What’s Up With Jody Barton?, page 14
My mum looked annoyed, waved a pointy fingernail at me and said, ‘Next time, would you please have the dibbling decency to inform me first?’ And then she slammed my door shut and thumped off down the stairs. I suppose I’m lucky. Most mums would never have let me get away with that. But words like body-polish, full exfoliation and one-day detox hold a lot of sway with my mum.
By the next morning, I’d had another thirty-seven texts. I only opened the first two. They weren’t nice either. So I switched my phone off, put my school uniform on and went to find Jolene. She was downstairs in the cafe, eating toast. My dad was getting the cafe ready for the day and peeling potatoes.
‘All right, sunshine,’ he said as I helped myself to a breakfast pastry. ‘How’s the detox going?’ And then he shook his head and said, ‘Detox? I ask ya! Ain’t natural.’ And then he kept on shaking his head and said, ‘I’m making us all beef burgers tonight. I’ve got proper top quality mince as well and I don’t want any of it wasted – so no more of your funny detox business, all right?’
‘OK, keep your hair on,’ I said. And then I shoved my entire pastry into my mouth because I was totally flipping starving.
My dad said, ‘Will do, kiddo, will do.’ And then he touched his head and said, ‘OH MY DAYS! WHERE’S IT GONE!’
Unlike his top quality mince, my dad’s jokes don’t have a use-by date.
I took another pastry and sat down opposite Jolene.
‘There are other tables,’ she muttered.
I slid my phone over to her. ‘I’m getting loads of texts,’ I said.
Jolene said, ‘Lucky you,’ and then she slid the phone straight back at me and carried on chewing her toast.
‘They aren’t nice texts,’ I said. ‘And I don’t know who they’re from.’
‘Well, don’t flipping well ask me,’ said Jolene. ‘Why would I flipping know who texts you? I don’t actually think I know anything about you.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. After a moment or two, I said, ‘So you haven’t been giving out my number?’
Jolene’s slice of toast froze in front of her face. And then she slapped it back down on her plate and said, ‘For God’s sake, Jody!’
My dad called over from the counter. ‘Oi, no arguing in here, please. It makes the food go off.’ And then he grinned and added, ‘And don’t forget, kids, it’s both your birthdays in a couple of weeks. The big one. Sweet sixteen! Well, technically Jody is four but we won’t let that be a problem.’
Jolene and I just stared at him.
My dad shrugged and said, ‘Blimey. Don’t get overexcited.’
Without another word, my sister stood up, took her plate over to the sink and then headed for the door. But as she passed me, she paused and hissed, ‘Walk to school by yourself because I’m not walking with you.’
And I stared at the table and said, ‘OK, I will.’ But I’m pretty sure we both knew that I wasn’t going anyway.
So I picked up my school bag, walked around the block for a bit and then snuck back to the library.
I was pretty cold by then. Walking around Willesden in February isn’t the warmest thing to do in the world. I headed straight for the loos, pushed on one of the hand-dryers and sat down underneath it for a few minutes.
Once I’d warmed up, I unzipped my coat, took off my school sweatshirt and pulled out another jumper from my school bag. It was a proper actual jumper. Not a sweatshirt. Not a hoody. Not a long-sleeved T-shirt with a band name written on the front. It was a jumper. Made out of woolly stuff. With a v-neck. My mum got it for me once. I’ve hardly ever worn it. Because nobody ever really wears v-necks, do they? Not until they’re at least twenty-seven.
I pulled the jumper over my head and looked in the mirror.
A young guy with a nasty black eye and a boring taste in knitwear stared back at me. He didn’t look like Jody Barton. But, then again, he didn’t look like he was skipping school either. Because skipping school is a teen thing and this guy looked way too old and too anxious to be bothering with teen stuff. Satisfied that I wasn’t about to get harassed by any truancy officers, I stuffed my school sweatshirt back into my bag and went into the library.
