Boy2Girl Page 18

  Sam looked down at his chest. ‘I’ll kind of miss my gazungas,’ he said.

  ‘I gave you my tampons,’ said Elena in a weak, despairing voice. ‘Have you any idea how personal that is? A girl just doesn’t share out tampons with anyone.’

  ‘Especially if he’s a guy,’ murmured Zia unhelpfully.

  ‘I feel so…used,’ sniffed Elena.

  ‘I was really grateful,’ said Sam. ‘At least my problem with Mark was sorted, it being my time of the month and all.’

  ‘Yeah, what about the Mark Kramer thing?’ I asked, trying to get the subject away from Elena and her tampons. ‘What was all that about?’

  Sam shrugged, smiling. ‘Between you and me, it was going nowhere, that relationship.’

  ‘He’s going to go mad when he finds out,’ said Matt, and for a moment the thought of Mr Heartbreak’s face when he discovered that his latest girlfriend was a boy eased the tension in the room.

  ‘And now what’s going to happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Now we play the gig tonight,’ said Sam. ‘We work out what to do after that.’

  Zia was strumming away at her guitar.

  ‘I thought we were a real girl band,’ Elena grumbled. ‘I’m not sure I’m prepared to do backing vocals for a boy.’

  ‘Pretend I’m a girl one more time,’ said Sam. ‘Do it for me.’

  ‘And for me,’ said Zia, with a little smile.

  ‘Please, El,’ said Sam.

  Elena

  It was the same old story. Yet again the whole future of our band rested on the shoulders of Elena Griffiths. Why is it, I wonder, that it always has to be me who makes the really big decisions?

  They were begging me. Basically, I suppose they all realised that, without me, there would be no band – that in a way I was the most important part of the whole line-up.

  ‘I’m really not sure,’ I said.

  I looked at their anxious faces and made up my mind. Just this once, I’d put my own feelings aside and do it for them.

  ‘All right.’ I nodded briskly. ‘Let’s go.’

  And Zia hit the opening chords of ‘Bad Girl’.

  Matthew

  Guitar, then Sam singing solo, Zia coming in on harmonies, building to the chorus with the other two – it was a slow build, ‘Bad Girl’.

  How did it sound? Not that great, to tell the truth. The four band members seemed to be going in different directions and in different rhythms. Elena and Charley stared at the ground, looking embarrassed. Their shouting bits sounded like kids messing about in a playground. Zia belted her guitar, drawing out the vocals. Even Sam looked as if he wished he were somewhere else.

  ‘Good,’ I lied when they had finished.

  ‘You reckon?’ said Zia, seeing through my politeness.

  ‘It was…fine.’ Anxious to change the subject before the truth came out, I asked, ‘What are you guys calling yourselves, by the way?’

  Blank looks all round.

  Would you believe it? They had formed a band and they didn’t even have a name for it.

  Tyrone

  It only occurred to me that Saturday afternoon when my mother returned from one of her clothes-buying binges that I had a small, Sam-shaped problem on my hands.

  I was reading a book on my bed when she waltzed in, looking unusually pleased with herself. She twirled around once and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, what do you think of my Talent Night gear? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’

  ‘That thing you’re wearing. It’s new, isn’t it?’

  ‘Honestly, men. They never notice anything. I bet Sam will notice when she sees me tonight.’

  I sat up on the bed. Mum, I now realised, had bought herself a new outfit. It was a sort of weird, baggy shirt-and-skirt thing that seemed to be made out of old sacking.

  ‘She’s quite a down-to-earth girl, Sam.’ My mother did another turn. ‘So I wanted a suit that said to her “Ty’s mother is an elegant, successful woman, but is also very grounded and sensible and kind”. D’you think it says that, Ty?’

  ‘Sam will be up on stage, Mum. She’ll have other things on her mind.’

  ‘But afterwards, when the three of us are together in front of all the other parents – me, my son and his lovely, successful girlfriend. And everyone’s looking at us. It’s important that I look the part.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right. I had forgotten about the other parents.’

