Sami's Silver Lining Read online

  ‘It is OK,’ I say quietly, taking a sharp breath in. ‘Thank you!’

  Lexie looks back at me for a long moment, and the noise and chatter of the cafe falls away. I notice that her brown eyes have swirls of amber in them, that her lashes are longer than any I have ever seen, that her skin smells of sunshine and vanilla. I resist the impulse to edge sideways, closer to Jake, in case I smell of old coat or dry-cleaning fluid.

  ‘They still arguing?’ Lexie asks, and I nod and shrug, because this scrap shows no sign of easing up. Bex is in total meltdown, and I think it may take more than shared chocolate fudge cake to sort her out.

  ‘I just don’t get you, Marley Hayes!’ she says. ‘You are so, so out of order! You act like the Lost & Found is your own personal band, but it’s not – we’re all in it together. Choosing new members should be a joint decision, but you have to ignore that and pick Bobbi-Jo, who is possibly the most unmusical person we auditioned!’

  ‘I didn’t want to lose her to that other band, Pretty Street,’ Marley argues.

  ‘I have never heard of Pretty Street before,’ Bex snaps. ‘And neither have you, Marley – be honest!’

  ‘Why did you even want us at the auditions if you weren’t going to give us a say in the decision making?’ Jake asks. ‘And why choose someone who can’t even hold a tune? I don’t get it, Marley. You’re supposed to care about this band!’

  Marley looks uncomfortable. ‘I’ll sort it,’ he mutters. ‘I can get her up to scratch – stop stressing! Trust me, she’ll be a big asset to the band!’

  Dylan frowns. ‘I think I get it,’ he says. ‘You and Lexie split up, didn’t you? A few weeks back?’

  ‘It’s not a secret,’ Lexie says, shrugging. ‘Things just weren’t working out.’

  ‘Sadly, they weren’t,’ Marley says. ‘Yes, we’ve split – so what?’

  ‘So I think you’re lining up Bobbi-Jo Bright to be your next girlfriend,’ Dylan ploughs on. ‘There has to be some attraction, and it sure as heck isn’t her musical skills!’

  ‘You’re wrong, little brother,’ Marley growls. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are.’

  ‘You do have a bit of a bad rep with girls,’ Bex points out. ‘And you’ve just turned down four applicants who could actually play in favour of one who can’t. Don’t get me wrong, Marley – I’m a feminist and I am all for a strong female presence in the band – but Bobbi-Jo can’t play a single note!’

  ‘She reckons she’s a fast learner,’ Marley says.

  ‘I bet,’ Bex mutters darkly.

  A waiter with a man bun arrives with a tray and starts setting out lemonade in jam-jar glasses with striped paper straws; the chocolate cake is served on a piece of slate with the promised seven spoons. The Leaping Llama is so hipster it’s almost a joke – there’s no way I’d come here normally. It’s way out of my comfort zone and I’m not sure if it makes me want to laugh or cry. I think back to two years ago when I was eating food parcel rations of rice and beans cooked over roadside fires, and wonder again just how come I managed to reach safety when so many of those I travelled with did not. I guess it must be luck, or fate or a miracle.

  I fish out my fineliner pen and settle for sketching a tiny portrait of the waiter, complete with topknot and tray held high, on the crumpled till receipt.

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ Lexie pleads. ‘I hate it when we all fall out. I wanted to talk to you guys about Romy – it’s her birthday on Saturday. Me, Happi and Bex thought we should do something to celebrate. We all know she has a tough time at home, what with looking after her mum and everything. What if we mark it somehow, make it special?’

  Romy keeps quiet about her home life, but her mum is wheelchair-bound and it’s clear the two of them struggle to cope. Like me, she didn’t really have friends at school until she joined the Lost & Found – the band is a real lifeline for her.

  ‘OK,’ Marley says, looking relieved at the change of tack. ‘I get it. What are we thinking?’

  Lexie spoons up a piece of chocolate cake. ‘A surprise party, maybe?’ she suggests. ‘At the old railway carriage – think fairy lights and bunting and blankets on the grass. It’s the perfect venue, right? Romy turns up on Saturday expecting a rehearsal, and instead it’s a party!’

