Page 32 of I Can’t Even Think Straight

Monday: The Author Talk—Assembly Hall

The Boys look my way

when the visiting author in assembly

casually says he’s gay.

“Settle down, boys,” says Mr. Ndour.

This draws The Author’s attention,

when he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

The Author pauses.

I feel embarrassed for him, and for me.

The Boys and Mr. Ndour have interrupted

The Author’s time in the spotlight.

The Author told us at the start of his talk

that he still gets nervous.

His nostrils flare as he pushes out air.

He’s pissed off.

I worry he might think one of us

said something homophobic about him,

thanks to Mr. Ndour’s overreaction.

“As I was saying,” The Author continues,

“when I was at school,

there was a law called Section 28,

which prohibited the promotion of homosexuality

which, among other things, meant

you wouldn’t see LGBTQ+ books in school,

you wouldn’t have a visiting author like me,

and teachers couldn’t tell students

it’s okay to be gay.

This law was in place from 1988,

when I was four,

until it was repealed in 2003,

when I was eighteen.

That was my entire school career.”

The phrase “school career”

sounds kinda odd to me.

It sounds like being at school counts as a job,

which I guess is kinda true,

because it can be hard work

when students gossip about you

or teachers have it in for you.

I want The Author’s job.

But I don’t raise my hand

when the time comes

to ask him questions about it.

I’m still too embarrassed

by the negative attention.

I look down and twist

the evil eye bracelet

around my left wrist.

Luckily, The Author’s responses

to other people’s questions go a long way

to telling me what I need to know:

“When you have a book written,

you send the first three chapters to an agent

with a synopsis of the entire plot,

along with a cover letter about yourself.

“Read widely in different genres.

Fiction and nonfiction, prose and poetry,

scripts, food writing, travel writing:

anything you can get your hands on.”

“Some of my favorite writers are

Benjamin Zephaniah, James Baldwin, and Michael Rosen.”

“Talk to Mrs. James, your school librarian,

about what you’ve read and enjoyed,

and what your writing ambitions are.

She’ll have lots of recommendations.”

Here, The Author points to Mrs. James,

off to the side, who beams with pride.

Both her massive smile and her Progress

Pride flag badge on her staff lanyard.

“The majority of writers don’t do it full-time.

Those who do are often supported

by family money or the income of their partner.

I’m fortunate to be a full-time writer now,

but I lived at home with my mum until recently.

Before I published my second book,

I had several other jobs alongside writing,

such as retail, waiting tables, and bar work.

“I usually write one book at a time

but some writers I know

will have two, three, four or more

books on the go at once.”

“For me, it’s a few years between

when I start writing a new book

and it being available in shops.”

“My agent gets me a book deal,

which means a publisher

agrees to publish my book,

then I work with an editor,

and sometimes an assistant editor,

to make the book better.”

“Sometimes a lawyer or sensitivity reader

checks the book to make sure

it won’t get me into any trouble.”

“There’s usually a copy editor and proofreader

to catch any spelling and grammar mistakes,

and to make sure the text looks correct in print.”

“Some of my books have illustrations,

and it’s important to me

that illustrators are credited properly.

“There’s design, production, publicity,

marketing, and many more jobs in publishing

besides being an author.”

“In mainstream publishing there’s a massive team

involved in getting books ready for release,

as well as promoting them to readers.”

It sounds so much bigger than I imagined,

with so many different people

working alongside The Author,

each with their own role to play.

I feel embarrassed

not to have known this.

I feel angry without knowing why.

Then I remember last year

Mum wouldn’t take a day off

to take me to an exhibition

about Malorie Blackman

and the power of stories

at the British Library.

Even though Mum knows

I wanna be an author

and Malorie is one of my favorites.

I made sure to tell Mum

the exhibition was free entry

in case she was worried

it would cost lots of money.

But all she was worried about

was the loss of earnings

if she didn’t do her stall.

She told me I could go

on my own or with a friend.

But I didn’t want to go

on my own or with a friend.

I wanted to go with her.

I wanted Mum to show me

she’s as “invested” in me

as she claims to be.

I wanted Mum to show an interest

in what’s important to me.

I could’ve asked Matt or Vass to go with me,

but I chose to stay angry at Mum.

I didn’t go at all.

As the saying goes:

I cut off my nose

to spite my face.

“That’ll be you one day,”

Matt whispers encouragingly.

Mr. Ndour coughs. His eyes shoot daggers at us.

The bell goes with hands still raised.

“That’s all we have time for, I’m afraid,”

Mr. Ndour says, gesturing for everyone

to put their hands down.

I shuffle down the aisle

toward the double doors of the assembly hall.

I overhear Mr. Ndour say this to The Author:

“I’m sorry about the poor behavior

of some of our boys.

I’ll be having words with them and their parents.

That group has been acting up lately.”

I wanna dash my backpack at Mr. Ndour’s head,

but it’s heavy with books and could do real damage.

I’d get worse than a detention,

I’d probably be suspended or expelled.

The police could be called in.

I could be charged with assault.

I grip the strap of my heavy backpack and walk on.

I don’t know why I get so angry so often.

Out in the corridor I still feel hot with rage.

What’s Mr. Ndour’s problem?

Apart from leaving school that one time at lunchtime,

what have we done to deserve being bad-mouthed?

I feel more embarrassed than before.

Mr. Ndour is out of order.

The Boys are waiting for me

halfway down the corridor.

“Mr. Ndour’s a dickhead,” I say loudly.

The Boys burst into surprised laughter,

and I feel a bit better.

Nathan pats my back.

Kwesi drapes an arm over my shoulder.

He keeps it there as we stalk the corridor

together, looking out for our next laugh.

Abdi says another mean thing about Mr. Ndour

and it’s like a bomb has gone off:

we’re a mess of flailing limbs,

our laughter bouncing off the walls.

“All of you, hurry up and get to class!”

shouts Mrs. James behind us.