Steven Camden - It’s About Love

My laptop’s still open from last night. I close it, then slide off my bed down into press-up position on the floor. Back level, I feel the warmth spread across my shoulders and I smile. Thirty reps, then fifty crunches and repeat. Every morning for two years. At least my body will be ready.

I can hear the TV as I come downstairs.

Mum’s lying under her duvet on the sofa, half watching a chunky man cooking something with fish. The curtains are open. Dad’s old varnished wooden clock, shaped like Jamaica, ticks like a mantelpiece metronome in between Marc’s trophy for under-sixteens’ 800m champion and a glass-framed photograph of a younger me and him on a climbing frame, me watching as he swings from the bars.

“Make us a coffee, Luke.” Her heavy eyes don’t leave the screen.

INT. – DAY

Close-up: Bubbles and steam cloud clear plastic.

I stare out of the window over the sink, holding the milk, as the kettle starts to boil. Our small square of back garden is overgrown and next to the fence I see the old deflated leather football nestled into the grass like a white rock.

I spoon coffee into the big mug with the black cat on it and keep stirring as I pour the hot water three quarters to the top. I shake the plastic milk carton like I’m making a cocktail, bang it on the sideboard to bubble it up like Marc showed me, then stir slowly as I add a little to the coffee, making a whirlpool of froth to the top edge of the mug.

Some people have machines that do it for you; in our house you do it yourself.

Mum’s eyes are closed and she’s mouth breathing. I kneel down next to the sofa, resting the mug on the floor and see she’s still wearing her nurse’s clothes under the duvet. Her skin’s pale and, with her mousey hair in a ponytail, she looks young for a mum. I hold my hand up next to her face. My skin’s darker than hers, but lighter than Dad’s, and I think about genes and twisted strings of code. Then I notice the photograph of Marc in his Aston Villa youth kit tucked between the cushion under her head and the arm of the sofa.

“Mum. Mum, why don’t you get into bed?” I put my hand on her shoulder.

She jerks awake and sits straight up, kicking the coffee all over my lap. I shout out and fall back as the hot coffee burns my thighs through my jogging bottoms. Mum looks terrified.

“Luke!” She falls forward off the sofa half on top of me, grabbing my shoulders. “Are you OK?”

The photo of Marc drops on to the floor. I can feel the heat branding my skin. “I’m OK, Mum. It’s all right.”

She sees the photograph and lets go of me to pick it up. Then she pulls the duvet away and looks down at the dark brown patch on the cream carpet. “Oh, look what you did! You need to be careful, Luke.”

“Me?”

“This is gonna need shampooing. Get a cloth, hurry up!”

So I go to the kitchen, my thighs pulsing from the heat, to get a tea towel to clean up the mess I didn’t make.

Walls work both ways. What keeps you safe, keeps you separate.

“Of course there’s a difference! These ones are Honey Nut, Dad. They’ve got honey and nuts in …”

“But I don’t want honey and nu ts.”

I laugh. Zia’s putting on a voice for his dad, playing both parts in this little comedy routine, hunching over and everything, pretending to adjust his glasses. Me and Tommy are his audience, sitting on the lime-green leather sofa. I can see our dark reflection in the black screen of the massive TV behind him.

“Are you kidding, Dad? Let’s treat ourselves, yeah?”

“I don’t want a treat, I want breakfast.”

“But Dad, you’re the West Midlands Carpet King, you can afford to splash out on a better cereal. Look, these ones are called clusters, they look good.”

“Cornflakes.”

“How about Cocopops?”

“Cornflakes.”

“Fine, but let’s at least get the Crunchy Nut, yeah?”

“You think I became successful by eating crunchy nuts? What’s wrong with you? You used to love cornflakes, you too good for cornflakes now?”

I laugh and Zia stops his routine.

I nod at him. “This is good stuff, man.”

Zia bows. “My life is my scrapbook.”

He’s got no idea how cool that sounded, and I make a mental note to write it down later.

“Has your dad seen you do it yet?” says Tommy.

“Are you mad? In fact, we should go. He’ll be back soon.”

Me and Tommy stand up.

“You should show him, man. You’re getting good,” I say.

“Oh yeah. ‘Hey, Dad, Tommy and Luke reckon I should jack in the supermarket job you’re making me do and sack off your plans for me and the family business. Yeah yeah, they think I should try and become a stand-up comedian. They think I’ve got potential.’”

His face is pure sarcasm. Zia’s dad doesn’t even like us in the house, let alone giving his only son career advice. Tommy looks round the room. “Yo. Your sister about?”

Zia digs his arm. “Shut up, yeah? It’s not funny.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

“What are you just saying, Tom?”

Tommy blinks slowly. “I’m just saying, that I think Famida is a rare beauty and I’d like to make her my wife.”

I laugh. Zia stares at Tommy. Tommy carries on. “My older, foxy wife.” He closes his eyes and smiles like he’s just tasted the best ice cream in the world. Zia goes for him and they’re in a two-man rugby scrum. I watch their reflection in the TV.

Zia joined our school in Year Five, but he really came into his own when we moved up to secondary. He was the kid who always said the cool thing at just the right time. Some of the one-liners he rocked to teachers were incredible. Like the time when Mr Chopping was laying into us in chemistry and shouted, “Do you think I enjoy spending my time with immature young boys?” and without even blinking, Zia was like, “I don’t know sir, I’d have to browse your internet history.” Brilliant.

I punch them both and they stop wrestling. Tommy cracks his neck and takes out a cigarette. Zia cuts him a look. “Don’t even joke you idiot, come on, let’s go.”

“Where we going, anyway?” I say.

Tommy puts his cigarette back and shrugs. Zia puts his hands on our shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. We got wheels!”

INT. CAR – DAY

Close-up: A pine tree air-freshener swings from the rear-view mirror to the sounds of boys laughing.

We don’t have anywhere to go and Tommy’s happy just driving around, so that’s what we do. I get shotgun and Zia’s in the back behind me. There’s no stereo in the car, but it doesn’t matter cos just driving with no sound feels good. Like a music video on mute.

Then I have an idea.

We drive round to old Mr Malcom’s house and nick apples from the tree in his front garden, then park outside our old school. It’s only been a summer since we left, but it feels like forever. The black metal front gates are locked and it looks kinda small.

“Shithole,” says Tommy.

Zia nods. “Load up.”

Standing in a line in front of the gates, we cock our arms back and try to hit the technology block windows.

I’m the only one to reach, my apple exploding on the thick double-glazed glass. “Eat that, Mr Nelson.”

We stop by West Smethwick park and watch the second half of an under-twelves game. It’s Yellows vs Reds. Within minutes, Tommy’s shouting instructions to the Yellows’ defence.

Some of the parents stare.

The Yellows win 5:1.

At about four we stop at Neelam’s on the high road and get masala fish and ginger beers, then park up near the bus stop and eat in the car. Heat from our food steams up the windows.