Something odd had happened to Year Eight. The rabble that I remembered from last year, with the few sensible, motivated pupils struggling against a background of disruption, seemed to change. They became almost – how can I put it? – grown-up.
The gender divide between the girls and the boys seemed to narrow. Sometimes I could look up from my desk after the class had been set some work and face the unusual sight of the tops of heads. Normally there would be a few faces staring into space or gazing out of the window or trying to distract one of the other boys (this was essentially a boy problem). Not any more.
When girls answered a question, the boys actually listened. They even put up their hands themselves now and then – and not just to make some foolish remark.
I said nothing about this, not wanting to break the spell, but I couldn’t help wondering exactly what was going on. It was like that moment in film westerns when a cowboy says, ‘It’s quiet – too quiet.’
Suddenly Zia was coming on like Little Miss Musical Genius. She arrived at school on Monday with the mad, faraway look of someone who has been creating too many wonderful things in her head to have had time to eat, drink, sleep or even go the lavatory.
When Charley asked why we hadn’t seen her that weekend, she said she had been ‘working on stuff’. Then, when Sam arrived with Matthew and the boys, she practically sprinted over to her, carrying a plastic bag. Charley and I watched as she handed over some sheets of paper, then an old-fashioned tape.
‘Get the musical twins,’ I said.
‘It’s good,’ said Charley. ‘Good for both of them.’ But I could tell she was worried.
I like a challenge. Sometimes, when I’m playing football and the ball is never coming to me or I’m up against some defender who’s almost as good as I am, I say to myself, ‘OK, Mark Kramer, let’s get serious here.’ I go into the zone, and soon things begin to happen. A pass, an interception and – bang! – another classic Kramer goal.
That’s how it was with the little American, my girlfriend-to-be. I thought about her over the weekend – how I could get her away from her little friends and show her what life could be like with a real man. I went into the zone, the I’m-going-to-get-Sam zone.
That Monday, during lunch break, I ambled up to her when she was chatting to her friends.
‘This is for you, Sam,’ I said, giving her an envelope. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘A ticket for the big game, on Wednesday night. City against United.’
‘Whoa,’ said Elena. ‘Impressive. How did you get that?’ ‘I’ve got contacts in the ticket office,’ I said, my eyes still on Sam. ‘Have we got a date?’
She hesitated, and I could tell that the old Kramer magic was beginning to work on her.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘I’m not too crazy about soccer, to tell the truth.’
‘Don’t wait too long, babe. A lot of people would kill for this.’ I wandered off coolly, then glanced over my shoulder, ready to give her the old wink, but she had turned away and was talking to her friends.
‘She’ll come across,’ I said to Ben and Jason, a couple of guys from my class who had been watching me.
‘You’re in a bad way, mate,’ said Jason and gave a little pitying laugh.
It was the moment that I knew that this was no longer just between me and Sam Lopez. If she turned me down again, I’d be in trouble. People would start laughing at me.
And Mark Kramer doesn’t like that.
I suppose I had expected Sam to be a bit more excited when I gave her my songs. I had spent all weekend on them, they were good and they were for her.
But there was something strange about Sam that day. She seemed as if she had other things on her mind.
‘That’s cool,’ she said, putting the tape with my songs into her bag. ‘I’ll listen to them tonight.’
‘We could rehearse later in the week,’ I said.
‘Whatever,’ she said.
Then, later that day, when Mark Kramer came over and gave her a ticket for some stupid football game, she seemed really pleased – as if that mattered more to her than my five songs.
Maybe I had got her all wrong. Maybe I’d keep the songs to myself.
Zed is one of the least moody people I’ve met, but that day she went into one, big time. When Sam started talking to Elena and me about whether she should go out with Mark Kramer or not, she became really quite upset – surprising because we had all agreed that it was pretty damn great for any of us to be asked out by Mark.
‘I do believe she’s jealous,’ said Elena in her usual tactful way.
‘Jealous?’ Zia snapped. ‘Why should I be jealous of Mark Kramer?’
It took a moment or two for the impact of what she had just said to sink in. El had assumed that she was annoyed because she fancied Mark but, weirdly, it seemed that she wasn’t jealous of Sam going out with Mark but of Mark going out with Sam.
‘That’s not exactly what I meant,’ said Elena.
I’m like suddenly, you know I kinda like it here?
We’re at a pub by the Thames river the next day, sitting at one of the outside tables in that watery English sunshine. There are these rowers doing their thing on the grey old river, a young couple with a baby are sitting at a nearby table, and an old guy walks on the path between us and the river and gives this little nod. ‘Morning,’ he says, like he knows us or something.
‘Hi there,’ I say.
Crash is staring at the river, his thoughts miles away. ‘What?’ he says.
‘Nothing, hon,’ I go. ‘I was just saying hello to a walker guy.’ I close my eyes and smile. ‘This is nice,’ I murmur.
‘We get the kid and we’re gone,’ he says, but from the tone of his voice I can tell that he doesn’t totally disagree with me.
