Skills from Brazil Page 3

  Jamie stared at him. He realized it was the first time he had heard Rafael say a whole sentence. Or rather, try to.

  “B-b-b-b-ut I d-d-don’t play. I l-l-love it in a d-d-d-different way.”

  As he attempted to speak, each letter and syllable seemed to be like a dagger in his throat. The more he tried to get the words out of his mouth, the harder and more painfully they seemed to stay blocked inside him.

  Jamie was shocked, and he immediately understood why Rafael had not wanted to speak earlier. He really felt for him.

  “Fine,” said Mr Karenza, also a little more sensitively. He was making notes on a piece of paper as he spoke.

  “Well, we don’t force anyone into anything here at Wheatlands so, in future, you certainly don’t have to play football if you don’t want to. However, we cannot allow the fighting to go unpunished, so the two of you will help the dinner ladies clean up the hall after lunch every day for the rest of the week, and if I ever hear about either of you fighting again, believe me, the consequences will be far, far worse. Is that clear?”

  Both boys nodded and, as they did so, Jamie attempted to offer the smallest of smiles in Rafael’s direction.

  “What was all that about?” asked Jack as soon as Jamie and Rafael came out of Mr Karenza’s office.

  “Fighting,” Jamie said, watching Rafael walk away. “He’s the one who started it … but I don’t think it was really his fault.”

  “You and your temper,” said Jack. “I feel sorry for whoever has to be your manager in the future.”

  But Jamie wasn’t listening. He was watching Rafael slope away down the corridor by himself.

  There was something that Mr Karenza had said which made sense. When he’d asked Jamie how he’d have felt if he were the one joining a new school thousands of miles from home, one single word had immediately inserted itself into Jamie’s head.

  It was the same word that described how Rafael da Cruz had looked since the moment he had arrived at Wheatlands:

  Lost.

  Pollock’s Delight

  Friday 9 May – four days later

  Jamie stared at the baked beans splattered across the table. The red, gooey liquid was dripping off the edge and trickling down on to the bench below.

  He took a deep breath, held his nose and wiped it clean.

  Cleaning out the hall after lunch was by far the worst punishment that the school handed out, and Jamie felt sure that Pratley had specifically requested it when he had sent the two boys to Mr Karenza for their fight. Certainly, Pratley had been watching them both with eagle eyes every day this week as they carried out their humiliating duties.

  Yesterday, Pratley had even come up to Jamie and said smugly: “Learning your lesson, Johnson?” as Jamie had been emptying out the stinking rubbish bin.

  Still, at least now it was the end of the week and this would be the last day of the torture. Not that Jamie’s plight was anything as bad as Rafael’s; Jamie only had to clean up the mess. Rafael also had to put up with the teasing … and today it seemed to be getting even worse.

  “Oh no, I’ve spilled my spaghetti on the floor!” said Edgar Pollock, the most annoying boy in Year 5. He thought that just because he was really rich, he could order other people around. Worse still were the kids who hung around with him just because he had money.

  “Will you come and p-p-p-pick it up for me, Rafael?”

  Edgar and his friends erupted into raucous laughter and watched with delight as Rafael bent down and cleared up all the mess. However, just as Rafael had finished, Pollock purposely tipped the rest of his plate over too.

  “Oh no! Look what I’ve done now!” he cackled. “So sorry, R-R-R-Rafael!”

  Jamie shook his head. Word had now gone round and some of the kids had started to talk about the fact that Rafael had a stutter. If someone had done to Jamie what Edgar had just done to Rafael, Jamie would have lost his cool and lashed out.

  Yet as he watched Rafael slowly complete his dreadful, degrading cleaning mission, Jamie was struck by the fact that he neither reacted nor showed he was affected.

