fact, she goes out of her way to make Lucy like her. It’s pitiful really.

  I put on my crappy trainers and wince at how shabby they look. I don’t want to care about this kind of stupid stuff. That’s another reason why I hate this school – it makes you care about this kind of stupid stuff. I think of Hafiz, down the corridor in the boys’ changing rooms. Hopefully he’ll enjoy PE. But what if he enjoys it too much? a voice in my head says. What if he bonds with the boys during a game of football or something and won’t want to hang around with me any more?

  I push the thought from my head and get to my feet.

  HAFIZ

  “Today, you’re going to be doing a run,” the PE teacher, Mr Kavanagh, tells us, once we’re all changed. He’s stocky, with a red face and ginger hair and the flattened nose of a man who’s been in more than a few fights. Maybe he was once a boxer. Or maybe he’s just a badass.

  I’m glad we’re doing a run. Running is good because it doesn’t involve having to talk to anyone. Or having to put up with any prying stares. It’s weird because while I was travelling across Europe I got used to being stared at by the locals in the different countries I passed through, but at least there was some feeling of camaraderie among my fellow travellers. Even if we didn’t come from the same country, we were all in the same situation – all being stared at together. But not here. Here I’m the only refugee.

  “OK, lads,” Mr Kavanagh says, taking a stopwatch from his tracksuit pocket. “Follow me.”

  As we file out of the changing rooms Mr Kavanagh hangs back. “You must be Hafiz.”

  I nod.

  “Welcome to Lewes High.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. “I understand you like football.”

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, I do.”

  “What position do you play?”

  “Left wing.”

  “Excellent. We’re always in need of a good left-winger.” He slaps me on the back. “Make sure you come back here today, after school, for training.”

  “Yes, sir.” As I follow Mr Kavanagh out of the building I hear high-pitched laughter and see the girls making their way onto the playing field. I look for Stevie. She’s trailing along on her own. I wonder why she doesn’t have any friends. I wonder if Priya has anything to do with it. I bet she does and this makes me mad. Why do some people make it their hobby to hate? Isn’t there enough hate in the world?

  “Right, lads, I’ve marked out a course for you,” Mr Kavanagh says, once we’ve all gathered around him outside. “Just follow the yellow arrows, out of the school and round the lanes at the back. It’s a four-kilometre circuit. You should have plenty of time to get it done. So no stopping off for a chocolate break, Jonesy.” Mr Kavanagh grins at the boy standing next to me.

  The boy laughs. “You’re such a spoilsport, sir.”

  “And no stopping off for a fag, Price,” Mr Kavanagh says, turning to another boy. The boy’s pointed face and beady eyes make him look like a rat. His thin lips curl into a frown.

  “If you say so.”

  “And, Hafiz…” All eyes fall on me. “Just follow the others. Unless, of course, you find yourself out in front. In which case, follow the yellow arrows.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We all start jogging down the side of the field. The girls are making their way over to the netball courts. I think of Stevie and how she said she was trying not to grin when I arrived in class. Why was she try
ing not to grin? Why was she wanting to grin? Could it have been she was happy to see me? Then my mind ambushes me with a vision of my mum – and the way she’d smile whenever I arrived home from school. “Hafiz!” she’d exclaim, as if it had been six months not six hours since I’d seen her. It used to annoy me when she’d want to give me a hug. I’d be so keen to get to my Xbox or to football training or back out with my friends. Now I’d give anything to feel her arms wrapped around me. Please let her be safe, I silently plead, even though I know nobody’s listening.