  ‘They’ll be so jealous of me.’ Mum laughed, then suddenly frowned. ‘Sam won’t think I’m trying to steal her thunder with my new outfit, will she? Teenage girls can be so sensitive about that kind of thing.’

  I went back to my book. Mum, I realised, was in for a shock. Just when, for the first time of her life, she thought she could be proud of me, she was going to be more humiliated than ever.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll just love it,’ I said.

  Matthew

  Talent Night is kind of a big deal. Mrs Cartwright likes to pretend that the idea is to give the kids a platform to be themselves, to express their music and acting talent, to blahdy-blahdy-blah, but the truth is that it’s all about the adults.

  Parents are given the chance to see how wonderfully their little ones are getting on. Teachers are able to go around pretending that they’re basically normal, straight-forward people. Above all, future parents and a few of the big swells on the local council are shown what a great place Bradbury Hill School has become under the inspired leadership of Mrs Deirdre Cartwright.

  It’s showbiz, in fact. Nothing but showbiz.

  So, unless you’re an egomaniac or a teacher’s darling, the word on Talent Night is simple: don’t.

  Last year, I was one of the new kids. Mum and Dad were keen to show what great, committed parents they were. It was bad enough having to watch some acts on the stage but worse – much worse – was seeing teachers trying to be nice. I swore that next year I’d go down with a bad attack of flu rather than repeat the Talent Night experience.

  Yet here I was, back again a year later, all because of my little American cousin.

  The first people we saw as we arrived at the school that evening were Jake and his father, Mr Smiley. Normally I’d expect Jake to be doing his skulking-in-the-background-wishing-he-was-anywhere-else routine, but when he saw us outside the school gates, he actually stepped forward.

  ‘Hi, Mr and Mrs Burton,’ he said, like the nicest kid-next-door you could ever imagine. ‘Hi, Matthew. Hi, Sam.’

  And Sam does this strange little chuckle. ‘Well, hello there, Jakey boy,’ he says.

  ‘This is my dad, Sam.’ Jake nodded sideways at his father. Now Jake’s dad is the ultimate executive-manager type, but that night he was not wearing a suit – in fact, he was not even wearing a tie.

  ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said, shaking Sam’s hand. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr Smiley,’ said Sam. At that moment, he seemed to have noticed something across the room. ‘I’d better get ready,’ he said and was gone.

  Seconds later, Mrs Sherman appeared, wearing a mad, billowing dress and a couple of tons’ worth of flashy jewellery. Tyrone was behind her, a wince of embarrassment fixed on his face.

  As they joined the group, Mrs Sherman put an arm around Tyrone’s broad shoulders. ‘Why don’t you run after Sam and wish her luck?’ she said, loudly enough for us all to hear.

  Tyrone muttered something about stage fright.

  ‘Believe me, she’d appreciate it.’ Mrs Sherman glanced up at us. ‘I know what girls are like. How about a little good-luck kiss?’

  My parents must have looked a bit startled by the idea of Tyrone giving Sam a good-luck kiss, because Mrs Sherman turned to us. ‘Young love, I don’t know!’ She laughed gaily.

  I tried to my best to kill the conversation, suggesting we grab our seats, but there was no stopping Tyrone’s mother now.

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t heard,’ she said to my parents. ‘Ty and Sam are an item.’

  ‘An item of what?’ This was my mother.

  ‘An item as in together – a couple.’ Mrs Sherman smiled proudly. ‘Honestly, they’re so secretive, these kids.’

  ‘They are?’ said Mr Burton.

  ‘Tyrone is Sam’s boyfriend. Aren’t you, Ty?’

  Mrs Sherman

  I was slightly taken aback by how surprised the Burtons looked at the news I had just broken.

  ‘It appears that my son has a reputation as something of a babe magnet,’ I said, allowing a hint of motherly pride to enter my voice. ‘The girls can’t get enough of him. Especially darling little Sam.’