  ‘I’ll make a birthday cake,’ Happi offers. ‘We can all chip in, bring a dish to share or a packet of crisps or something …’

  ‘Cool,’ Lexie says. ‘Jake, can you tell Louisa Winter? Make sure she doesn’t mind? We could call Romy’s mum and see if she wants to come too. I’ll ask Lee to do a playlist – and, Sami, I was going to ask if you could make a card with some of your little sketches on it. Something we can all sign?’

  ‘Sketches?’ I echo.

  ‘Your drawings.’ Lexie picks up the till receipt with the cartoon waiter inked on it. ‘Like this one and the things you draw at band practice; cartoons of us all, scribbled on music paper or in your notebook. You’re really good, Sami! Everyone thinks so!’

  There it is again, that shy smile that tugs at my deep-freeze heart.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and I watch her eyes light up. ‘No problem!’

  Talk turns to who will bring what food and who has bunting or fairy lights at home, and I risk another glance at Lexie and catch her watching me. Her cheeks flush pink and she looks away, but suddenly my heart is racing. A wisp of something like hope unfurls inside me, but I push it away before it can take root. I have no business hoping that a crush could ever be more than that, not when my heart is covered with a thick layer of permafrost.

  ‘So, Marley,’ Bex says, steering back into dangerous waters. ‘Will you be bringing your new girlfriend along? The one who can’t play keyboards to save her life?’

  ‘The one with two parents in the music business, more like,’ Marley points out. ‘They could be useful contacts. But no, we won’t be dating – I promise you that.’

  ‘Who are you trying to convince?’ Bex says. ‘You’ll be dating before the week is out, I guarantee it. You’ve had more girlfriends than I’ve had hot dinners!’

  ‘Leave it, Bex,’ Marley says. ‘You’re way off. Seriously.’

  ‘Tell them,’ Lexie says quietly. ‘You keep saying you’re waiting for the right moment. Just do it, Marley.’

  ‘Do what?’ Bex echoes.

  Lexie shrugs. ‘Nothing,’ she says, backtracking. ‘It was just an idea.’

  ‘What was?’

  Marley rolls his eyes.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘Lexie’s right. There’s something I need to tell you all. And I need you to listen, and not judge.’

  ‘Bit rich, coming from you,’ Bex quips, but Lexie shakes her head, and Bex is silent.

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ Marley begins. ‘You know I’m an idiot. You know I’m shallow, you know I’m ambitious, you know I can be a bit of a slave-driver …’

  ‘Stop bigging yourself up,’ Dylan jokes.

  ‘I’m being serious,’ Marley mutters. ‘I’m not perfect, right? But there’s something about me you don’t know, and we’re all mates, so, well, I want to tell you.’

  Marley’s usual confidence and charm have slipped, and he seems anxious, edgy. He’s talking too fast, his fingers drumming against the tabletop.

  ‘This is scary,’ he is saying. ‘You might think badly of me, or laugh at me, but I want you to know that I won’t be going out with Bobbi-Jo, not in a week’s time – not ever, OK? I won’t be going out with any girls from now on because I’m tired of pretending to be something – someone – I’m not.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Dylan says. ‘Nobody said you were pretending!’

  Marley looks anguished. ‘But I was,’ he says. ‘I’ve been pretending ever since I can remember. And I’m sick of it!’

  ‘Hang on,’ Jake cuts in, frowning. ‘You said something about not going out with girls. What are you trying to say, Marley?’

  Across the table from me, Marley’s cheeks flare crimson and his eyes look t
oo bright, panicked.

  ‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this,’ he pushes on. ‘I’m still the same person, but the truth is … well, the truth is … I’m gay. I like boys, not girls, and I want to stop lying about it. OK?’

  A stunned silence descends. I really didn’t see Marley’s revelation coming. Even before I knew him properly, Marley was famous in Millford Park Academy for three things: he liked to fight; he was music mad; and he changed his girlfriends the way the rest of us change our socks.

  I’d never have guessed Marley’s secret in a million years, but I can feel how scared he is about our reaction, and I can see from Lexie’s face that she knew already.

  ‘Dude, are you kidding me?’ Dylan whispers, but Marley just shakes his head.

  ‘This doesn’t change anything,’ Jake says, nudging Marley in a play-fight kind of way.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Bex agrees. ‘You’re still an idiot!’