  We jog through a gate at the far end of the field and out onto a country lane, lined either side by thick green hedges. The white cliffs of Lewes loom beneath a clear blue sky. It’s so beautiful, it’s like running inside a painting. At first my legs feel tired and stiff but soon my body warms up and I find my rhythm. I don’t push myself. I take my time. And as I run, I feel some of the tension I’ve been carrying for so long leaving me. The tightness in my shoulders, scalp and neck eases with every step. I’d forgotten how therapeutic running can be. Without even realizing it, my pace quickens. I reach the end of the lane and follow the arrow round to the right. I’m overtaking some of the others now and it feels good. I feel free. I think back to training sessions with Hutteen, running on the beach, Khalid shouting at me, “Run faster, Hafiz!” I overtake again and again. “Run faster!” I fix my gaze straight ahead on the bright blue sky at the end of the lane. I feel the breeze rippling through my hair and against my skin. I imagine myself running from my thoughts and my fears and my memories. I push my body to its limits so that the only thing I can think about is the burning in my lungs and my limbs. “Run faster, Hafiz!”

  I reach the end of the lane – no one is in front of me. I follow the yellow arrow round to the right, up a narrow footpath, under a bridge. I don’t want to stop running. I don’t want to lose the feeling of freedom it’s giving me. I follow another arrow round to the right, hear footsteps pounding behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see another student bearing down on me. My old competitive streak sparks into life. The race is on! the commentator inside my head cries. I hold my head up and push my legs to go faster. The other guy is now at my shoulder. I take a deep breath and activate the Hafiz Rocket. This is the name Khalid gave to the extra spurt I’m able to pull out of the bag at the very last minute. It’s what won me the title of top goal scorer at Hutteen. I surge ahead, my heart pumping furiously. I follow an arrow out onto the road to the school. The final stretch. I run faster and faster, until I can’t hear anyone behind me any more. I race in through the school gates and down the side of the building, back to the field. Mr Kavanagh is sitting on a bench, looking at his phone. I run over to him and bend over double to catch my breath.

  “Hafiz!” Mr Kavanagh grabs the stopwatch around his neck. “Bloody hell, son, where’s the fire?”

  I look at him, confused. “What fire?”

  “Never mind, it’s just a figure of speech.” He pats me on the shoulder, then looks at his stopwatch again. “That was brilliant. Seriously. You make sure you come to football training this afternoon, you hear?”

  “OK,” I say. And this time I mean it.

  Stevie

  I’ve come up with a cunning plan. A plan that could solve my school shirt crisis once and for all. And bizarrely, it was Priya who gave me the idea, just now in English, when one of her friends told her that she’d lost her watch.

  “You probably left it in the changing rooms after PE,” Priya said. “We’ll have to check there at break. And if it’s not there we can try Lost Property.”

  Lost Property. It could be the answer to all of my problems. Well, the shirt problem, at least. As Mrs Parsons, my English teacher, drones on about Coriolanus, the Shakespeare play we’ll be studying this term, I start finessing my plan. I could go to Lost Property and tell them that I lost a shirt at the end of last year but hadn’t realized it until the summer holidays. Then, if there’s a shirt there that’s my size, I could take it. But that would be stealing, my inner voice annoyingly reminds me. But is it though? I argue back. If something’s lost and hasn’t been claimed, it isn’t stealing, it’s more … rehousing. Like people do with abandoned cats and dogs. Yes, it would be a rescue shirt. I would be saving it from a lifetime of misery, stuffed inside a school cupboard with a load of smelly socks and abandoned ties.

  Next to me Hafiz starts bouncing his leg up and down. He smells really nice – of deodorant but a good one – unlike most of the other boys straight after PE. The bell sounds for break. I wonder if he’ll want to spend it with me, or if he’s made friends with any of the boys.

  “What are you doing for break?” he asks.

  “Oh, I don’t know – having a picnic on the roof, throwing a party on the field…”

  Hafiz looks confused.

  “I was being sarcastic. Nothing really.”

  He nods. “So, do you want to do nothing with me?”

  “Yes, please.”

  It’s only when we get outside that I remember the phone call. Mum told me it would be easier to get through to the Department for Work and Pensions before lunch. But then I think of having to call them in front of Hafiz.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say as we find a spot next to the wall of the school building. “I’ve just got to make a quick phone call.”

  “Sure,” he replies with a smile.

  “It’s a bit personal,” I tell him, cringing inside. “So I’ll just go over there, by the bike rack, to, you know, make it.” Anger mixes with my embarrassment. I shouldn’t even have to make this call. Mum should. “I’m really sorry. I won’t be long.”

