Being Me (14 page)

On Wednesday morning the Form Teacher tells the whole class I said ‘silly sad bitch’ and not ‘silly black bitch’. Everyone then has to join hands and listen to a Martin Luther King speech. Someone objects they are not allowed to listen to religious speeches but the Form Teacher says it’s not religious, it’s spiritual and there’s a difference. So the whole class joins hands and listens to Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have A Dream’. It’s OK, though it’s a bit long. We end with a compulsory group hug. The school day ends with PE and the team sheet for Saturday’s semi-final with St Cuthbert’s. At last, there’s some good news. Both my name and Mikaela’s are up there at the top of the sheet.

It’s Saturday morning and Dad is driving me to St Cuthbert’s, a Catholic school in the city centre. It’s his birthday. His presents were cufflinks (MTB), bow tie (me) and two tickets to a rock concert to see Mum’s favourite band (Mum). He’s humming along to the radio.

‘Dad, I love it when you’re happy.’

‘So do I. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit grumpy. Work’s been tough.’

The air con is on max. At first I think that’s why Dad’s grimacing, but then I notice it’s the jaw-lock grimace he does when he’s about to say something difficult. I wait.

‘I’ve checked and the school can’t expel you for the shoplifting. Under their own rules, they can only judge you on how you behave at school.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I reply. It’s a weird thing for Dad to say and I’m impressed that he actually cares about me enough to hunt down the school rules and find all that out. People are confusing. You want to hate them and then they say or do something that makes it impossible.

We leave the car in a multi-storey car park, walk across a square and arrive at the St Cuthbert gatehouse. A security guard lets us through. It’s a seriously religious school. The front gardens have a statue of the Virgin Mary and there’s a huge wooden cross hung above the school building entrance. A nun in a grey uniform crosses the garden and shepherds us through the school building to the field at the rear where the changing rooms are. At any moment I expect to come across a host of levitating nuns. Dad is amazed the school owns a football pitch in the city centre and says the land value must be through the roof. He spots Mrs Robinson at the pitch edge and, with a little kiss, shoos me to go and get changed.

Everyone in our dressing room is quiet because the home team are reciting the Lord’s Prayer next door. It’s weird. Nobody wants to interrupt. Even Miss Fridge, who is a devout atheist, gazes quietly at the ceiling fan.

Finally, we trot out. I study the touchline. Faye White isn’t there. Miss Fridge said they don’t always send the same scout and we should all play like there is an England scout out there somewhere.

The match starts. Maybe the nuns got rugby and football mixed up. St Cuthbert’s come flying at us with arms, legs and knees. I get hauled down twice as I race for the ball. Mikaela gets pushed over. The referee blows twenty times in the first five minutes. I look over at Dad. He’s standing with Mrs Robinson, gobsmacked. He does the sign of a cross at me from the touchline. Sometimes my dad’s funny. Just sometimes. Finally the referee calls the coach nun over. The two of them huddle for a minute, then the coach nun calls her team to her.

The match restarts and this time they don’t foul us. Mikaela floats a beautiful ball high up. I bounce it off my shin and wallop it into the net. 1–0. We get our second goal from a corner kick that Mikaela takes. It bends all the way into the net without anyone touching it. Our third is a crazy own goal when their defenders pass the ball back too quickly for their goalkeeper. I look over at Dad. He’s laughing, so is Mikaela’s mum who is steadying Dad’s shoulders because he’s laughing so much. The two of them stagger away from the touchline, laughing together.

Mikaela runs to the side of the pitch near me. I ask her what’s up. She says she needs a tampon. The referee runs over and Miss Fridge explains Mikaela’s problem. I expect to see Mikaela’s mum in the huddle but she’s nowhere on the touchline, neither is Dad. The ref nods to Miss Fridge and lets Mikaela chase over to the changing room with her bag.

I drop back into midfield, taking Mikaela’s place there for a while. St Cuthbert’s start to fancy their chances. Against ten, they are almost good, in a kick-and-rush kind of way. We’re clinging on, throwing ourselves at the ball to stop them getting a shooting opportunity.

Finally, Mikaela’s back. She flings her bag down at the touchline and comes running onto the pitch. Something’s wrong. She slams in a high tackle, upending a St Cuthbert’s midfielder. The referee waves a yellow card at her. Miss Fridge shouts, ‘Mikaela! Mikaela!’ but Mikaela’s doesn’t hear her. I go over to her. Her eyes are full of hate and she pushes me away. She charges into a tackle again and wins the ball. Instead of passing it to me she belts it high into the sky. I look over at Miss Fridge. She’s on the touchline, livid. My dad’s there as well, standing with Mrs Robinson. It’s weird neither of them are saying anything to Mikaela. Mikaela elbows me in the ribs as she runs past me.

