I want to stroke it like a cat
And make it purr for me
I’ll build a world
I’ll pen a song
I’ll fill it with my mind
I’ll pour out so much magic stuff
I’ll make the pages shine
You either get it
Or you don’t
So don’t bother trying to moan.
This brand-new empty English book
Is mine
So get your own.
What do you want to do with your life?
Asks the well-dressed woman sitting
in her comfy chair
behind her desk with the perfect rubber plant and the flat screen computer
with her special coffee mug from home and
photograph of her nice new family.
I’m not sure
Says the girl in loose uniform sitting
still, hands under her thighs, looking across
at the woman wondering whether this person
who seems so sure
about everything was ever ever
in her life
fourteen.
As Miss Finch holds the test tube up
to show us how it’s done right
I watch particles of dust float up
a tractor beam of sunlight
Each tiny speck could be a world
a microscopic GALAXY
a multiverse of possibles
from happiness to tragedy
In every world a different me
a different life to lead
which version am I living now?
And does this me succeed?
A billion different me’s out there
living, breathing, ageing
how many of them sat in science
lost inside a daydream?
There is a me, right now, who’s painting flames
across a ceiling
another me sits penning songs to cope
with how she’s feeling
Another me was born a boy
raised by a different family
the possibles are infinite
so many me’s there can be
I’m sure there must be one of me
whose mind is truly gifted
who’s capable of magic thoughts
Imagination whizz kid
But I just sit and stare
at the dust trapped in the sunlight
as Miss Finch holds the test tube up
to show us how it’s done right.
He’s younger than the others. Looks about my brother’s age.
He speaks like people speak, not like he’s reading from a page.
He asks you actual questions, lets you talk and not just write.
He makes you want to tell him things about your actual life.
He sometimes rushes into class, looking rough, but kind of cool.
He’s the only one you can imagine living life outside of school.
He gets proper hyped when talking about characters and story.
He didn’t laugh when Jacob said his favourite film was Finding Dory.
He seems to love his job, like he’s doing what he’s made for.
He makes me want to try my best to show him that I’m grateful.
He held me back yesterday when everyone was leaving.
He said he liked my work in class and asked me what I’m reading.
He didn’t seem to mind when I told him I don’t read.
He said he never read himself until he found the need.
He handed me a book he said he thought that I should try.
He told me I should take my time and read it by July.
He smiled and said, ‘I’d love to talk about it when you’re done.’
I think I’m going to try and read it later when I’m home.
Right now,
in a bunker
somewhere in the world,
there are man-made nuclear weapons with
enough destructive power to decimate
the entire planet several times over, primed and ready to be
launched at the touch
of a button by self-serving government idiots in
unfair positions of power that give them
the ability to wipe us all out in the blink of an eye
and you want me to concentrate
on Shakespeare’s use of alliteration in Act Two?
I know he hasn’t noticed me
watching as he stares out
sitting in his bubble
he rarely speaks in class
I wonder what he hopes to be
watching as he stares out
it’s like something is calling him from
outside through the glass
There’s something washes over me
watching as he stares out
a feeling that we could be close
that never seems to pass
He’s hypnotized me totally
watching as he stares out
I’d love to ask him what he sees
I’m just too scared to ask.
I see cracks
in the skin
next to my fingernail
in paving stones
and bus windows
my galaxy screen
In the voice that I use
with other people and
the space between
breaths.
I see cracks
in the ponytails
of girls turned away from me
in tight circles
around a dancing blue Bunsen burner flame.
I see cracks
in clouds
of shouted words
in the looks my mum gives my dad
the soles of my brother’s shoes
in the faces of clocks that don’t move
I see cracks in shiny faces
under crooked headlines
about crooked people
And no matter how these teachers
try
to cover them with paper smiles
I know I see cracks
in my chances.
You look for yourself
with every new group
you stand
in front of
you scan for that face
the one you remember
looking out from
lost
but hopeful
scared
but strong in ways
yet to blossom
telling yourself
it is your job
to water and feed them
pull back the curtains
and cover in sun
and when you find
yourself
in the midst of the others
yourself stares back
and reminds you
that all the others
are you too.
If caring was measured
on
a clock
would midnight be
the most
you could care
or not
caring at all?
Hey
Hey
You good?
Yeah. You?
Yeah.
Cool.
I didn’t want / I’m sorry about
What? Sorry. You go.
No, it’s OK. You go.
No, it’s fine, seriously. My fault. What were you gonna say?
I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.