  Tyrone groaned. ‘Mum, please.’

  ‘That’s…interesting,’ Mary Burton said in a slightly sniffy way.

  ‘We’d better get to our seats,’ added that little mouse of a husband of hers.

  Smiling, I followed them. Did they really have to make it so obvious that they were jealous of me?

  19

  Matthew

  We were in the final countdown before the gig started. The hall was filling up, but we found some places four rows from the front. We sat in line, three families, seven people and more secrets than you could count, as the audience settled down for the performance.

  The evening had not started well. And it was just about to get a whole lot worse.

  Ottoleen

  We’re late, can you believe it? All that waiting around and hanging out and we all but miss the danged thing.

  It’s what to wear that’s the problem. Crash has this thing about blending in. He’s been talking all week about us looking like real Brits and he’s been so busy fussing in front of the mirror at the hotel that we only just make it to the show.

  But we’ve done a good job. The way we look, no one can tell that we’re anything but a nice young British couple checking out a school for their little kid.

  All we have to do now is find out where Sam is.

  Matthew

  I felt my mother squeeze my arm. With wide-eyed, wordless panic, she nodded in the direction of the door.

  There, framed in the doorway and looking about as out of place as anyone could be, were Mr and Mrs Lopez. Crash was in this blazer yachtsman-type thing, but spoiled the effect by wearing dark gangster shades. Mrs Lopez, in a flowery skirt and big hat, looked like she had walked straight out of an old movie.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ I whispered. ‘They don’t even know that Sam’s at Bradbury Hill.’

  More heads were turning as Crash and his wife made their way to a couple of spare seats in the third row.

  ‘It’s going to be all right.’ Dad stared at the stage, his face pale. ‘Sam’s a girl.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I muttered. ‘That’s just fine then.’

  The lights were dimmed. Mrs Cartwright left her seat in the VIP row at the front of the hall and climbed the steps on to the stage. Talent Night was about to begin.

  Mrs Cartwright

  It is an evening that is all about the kids, but I like to make what I call my mark on the evening by welcoming visitors, saying a few words about the school, noting some of our recent achievements, then leaving it to the young performers.

  Matthew

  Here’s the way a Carthorse speech goes. First she tells you what she’s going to say. Then she says it. Then she says it again, in slightly different words. Then, to finish off, she reminds you what she’s been saying. Once she gets to her feet with that big queen-of-the-heap smile on her face, you just know that you’re in for the long haul.

  So I drifted off pretty quickly while she was giving us the usual message about how talented the kids were, how amazing and understanding the teachers were, how Bradbury Hill had just got better and better ever since she had arrived – prizes, grades, achievement, success – but I tuned back in when, glancing at a piece of paper in her hand, she said that there was a change to the programme.

  ‘Zia Khan, one of Steve Forresters’ stars of Year Eight – and I must say that Year Eight has been particularly impressive this term – will not now be singing solo but will be joined on stage by three other girls from her class in a band called…’

  Elena

  The Pandas?

  We must have been in shock when, sitting in the classroom a few minutes before the gig started, we agreed to that name.

  ‘It’s part of a whole concept.’ Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a lighter, then an old cork. ‘Everyone’s going to notice my black eye, right?’

  ‘It’s kind of hard to miss,’ said Charley.

  Sam flicked the lighter and held it beneath the cork. ‘So we turn it to our advantage,’ he said. After a few seconds, he held up the blackened tip of the cork. ‘We all have black eyes – like we’ve just come out of a fight.’

  ‘Er, am I missing something here?’ I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Why exactly would we want to do that?’

  ‘It’s funny. It’s interesting. It solves the name problem.

  It’s a statement.’

  ‘A statement that we’ve totally lost it,’ said Charley.

  ‘Why not?’ said Zia, who was tuning her guitar. ‘I’ve seen pictures of models in Paris with fake black eyes. I’ve heard that it’s really fashionable this year, the beaten-up look.’

