Call me lion, p.1
Call Me Lion, page 1
In memory of James John Redrup,
a lover of lions.
1989 - 2014
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
About Selective Mutism (SM)
Acknowledgements
Fun Facts about Camilla Chester:
Copyright
1
Even though my trampoline is in the shade, the heatwave makes it too hot for bouncing. I bounce anyway because when you have no friends in the summer holidays there’s nothing else to do.
‘Hello!’
It’s a girl’s voice. It comes with a body and a grinning face that bobs up and down behind the third fence panel along. The new neighbours must have a trampoline exactly in line with ours. It feels like an invasion.
‘I’m Richa,’ says the girl and waves when she’s at her highest. Her hair is black and long. It stays in the air after she falls, like an exclamation mark above her head.
The urge to run and hide is strong, but I force myself to keep bouncing.
My dog, Patch, gets up and sticks his nose under the fence. His tail wags really fast and he makes a ‘hello’ whine.
Richa notices him when she’s up above the fence. She points and says, ‘You’ve got a dog! I love dogs, but my stupid brother Aahan is allergic. He’s a totally useless three year old who cries and moans and carries on and on about nothing.’ Richa’s voice is hot and puffy. It goes quiet and loud depending on where she is in the air. She sounds like she’s from somewhere different. Not Luton. ‘I’m ten,’ she goes on. ‘How old are you? What’s your dog called?’
She’s good at bouncing. She’s good at talking. She has long, thin arms that waggle about streaked with sun cream, and bare feet. Like everyone she wears shorts and a vest top. Because of the heatwave all clothes make you boiling hot. The only shoes people wear are flip-flops or sandals.
One of the back windows of Richa’s house opens wider. A woman, who is probably Richa’s mum, leans out and speaks a whole load of words in another language.
There are lots of kids from all over the world at my school. My guess is that Richa’s mum is speaking in Gujarati, because she speaks just like Rama in Chestnut Class and his family are from Gujarat in India.
If I could talk, it might be a question I would ask Richa, but I will never ask a question to a stranger. It’s hard enough just to keep bouncing and not run away, and I can only look at Richa when she isn’t looking at me.
Richa shouts back in one big rush. She says three words in English: ‘roasting’, ‘bouncing’ and ‘dog’. Their conversation carries on, sounding crosser all the time until Richa stops it by saying, ‘na, na’ and bouncing around so that her back is turned to the window.
‘She wants to slam the window shut to show she’s angry with me,’ Richa explains, ‘but it’s way too boiling hot for closed windows. She’ll shut the curtains all huffy instead.’
Boiling and roasting are words that everyone uses. We know the heatwave is cooking us all, like sausages.
‘Mum says it’s hotter than India,’ Richa says, still bouncing. ‘She’s grumpy because we’ve had to move house and she’s really, really, really pregnant. I hope it’s a girl.’ She looks me up and down between bounces and adds, ‘No offence. Not all boys are bad, but I do-not-want-another-brother!’ Richa says the last bit up into the sky with her hands in prayer.
She bounces a bit more, watching me, then says, ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters? You don’t say much. Don’t you talk? Why don’t you talk?’
It’s amazing to me that Richa can say all these words. If I was a boy that could speak, these would be my answers to her questions:
My name is Leo, but the people I can talk to call me Lion. I can count all of their names on one hand.
I’m ten too. Just had my birthday party with my family. It was OK, and nothing like Theo’s party at RollerCentral where I froze like a statue and everybody stared at me. That was the worst time of my entire life.
My dog is called Patch because he is brown and white but has a big black patch over his right eye and ear. It makes him look like a dog-pirate. I can talk to Patch. He is my only one true friend. What I would like more than anything in the whole world is a real friend, but you can’t be friends with someone who can’t talk – fact.
I have a big brother called Ryan who is seventeen and sprays stuff all over his body that makes the back of my throat go dry. Brianne is my sister; she is sixteen and wears floaty skirts and scarves and wants to be a physicist. Brianne and Ryan argue all the time.