I wasn’t sure you got my message
I did
Yeah, I figured. When I saw you, that you got it, I mean, thanks. For coming
It’s OK.
Did you tell anyone?
No. Did you?
No.
People are talking.
I know. Are you OK?
I think so.
Good. I didn’t want you to not be OK
I’m OK
You look OK, I mean, you look better than OK. So
rry
It’s OK. What’s wrong?
Nothing. No. I just. I.
Me too
Yeah?
Yeah
Wow
I know.
So do we say anything?
I don’t know. Do you want to?
I want to if you want to. Do you want to?
I don’t know
We don’t have to. Not right now.
OK
OK.
Seven years on this ship
routine
going through
motions we
grind through the days
We walk the same steps
hands in
our pockets
skirting through
trouble
searching for praise
We dream of the future
our own
independence
the freedom
to choose
what we do with our time
We’re sure that we’re ready
we’ve studied
and practised
we’ve sharpened
our tools
and focused our minds
Then all of a sudden
the rocks
of the real world
crunch into
the hull
tear holes in the bow
We’re cast off aground
in the land
of our futures
and the only two words
we can think are
what now?
This will probably sound weird
to you
but
I love it.
It’s like school but
not
It’s quieter.
No shouting. No stares. No stupid giggling about nothing.
Just you and a couple of familiar nameless faces
in silence
writing
an essay about why what you did was wrong
and sitting here
thinking in between
the lazy clock’s ticks and a tired teacher’s breathing
it really feels
like
the best lesson there is.
There are crowds inside the crowds
So many people
All these people
There are shouts on top of shouts
Giant people
Scary people
There are laughs that sound like knives
Different people
Angry people
As we scurry round like mice
Little people
Tiny people
Will we ever not be scared?
Growling people
Shouty people
Will the space ever be shared?
Cliquey people
Guarded people
Where am I supposed to stand?
Confused people
Nervous people
Look for smiles that understand
Find my people
Breathe my people.
They give us a map
and our own
private journal
like they think that
we’ll never
be heard from
again.
Years from now they’ll find
fossils
of scattered Year 7s
buried under the feet
of Years 8
9
and 10.
We sit in assembly
a hall full
of strangers
the cast of a film
where nobody’s
the star.
The ground underneath us
completely unstable
as each of us tries
to work out who
we are.
The Head beams a smile
like she’s selling us something
into
this family
of school.
Together and separate we look
at each other
scanning for danger
searching for cool.
The bell is much louder
the building’s enormous
there’s so many people
it’s hard to keep track.
Last year we were biggest
now we’re the smallest
trying not to slip through
corridor cracks.
We’re put into groups
and meet our form tutor
he’s dressed like he works
in an office
or bank.
They show us how everything’s
on the computer
when asked to choose passwords our minds draw
a blank.
We pay for our lunch
with a fingerprint scanner
like the food is some top secret
government plan.
We still have to queue though
same shuffling and chatter and nobody knows
what to do with their hands.
Outside we feel tiny
surrounded by giants
who just carry on like we’re not even there.
It’s like we’re gazelles in a field full of lions
who’ve already eaten
so don’t really care.
We meet a new teacher
who gives us a book at the end of the lesson
we’re all supposed to read.
Some of us groan
as she hands us our copy
some of us hide our excitement
and leave.
Walking along
to the week’s final lesson
a few of us laugh when a boy starts
to cry.
Some of us hang back to check
what’s the matter
the gap stretches
into a proper divide.
We’re supposed to write down
our end-of-week feelings
what we think of our first days of secondary life.
Nobody says anything very revealing
we’re basically glad that we’re all still alive.
Then the bell goes
and saves us
we look at the people we’ve chosen to sit with
just as the week ends.
We pack up the journals and maps that they gave us,
‘I’ll see you on Monday,’
we say to new friends.
Tiny Year 7s swim
past me
like fish
Funny to think
I was ever
that small
But now
that we’re leaving
I do kind of wish
I could go
back in time
and
restart it all.
Steven Camden is one of the UK’s most acclaimed spoken word artists. He writes for stage, page and screen, teaches storytelling and leads creative projects all over the place.
He has performed his work all around the world from Manchester to Melbourne and Kuala Lumpur to California. He moved to London for a girl, but Birmingham is where he’s from.
He also has a thing for polar bears.
For you,
holding this book in your hand right now
You are brave and you are brilliant
Remember that always
First published 2018 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2018 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-8004-1
Text copyright © Steven Camden 2018
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