All the Things That Could Go Wrong Page 5

  I wipe my palms on my trousers. I’ve been practising loads so hopefully I’ve improved since last week. I wipe my palms again.

  Rhythm. I need to think about the rhythm—

  Wait. What’s that white mark on Mrs Hunter’s blouse?

  Is it bird poo?

  It’s toothpaste!

  ‘Everything all right, Alex?’

  ‘Umm … Yes.’ I try to block the thought out.

  ‘Okay,’ Mrs Hunter says. ‘Just remind us of what you’re going to play.’

  It’s bird poo. It’s—

  ‘ “Paint it Black, by The Rolling Stones”,’ I say.

  Mrs Hunter nods. The white mark is speckled. Splashed.

  I lean over my guitar. The strings cut into my skin.

  It’s bird poo. I’ve seen it at home when Mum hangs clothes on the washing line.

  I move the tips of my fingers across the strings and try to find the places where they don’t hurt. I scrunch my eyes tight, block out the thoughts and strum the opening chords. Mrs Hunter taps time on the table and I start to sing. I’ve been playing the song all week, remembering the chords and the words because Mrs Hunter says it looks unprofessional to read the lyrics off our phones.

  Jake drops his pick on the floor. The words flow into my head as the tune flows through my fingers. I close my eyes. Slowly I escape into another world where all my worries about germs and bullies and everybody dying have disappeared. Everything is quiet and still. All I can see is darkness and all I can hear is the music and Mrs Hunter tapping her hand on her knee. I search for the next chord, but my fingers slip off the strings. I open my eyes, find the chord and the rhythm starts to flow again. Through my fringe I see Mrs Hunter looking at me as I keep playing, concentrating on my fingers and the words while everyone else around me moves in slow motion. Jake picks up his pick.

  ‘Lovely,’ Mrs Hunter says.

  ‘You’re really good!’ Jake puts the pick in his mouth.

  Hand-pick-floor-shoes-dirt-outside-pavement-outside-dirt-shoes-floor-pick-hand

  I stare at him in horror. He chews on the pick like he doesn’t know what’s happening. I look at Emma, then Mrs Harris. I think they’re staring at me like I’m an alien.

  I look back down at my guitar. It’s in my head, not theirs. It’s in my head, not theirs. That’s what Dr Patrick would say. It’s my problem. It’s nothing to do with them.

  Hand-pick-floor-shoes-dirt-outside-pavement-outside-dirt-shoes-floor-pick-hand-germs on the pick, germs on Jake’s hand, germs in Jake’s mouth, on his tongue, all the way through his body.

  ‘Okay, now you, Jake, oh, and while it’s in my head, remember the lesson is on Wednesday, not Thursday, next week.’ says Mrs Hunter.

  I look down at my guitar, feel Emma still staring at me. I wish guitar lessons were every day. I wish I was still playing. I wish I was Alex without gloves. I wish I was Alex with no worries.

  I go to the toilet as soon as the lesson finishes, to wash my guitar and my hands over and over again until I think they’re clean so I can put on my gloves.

  The corridor is empty when I go back out. Everyone seems to have gone home and the only noise I can hear is the hum of the floor polisher as the caretaker cleans the hall. I check left and right just in case Dan and Sophie have waited for me, but even if they stayed behind they’d wait for me outside like they usually do.

  I walk slowly down the corridor. I want to go home, but I don’t want to get beaten up on the way. I turn the corner. Emma is standing by the noticeboard. She smiles when she sees me. I smile back and stop beside her.

  ‘You were really good,’ she says quietly.

  ‘You too.’

  She chuckles shyly, then we both look at the noticeboard in silence. There are announcements for the Year Elevens for when they take their GCSEs. Things about anxiety and stress and how to revise smart. There’s a picture of Oscar Wilde with a quote – ‘Be yourself; everyone else is taken’ – and next to it are some new pictures of the Year Ten trip to Japan.

  Someone shouts behind me. My heart jumps as voices echo down the corridor.

