Like all Libras, I’m totally sensitive to other people’s mood swings, so when Sam came in the next day looking all washed out and weary, I just knew that something important had happened to her.
It was time to prove that I was her real friend. She might have a whole two-little-songbirds thing going with my ex-friend, Zia Khan, but when it came down to real life, there was nothing to beat the old El and Sam Show.
I managed to catch her alone after the first lesson. I was, ‘All right, Sammo?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
‘I just wanted to say that I’m here for you. If you want to talk something through, I’m a really good listener. It’s what friends are for.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I just feel kind of out of it today – a little spacey, you know?’
I knew all right. My instinct had been on the money as usual. ‘I think you’ll find that your problem lies in three little letters,’ I said. Then I whispered them in her ear.
‘What?’ said Sam.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave something in your locker, just in case. It’s important to be prepared.’
‘But…what exactly is PMT?’ she asked.
‘You must know.’ I laughed. ‘Premenstrual tension. You’ll find that, just before you get your period, you’ll get really short-tempered and snappy. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about – a lot of girls have it.’
‘Yeah?’ said Sam. ‘That explains a lot.’
I laughed. ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ I said.
Sam had started. Elena was the first person to twig. She confided in Kate and Donna. Soon every girl in Year Eight was passing on the day’s hot gossip.
Sam had started.
When Steve asked her a question in English and she just went on staring into space, there were significant glances all round.
When she ate hardly any lunch, Elena mouthed the word ‘Cramps’ in my direction.
All in all, it was the day’s hot news.
I had it bad. It was like a fever, an illness that took over my brain and body. I couldn’t concentrate in class – nothing new there, but the guys in my gang started taking the mick out of me. They nudged one another and made moony faces when I passed. My cool was slipping. My rep was in serious jeopardy.
But the American babe showed no sign of thawing out.
When I sauntered up to her that Friday afternoon, said, ‘Hi, Sam,’ and gave her the full-on Kramer smile, she looked at me slowly, as if coming out of a dream. ‘Made a decision yet?’
‘Decision?’ she said.
‘About going out.’
‘Going out? What you talking about, man?’
‘A club? Or maybe a gig. I’ve heard you like music. We could take in some girl band somewhere.’
Sam shook her lovely head as if she had more important things to think about than dating Mark Kramer.
‘She’s not in the mood, Mark,’ said one of her friends, Charley Johnson.
‘I could handle going to a club with you if you want,’ the Elena creature chirped up.
I ignored her and stepped closer to Sam. It was time for the Kramer voice, low and silky. That always does the trick.
‘How about it, Sam?’ I murmured. ‘It’s Friday. Face it, everyone’s in the mood on Friday.’
‘If you must know.’ This was the skinny little oddball Elena again. ‘She has female troubles. If you don’t know what those are, ask your mum.’
‘Female troubles?’ I laughed. ‘There are no female troubles that a good, strong dose of Mark Kramer can’t cure.’
Sam Lopez seemed to tune into the conversation at this point. She reached into her jacket pocket. ‘Yeah, El’s right,’ she said. ‘I’ve got female troubles.’ She took out what looked very like one of those tampon things that girls have. She poked my chest with it, hard. ‘Get it now, doughbrain? I’m having a very…heavy…day.’
‘OK, OK.’ I raised two hands in surrender and backed off. ‘Maybe some other time then.’
We had shared a bra. And we had shared my supply of tampons. No one could say that I wasn’t Sam’s best friend now.
All the same, I was the teeniest bit surprised by the way she talked to Mark that afternoon – and frankly, I hadn’t left a packet of Tampax in her locker for it to be used as an offensive weapon!
But then we can all be a bit moody at that time of the month, can’t we?
Sam and I walked home in silence.
Eventually I asked the big question. ‘What’s it going to be then? Boy or girl?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Search me,’ he said.
He took longer than usual to change back into his normal clothes that evening.