Charity was on the desk. I know pretty much all the librarians who work in my library and they know me. Some of them are nicer than others but none of them are mean. They wouldn’t dob me in to a truancy officer.
Charity said, ‘Morning, Jody. Shouldn’t you be somewhere?’
‘I’m on study leave,’ I said.
Charity made a noise that sounded like hmmpf and then went back to sorting through a stack of books.
I wandered about in general fiction for a bit and then I sat down on one of the soft chairs and flicked through some magazines. They were pretty boring though. There were history magazines and chat magazines and others about cars and furniture and foreign holidays – but not a single one about maths. So I sat and read all the problem pages in every single copy of Bliss that I could find, and then – as soon as one became spare – I took a seat in front of a computer. And once I’d logged on I did what everybody else does when they’re sitting in that seat. I clicked the internet icon and typed www.facebook.com into the browser.
Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t.
My homepage looked something like this:
Without breathing, I scrolled down the page. I had forty-two new wall-posts and they were all hideous. But at least Jolene hadn’t posted any of them.
Slowly, I started to breathe again and clicked on the friend requests. Every one of them was from somebody I hardly knew.
It’s amazing how popular you get when people want to write abuse on your wall.
I clicked IGNORE FRIEND REQUEST seventeen times and then I folded my arms, sat back and stared at the screen. And this time I wasn’t looking at the words. I was looking at the numbers. Because numbers are massively important. They don’t just tell us about maths-related stuff, they tell us about everything. Not only do they help us to manage money and tell the time and bake cakes and make music and understand art – they also allow us to make sense of every aspect of our entire lives. And what the numbers on the screen were telling me was this:
I had 311 virtual friends and no sign of a single real one.
I’ve always known I’m a bit of a loner. But it still came as a bit of a shock.
‘Oh my God,’ I said out loud. ‘That is sooo bad.’ And then I clicked the button that took me to my personal settings and just deleted my whole account.
After that, I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. I was too numb to move. So I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes and tried to make some sort of sense of my life. But it was hard. Very hard. I think my mind had gone numb too.
Eventually, several googolplexes later, I heard someone say, ‘You OK there, bruv?’
I looked up. It was Mookie the Media Guy. He was leaning across a trolley full of DVDs and looking at me with a face that looked genuinely full-on bothered. Mookie is another one of the librarians. He’s in charge of all the music, films and games, so everyone calls him Mookie the Media Guy. Mookie is younger and cooler than the other librarians and he has neat little dreds and special-edition trainers. There are some people in life that you know are sound even before you’ve heard them speak. I thought Liam Mackie was one of them, but he wasn’t. Mookie is though.
He asked me again, ‘You OK there, bruv?’
‘Hm,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking about stuff.’
Mookie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Must be pretty strong stuff. It’s making your eyes water.’
‘Oh.’ I quickly rubbed my eyes on the sleeve of my boring v-neck. ‘I’ve got hayfever,’ I added.
Mookie nodded. ‘Yeah. February is a bad month for pollen.’ And then he scratched his chin, nodded at his trolley and said, ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a hand putting some of these films back on the shelf, could you?’
And because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I said, ‘OK.’
I followed him over to the media section. It’s not a part of the library I tend to use that much because you have to pay to borrow stuff.
Mookie said, ‘You’re doing me a big favour, bruv. These films need to go back on the racks in alphabetical order. And anything that ain’t in English needs to go in the World section. And anything that’s a drama off the telly needs to go in the TV Drama section. And anyone that’s having a laugh goes in the Stand-up Comedy section.’ And then he plucked a copy of Justin Bieber’s DVD, Never Say Never, from off the top shelf of his trolley and said, ‘And that includes this little guy. Know what I’m saying, bruv?’
And I grinned then and said, ‘Yeah,’ because I totally did.
It took me over an hour to sort that trolley out. I reckon there were more than three hundred films on that trolley. Once I got started, Mookie wandered off to do something else and left me to get on with it. I didn’t mind though. It was good to have something to do. It was good to take a break from thinking about myself and my life and who I was and why I’d kissed kissed Liam Mackie and why I didn’t seem to have that many friends.