‘Hey!’

She ignores me. The ball is at her feet. She’s looking over at the touchline. Suddenly she smacks the ball low and hard, straight at my dad. It hits his goolies and he crumples up in agony. I tear over to her.

‘What was that?’ I shout at her.

‘Bring it!’ she dares me.

Fine. I grab her. She’s got a knee in my ribs and I’ve sunk my nails into her neck. Then my dad and Mrs Robinson are pulling us apart. I’m panting. The ref waves two red cards. Mikaela’s still wind-milling her arms and lashing at my dad with her feet. Miss Fridge wrenches her off the field by the waist. I realise then that Miss Fridge is not fat, she’s all muscle – she flips Mikaela so easily. Miss Fridge frogmarches us to the changing rooms. She’s ranting and raving as she hauls us away, but I’m not listening, I’m wondering what came over Mikaela and whether we’re going to lose the match now. It’s the semi-final. I wanted a medal. And what if the England scout was there?

In the changing rooms, Miss Fridge sits us down. She takes a deep breath then says she has to get back to the match, and don’t we dare fight again, because she will personally kill us if we do.

Mikaela’s lost her rage. She sits on the bench looking sad and floppy.

‘Well?’ I ask her, when her breathing steadies.

She does her cow eyes look at me.

‘What is it?’

‘Those wet punches, Adele. You’re getting soft,’ she says, sniffling.

‘Well, your headlocks aren’t what they used to be, Mikay.’

She flicks away tears.

‘Tell me,’ I say softly.

We’re sat on the same bench. The showers are hissing even though there’s no-one in them.

Mikaela takes a deep breath then it all comes out in a big gush: ‘I went to put in my tampon and while I was here, my phone rang, it was my auntie and she wants to talk to my mum, she says it’s urgent and I need to hand my phone to her right now, she’s not picking up her own, so I go to find my mum only she’s meant to be on the touchline and she’s not. That’s when I caught them behind a tree. Kissing.’

She looks over at me like that’s the end of the world. ‘Who?’ I ask.

She stares at me hard.

I shrug. ‘They’ve kissed before. In the car park at Parents Evening, remember?’

Mikaela shakes her head. ‘Not like this. I filmed it.’

She takes out her phone and strokes up a video. I lean in with Mikaela. There’s lots of blur, then two heads. Mikaela’s mum’s shoes. The camera jumps up. They’re in a kiss, definitely a kiss. And it’s at least five seconds. With tongues. Dad has his hands cupping Mrs Robinson’s face and she’s on tiptoes, face turned up, sucking his face off. They break apart suddenly and the video goes blurred. You just hear one word, ‘Mikaela!’ shouted by her mum. Then the video freezes.

‘See?’ says Mikaela.

It’s my dad alright. Unless someone coshed him on the head, stole his clothes and copied his hair cut.

‘Did you know?’

I’m too stunned to speak.

‘You didn’t.’

‘Mikaela I’m so sorry,’ I say. My mind is all over the place. I remember now my dad pulling us apart. Yet he wasn’t going nuts at Mikaela for firing the ball at him. And Mrs Robinson never said anything either. Maybe they were too ashamed after Mikaela had caught them at it.

Mikaela’s playing the video on loop, as if by watching it she can somehow change what happens. She turns to me, eyes all watery and blurts, ‘I mean, your frigging dad, Adele!’

Then she throws her boots down in the changing room. They skid to a wall.

I don’t know what to do, or say. I can tell, with the mood she’s in, Mikaela’s going to fight me again if she can, so I get up and leave. I don’t even turn to say goodbye.

Dad’s outside the changing room.

‘Adele?’ he says, ‘What was that all about?’

‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ I tell him, brushing past. I can see Mikaela’s mum, lurking by a floppy tree.
Funny, she’s not rushing to see Mikaela,
I think.

‘What about my birthday?’ he calls, running up beside me – making a joke of it.

I stop. ‘Dad, leave me alone.’

He’s more serious now. ‘Was it what Mikaela saw? It’s not what you think. You’re jumping to conclusions.’

I don’t want to talk to him right now. I start running. Nobody can keep up with me when I run.

He gives up. ‘Suit yourself,’ he calls out to my back.