  “It’s fine.” Hafiz takes his own phone from his bag. “I need to message someone too.”

  “OK, see you in a minute then.” I hurry over to the bike rack and take my phone and Mum’s letter from the bag. I dial the number and immediately get through to a recorded message listing a load of different options. I hope it won’t take too long. I topped up the credit on my phone this morning with the last of my guitar money but what if it isn’t enough? I press the number for the enquiry line and follow the options. Some lame on-hold music starts playing. Hafiz is leaning against the school wall. I wonder who he’s messaging. His family maybe. Or a friend back home. I read about the war in Syria in the free paper last night and now I’m finding it even harder to imagine what it must be like for Hafiz to be here. He must be so worried about all the people he’s left behind. The on-hold music stops and for a minute I think I’ve been put through but it’s a false alarm. There’s a click on the line and it starts playing again. I decide to make the most of the wait by running through what I’m going to say in my head. “Good morning, I’m calling on behalf of Mrs Sadie Flynn…” Is “good morning” too formal? Maybe I should just say hi. No, hi’s too informal. How about hello? Or hello there? There’s a click on the line again and this time I get a human voice.

  “Hello, Benefits Assessment Helpline,” it barks.

  “Oh, hello there!” I say and instantly squirm. That sounded ridiculous. I clear my throat and try to compose myself. “I’m calling on behalf of Mrs Sadie Flynn. You wrote to her recently about her benefits. I’m her daughter.”

  “Yes,” the voice on the other end says impatiently.

  “Well, you – er – you’ve asked her to come in for a meeting to – er – reassess her benefit claim but the thing is – the thing is, my mum’s not able to leave the house at the moment.”

  There’s a pause and then, “Why not?”

  “She has anxiety, as well as depression, and it’s really bad right now.”

  “Right.” Now the person on the other end sounds suspicious as well as cross.

  I’m so nervous about messing things up that the palms of my hands start to sweat. “She was wondering if there’s any way you could come to her.”

  “Really. Would it be possible to speak to your mum, please?”

  “Oh – uh – well, I’m not actually with her at the moment. I’m at school
. But I’ve got the letter you sent her. I have her number – the reference number.”

  “I’m afraid we really do need to speak to her directly.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh. OK. I’ll ask her to call you when I get home this afternoon.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.”

  The line goes dead.

  HAFIZ

  When the bell for end of school goes I say goodbye to Stevie and make my way back to the changing rooms. It feels like a long time since my run this morning and I’m starting to have doubts about playing football again. It doesn’t help that Aahil hasn’t replied to the message I sent him at morning break. I’d kept it as brief and sensitive as possible:

  I finally made it to the UK – now at my uncle’s.

  How you doing, brother?

  I open the changing-room door and step inside. A group of boys are already there; some of them I recognize, some I don’t. They all look me up and down when I walk in. Some of them give me a nod of recognition, most of them don’t. The boy named Price just glares at me like I’m a piece of dirt he scraped off the bottom of his shoe. I look around for Mr Kavanagh but there’s no sign of him. This was a mistake. I should have gone straight home. I think of the story we learned about in English this morning, the story of a Roman general named Coriolanus who had a tragic flaw which led to his downfall. Could Coriolanus be my story? Could my tragic flaw be coming to football training?

  The door crashes open and Mr Kavanagh strides in. “Right then, you lot, let’s get out there and get warmed up.” He turns to me. “Come on, Speedy Gonzales, let’s see what you’re made of.”

  I have no idea who Speedy Gonzales is but I take it he’s talking about my run.

  Once we’re warmed up, Mr Kavanagh splits us into two teams and hands out different coloured bibs. I’m on the red team, which I take as a lucky omen, as red is the colour of the Syrian national team. Mr Kavanagh tells me to play on the left wing. As soon as we kick off, all of my doubts disappear. I focus on the ball. At first my tackling is rusty and my passes are off target but then something happens that is better than any pep talk. Price clatters me and as I crash to the ground he sneers and says, “Don’t think much of Syrian football.”