Mookie came back just as I was putting the last few films in their alphabetical homes. When he spotted the almost empty trolley, he smiled and said, ‘Nice work, bruv.’ And then he said, ‘How’s your hayfever?’
I frowned. And then I remembered my lie and said, ‘It’s a lot better, thanks. I feel a whole heap better.’
Mookie grinned. ‘You know what, bruv. That’s the healing power of film, that is.’
I frowned again. ‘Is it?’
Mookie stopped grinning and nodded earnestly. ‘Totally, bruv. Film is art, innit. And art is good for the soul.’ And then he put his hand on my shoulder, steered me over to the shelves reserved for films beginning with D and said, ‘Let me show you something.’
I let him. I didn’t have anything else I needed to be doing.
Mookie waggled his finger along the racks and then said, ‘Gotcha,’ and pulled one of the empty DVD cases from the display rack.
It was for a film called Do the Right Thing. I’d never heard of it.
‘This film’ said Mookie, ‘is culturally significant. It’s not just entertainment – it’s art. And it’s the ninety-sixth best film ever made.’ And then he waved his hand at all the racks and said, ‘And there’ve been a lot of films made. What we’ve got here doesn’t even scratch the surface.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ I said.
Mookie rolled his eyes. ‘It’s Spike Lee innit. From 1989. He wrote it, he directed it and he stars in it. What can I say? The man’s a genius. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched this film, but every time I see it I get something new out of it. And for one hundred and twenty minutes, I’m so busy soaking up the stuff on the screen that I stop worrying about life’s little niggles. I don’t even worry about the big niggles. And that, bruv, is the healing power of film.’
‘Oh,’ I said, and I put my hand out to take the DVD from him.
Mookie pulled his arm back so that the film case was just out of my reach. ‘Whoa! Not yet. Not for you. It’s a Certificate 18, innit. The language is a bit lively and a few bad things happen. As a responsible adult and an employee of Brent Council, I can’t allow you to borrow this film. But you must have a favourite film that you love? One that totally ticks all your boxes?’
And I did. Of course I did. I just wasn’t sure if it was the sort of film a guy my age ought to be massively into.
Mookie said, ‘So come on then. What is it?’
I bit my lip and thought about saying something else. Something a bit more straightforward. Like . . .
or
or
or anything involving
or
But then I just looked down at my hi-tops and said, ‘It’s an old film. You probably won’t have even heard of it.’
‘Try me,’ said Mookie. ‘I’m the Media Guy.’
So I took a deep breath and said, ‘Running on Empty.’
Mookie’s face lit up. ‘Directed by Sidney Lumet. 1988.’ And then he nodded and said, ‘It’s a seriously good film.’
My face lit up too. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so,’ said Mookie. ‘It’s about false identity and running away from reality until, finally, the central character, Danny Pope – played by River Phoenix – is forced to take a stand for who he really is and what he believes in. That ain’t no stupid film. You can learn a lot from a film like that.’
And because I couldn’t think of anything better to say, I asked again, ‘Do you think so?’
And Mookie winked and said, ‘I know so. So go home and watch it.’
So that’s what I did.
I waited until half past three when I knew school would be finished and then I went home, dug out my copy of Running on Empty and popped it into the DVD player.
Mookie’s right. It is a good film. A seriously good film. I always knew that – right from the very first time that I ever sat down and watched it. And it may not be tough like Rocky or Die Hard, or futuristic and full of gadgets like Star Wars and The Matrix and James Bond but I like it and I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I didn’t.
And, what’s more, I’d be lying if I said that I could watch that film and not think about how much my heart aches whenever I look at River Phoenix.
Because it does. It absolutely does.
And to pretend it doesn’t is to run away from who I really am. And why should I do that? I deserve my own chance.
The next morning, I didn’t even bother with my school uniform. Or the sensible v-neck. I just put on some proper clothes and stomped out of the house before anyone had a chance to speak to me. And then I zipped up my coat, pulled down my hat and walked the mile and a bit to Kilburn High Road.