  Two boys from Year Ten run past me, laughing, and disappear round the corner. I let out my breath. I’m glad it’s not Dan and Sophie; they must have got tired of waiting after all. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Emma looking at me, concerned. I hear a buzz. Emma reaches into her bag and gets out her phone.

  ‘My mum’s here,’ she says.

  I hitch my guitar up on my back and me and Emma walk out of the main doors. It’s raining outside. Cars and buses are passing by with their windscreen wipers on. Emma waves towards a yellow car pulled in by the bus stop.

  ‘I’ll ask if you can have a lift if you want?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s okay.’ I look into the car. I don’t want to get wet or picked on by Dan or Sophie, but I also don’t want to sit next to Emma’s dog in the back of the car.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Emma runs off. I’ll see her tomorrow, but we won’t talk. She knows what’s happening. All the boys and girls in my class know what’s happening. But no one says anything. Especially not me.

  I walk over the zebra crossing and along the pavement, taking big strides and making sure I don’t step on any dog and bird poo. Mum told me once that I should be happy when it rains because it washes the poo away, but it doesn’t: it just makes the germs spread out like an erupting volcano so that they run all across the pavement into the gutter.

  I used to walk home with Elliott until the bullying started. We would talk about the war documentaries he watched with his dad and I’d tell him about my Star Wars characters and that when I go to stay with my dad we watch Battlestar Galactica DVDs all weekend. Except when Lizzie stays. Then we have to watch things like 101 Dalmatians and Spirited Away.

  I stop at the corner of The Drive and Cromwell Road. When I walked with Elliott, it seemed to take five minutes to get home, but now it feels like hours. I wish he was here: he might talk about weird things like dead presidents, but it makes the time go much quicker.

  I walk towards the Spar shop; some kids from our school are outside. I slow down, check for Sophie and Dan, but as I get closer I see it’s older kids from Year Ten. I put my head down and skirt round them. I don’t care that the rain is coming down harder. I’m just glad I’m going to get home without being beaten up.

  I put my music on, then walk along Church Road. There are more shops here with wide roads leading off it, towards the seafront and hotels. I reach an intersection where the red man is lit up bright on the traffic lights. I reach out to touch the Wait button.

  Hundreds of people have touched it. Thousands, millions. Zillions.

  Don’t touch it.

  I’ll be here all day.

  It’s filthy.

  It’s okay.

  I go to press the button.

  Wait! Did you ever see anyone clean one?

  I’ve seen the trucks with brushes to clean the gutters and men spraying jet washes to blast chewing gum off the pavements, but—

  I take my hand away, look around and hope that someone else will come along and press the button and turn the red man green.

  ‘Hey, Shark Face!!’

  My heart jumps. I turn round.

  Ah! No! Dan and Sophie are walking along the pavement towards me. Dan’s chewing gum and Sophie’s got a massive grin on her face. How did they find me? If ever there was a time to press the button, it’s now. But I can’t.

  ‘What’s wrong, think you’ll get electrocuted?’ shouts Dan.

  I look back at the crossing. All I’ve got to do is reach out and touch the button, then run down the road and I’m home.

  Just do it. Just do it.

  Someone nudges me in the back.

  ‘What’s wrong, waiting for Mummy to hold your hand?’

  I stare ahead, pretending I haven’t heard, wishing the lights would change to red so I can cross. Dan pushe
s me in the back again. Leave me alone. Please leave me alone. My stomach fills with worms. I need to get away. There’s a blue car coming, a red car, a black one. If I go now, I could make it to the halfway island, but they’d catch me there. I wish the red man would change now, but I’m stuck like he is, with nowhere to go. I’ve got to run – a red car, a white van – I put my foot out onto the road.

  Dan: Bullseye

  ‘Where are you going?’ I grab Shark Face’s guitar and pull him back onto the pavement. That was close: he nearly got hit by a white van. He might be really weird, but I don’t actually want him to die.

  ‘What do you want?’ Shark Face pulls his arm away and blinks at me through the rain.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just walking home.’