No, I don’t say much. I want to talk but I can’t.
2
Richa doesn’t seem bothered that I can’t answer any of her questions. She keeps chatting and bouncing and asking me things.
The worry that Richa is there eases and I stop wanting to run away and hide. It starts to get fun, despite the heat. I like the whoosh of air lifting my hair, the roar in my ears and the light feeling in my body.
Bouncing is good, but not as free as dancing. I go to dance class once a week and Just Jive, my summer dance school, starts on Monday. Three brilliant weeks of dancing. Last year there was a Just Jive show. I really wanted to perform but my Selective Mutism stopped me. The thought of the class and my fun teacher, Felicity Delaware, makes me do dance-jumps.
I jump in a big star and a pogo stick. I do a scissor kick, and a lightning bolt.
As I dance-jump Richa stops talking. I’d got almost used to her chattering away. I twist jump to face her. She twists too, matching my move. We jump, facing each other, perfectly in sync. I try a star and she copies me, stretching her arms and legs out wide. Next, I jump a superman; Richa mimics me, her right arm straight up, fist tightly clenched. She matches a couple of straight jumps, then a quick-tuck. Both our knees are hugged tight into our chests. There’s a good feeling inside me.
She laughs. ‘I’m as quick as you. My turn!’
I copy a few of Richa’s straight ‘jump into the swimming pool’ style bounces, arms clamped tight to our sides. Then I copy her back-leg flick and a knee-bounce.
It’s fun.
She pokes out her tongue, I copy. I wave my arms in the air above my head, she copies. She makes floppy bunny ears, I copy. She goes crazy, freestyle, wobbly mad and does lots and lots of bounces. She keeps laughing and laughing and saying, ‘That’s not the same. You got it wrong.’
I grin and almost laugh. This is the most fun I’ve had with anyone who can’t call me Lion in a long time, maybe ever.
After a lot of different bounces and dance moves, Richa flops onto her belly on her trampoline. I have to bounce up high to see her.
‘I’m too hot,’ she complains. ‘There’s only boring water in our house. And it’s all warm from the tap. No ice. We’ve not got the freezer bit of the fridge working properly yet.’ She rolls onto her back, squints her eyes against the glaring sun above and announces, ‘I’m coming over to your house.’
Panic stops my bouncing. Out of rhythm, the trampoline bullies me, bumping me to my knees and flat onto my belly. I hear Richa call up to the open window, probably telling her mum in Gujarati where she’s going. Her mum leans out again and looks over our fence.
She says, ‘Alright with you?’ to me, her Indian accent heavy. I see the top of her belly all stretched with baby.
‘He doesn’t talk, Ma,’ Richa shouts up.
‘What?’
Richa answers her in Gujarati. Her mum answers back.
‘Alright, half an hour. I get it. OK,’ Richa says, and I hear her crunching her way through the wildly dried-up, crispy plants in her garden to her back gate. I swivel round to sit on the edge of my trampoline, my legs swinging free, my heart racing. Patch rushes down our garden to greet Richa as she comes through our gate and closes it behind her. The confidence of this amazes me. She acts if she has always lived here and does this every day.
‘Look at you!’ Richa says as Patch leaps all over her, trying to lick her bare legs and wagging his tail so fast all his body goes bendy. ‘What a good boy. You are a lovely dog. Look at your patch.’
Dogs know lots of words, at least fifty scientists say, and definitely their own names. When Patch hears his name, he squeals with happiness as if he’s been waiting for Richa to arrive his whole life.
‘Is that your name? Are you called Patch? What a beautiful boy. What a good boy you are Patchy Patch Patch.’
Patch rolls onto his back showing his white belly, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth his feet bent over, desperate for more and more tummy tickles.
‘Hello, hello.’ Ryan appears, framed by the back doorway, eating what I call Napoleon (even though I know it is supposed to be called Neapolitan) ice cream, straight from the tub.
