I Predict a Riot. Catherine Bruton
up and staring me right in the eye.
I hesitated for a second before I said, ‘Um, OK.’
So I perched next to him and we sat there, watching the pigeons and not saying much. He definitely wasn’t your typical hero, this skinny, smiley-faced bookworm, who went around saving kids from being stabbed in the park. But there was something about him, some kind of quality which seemed to shine out of him, even here, surrounded by litter and concrete.
‘Why did you do it?’ I asked.
‘Do what?’ said the New Kid.
I bit my lip nervously. ‘Um, help Little Pea in the park yesterday.’
‘Is Little Pea the boy with the big shoes?’
I nodded and waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so I said, ‘So why did you then? Do it?’
He shrugged and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. It had been one of the hottest summers on record. There had been no rain for so many weeks that everyone had forgotten what a cloudy sky looked like. ‘Probably cos I’m an idiot,’ he said.
‘I thought you were brave,’ I said, feeling my cheeks burning again. ‘I never saw anyone stand up to the Starfish Gang before.’
‘Maybe. It was still stupid,’ he said. Then he sighed. ‘I promised my mum two things: to stay out of trouble and always brush my teeth.’ He turned to me with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘And what do I go and do? Get myself in a whole heap of trouble first week of the school holidays.’
I wanted to ask him why his mum made him promise to stay out of trouble, but I didn’t want him to think I was prying into his business, so I just said, ‘Your teeth look OK.’
He grinned with his big sunshine smile, properly this time, and I found myself smiling back.
‘Who did you say those other kids were anyway?’ he asked. ‘The ones who were beating on Pea or whatever you say his name is?’
‘The Starfish Gang?’ I said, staring down at my thin, grubby fingers. ‘And the boy with the knife is called Shiv. Shiv Karunga.’
The New Kid looked down at the tatty Vans on his feet and frowned.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ I said.
A shadow passed over his eyes and he said quickly, ‘It’s none of your business where I’m from.’
‘Sorry,’ I said quietly.
He sighed again. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just . . .’ He hesitated, then said something I wasn’t expecting. ‘You filmed it all, right?’
My fingers curled tightly round the camera in my pocket.
‘I saw you with a camera so I figured maybe you filmed what happened.’
He was looking me up and down and I wondered what I looked like to him: a skinny, purple-haired girl with a face like a freckly elf, wearing an ET T-shirt, boys’ surfing shorts and massive cherry-red boots.
He had the kind of face you couldn’t lie to, so I just nodded.
‘You got it with you then?’
I pulled my camera out of my pocket and passed it to him, looking down at my hands again.
‘Cool,’ he said, checking it out. He flicked it on and pressed the play button. The footage I’d taken in the park yesterday appeared on the tiny screen and his own face came into view – close up, with that gutted-and-something-else expression I couldn’t make out.
His brow furrowed as he watched, but he didn’t say anything. He let it play for another thirty seconds or so then turned it off.
‘Yup, I’m an idiot!’ he said, handing it back to me. ‘So do you always go around filming people when they’re not looking?’
‘I didn’t exactly mean to,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I’m sort of making a movie.’
‘Serious?’ He looked genuinely interested.
‘There’s this competition,’ I found myself saying, ‘for young film-makers, and I want to enter it.’
I shrugged and looked down at my beloved cherry-red, steel-cap DM boots, with a sad face Tippexed on one foot and a happy face on the other. My mum hated those boots so I wore them every single day, even when it was blisteringly hot and my feet were totally boiling like they were that day. I think I’d have worn them in bed if I could.
‘What’s it about?’ he asked. ‘Your film.’
‘I’m not exactly sure yet,’ I said. My face felt as red as my boots. ‘I don’t really have a story. I just film stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff ?’
My toes wiggled uncomfortably. ‘Just stuff around here. The Coronation Road, the Starfish Estate. Inner-city kids living in parallel universes. That kind of thing.’
‘Right,’ he said, looking at me curiously for a second. ‘Um – why?’
I scrunched up my toes some more. If I told him the whole story, I’d have to tell him about my mum, and about dad leaving and everything. So I just said, ‘I don’t know really. It’s just what there is around here.’
He grinned again unexpectedly. I figured if anyone’d been filming us right then we’d have looked an odd couple. Then he said something else I wasn’t expecting. ‘I could help, you know?’
I tried not to look as freaked out as I felt when I said, ‘Really?’ But I don’t think I exactly managed it.
‘Yeah. I like stories. Words, you know? Maybe I could help with that bit.’
‘Right,’ I said, chewing my lip some more.
‘And my mum said to keep out of trouble,’ he went on. ‘So maybe I can help you keep out of trouble too? Cos, you know, it’s really not a good idea to go around filming guys like Shiv.’ His eyes clouded a little as he said the last bit.
The Tippex faces on the toes of my boots seemed to wink up at me. ‘My dad reckons filming keeps me out of mischief,’ I said.
And I remembered the ‘chat’ we had on the day he walked out. ‘Keep filming. Keep out of mischief. Look after your mother for me,’ he’d said, like he was just going away on holiday, not leaving us for good. Then he’d given me one of his big hugs and walked out of the door.
‘Yeah?’ the New Kid said, giving me a funny look like he was trying to read the thoughts in my head. ‘Well, maybe we can do it together. Look out for each other, you know? And make a movie at the same time.’
I looked really hard at him, disbelieving suddenly. Why did someone like him want to hang out with me? ‘Seriously?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You do the pictures, I do the words and we both do the film-star bit!’
I smiled and twisted my fingers tightly round the camera. The sun was shining on the New Kid’s face, making his chocolate skin glow and his Afro hair look like a halo round his head.
‘So what’s your name, director girl?’ he asked.
‘Maggie,’ I said. Then I added quickly, ‘Only that’s not my real name.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘OK . . . um, what’s your real name then?’
‘Emmeline Margaret,’ I said quickly. ‘My mum thought I might be the pioneering type. You know, like Margaret Thatcher or Emmeline Pankhurst, the suffragette lady. Only nobody’s ever called me that. They just call me Maggie.’
‘Right. Well, Maggie’s a good name. Suits you.’
‘Thanks,’ I nodded.
‘I’m Tokes,’ he said.