When I reach the checkpoint, I glance back. My dad’s huddled up with Mikaela’s mum by the floppy tree. They’re leaning into each other.

I walk across town to the bus stop. On the way, I get asked a million things by chuggers – to go for a pizza, to sign up for a charity, to buy tickets for clubbing and to donate to orphans of Afghanistan. I brush my way past all of them.

On the bus I think about the kiss. Was it really that bad? It is Dad’s birthday. Maybe it was a birthday kiss. Or a bit of fooling around. The two of them don’t add up. Dad is an out and out racist when he’s tired or drunk. My dad doesn’t make sense. People don’t make sense. The human species doesn’t make sense. I bring up Facebook and find out we won the match 3–2.

Mikaela has PM’d me:

Ms Fridge sez we bannd from Englnd trials. Hv a nice day.

So an England scout was there.

I get home, dump my boots in my boots bucket and check on Mum. She’s not in. Neither is my brother. Or Dad. I tidy the kitchen then go back upstairs, slam my door, flop on my bed and beat the mattress with my fists.

When I’m finished with that, I look around. Everything in my room looks sad. The chairs, the mirror, the trophy cabinet, the curtains, the boots bucket, the keyboard and the toy zebra I’ve had since I was eight. Even my boots, soaking in their bucket. What use are they now? It was my boots that brought Dad to the games. My boots were how he met Mikaela’s mum. My boots have ruined everything. I can never like football the same way again ever, I decide. Everything’s spoiled. Everything’s ruined.

I go downstairs and make toast. Dad comes in. He stands in the kitchen doorway, wordless.

‘Why, Dad?’ I ask him.

He shuffles his feet. ‘You’re reading too much into it. It’s my birthday, it was a kiss.’ He says it like someone stuck a stamp on an envelope for him.

‘No, Dad. It was on the lips and with tongues. For ages. Mikaela filmed it. Don’t you like Mum anymore?’

He runs his hands through his hair. ‘You’re reading too much into it, kid,’ he says again. He’s treating it like it’s all a joke. He gets out the orange juice carton from the fridge.

‘Are you a cheating bastard like Miss Richards says all men are?’ I say.

‘Get real, Adele,’ he says, still calm. He nudges a kitchen chair out with his thigh, sinks into it and glugs on the orange juice for a few seconds. Then he looks at me. I look back, waiting.

‘OK, I kissed her. She gave me a big “happy birthday” kiss. So what? I’m Italian. I’m hot-blooded. I need love. And I don’t mean the physical stuff that men and women do.’

‘Sex?’ I ask. Dad’s never been comfortable saying the word in front of me.

‘Yes. I’m not talking about sex. I need someone to say “Vincent, I enjoy having a conversation with you, I enjoy your company, I believe in your dreams.” You understand, Zowie?’

‘You just called me Zowie.’

‘Did I?’ Dad sighs.

‘Maybe you need to be having this conversation with Mum?’

Suddenly Dad looks ancient. He rubs his rubbery forehead. ‘Listen, there was nothing going on. We are a family, Adele. OK, we’re not a “sit around a picnic in a field holding hands” kind of family, but we are a family and I wouldn’t risk that. I love you all. You, your mum, Anthony. I’d never want to leave you, you mean everything to me. I wouldn’t risk that for a quick roll in the hay with Lydia. Or anybody else.’

‘If you’re leaving, I’m staying here with Mum.’

‘I’m not leaving. Where did you get that from?’

Dad drinks off all the OJ and tosses the carton at the bin, basketball style. It misses. ‘I just would like, sometimes, to feel like I’m not just some giant cash machine on legs. I’d like someone to understand
my
problems, occasionally.’

‘I’m not meant to understand your problems, Dad. You’re my dad, you’re supposed to understand
my
problems.’

‘I’m trying, Adele. You don’t know how hard I’ve been trying. I mean...’

‘Tell me then.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why? Because I’m too young? Because I’m a girl? Why?’

‘It’s not any of that, it’s... Not everything can be solved by being talked about.’

‘But I want to know, Dad. I mean, do you even love me?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I do. Why do you say that?’

‘You don’t show any interest in me.’

I can’t believe I’m having this heart to heart with Dad.

‘I’m moving heaven and earth for you, Adele, you just don’t see it.’

‘You drive me to school, Dad. Big deal.’

‘Yes, I drive you to school. And I’ve been going to your matches.’

‘I’m not the reason you’re there.’

‘How can you say that? And you don’t know the arses I’ve licked trying to get you a sponsorship deal.’