Grateful to be distracted from Richa for a minute, I jump down to take a look, making sure my brother isn’t scoffing only the chocolate. He is. It smells good and I want him to share, but can’t ask him, not with Richa here.
‘Who’s your friend, Lion?’ Ryan asks me, nodding down the garden towards Richa.
‘Lion?’ says Richa, getting up from petting Patch. ‘Is that your real name?’ she asks me. She
Ryan leaves the spoon in his mouth so he can pat my head. I know this means that my brother will tell Richa about my hair and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I watch Ryan dig the licked spoon back into what’s left of the chocolate ice cream.
‘When Leo was born,’ Ryan begins, drawing Richa closer, ‘he had a full head of hair. It puffed up high and when our sister, Brianne, first saw it she said it looked like a dandelion clock – you know, like the ones you blow on to tell the time?’
‘I know them, but they’re rubbish,’ says Richa, ‘they never work. I just use a watch.’
Ryan chuckles. ‘Anyway, he got called Lion, short for Dandelion, because of his hair. He’s been Lion ever since.’
‘But your real name is Leo?’ Richa asks me. I stare at her knees, all dusty from where she’s been kneeling to play with Patch. She’s getting closer so my worry should still be getting bigger, but it’s not. My worry is staying still. She’s near enough for me to catch the coconut scent of her sun cream.
‘He won’t talk to you,’ Ryan explains.
I can feel Richa studying my hair. ‘It looks like a lion’s mane,’ she decides.
I like the idea of a lion’s mane better than a dandelion clock and I wish I could tell her that. Someday, somehow, I’m going to overcome my Selective Mutism enough to perform. I want to dance in The Lion King in the West End. It feels like a step towards my dream if I’ve already got the right hair.
‘I’m Ryan, older brother.’ He sticks the spoon back in his mouth and offers his hand like he’s making a business deal.
‘Richa,’ says Richa, shaking it. ‘Moved in next door.’
‘From somewhere in the north, is it?’
Richa nods. ‘We’ve lived all over the place, but this is our first time in the south.’
‘Well, welcome to St Dukes Estate. Luton’s finest.’ He sounds funny because he still has the spoon in his mouth. He takes it out and wiggles it at Richa. ‘No brothers or sisters?’
‘I’ve a ratty little brother and Mum’s about to have a baby.’
‘Nice,’ says Ryan. ‘Thirsty?’
Richa nods. ‘Dry as Weetabix … without milk.’
Ryan laughs. ‘Funny girl. I like you. Got a good one here, Lion.’
I’ve spent hours imagining having a friend. I even practise imaginary friend conversations with Patch. My sister Brianne says that when you read, you’re never alone: not really, because you make friends with all the characters in the stories. She taught me to read and write before I started school. I’m brilliant at it. Reading and writing is how I talk when I’m not with family.
But it’s easy for Brianne to say that to me, because she has lots of real friends that she can talk to.
What the kids at school say is definitely true: you can’t be friends with someone who can’t talk. It’s impossible, but it doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it.
3
‘What’s your poison?’ Ryan asks Richa opening the fridge and doing his head-popping dance move.
Ryan is a good dancer: he calls it ‘busting moves’.
‘Got any pop?’ Richa asks.
Ryan takes out a big bottle of lemonade and pours two glasses.
‘Maybe add some ice? It’s thirty-odd degrees in here,’ Brianne says, striding into the kitchen. Her hair is still damp from the shower and she smells of her fancy shea butter shampoo. Ryan ignores her and hands out the drinks.
‘Ugh. You’ve been eating straight out of the tub again.’ Brianne snatches the ice cream off the side, tosses the spoon into the dishwasher and puts the lid back on.
‘Hey, I was eating that,’ Ryan says.
Brianne answers by handing him the ice-cube tray and putting the ice cream back in the freezer. She turns to Richa all smiles. ‘Hi, I’m Brianne, Leo’s sister. I’m not actually the eldest but I’m the most mature.’ She glares at Ryan.
