Читать книгу Radio Boy - Christian O’Connell - Страница 8

I cycled to Artie’s house and when I got there Artie’s dad, Ray, aka ‘Mr Cake’, answered the huge oak door (with bronze cake-shaped door knocker) halfway through eating a bun.

‘Spike! You look sad – everything OK? Come in.’ I think that’s what he said anyway. It was hard to fully understand with all the cake in his mouth.

‘I’ve been sacked from my radio show,’ I said glumly. Just saying those words out loud caused a pain in my heart like I’d never felt before.

‘WHAT! Why? Did you play some of Artie’s records and put them all to sleep?’ Mr Cake said, still chewing that bun.

‘I don’t have any further comment at the moment,’ I answered. I’d heard troubled celebrities say this when hassled by the paparazzi. Mr Cake laughed out loud at this and a load of crumbs came flying out.

Sure enough, Artie was upstairs in his headphone heaven. His parents had converted the loft into a hangout for their only child. Up there was a massive TV about the size of our dining-room table and a pinball machine. The walls were lined with hundreds of records. Artie’s collection was more like a record library. Radio stations would have less. Most stations only seem to have one CD actually, as they just play the same songs over and over.

I walked over, yanked one of his headphones dramatically away from his ear and yelled, ‘THEY SACKED ME!’

Then I collapsed on to his bed. Artie stopped the record he was listening to. This he had to do with care and precision. You’d think he was a nuclear scientist handling plutonium and any sudden movement might blow the whole world up. Really, though, all it involves is lifting a needle from the record on the turntable. All in the time it takes to get your shoes on. When he could have just pressed PAUSE on his phone.

‘Spike, what are you talking about?’ Artie said as he stood over me.

‘Apparently, no one listens to my show.’ I put my head in my hands. I told him exactly what had happened, sparing no details. The owl took it all in. Then spoke.

‘So … you just give up now? Where’s the fight in you? Gone, just like that? Can’t mean that much to you then.’

‘I’ve been fired. From a volunteer job on hospital radio. How will I ever be a radio star now?’

‘By not giving up,’ said Artie.

‘Who’s giving up?’ said a voice from behind us.

My other best friend had arrived. She has a habit of appearing out of thin air. It’s as if she lives in another dimension and is beamed into our world from time to time. Her earth name is Holly. Elf-like in appearance, with piercing blue eyes that see right through you. My mum once said – a bit cruelly – that her ears stick out so much she ‘looks like a monkey’.

However, no one would ever say anything like this to Holly’s face as that would be a HUGE mistake. Holly may not be one of the super-popular girls at school, but she is seriously tough. A brown belt in karate, she even takes part in big competitions and is unbeaten in eight fights. I once asked her why she didn’t use her skills on the kids at school when they made monkey noises behind her back.

She looked at me intently and said, ‘The first and most important lesson Sensei Terry teaches you is when not to use martial arts; it’s about self-control, Spike.’

No idea what that meant. If it was me, I’d have karate-kicked Martin Harris, the school bully, all the way down our high street. Of course, it wouldn’t be me because you couldn’t pay me to go to Sensei Terry’s karate class. Despite all my mum’s attempts to get me to ‘join in’, I don’t like any kind of activity that involves sport or being in a group. Apart from AV Club. But that’s different.

I’d also say Holly is probably the smartest out of all of us. Top of the class in science. I think she even knows more than the teacher. I don’t know any other kid who can use a soldering iron. She used it to repair the AV Club printer. Her dad, Timothy Tate (‘Please, Spike, call me Tim’), is an inventor. Just not a very successful one. All around their house are empty bits of circuit boards and the wiry guts of computers. In the shed, it’s like a graveyard of his failed inventions.

Personally, I liked his singing kettle that stopped singing when it was boiled. Sadly, it only ‘sang’ one song so people got fed up with it and it was voted Most Irritating Product of the Year. This was made worse by the fact that the number-two place on the list was taken by another of his ideas, a pillow that cut your hair as you slept. This ended up on the teatime news, with buyers of the Pillow Barber complaining that not only were random bits of their hair missing, but also bits of their ears too. Two hundred Pillow Barbers now rest in pieces in the shed under a blanket, as if hiding their shame from the world.

As I’ve already said, me, Holly and Artie are the only members of the AV Club. None of us will ever be one of the cool kids at school. Life has just decided it. I’m not saying we aren’t all great kids (as my mum is always telling me), but being ‘cool’ is like being an A-list star in those celebrity magazines. These A-listers may not be the smartest or even the prettiest, but they are the chosen ones and they get to walk on the red carpet.

Holly always says, ‘Who cares? We’re not one of the pinheads. Good.’

I’m not so sure. Sometimes I quite fancy a walk on the red carpet. I’d secretly hoped the radio show might bump me up a few letters in the celebrity alphabet to at least the O-list or the M-list. This would mean the girl of my dreams who I was going to marry, Katherine Hamilton, would not only talk to me, but not mind being seen talking to me. She’s red carpet. I’m the kind of carpet your nan and grandad have that looks like someone’s been sick on it every day for the last fifty years.

Artie, Holly and me go way back. Our mums have been friends since they met in birthing class. They bonded instantly over a love of gossip, fixing other people’s lives and elasticated maternity pants. The three of them are a powerful union. The league of mums.

Anyway, back to the story unfolding in Artie’s room.

‘I’ve been sacked from my show,’ I said to Holly.

‘Well, proves what an idiot that programme controller is,’ she said. ‘That’s why he isn’t working in a proper radio job. Running his fake station. Loser.’

‘Um. Yeah,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t mean you’re not a great radio presenter,’ continued Holly. Her head jutted forward to really drive the point home.

The three of us chatted it over before I had to ask one final question.

‘Please be honest: do you want me to resign?’ I said.

‘From what?’ said Artie.

‘The AV Club. I’ve been fired from an unpaid radio job. I’ve brought shame on you both.’

Holly rolled her eyes. ‘Spike. If you quit, then you’re not my friend any more. Only losers quit. I’ll kick your backside if you do and put you on your mum’s ward.’

‘But radio’s my thing,’ I said. ‘The only thing I want to do. The only thing I’m good at. What am I meant to do now?’

‘Well …’ said Artie. ‘We’ve been promised a school radio station for ages. Why don’t we ask again about it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Holly. ‘No more being fobbed off. We’ll show them the petition again. And you can present. You’ll be back on the radio in no time. I mean, no one else in the school has your experience, do they? I’ll make a list of action points.’

Holly is super-organised and loves making lists.

That’s what friends do. Lift you up when you’re down. And offer you out-of-date cakes.