  There was no doubt that there was something very different about this boy. Jamie just couldn’t work out whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Noted

  “He’s not what I was expecting – I know that for sure,” said Jamie as he and Jack walked home, passing a stone between them. “I think I like him but it’s, you know, difficult to get close to him. And what’s the thing with his notepad? Why’s he always carrying it around?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Jack, flicking the stone into the air and volleying it further down the street to allow them to quicken their pace. “And that’s not all. Have you seen him when we’re playing football in the playground?”

  Jamie shook his head.

  “Just have a look on Monday,” she smiled. “See what you make of it.”

  Saturday 10 May

  This was Jamie’s favourite bit.

  Giving the ticket collector his season ticket, seeing them check it and then release the catch for Jamie to be able to push his way into the stadium. Into the home of Hawkstone United.

  He could easily have run up all eighty-seven steps to get to their seats, but he knew that Mike couldn’t run any more, so they climbed the steps together. It made Jamie sad to think Mike walked with a limp. And sadder still to think that the brilliant career he would have had as a Hawkstone player was stolen away from him at such a young age by his horrific knee injury. But as they slowly climbed the stairs, Jamie felt proud and excited to be with a man who he admired so much. That was the point of being here at Hawkstone. It wasn’t just the football. It was being together.

  They always arrived half an hour before the kick-off in order to see the whole of the warm-up. Jamie loved watching the strikers pinging the balls into the top corner of the net from all types of outrageous angles. He could never understand why most of the fans stood outside the ground drinking and eating right until the last minute before they came in.

  They were missing some of the best stuff. This was the chance to see how good these top performers really were.

  “Mike, can I ask you something?” said Jamie as the players jogged down the tunnel to receive their final instructions before the kick-off.

  This was the last game of the season. Jamie and Mike had not missed a single home match for three years. No matter how well or badly Hawkstone did, Jamie would always support them for the rest of his life. They were part of who he was.

  “Sure,” said Mike, rising from his seat to stand up. He always did this just before the game started. It was his knee; if he sat down for too long without getting up, the knee locked and gave him excruciating pain.

  “Was there ever any bullying when you went to school?” asked Jamie.

  Mike’s face changed and hardened.

  “Is someone being mean to you about your dad again, JJ?” he demanded. “Tell me who it is and I’ll sort them out. They’ll be sorry they ever—”

  “No, Mike, it’s not me, don’t worry,” laughed Jamie. “It’s someone else. That Brazilian kid I was telling you about before. He’s arrived now and he’s … kind of different. Different to how we thought he was going to be, anyway, and some of the other kids are just giving him a bit of a hard time.”

  “Oh,” said Mike, straightening his coat and peering towards the tunnel. The players were beginning to assemble now. It was nearly time. “Well, you know that just because other kids are giving him a hard time doesn’t mean that you have to.”

  Jamie nodded. But he also knew it wasn’t as easy as that.

  “I’ve never understood why people think being different is a bad thing,” said Mike, putting his arm around Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie knew that in a minute Mike would start the singing and the chanting. He’d once been the captain of the Hawkstone Youth Team. Now, he wa
s the leader of the Hawkstone fans.

  “Kids can be cruel,” said Mike. “It comes from fear. They’re scared of the other kids thinking they’re not cool. What they don’t understand is that real coolness is having the guts to go your own way – to be who you are.

  “And anyway,” he smiled. “Who wants to be exactly the same as everyone else? To me, that sounds seriously boring!”

  Then Mike gave Jamie the nod. They both knew what it meant.

  It was time to start shouting for Hawkstone at the very top of their voices.

  “Get the Notepad!”

  Monday 12 May

  “How long’s he been there?” grinned Jamie.

  It had been a good morning. No, it had been a great morning.

  In assembly, it had been announced that Jamie Johnson had won the vote by what Mr Karenza had described as a “very clear majority”. Jamie was to be captain of the Pupils Team.

  With the whole school watching, Jamie had walked to the front, where he and Pratley, as the two captains, had been made to shake hands and pretend they were best friends.