  ‘But you’re our idiot,’ I quip. Marley snorts back a laugh, and I feel good for making my friend smile.

  ‘Thanks for telling us,’ Happi says. ‘It can’t have been an easy thing to share.’

  We raise our jam-jar glasses and drink a toast to Marley, all except Lexie, who throws her arms round him and holds on tight. I am mean enough, just for a moment, to feel a sharp pang of envy.

  6

  Stars

  It’s Saturday evening and the party is in full swing. Fairy lights and home-made bunting are strung through the trees, and people crowd around a trestle table draped in a crumpled white sheet and laden with plates of sandwiches, crisps, salads, sausage rolls and my own contribution, a dish of hummus and some flatbreads made by Aunt Zenna.

  The whole Lost & Found crew is here – Sasha is back from her caravan holiday in Wales and George is home from Portugal, both full of stories, both mildly astonished to meet Bobbi-Jo Bright, the worst keyboard player in the world. Romy’s mum is here, her wheelchair draped with a pink feather boa, chatting away to Jake’s mum, stepdad and little sisters. A hippy-dippy couple called Laurel and Jack are pouring her some elderflower cordial.

  ‘She’s coming!’ Happi shrieks, and everyone falls silent as we turn to look at Romy approaching through the trees. She halts at the edge of the clearing, looking first baffled and then wide-eyed as she scans around and realizes this gathering is for her.

  ‘Happy birthday, Romy!’ we roar, and party poppers snap and explode all around us as Romy comes closer.

  ‘What … what is this?’ she asks, faltering.

  ‘A birthday party for a very special girl,’ her mum replies. Romy starts to laugh, just as Lee’s playlist booms out into the summer evening and Happi comes down the steps of the old railway carriage carrying a chocolate cake with thirteen candles on it. Romy, it turns out, is the youngest in her school year and the youngest in the band.

  Everybody sings ‘Happy Birthday’ and she leans across to blow out the candles and make a wish, and I find myself smiling, slightly bemused. It seems bizarre to me that I am here, at a birthday party for the only girl I know who is actually more of a loner than I am. England surprises me over and over, but my friends in the band are good people, kind people. This party is something I am glad to be part of. Romy’s eyes are shining as she finds herself the centre of attention for once.

  A few months back, I made some Coke-can stars for my cousin Faizah’s little boy. He was three years old, and probably too young for them, because when she thought I wasn’t looking I saw Faizah snatch the stars away and drop them into the bin. Maybe she thought he’d eat them,

  As everybody settles again, eating cake and drinking lemonade, I notice Romy drift to the edge of the gathering, back to her comfort zone. I make my way across to her, and she smiles, shyly.

  ‘That card!’ she exclaims as I approach. ‘I can’t … I don’t think I’ve ever had a handmade card before, and this one is a work of art!’

  She pulls it out of her shoulder bag and studies the collage of torn sheet music with little ink sketches of her playing violin drawn on top, gazing at the messages and signatures inside. ‘I’m going to frame it and put it on my bedroom wall. I’ve never had a party before, not like this. You’ve all been so kind!’

  ‘Lexie, Bex and Happi did most of the hard work,’ I say, awkward now. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been to a party, so this is strange for me too. I made you something else …’

  I hand her a tissue-wrapped parcel of Coke-can stars, and watch her take out the little tin stars, looking at them with awe. Somehow, I don’t think these will end up in the bin.

  ‘For luck,’ I tell her.

  ‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ someone shouts, and Bobbi-Jo appears. She hooks an arm through Romy’s and pulls her over to the makeshift dance floor beneath the trees. Romy looks terrified as the new girl drags her into an energetic cross between a jive and a conga, but Lexie, Bex, Happi and Sasha rush to her rescue and soon the six of them are whirling about to the sound of Pharrell’s ‘Happy’. Romy’s look of horror has been replaced by laughter.

  Why not? She has a pocketful of stars, after all.

  I don’t know much of Romy’s story, but I know her life is not a breeze. Lexie and Bex are outsiders too, because of being in foster care, and Happi is far from your average Millford Park student with her ultra-strict and ultra-religious parents. Then there’s George, with his horn-rimmed hipster glasses and bad skin, and Jake, who lived in a yurt until quite recently and used to come to school looking crumpled with his hair sticking up, and Lee who is always kind of hyper and clowns about all the time.