Away from the States, he’s more relaxed. Around here no one knows he’s Crash Lopez, entrepreneur, tough guy. He can just be himself. That tense, hard look he wears on his face 24-7 at home, now and then slips into something different here, something almost – I can’t believe I’m saying this – mellow. Just now and then I catch a sight of another Crash Lopez – no longer a ball of rage, but a guy who’s come to terms with the fact that he’s not so young any more, that you don’t absolutely have to frighten people just to feel alive.
‘So what’s the plan, Crash?’ I ask.
‘I call up the school,’ he says. ‘We go visit and have a look around for my son.’ He sips at his beer and shakes his head like he still can’t believe that English pubs don’t have fancy cocktails like they do in the States. ‘When we find the kid, we need to persuade him to come home of his own accord. We gotta come on like…parents.’
‘We’d be good parents,’ I say before I can stop myself.
Crash doesn’t seem to be listening. He frowns. ‘The little fink had better be grateful that we’ve gone to all this trouble for him.’
‘He’ll come with us, Crash,’ I say. ‘You’re his father, after all.’
‘We used to do stuff together.’ Crash gazes out over the Thames. ‘Galaxy would rattle on about how I was taking him too fast, how I was treating him more like one of the guys than a son, but that’s the Crash Lopez way, right? I didn’t know that the kid wasn’t up to it.’
I’m about to ask him what exactly Sam wasn’t up to, but I can see from Crash’s face that he’s not in the mood for explanations.
‘It was a long time ago,’ I say.
‘Sure. I guess he’s a changed a bit by now.’
I give a little laugh. ‘He’s a millionaire to begin with.’
‘Yeah, right, there’s that,’ says Crash, but somehow I sense he’s not thinking about the money.
I kept telling myself that it was the music that mattered to me. I was down to do a solo act at the school concert, but ever since I had heard Sam’s voice singing my songs, the way she and I worked in harmony, I knew that we just had to perform together.
I had started thinking that maybe she was more interested in Mark and going to a stupid football match than my songs, but as it turned out I needn’t have worried. The day after I gave her the tape, she came up to me in the playground and quietly sang in my ear the chorus of ‘Private Cloud’.
I smiled. Even sung softly, it sounded better than I had imagined.
‘What say we run through them together after school?’ she said.
I winced. The fact is, my parents are not too keen on my playing the guitar. ‘My house is kind of crowded,’ I said.
‘Come over to my place,’ she said. ‘Bring a guitar and a tape and we’ll lay down a couple of tracks together.’
‘Would that be all right with Mr and Mrs Burton?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘They’re pussy cats.’ And she gave me this enormous smile, looking deep into my eyes as if she knew me better than I know myself.
My stomach lurched. It’s the music, I told myself. Just the music.
But in my heart I knew that it wasn’t.
Weirdly, the fact that his long-lost dad was on his case had seemed to calm Sam down. He no longer had to be the centre of attention all the time. Between lessons he talked to us almost as much as he talked to Elena and her gang, with the result that we all eased up on each other.
An example. One day that week – Tuesday, I think – he was walking home with Tyrone, Jake and me. We had been talking about how Tyrone’s mum had been treating him with new respect ever since he had rolled up with an American girlfriend. The only problem was that Mrs Sherman kept saying, ‘And how’s T-Bone today?’ and asking after ‘that nice American girl’.
I decided to relax about my son that week. It had turned out that he was making his way in the world without the help of his old mum. Even the problem of his waistline was not a problem, after all. I was terribly relieved and happy for us both.
One last thing needed to be done. Now that Tyrone had decided to be a highly successful businessman when he grew up, it would be a good idea for him to get a head start over other boys and girls.
I started to make enquiries about private tutors specialising in business studies and accounting. It would be my secret project until the moment when I could spring this lovely surprise on my son.
I couldn’t wait to see his face.
On the other hand, Jake had been kind of moody over the past few days. He had listened to the stories of Tyrone and his girlfriend, of the visit of Mr and Mrs Crash to my house, of how my mum and dad had amazed us by agreeing to let Sam remain a girl, but he had seemed kind of cut off from it all, as if he had other, bigger things on his mind than a guy dressed up as a girl hiding from this hoodlum dad.
Sam must have picked up on his because, as we made our way through the park, he said, ‘And how’s life in the world of Jakey?’
Maybe Jake heard an echo of the old mockery in Sam’s voice because a hooded, defensive look came over his face. ‘What’s it to you?’ he said.
‘You seem kind of out of it,’ said Sam easily. ‘I was just wondering if everything was OK with you?’
‘Share with the group, you mean.’ Jake gave an unconvincing sneer. ‘You’ve been with those girls too long.’
‘Easy, Jake,’ said Tyrone. ‘He was only asking.’
‘All this family talk is doing my head in,’ Jake muttered. We were passing the bench where the Shed Gang used to meet. It had been a while since we had spent time there, but now Sam sat down and, smoothing his skirt thoughtfully over his knees, said, ‘I ain’t too happy playing the family game either.’