  Sophie grabs his bag off his shoulder. ‘Got any money?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Can you please give me my—’

  Sophie drops the bag on the ground. ‘Just a sandwich box,’ she says. ‘And the swot’s books.’ She kicks the bag and Shark Face’s books spill out into a puddle on the pavement. I wait for Shark Face to pick them up, but he just looks at me with his gloved fingers spread out.

  ‘Check his pockets, Dan.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ says Shark Face. ‘I used it to catch the bus.’

  I go to check, but Shark Face is so used to this that he’s already turning his pockets inside out. Two Year Nines walk towards us. Me and Sophie stare at them as they step over Shark Face’s books and walk on. Sophie presses her face up close to Shark Face. He scrunches his face like she’s got bad breath.

  ‘No one cares about you,’ she says. ‘No one likes you. Not even Elliott.’

  ‘He does.’ Shark Face steps back and wipes the rain out of his eyes.

  ‘Aww, he’s crying, Dan.’

  ‘I’m not,’ says Shark Face.

  ‘You will be in a minute,’ Sophie says. ‘Shall we tell him, Dan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I don’t know what Sophie’s going to say. She presses her finger against Shark Face’s chest.

  ‘Elliott only used to talk to you because he felt sorry for you.’

  ‘No he didn’t.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Sophie turns and looks at me. ‘It’s true. You were there, weren’t you, Dan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He said he was only your friend because he thought you were a saddo for spending all your time in the toilets.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Shark Face stares at Sophie.

  ‘It is,’ says Sophie, ‘and then he stopped talking to you because he got fed up waiting all day for you to poo.’ She laughs.

  Shark Face scrunches his face up. For a second, I feel a bit sorry for him, but it’s his fault we pick on him because he makes it so easy. Sometimes I wish he’d fight back. It would be more fun if he did that, but he never does. Shark Face looks up and down the road like he’s desperate for help, but people are too busy on their phones.

  ‘Come on, Soph, let’s leave him,’ I say. We’ve picked on him enough today and I’m beginning to get bored.

  ‘Why? Are you going soft?’

  ‘No, I’m getting wet.’

  Sophie bends down, picks up Shark Face’s books and jams them in his bag. ‘You dare say anything.’ She throws the bag at Shark Face. He doesn’t even try to catch it. He doesn’t even flinch. It just hits him and falls back onto the ground. He’s useless. Sophie chuckles, then stands right in front of him.

  ‘Tell me something,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why does your face always look like you’ve pooed your pants?’

  Shark Face just stands still like Batman when he’s been frozen by Mr Freeze. Me and Sophie start laughing.

  ‘Why do you always say that?’ Shark Face’s eyes are bulging like marbles.

  ‘Because it’s true,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘It is,’ Sophie says. ‘And you’re weird, and your sister’s weird too. Elliott says she’s just like you. He said she stank of disinfectant when he went round your house.’

  Shark Face swallows like he’s got a golf ball stuck in his throat, then glances across the road. Old Hargreaves, the geography teacher, is walking in our direction. The lights turn red and the crossing starts to beep. Shark Face begins to turn away. Sophie grabs hold of his guitar and he wriggles like a cat trying to get away in a cartoon. Old Hargreaves has stopped by an estate agent’s window.

  ‘It’s okay. Hargreaves isn’t looking,’ I say.

  Shark Face looks at me like he’s going to cry. He’s such a wimp. I clench my fist.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pick up your bag?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  I pick up his bag. We can’t leave it here. Someone will find it, report it to the school and the teachers will want to know how it got there. ‘Take it!’ I push the bag into Shark Face’s stomach. He squirms like it’s a knife then turns away.

  ‘Hit him, Dan,’ says Sophie. ‘Where it hurts.’ She’s got a mad look on her face.

  But I don’t want to hit him. I look at the back of his head, his wet hair plastered to his skull. He’s so weak it makes me mad. I gather spit in my mouth and take aim. My spit flies through the air. Some of it sprays on Shark Face’s guitar, but the big lumpy bit lands on the back of his head.

  ‘Oh my God, Dan!’ Sophie puts her hand over her mouth and laughs. ‘Bullseye!’ she says.

  Alex: I’m not Justin Bieber!