  Jamie had thought about tickling the inside of Pratley’s palm as they shook hands but decided against it at the last minute. Always stand up for yourself, Mike told him, but never wind up your opponent – it only gives them an extra incentive to beat you.

  “He’s been there every second of every match we’ve played since he arrived,” said Jack, answering Jamie’s earlier question and snapping him back into the break-time game they were playing.

  Jamie looked to see that Rafael was crouching down, behind one of the goals on the playground, almost entirely hidden by a car.

  Squatting down like that, he seemed as though he were on some kind of police stake-out or attempting to catch a glimpse of a leopard in the wild. He looked weird.

  “Seriously?” said Jamie. “He’s watched all our games at break like that? And he’s still writing in that notepad! What is he putting in there?”

  Jamie was intrigued. But there was no time to think about Rafael right now. There was a game going on and every day counted. Literally. Last night Jamie had calculated that there were only forty-three more school days until the Pupils v Teachers game.

  People were relying on him to make history. He had to be ready.

  “Yes!” Jamie shouted as Jack leapt high to snatch a ball out of the air.

  She looked up and saw that Jamie was tightly marked, but she also knew that she could still pass to him; he’d have the pace to get away. In a whir of motion, she spun the ball out to Jamie, who was waiting to collect it on the left wing.

  Jamie stretched out his foot to accept the ball softly and bring it under his control. Use your feet like hands, Mike had told him once, as he showed Jamie how to kill the ball dead in an instant. He may not have been able to run any more, but Mike still had the touch of a professional.

  As soon as the ball was with him, the football computer in Jamie’s head kicked in. It calculated the distance between him and the goal and instantly worked out the rate at which he needed to run.

  Then Jamie clicked into his turbo gear, burning past two defenders in a flash of Olympic speed. The ball was tied to his foot as he surged ahead of the opposition in a blur of blistering pace.

  In his head, Jamie could hear the commentator shouting, ever more excitedly:

  Johnson … still Johnson … still Johnson … STILL Johnson… He’s going to SHOOT!

  As Jamie drew back his left leg, everyone in the playground stopped to watch. The sun shone down from above the school building, illuminating the image of Jamie’s body, perfectly shaped, ready to exert maximum power. Then Jamie brought his foot towards the ball with breathtaking speed.

  He struck the ball so perfectly, so fully, so sweetly that it immediately began whistling through the air towards the goal. Jamie was just about to wheel away in celebration when he saw that his strike had actually not hit the net but instead had thundered into the angle of post and crossbar. It rebounded off the metal frame of the goal and was now ricocheting straight towards Rafael.

  There was not even time for Rafael to move. The ball was going far too fast.

  “Ooooh!”

  There was a gasp from everyone on the playground as the ball smashed brutally into the middle of Rafael’s face, knocking him clean off his feet. As he fell backwards, hitting his head against the side of the car, his notepad went flying into the air.

  “Get the notepad!” one of the kids shouted as they realized that this was their opportunity to grab the boy’s most precious item. Hearing their plan, Rafael tried to scramble to his feet, but it was no use – he had hit his head so hard he barely knew where he was.

  Jamie stood and watched. He saw the other boys charging towards Rafael, determined to steal his notepad. He saw Rafael, with a tear nestling in his eye, desperately trying to stop them … and something inside Jamie clicked.

  It was almost the same feeling as when the anger rushed upon him…

  Jamie had been teased before: for having red hair, for being thin and small and pale. And the cruellest taunts of all had come when his dad had left.

  No, Jamie didn’t feel anger towards Rafael. He wanted to help.

  Jamie’s eyes zoomed in on Rafael’s location before scanning the area around him. Immediately, he detected where the notepad had landed.

  The other kids were all looking next to Rafael, but the notepad had actually landed on the other side of the car, by the wheel. It must have looped up and over the vehicle when Rafael had been thrown backwards by the power of Jamie’s shot.

  Jamie still had no idea what was so special about this notepad but he also knew that that didn’t matter. It belonged to Rafael. That was what was important.