Jake kicked a stone against the wall.
‘How’s your dad these days?’ Sam asked.
Jake swore quietly in reply. Then, scuffing the ground with his foot, he started talking about what had been going on back home.
It turned out that with all this talk of dads and mums, we had been doing a little dance all over Jake’s corns. Ever since his father had left home, he had been living in this all-girl household with his mother and his sister. Things had not been too great with the Smileys over the past two years as the marriage cracked and crumbled.
Now that he was the only male in the house, it seemed that his mother was permanently irritated by him – by the state of his room, and the way he dressed and spoke and didn’t seem to be making any progress at school.
His sixteen-year-old sister had joined the attack, forever complaining about things he had done or not done or done in the wrong way.
‘Every day this…chorus of complaint follows me around,’ said Jake. ‘I just need to walk into a room round at my place and I’m already annoying somebody.’
‘You’re a guy,’ said Sam. ‘Your mom’s on your case because she’s mad at your dad. Your sister is picking up on the vibe.’
‘What are you, some kind of shrink?’ Jake gave an empty little laugh.
‘What does your dad say?’ I asked.
‘What dad?’ said Jake. ‘I haven’t seen him for a month. He calls me once a week and that’s it.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then, as if realising that he had given too much away, Jake stood up. ‘I gotta go,’ he said.
‘You know what you do?’ Sam looked up at Jake. ‘You call your dad. You tell him you’d like to meet up. You talk it through.’
‘I’m not the parent, he is,’ said Jake. ‘He’s the one who left home.’
‘Believe me,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe he feels so bad about what’s happened that he’s ashamed to show you how he feels. Maybe your mom has said something to him. You’ve got to talk to him, Jake. Call him or message him and see what happens.’
But Jake was on his way, hands in his pockets, his bony shoulders hunched, closed in on himself and his unhappiness.
Here’s the Crash Lopez three-point method: watch, learn, make your move fast and hard, get the hell out of there. Maybe it was four points.
That week we watched. We took in the sights, cruised the area in that embarrassment of a toy car, generally blended in with the scenery. We tried to get used to the way the natives spoke – the ‘pleases’, the ‘thank yous’, the ‘are-you-sures’.
I still had this niggling sense that the creepy Burton family was holding out on me, so that Tuesday evening, we hung out on Somerton Gardens, sitting in the car, heads behind newspapers, watching and waiting.
It turned out they had a visitor that night – some little Indian chick, carrying a guitar case, came back with the Burton kid and the Canadian girl, Simone. As night closed in we heard the sound of singing coming from the house.
‘It’s the girls singing,’ said Ottoleen. ‘It sounds nice, doesn’t it?’
I said it sounded OK through a couple of walls. Maybe close to, it wouldn’t be so great.
‘Family life,’ said Ottoleen in that dreamy voice, which kind of gives me the creeps to tell the truth.
‘Don’t even think what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘We’re getting my son back first, right?’
‘I never said anything about starting our very own family. I never even mentioned how totally great it would be or how happy it would make me.’
I looked across. She was giving me that smile she knows I can’t resist.
‘Honey,’ I said. ‘Starting a family is serious. It’s not an easy thing, like starting a car or starting a fight.’
‘It can be easy,’ she said, and squeezed my knee.
The singing from the house stopped for a moment. Then the girls started their song again.
‘I can’t stand this waiting,’ I said. ‘I need action.’
‘Sure, Crash.’ Ottoleen cuddled closer. ‘I guess we all need a bit of action sometimes.’
It was one of the most magical moments of my life.
Sam and I had gone straight to her little room, leaving Matthew downstairs watching TV.
I got my guitar out of the case, tuned it. ‘Where shall we start?’ I asked.
‘How about “Private Cloud”?’ she said. ‘That’s the single, right?’
I laughed, played the intro chords, then stopped. I find I can play in public, but performing for one or two makes me feel shy.
Then Sam started singing, she picked up the key from me and went ahead by herself.
‘They say – take it easy, take it slow
They say – give it time and let it grow
They tell me take it one day at a time
They say – that caution never fails
One day – the wind will catch my sails
And take me through the shadowland, the second hand
And soon I’m gonna climb.
The opening verse sounded so good coming from her that my fingers started moving over the frets almost of their own accord. When she reached the chorus, I came in with a harmony. Soon, smiles on our faces, looking into each other’s eyes, we’re singing together.
‘And I’ll be high in the sky
Looking down on the world
Me on my private cloud
Living my daydreams
Wherever I go
Singing my life out loud.’
It was all I could do not to cry with the feelings that were welling up inside me. But Sam was already hitting the second verse.
Magical. I’ll never forget it.
I was downstairs when these voices started coming through the ceiling. At first I thought that Sam and Zia had put on a record.
I turned down the sound on the TV and listened more closely. It was the two of them, singing to the guitar, and it was – well, would ‘unbelievable’ do?