  Once he blew his trumpet right in my ear when I wasn’t expecting it, just for a joke, and I dropped to the floor, shaking, because it reminded me of the barrel-bomb attack that killed my friend Azif, back home in Syria. Lee was really sorry about it, obviously, and I guess he wasn’t to know.

  The point is, the Lost & Found is a collection of musical misfits, outsiders. Most of us really are lost, but we stick together and support each other. Even Marley has been keeping secrets, although everyone has made a point of assuring him that we don’t really care whether he likes girls or boys, that we love him anyway, apart from his slave-driver tendencies and his obsessive drive for fame, fortune and musical world domination.

  ‘Don’t lie, you love all that stuff about me too,’ Marley quips to Bex, and she flings a cushion at his head. That is actually quite restrained for her.

  Bobbi-Jo is the only one who doesn’t seem to have been told the news, and tonight she is flirting madly, batting her eyelashes as she flings herself around the makeshift dance floor. Marley seems totally clueless, but still, I can’t help hoping that my crush on Lexie is a little less obvious.

  What makes some people fall for each other and others not? I wish I knew.

  I am surrounded by kids who could definitely be friends if only I would let them … and then there’s Lexie, who could be more than a friend if I just had the courage to take a risk and let myself open up a little. I just don’t think I can.

  I glance back to the dancers, now joined by the hippy-dippy couple, Jake’s little sisters and Marley himself, doing a slightly terrifying version of the cheesy old YMCA dance. Lexie has vanished.

  I look around and spot her through the trees, sitting on a little wall beside the steps to the big house, some distance from the party. In the fading light she looks very small and very alone, and I find myself walking over. I have no idea what I might say or do, but that doesn’t seem to matter.

  ‘Sami,’ she says, as I approach. ‘Good party, huh? I think Romy’s having fun!’

  ‘She is,’ I agree. ‘You’ve made her very happy!’

  ‘Not just me,’ Lexie argues. ‘All of us. The whole Lost & Found gang. Teamwork, huh?’

  ‘So why are you on your own?’ I ask.

  Lexie laughs. ‘I’m on tortoise watch … I brought my pet tortoise, Mary Shelley. She likes to get out and about. Look – she’s over there, just under the rose bush.’


  I follow Lexie’s gaze and spot a small grey-brown tortoise rustling about in the flower beds. It’s unexpected, and it makes me smile.

  ‘She likes strawberries,’ Lexie says, opening her palm to offer me one. ‘Among other things. See if she’ll take it from you!’

  I take a small strawberry and crouch down to offer it to the tortoise, grinning as she stretches up her scaly little head and blinks, as if deciding whether or not to trust me. In the end, the strawberry wins out, and she steps forward and snatches the little red fruit with a speed that makes me laugh.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a tortoise,’ I say, sitting down on the wall beside Lexie. ‘Especially not a famous Gothic novelist tortoise!’

  ‘You’ve heard of Mary Shelley?’ she asks. ‘Hardly anyone at school has! Have you read Frankenstein? I don’t suppose … did they have it in Syria?’

  ‘I’m sure they did,’ I say. ‘But I read it in English. I borrowed it from Bridge Street Library.’

  ‘I got it from Bridge Street too!’ Lexie exclaims. ‘How weird is that? When I was ten. Miss Walker the librarian told me it might be too old for me, but I was pretty stubborn.’

  I think for a moment of the weeks I spent reading that book, sitting on the rickety old fire escape behind my uncle’s shop, huddled in my overcoat beneath a sky rendered starless by orange street lights. I’d read slowly, with a dictionary at my side, hooked by the story’s darkness and sorrow and the outcast monster who is all alone. It was a book that chimed with me and gave me strength, and it kind of freaks me out to know that Lexie had held exactly the same library book in her hands a couple of years earlier.

  ‘Miss Walker told me it might be too hard for me, also,’ is all I say. ‘But I loved it. I am better at reading English than speaking it.’

  ‘You’re great at speaking it,’ she counters. ‘You’re just … well, quiet. I don’t blame you. Hard to get a word in edgeways with that lot!’

  ‘They are good people,’ I say.

  ‘They are,’ she agrees. ‘Mad as a box of frogs, sometimes, but basically cool.’