Normally I don’t like walking. I’d rather get on the bus or the tube or borrow a bike or do anything other than walk. But this time I didn’t mind. And I didn’t even mind that it was dark and drizzly and probably cold enough to do my acorns some serious damage. Because I had a plan. And, even though it wasn’t much of a plan, it was firing up my insides a whole lot more than when I had no plan at all.
It was this:
1. Go to Kilburn Market and reclaim my sense of self.
2. Go home and tell my mum everything.
It’s what you call a systematic approach to problem solving. Mrs Hamood, my maths teacher, reckons that when you have a complicated problem, it’s better to employ a systematic approach and break it into small logical steps rather than attempt to solve the whole thing at once. Which is fine with maths problems, but much trickier with real-life ones. Because sometimes in life there aren’t any small steps.
Only very big ones.
But, because I’d had enough of feeling like a spineless, lily-livered wimp, I tried not to think about Step Two and forced myself to stay focused on Step One. And this was a lot less scary because all it really involved was buying a couple of posters.
When I reached Kilburn High Road, the shops were still shut and the market traders were only just beginning to open up. Sandy’s Snack Shack, Flossie’s Flowers and Hairy Poppins (the unisex hairstylist) were already doing business, but most of the other stalls were still hidden behind metal shutters. I bought myself a cup of tea from Sandy and waited for the Poster Hut to open. And while I stood there, sheltering under Sandy’s canvas roof and sipping my hot tea, I watched Kilburn come to life.
There was a lot to look at.
I saw council workers sucking up the rubbish with rubbish-sucking machines and a fat man in a van delivering crates of bananas and a woman using the wing mirror of the fat man’s van to do her eye make-up and three blokes in Argos uniforms yawning as they waited for Argos to open and an old lady – who was also waiting for Argos to open – shuffling around in a pair of gold trainers and a Chinese man cleaning the window of the Hard Wok cafe and a young guy with huge headphones walking three tiny white dogs and two little kids in dark green blazers holding the hands of a young woman in a nanny’s uniform and bigger kids in cheap puffa jackets holding bacon rolls and girls who looked hardly any older than me pushing babies in scruffy buggies and women in suits blowing the steam off their coffees and a guy with a balaclava-beard picking stuff out of a litter bin and a man in a Beamer shouting at a traffic warden and businessmen barking into phones and barrow boys shouting and pensioners chatting and posers posing and hipsters being cool and hangarounds hanging around and you name it . . . I blinking well saw it.
And I suppose that’s what I love about London. All human life is here. There are 7,172,091 people in this city and they come in every shape and size and colour and personal specification that you could possibly ever imagine.
And when you put yourself into that context it’s pretty hard to feel strange even if you actually want to.
‘Hello, sweetheart. Waiting for me?’
I looked up and smiled. It was the nice woman who runs The Poster Hut. I’d recognize her anywhere because she’s got blue hair and a tattoo of a seahorse on her neck.
‘You wouldn’t give me a hand opening up, would you, lovely?’
I smiled again and nodded and helped her push up the metal shutters of the stall.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Tell you what. If there’s anything you want from the Sale rack, I’ll let you have it for free.’
‘Ta,’ I said, and glanced over to where she was indicating. I could see a massive picture of the kid from the Home Alone films and another one of Peter Andre. They weren’t even worth having for free. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I know what I’m after. Have you got any River Phoenix posters?’
The woman frowned and stroked her seahorse. ‘Think so. Usually keep River in stock. Most kids these days have never heard of him, but the ones who have absolutely love him.’
‘Do they?’ I pushed back my beanie hat and looked at her hopefully. ‘Even guys?’
Poster Woman frowned again and began to flick through a rack of film stars. ‘Well, now you mention it, I suppose it is mostly the girls who want a picture of River. But some lads do as well. And why not? We’re not all pressed from the same pastry cutter, are we?’