When Crash is preparing to make a move he becomes very still, like a panther just about to pounce on a deer or whatever. (I admit that Crash doesn’t look like a panther, he’s a bit wider than a panther and has got less fur than a panther and a panther doesn’t click its knuckles when it’s nervous, but you know what I mean.) I keep myself to myself when he’s like this.
That day we stayed in the hotel, except for when we went out to McDonald’s in the middle of the day.
Chewing on a Big Mac, he told me that he had this plan to pay a little visit to Mr and Mrs Burton sometime in the early evening.
‘That’s when the kids are going to be around, right?’ I said.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘That’s when folk have their TVs on. Drowns out the screamin’.’
I wasn’t crazy about this screaming thing. ‘I thought we were just going to check that little Sam was there,’ I said.
‘Drowns out the screamin’.’ He repeated the words, just like I hadn’t said anything.
Crash was ready all right.
It was just after seven when we heard the ring at the door. There was something about that ring – the way it lasted about ten seconds longer than is generally considered polite – that told me that it was the famous Mr Lopez.
I was feeling perfectly confident – this is my home, for heaven’s sake – but I noticed that David was looking a bit peaky. I told the boys to go upstairs and went to open the front door.
Inside I was wired, twitching like a finger on the trigger of a gun. Outside I was a smiling, innocent American visitor, a family man looking for his son.
I wore a suit and a white shirt and a tie that was tight against my neck. And Ottoleen? That afternoon she had shown me what she planned to wear, the skin-tight jeans and clinging T-shirt.
‘Too hot,’ I said.
She tried the short black skirt.
‘Way too hot.’
We went shopping and got some English floral thing, and bought it a couple of sizes bigger than she likes to wear. ‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ I said.
So there we were, on the doorstep. Mr and Mrs Straight-’n’-Respectable.
A tall woman opened the front door. ‘Hello,’ she said, a fixed kiss-off smile on her face.
‘Mrs Burton?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Anthony Lopez,’ I said. ‘I was married to your late sister, Galaxy.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘This is my wife, Mrs Lopez.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Ottoleen, with a polite, little-girl smile.’
‘How do you do?’ said Mrs Burton.
‘Very well,’ said Ottoleen.
We stood there for a couple of beats. Then the Burton woman said, ‘You’d better come in.’
We stepped into the hall, which was done up in a dingy English style with flower pictures on the wall and lighting like it’s out of some 1950s film.
‘Nice place you got here, Mrs Burton,’ said Ottoleen.
The woman seemed not to hear and walked ahead of us. Throwing Ottoleen a quick wink, I followed her into a sitting room where Mr Burton, a suburban sort of guy who was actually wearing a cardigan, sat reading a newspaper.
More introductions. We took our places on a sofa, Ottoleen managing to show more leg than was strictly appropriate for the occasion.
Mr Burton offered us a drink.
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ said Ottoleen.
To my surprise it was the guy who got up to make it in the kitchen.
We made small talk, all sad and sorrowful, about the late Galaxy, with me giving a little speech about how she was quite a character, they broke the mould when they made her, big loss to us all, et cetera, et cetera. ‘One of the greatest regrets of my life’, I said, ‘was that I was away on a business trip and only heard of her tragic demise after the funeral.’
When Mr Burton returned with a tray and poured out some tea, I cut to the chase.
‘I was informed that you have been looking after my boy, Sam,’ I said.
‘Your son?’ Mrs Burton gazed at me coolly over the rim of her teacup. ‘But he’s in a foster home, isn’t he?’
I smiled to cover my surprise. ‘I don’t think so. You came to the funeral and you took him away. Now I want him back.’
‘Do you know, I think there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,’ said Mrs Burton, giving me the big freeze. ‘I certainly attended my sister’s funeral but I returned alone.’
‘Misunderstanding?’ I said. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘No, I’m not…kidding you, Mr Lopez. I suggest that you direct your enquiries through the correct legal channels.’
I felt a tight knot of rage forming in the pit of my stomach.