  The computer in Jamie’s head kicked back in, analysing the distance he was from the notepad … but now the other kids had seen it too. It was a straight race between them and Jamie.

  Jamie Johnson didn’t lose races.

  He dashed across the playground and rolled under the car, scooping up the notepad just in time.

  Then Jamie stood up as tall as he could and, with all the kids on the playground looking at him, he spoke with his loudest possible voice.

  “Let’s … just … give Rafael a break,” he said.

  As the final word escaped from his mouth, Jamie realized how fast his heart was pumping. For a second, he just stood there panting.

  Then he walked slowly over to Rafael and, resisting the temptation to look inside, placed the notepad back into his palm.

  “How about you and me start again?” said Jamie, stretching out his hand.

  Rafael looked down at the notepad before breathing what looked like a long sigh of relief.

  Then he stared at Jamie’s outstretched hand. The expression on Rafael’s face was like that of a starving wild animal being offered food by a stranger: wanting to accept it but fearing it might be a trap.

  Jamie gave Rafael his biggest smile. He meant the boy no harm.

  Then, for the first time, Rafael smiled back. A big, warm Brazilian smile.

  “O-o-o-brigado, J-Jamie,” said Rafael, shaking Jamie’s right hand while clutching his notepad to his chest with the other.

  Jamie looked at Rafael, slightly confused.

  “Thank you?” he guessed.

  Rafael nodded.

  “Th-th-ank y-you.”

  “You Must Be a Genius!”

  Friday 23 May – eleven days later

  “Championes, championes olé, olé, olé!

  Championes, championes olé, olé, olé!”

  Hawkstone United, jointly managed by Jamie Johnson and Rafael da Cruz, were the Champions of Europe! With brave attack-minded tactics, they had beaten every other team on the continent. They were the kings of Soccer Manager!

  “Shall we start a new one?” sug
gested Jamie as soon as they had finished celebrating.

  That was the thing about this computer game: the more they played, the more addicted they became.

  “Load it up!” responded Rafael. “But this time I want us to try a new formation.”

  The seeds of the partnership had been sown in that moment when Jamie stood up for Rafael in the playground.

  Jack had then suggested that Rafael sit with her and Jamie at lunch, and quickly he became a fixture alongside them in lessons too. Initially some of the other kids gave Jamie strange looks, as if to say, Why are you being so nice to the weird kid? But Jamie didn’t care. He liked Rafael. And who wanted to be normal anyway?

  Then, one day, in the middle of a maths lesson, when Pratley had his back turned, Rafael had nudged Jamie mischievously and torn a sheet out of his notepad, handing it to Jamie with a cheeky wink.

  On the page was a drawing of Pratley with his eyes popping out and a bogey coming from his nose, wagging his finger at Jamie, telling him off. At the top was written “Pratley vs Jamie”, and at the bottom Rafael had written, “Is this right, Jamie?”

  As well as being amazed by Rafael’s artistic talent, Jamie had got the most intense giggles and been sent out straight away … but he took the drawing with him.

  Jamie didn’t want Pratley to find out what he was laughing at and for Rafael to get into trouble too. Besides, he wanted to put that drawing up on his bedroom wall!

  That incident seemed to make Rafael trust Jamie even more and when, that same afternoon, Jamie had invited him back to his house for the first time, Rafael accepted.

  Swiftly and naturally, they had slipped into their routine: each day, Jamie, Jack and Rafael walked to the park after school, where Jamie took shots at Jack while Rafael looked on and made notes in his pad. Then they walked on to Jack’s house and dropped her home before Jamie and Rafael would play Soccer Manager for hours and hours in Jamie’s room, stopping only to go to the toilet or to eat some toast. Their marathon sessions lasted until Rafael’s dad, Bernard, came to pick him up in the evening. It worked perfectly for everyone because Bernard, who was an architect working on Hawkstone’s brand-new shopping centre, was always at the office until late anyway.