‘Most boring more like,’ Ryan retorts.
Brianne ignores him, smiling again at Richa instead. ‘You’re Richa, right? I’ve just been talking to your mum out the front. She looks like she’s struggling in this heat.’ Brianne sighs and shakes her head slowly, making her long earrings sway from side to side.
Richa is guzzling her lemonade, having not bothered waiting for the ice, and doesn’t answer my sister. The kitchen feels very busy and full of words. Brianne carries on regardless.
‘It will be really nice for Leo to have someone his own age living next door. You going to Lakeside Primary in September?’
Richa splutters into her lemonade and launches into a coughing fit. Once recovered, she notices my sister’s expectant eyes still on her and manages a quick nod.
‘That’s great!’ says Brianne. She claps her hands and her bangles jingle together. ‘Leo says Year Sixes are allowed to walk into school without an adult. You two can go together now.’
‘We’ve got the whole holiday first,’ Richa protests, almost in a panic. Maybe Richa doesn’t like school much either, or maybe she’s just worried about the thought of walking in with me.
‘Yeah, Brianne,’ says Ryan. ‘Only nerds, like you, study in the summer. These kids just want to hang out.’
‘At least they really are kids,’ Brianne bats back.
Ryan grunts and gets the ice cream back out of the freezer.
‘What you going to play then?’ asks Brianne.
Richa shrugs and glances at me. I know what she’s thinking: what games can you play with a boy that doesn’t talk?
‘You could play Domino Falls. You love that game don’t you, Lion?’ Brianne says.
Feeling my face heat up, I look at Patch who is sat on Richa’s feet having his black ear tickled.
‘You could read? Leo has got loads of books.’
Snatching a glance at Richa I can tell from her freaked-out expression that she’s thinking of making a break for the door.
‘Or you could make mud pies?’ suggests Brianne, adding to my embarrassment. ‘Once you start digging at the ground Patch will probably join in. He loves digging up the mud for Leo’s pies.’
‘Way to sell the boy, Brianne,’ Ryan says through his ice cream.
Richa laughs and looks more at ease again, but my face is on full burn. This is a total disaster. I try and hide my shame in my lemonade.
‘Why don’t you suggest something then?’ Brianne snaps.
There’s a moment of nothing that seems to stretch long, just like the hot of the heatwave.
After Ryan sets up the PlayStation we play Sonic with the windows open but the curtains closed. Patch sits as close to Richa as possible. There’s a hot, closed-in smell to the room, sweetened by Richa’s coconut sun cream. It’s difficult to concentrate on the game, with everything racing around inside me, but I’m still better than Richa. Her player keeps running into walls and off the edges.
‘Is it unlimited lives or something?’ she asks.
I can’t say, so instead I watch her play and puzzle out how to pick up the game again once she’s died.
‘Imagine if, in real life, you could just start over,’ Richa says, scrunching up her face in concentration. ‘Every time you made a mistake you could just go back to the beginning and try again. Would you do that, or would you just keep going?’
I’d keep going. I never want to re-live bad things that have happened, like Theo’s party, but I can’t tell her that.
Richa tells me the reason she is rubbish with games is because her mum and dad won’t buy her a phone and that’s how everyone learns to play video games. I’d like my own phone too. It would make a lot of things easier. Richa chats on over the sound effects of the game. She asks and answers her own questions. Looking sideways at her, I start to remember Tiffany. There’s a dull ache in my stomach when I think of what happened.
Tiffany was new in our class and didn’t know anything about me or my SM. She’s really good at football and immediately took over the playground. One day, Tiffany kicked the ball and it came skidding and skipping right over to where I was stood, partly hidden by the trees, watching. The ball hit my shins. It was surprising to me that I felt it. It was like something coming alive out of the TV and I remember just staring at it rolling around me. Tiffany ran towards me and shouted, ‘Come on, kick it over. Come on, we’re in a game. Just kick it.’