Beside me I feel Crash tense up as if he’s trying to keep his cool. I murmur ‘Crash’ but it’s too late. He brings down the hand that’s holding his teacup hard, and there’s bits of china and tea all over the table, scattering across the carpet.
‘He’s my son!’ he shouts.
Mr and Mrs Burton are looking kind of wide-eyed and freaked now, but they say nothing.
‘It’s the money, isn’t it,’ goes Crash. ‘You’re holding out to cut some kind of deal, but listen, maybe you don’t understand what you’re dealing with here. This is family, right? This is family money. That means it’s sacred.’
Mr Burton is staring down at the broken china and looks like he’s going to do a you-know-what in his pants, but Mrs Burton kind of squares her shoulders.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ she says.
I got to my feet and the Burton guy flinched like I was about to pull a piece on him.
‘You want to do this the hard way?’ I said. ‘Then be my guest.’
I left the room, looked in the kitchen. Then I ran upstairs, two steps at a time.
There were three closed doors. I pushed away into the first room – a big bedroom, empty. In the second, some kid was sitting in front of a computer. He started when I opened the door.
‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked.
‘Who?’ he said.
There was music from behind the third closed door. I pushed it open.
And there was this blonde kid, brushing her hair in front of a mirror. She looked up at me coolly. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m Simone,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
Crash has cooled down somewhat by the time he reappears in the sitting room.
‘There are two kids upstairs,’ he speaks to me as if the Burtons aren’t there. ‘But no Sam.’
‘Two?’ I go.
‘Yeah, a British kid and someone called Simone.’
Mrs Burton actually smiles at this point. ‘Ah, yes, Simone is a friend from Canada,’ she says. ‘She’s over here on an exchange programme.’
Mr Burton stands up and says, ‘I’m so sorry that you’ve had a wasted journey.’
Crash tells him that he can get you-know-whated for all he cares and storms out of the house.
I go, ‘Thank you for the tea,’ and follow.
This is not what we planned.
Slam. That was the front door. Slam, slam. Two car doors. Then the revving of an engine, a squeal of tyres. Then silence.
I made my way to Sam’s room. He was sitting on the bed in his coat and skirt. Ten minutes ago, when we had come upstairs, he had been Sam, the guy. While the adults were talking downstairs, he must have changed.
‘So that was your dad.’
He was staring ahead of him. ‘Yup,’ he said quietly.
‘You made up your mind then?’
He nodded.
My parents appeared behind me.
‘Well done, Sam,’ said my mother, her voice shaky as if she was still in shock. ‘You were very brave.’
My father sat down on the bed and put an arm around Sam’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Sam shrugged him off, a look of real distaste on his face. ‘Just leave me alone,’ he said.
Dad stood up and the three of us waited uncertainly in Sam’s small room.
‘Bug off, all of you,’ he said in a quiet, weary voice.
Matt messaged me the news that night. CRASH VISITED SAM NOW BOY2GIRL FULL-TIME, he wrote.
Any other time, I would have wanted to know more, but the truth was, that night I had my own problems.
After school, my mother took me round to Juliana’s house where I met the girl she’s determined I should go out with.
Let me put this as kindly as I can. She was not exactly my type – skinny, taller than me and with a face like a sour plum. After tea, Mrs Lavery offered to show my mother some new curtains upstairs (yeah, right), leaving me with Juliana.
It was the longest and most embarrassing five minutes of my life. I didn’t like Juliana. Juliana was not too impressed with me. We had nothing in common. We ran out of conversation after about thirty seconds and, having sat in silence for about a minute, Juliana skipped (I hate skippers) to the piano and started plonking away.
When eventually the parents returned, they looked at us – her at the piano, me on the sofa – and smiled as if they were witnessing the most romantic thing they had ever seen.
‘So,’ said Mum when at last we got out of there. ‘What do you think?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s what I think. No, no, no.’
My mother smiled in a sickeningly knowing way. ‘These things take time,’ she said.