  I’m sitting at the dining table. My head is still tingling where Dan’s spit landed on it. I know it’s not there any more but I can still feel it. I was in the shower for an hour, washing and scrubbing until I was happy it was all gone. But now the spot is so sore I can’t tell if it’s there or not.

  Mum’s reading a magazine while she drinks a cup of coffee. She was late for work again and the supermarket manager made her do a stock-take in the storeroom all morning which she hates because she likes being on the checkouts where she can look out of the window. I can’t tell if she’s mad with me or not, but she’s been reading for ages and it’s so quiet that the only noise is the sound of my knife and fork on the plate and the distant music from Lizzie playing on the PS3.

  I scoop my beans onto my fork and swallow, but my throat is aching so much it’s like I’m eating bullets.

  Mum puts her mug down on the table. I glance up at her.

  ‘I’m sorry I made you late.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sarah says he would have put me there anyway because I chat to the customers too much. Which is true.’

  I try to smile.

  ‘What about you? Music lesson go okay?’

  I look down at my plate.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  I’ve got spit in my hair and it’s burning through my head.

  ‘Alex? Has the OCD been bad today?’

  I nod and hope she can’t see the tears bulging behind my eyes. I wish I could tell her about Dan and Sophie, but if I did she’d go straight to school tomorrow and everyone would know I snitched. Besides, I’ve only got to survive one more day and then it’s the weekend, but the trouble with the weekend is that it’s only two days of peace before the bullying starts all over again.

  I scoop my fork and try to swallow more beans. Mum puts her hand on top of mine.

  ‘Did you want to talk about it?’

  Mum gently taps the back of my hand, trying to make me feel better. I don’t mind her touching me because she washed her hands before we sat down. ‘We’ll sort this, Alex,’ she says. ‘I’ll chat to Dad, then we’ll make an appointment in the morning. Okay?’

  I nod and try to smile. Dr Patrick might be able to help make my OCD go away, but he can’t get rid of Dan and Sophie. Mum picks up her phone. I put my plate in the dishwasher and walk out into the hall.

  Lizzie is in the sitting room, kneeling down on the floor, playing LittleBigPlanet. The main character, Sackboy, is wearing a poncho and a sombrero. He’s supposed
to be building a new world on Planet Bunkum, but Lizzie seems to spend all her time jamming the buttons, trying to get him to jump over a skipping rope. I peer out of the window. The sun is going down, making long shadows across the garden. I look back at my sister. I wish I could sit down and play LBP, solve all the puzzles for Sackboy and help him build his planet.

  The rope gets tangled around Sackboy’s feet. Lizzie huffs, then turns to me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are your eyes watering?’

  ‘I got soap in them.’

  Lizzie looks at me like she doesn’t believe me, then holds out the controller.

  ‘Can you help me? He’s got all tangled up.’

  I smile. She’s only on level 1 and already she’s stuck on the rope, but I’m too tired and upset, and my head is tingling so much I think I’m going to have to get in the shower again. Lizzie holds the controls out further like she’s got an extendable arm.

  ‘Pleeeeease.’ She does the annoying ‘please face’ that she puts on when she wants something – pleeeeease can I stay up? Pleeeease can my friend come for a sleepover? Pleeeease can I have an ice cream? It’s even more annoying when she flutters her eyelids and says: ‘Pretty pleeeease, Alex.’

  Argh! She just did it again and won’t stop until I help.

  I take the controller, wipe it and press X. Sackboy starts jumping over the skipping rope. It turns faster and faster and I keep pressing the X until the skipping rope blurs and my thumb starts to hurt. Lizzie laughs.

  ‘He’s going to do it, Alex!’

  The rope stops turning and Sackboy jumps up and down, celebrating with his hands in the air. I hand the controls back to Lizzie.

  ‘No, you do it,’ she says. ‘As soon as you go, I’ll get stuck again.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’ve got homework.’

  She starts to blink her eyes. My head starts to tingle again.

  ‘Ple—’

  ‘No! I said I can’t! I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  I throw the controller on the floor. Lizzie gives me a weird look like she knows there’s something wrong. All I want to do is go to my room. I stand up and walk into the hall.