Boy2Girl Page 14

  As we sipped our tea in the conservatory, Tyrone went into silent-male mode as I tried to make Sam feel at home.

  She was American, which I thought was a good thing. I’ve always found Americans to be rather more dynamic and ambitious than Europeans.

  ‘Do you have any idea what you might do when you grow up?’ I asked Sam at one point.

  ‘I’m going to be a lawyer, ma’am,’ she said with the sweetest smile. ‘I want to become a partner in a big law firm, and get loads of criminals locked up or maybe even fried in the electric chair, and join the golf club, and make a whole stack of cash and all that stuff.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘I only wish you could persuade Tyrone to be a little more focused about his career.’

  Tyrone muttered something inaudible and slouched further down into his chair.

  ‘As it happens, we talk about his career all the time at school,’ said Sam.

  ‘You do?’ I could hardly believe my ears.

  ‘T says he’s thinking of business school,’ said Sam. ‘I tell him that he should qualify as an accountant first. Then you’ve got something to build on – qualifications are so important in life aren’t they, Mrs Sherman?’

  ‘They are,’ I said. I was slightly hurt that my son had not shared these thoughts and plans with me, but delighted that his charming young American girlfriend was such an excellent influence on him.

  As if reading my thoughts, Sam chirped up, ‘Tyrone likes to pretend he’s not serious about his ambitions and that he’s just a party guy – a babe-magnet who all the girls want to go out with – but, once you get to know him, you realise there’s more to him than just looks.’

  Now both Tyrone and I were staring at Sam. Much as I love my boy, I had never exactly seen him in this light. ‘Babe-magnet? Isn’t he a bit…big for that?’,

  Sam smiled shyly. ‘Fat’s the new thin, Mrs Sherman. Flesh is hot, hot, hot. I have to fight the other girls off Tyrone. They call him “T-bone” because there’s just so much of him.’

  Tyrone was making a low groaning sound. He muttered something through clenched teeth. It sounded like, ‘I’m going to kill you, Sam.’

  I laughed at this delightful badinage. Then, sensing that the young couple wanted time on their own, I made my excuses and went upstairs.

  I was making some calls to other parents – there was no particular reason I needed to talk to them, but I couldn’t wait to pass on Tyrone’s big news – when I heard raised voices from the drawing room downstairs. The two of them were having a little row. It was a sure sign that they were serious about one another!

  Tyrone and Sam. T-bone and his ‘babe’. I was terribly proud and happy that day.

  Tyrone

  That was the thing with Sam. He would help you out but then somehow, in doing so, he could manage to drop you even deeper into the doo-doo.

  So, after the visit of my ‘girlfriend’, there was good news and bad news.

  The good news was that my mother stopped thinking of me as some kind of problem kid who would never get a girlfriend or a job. The bad news was that, thanks to Sam, she became the boastful mother from hell. All that evening, she found excuses to ring her friends. From behind the closed doors of her bedroom, tell-tale phrases reached me – ‘the sweetest little American girl’, ‘qualify as an accountant’, ‘babe-magnet’, ‘fat’s the new thin’.

  At last my mother could be proud of me. Gee, thanks a bunch, Sam.

  Matthew

  Nature can be cruel sometimes. At the very moment when Sam had settled for being a girl while his father was circling around like a hungry vulture, his body started heading in the opposite direction.

  That night I explained Sam’s moustache problem to my mother. Astonishingly, she volunteered to help us lose it and even happened to have some of the wax stuff which – spare me the details, please, Mum – she now and then had to use herself.

  We were in her bedroom. Sam was sitting in front of her dressing-room mirror while this pink stuff dried on his top Iip.

  ‘Are you ready to hold him down when I pull it off, Matthew?’ Mum joked. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Sam in as tough a voice as a person with pink wax under his nose can manage. ‘It’s for girls. How bad can that be?’

  ‘All right,’ said my mother. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She tugged gently at a loose end of the wax.

  ‘Ah!’ Sam yelped as the first hairs were plucked from his skin. ‘Easy now.’

  He shrank back and, at that moment, Mum gave one vicious tug and the moustache came away.

  ‘Agh…agh…aaaagh.’ Hand clamped to his mouth, Sam leaped up and did a little dance of pain around the room.

  ‘Told you,’ said Mum, looking with some satisfaction at the blond hairs that were on the wax.

  ‘How do girls do that?’ Sam shouted these words, but it wasn’t what he said but how he said it that made Mum and me stare at him in horror. The word ‘do’ had emerged from his mouth as a cracked, booming, manly bass.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Mum. ‘That’s all we need. Now his voice is going to break.’

  ‘No way,’ said Sam, a treble once more.

  ‘You’ll just have to avoid talking too much,’ said my mother.

  ‘Some hope,’ I muttered.

  15

  Steve Forrester

  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.’

  Elena

  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.

  Mark

  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, m
y 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.

  Zia

  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.

  Charley

  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.

  Ottoleen

  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.

  Zia

  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.

  Matthew

  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’.

  Mrs Sherman

  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.

  Matthew

  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.