  ‘The beaten-up look. Yeah, I think I’ve read something about that in Heat.’ I held out my hand. ‘OK, gimme the cork,’ I said.

  Matthew

  For some reason, can’t think why, I remember very little of the first hour of the show. A couple of kids from Year Seven sawed away at violins. A four-piece band from the Lower Sixth stood on stage looking moody as they did a couple of cover versions of recent hits. A guy from the year above me went through a comic routine about parents, which seemed mostly to consist of him asking us, ‘What’s that all about, eh? Eh?’ A few inhabitants of the Planet Nerd from my year did a couple of African choir songs. In between each turn, the Carthorse lumbered on stage to introduce the next act.

  I was in a semi-snooze when I heard the head make the announcement our little part of the audience had been waiting for. ‘And now, ladies and gentleman, it’s time for a bit of wildlife – and I mean wild life! – with the Pandas!’

  Elena, Charley, Zia and then Sam shambled on to the stage. There was soot stuff on their arms and faces and Sam had torn the sleeve of his shirt. They looked like survivors from a bomb blast.

  For a moment or two, a shocked silence hung in the air. What was going on here? Was it some kind of satire thing? Then, good old Mrs Sherman started clapping and going ‘Very good’. The audience laughed uneasily, and Zia struck the first chord of ‘Private Cloud’.

  Something happened when Sam began to sing that night. A sort of shudder ran through the audience as if suddenly they were all caught up in the moment, snatched out of their mood of polite boredom and pulled in by the sound of Sam’s voice and Zia’s guitar.

  ‘They say – don’t let your heart rule your head, But I say – you’re gonna be a long time dead.’ So relaxed that he seemed almost to be having a conversation with himself, Sam reached out a hand as the music built to the chorus. ‘I feel my life slip like water through the fingers of my hand, And I’ll be high in the sky—’

  But at that moment, as Zia harmonised the chorus, a problem became apparent. There was nothing else for the other two Pandas to do during the song except jiggle around in the background. Charley swayed about, looking like she was drunk or something while Elena, perhaps because by now no one had paid any attention to her for several seconds, went into a look-at-me dance routine.

  The mood was broken. There was barely suppressed laughter from the audience. I looked down the row and caught Jake’s eye. He crossed his eyes and drew a finger across his throat.

  Steve Forrester

  I was impressed. I knew that Zia Khan had musical talent, but Sam Lopez was a revelation
. That voice – angry yet strangely tender – had real quality. It was haunting, different.

  I admit I was at something of a loss to understand the significance of why they were called the ‘Pandas’. Only later did I begin to understand the subtle message that they were putting over. The black eyes, the bruises – it was nothing less than a savage, teenage perspective of the problem of domestic violence.

  Brilliant. I was chuffed to bits. Dead proud of my girls, I was.

  Matthew

  The Pandas finished ‘Private Cloud’. During the applause, led by Mrs Sherman, who seemed about to explode with pride at her son’s girlfriend, I noticed that Sam was eyeing the audience.

  He smiled at Jake and his father, at Tyrone and his mum, he winked at me. Then, I noticed something change and harden in his expression.

  Sam gazed down at the third row. There, staring up at him, he saw the unmistakable, blazered figure of his dad, Mr Crash Lopez.

  Crash

  ‘It’s the kid we saw round at the Burtons,’ I said.

  ‘She’s way taIented,’ said Ottoleen.

  ‘I guess,’ I said. ‘For a Canadian.’

  We laughed at my joke and it was then that I noticed that the kid was still staring at us, kinda mean and hostile. For a nanosecond I wondered what her problem was. Then I thought nothing more of it.

  Matthew

  There was this weird silence that filled the hall and seemed to go on for minutes as Sam eyeballed his dad while the other Pandas stood around looking awkward.

  Were they going to sing another number? Was someone meant to be giving it some verbals between numbers? Or were they just cranking up the tension? Either way, it worked. There were murmurings in the audience, a bit of nervous laughter.