Book One: Stupid

Adults call me precocious. Sometimes they call me old beyond my years, and they have been known to suggest that I need to watch my mouth or else I’m liable one day to get a slap. Kids threaten to deliver the slap, or they call me big mouth, or smart-arse.

That doesn’t mean I wasn’t popular at school. I was funny, quick off the mark, and I’d say the kind of things to teachers that other kids, slower witted kids, would have wanted to say when they thought of it at break.

‘When he was going on about equilateral triangles, you know what I should have said?’

Too late, pal. Get it in at the right time or forget it.

Of course, sometimes you should think up the line, smile to yourself and leave it at that. I never got the hang of that. Which isn’t so smart. Once the line was there in my head, it seemed a waste not to deliver it. So I would. Then I’d get another chance to stand in the corridor. Or do detention, or write an essay on ‘the inside of a ping-pong ball’ or ‘conflict in South West Africa’ or any of the other witty titles the teachers hand out, and then wonder why we think they’re a bunch of sad sacks who suck like a Dyson.

Because opinion was pretty settled about me: Micky ‘the Mouth’ Jakes, no-one was very surprised when I came out with my big idea. And everyone was agreed it was a really stupid idea, that could never happen, and most importantly, that really, absolutely, most definitely would never happen.

I decided to take a Gap year. Everyone knows what a Gap year is. It’s when you take a year out between A levels and university. Even my dad took one back in the days when most people didn’t—which gave me my idea. Now every Rupert and his sister Emma takes one. That’s why they’re so lame. But I had just done my GCSEs and wanted a Gap year before my A levels.

People would come up with a whole menu of objections: numbered of course like teachers love to see, because sad sacks like lists:

1. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
2. ‘You’re too young.’
3. ‘That’s not when you take a Gap year.’
4. ‘It would cost a fortune.’
5. ‘It’s dangerous.’
6. ‘You’re only sixteen.’
7. ‘You’ve never been further than Southend by yourself.’
8. ‘You’ve got no experience.’ And my favourite, a rousing encore of
9. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

To which, precocious as ever, answers prepared, I’d tell them:

1. ‘I’m not stupid—just look at the GCSEs predictions I’ve got.
2. ‘When I do it then I’ll just be young, not too young.’ That one made them think for a minute.
3. ‘It is when it is: you take a Gap year when you take it.’
4. ‘Remember those silly little web sites I’ve been designing? I have a not so silly stack of money that’ll cover me.
5. ‘It’s no more dangerous for me than anyone else, especially someone stupider than I am, and there are plenty of those. Heard of 18-30?’
6. ‘Yes I am sixteen. And?’
7. ‘This time I plan to go further than Southend, but if you’d like me to take a medium distance practice run first, to Helsinki maybe, or Madrid, then I will.’
8. ‘I’ve got no experience now, but I will have. No has it until they go and get it.’
9. Stupid I think I already covered.
Then they tried this one.

‘NO!’
So I said
‘YES!’

They thought their ‘no’ whupped my ‘yes.’
It didn’t.
That’s the truth.

I waited for my GCSE results. They were OK. Better than average but far from brilliant. They told me, my parents, my teachers, and some of my friends even, that I would have done better if it hadn’t been for my mouth and my attitude.

Maybe they were right. But what I cared about was that I did three languages, Latin, French and Spanish, and I got top grades in them all And English too. No-one noticed particularly that I wasn’t so mouthy in language classes. Because I am good at languages and I wanted to learn everything I could. Because if you’re going to cross South America when you’re just sixteen—and I was just sixteen as I was one of the youngest in the class with my birthday at the beginning of August—then it helps to speak fluent Spanish. And I did.

After your results came in there was a day when you had to come in and sort out what A levels you were planning to do. I asked to see Mr. Alexander, the headmaster.

His eyes came over with this ‘what did I do wrong to deserve Jakes’ look, but he said yes and showed me into his office.

‘Jakes?’

‘I want to take a Gap year, sir. I need to know if there will be a place for me when I get back.’

‘Sixteen year olds don’t take Gap years, Jakes. Eighteen year olds do.’

‘Will there be a place for me when I get back?’

‘It doesn’t work that way, Jakes.’

The furrows on his forehead were deepening so they looked like they’d been made by a tractor.

‘But if someone wanted to come to the sixth form, and he was just three weeks younger than me – born at the end of August, and he had my grades, but he also wanted to do languages and his Spanish was perfect, you’d let him do it wouldn’t you sir, you’d let him in.

‘You’re planning to go to Spain, Jakes?’

‘South America, sir. Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Chile. Right down through the equator to near the Antarctic at Tierra del Fuego.’

‘Admirable. For a foolish boy, Jakes, you’re also a very imaginative one. You seem very determined. You’re right that I would like the grades you could get as part of my A level statistics so you would probably be admitted. But I am not encouraging what I think is a very dangerous idea.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And I shall have to report this conversation to your parents and I must recommend to you that you do not proceed with this outrageous venture.’

‘Yes sir.’

He showed me to the door and waved me out. As I was turning into the corridor he called me.

‘Micky. Viaje feliz.’

He’d wished me a good journey. In Spanish. Even though I’d felt sure in my own heart that I was going to go ahead, now an adult; a responsible adult I knew fairly well, even respected in a way, he thought so too. Now I felt sure in a different way. Instead of feeling like a plan, like an idea, now it felt like a solid thing—a set of events as real as those of yesterday. Real things that just hadn’t happened yet. I headed home. I had things to do before I took off.

No word of a lie.

My dad is a tax inspector. He’s a lot like you’d probably imagine a tax inspector to be like if you were ever bored enough to spend time wondering what tax inspectors are like. There are rules about what tax you pay and when. You have to follow the rules and pay up. If you don’t, then there are people like my dad to make sure you do. He follows the rules. And he works in a whole organisation full of people like him. Rule followers. So he didn’t go too over the top about me and my gap year because he expected that once I’d been told I couldn’t do it, I just wouldn’t. That wasn’t because I always did what they said. More because, like a lot of people my age, when I was told I couldn’t do something, I just gave a sorry sounding ‘OK.’ Then got on and did it anyway, but not in their faces, so that either they didn’t know, or they could pretend they didn’t because they weren’t absolutely sure.

My mum worked in some kind of office job where I got the idea she was some kind of grande fromage but whatever size cheese she was, she rarely talked about work and seemed to live most of her life somewhere else, wandering around the inside of her head which was a more interesting place than right here right now.

I decided they were worth one last try; one last opportunity to be reasonable. I caught them both in the sitting room.

‘Mum, Dad, we need to talk.’

‘You know we had a call from school. From Mr. Alexander?’

‘He said he’d call.’

‘Look, I know you want to travel, to have yourself a big adventure. It’s probably my fault, forever rattling on about my Gap year, how hardly anyone used to do it then, about me going to Goa by public transport for £80.’

Had I heard the story? Oh sure he might have mentioned it here or there, once or twice, now and then.

‘Me going on about all the stuff I got up to.’

‘Sex and drugs and rock n’ roll, Dad.’

He flushed.

‘Anyway, we’ve discussed it, your mother and I, and we think a Gap year would be a good idea. So if you buckle down to your A levels, get good grades…’

This sounded good. I was about to feel guilty for doing what I wanted. Honestly. This was coming out so damn reasonable I almost wanted to take them up on it. Almost.

‘What are good grades?’

Mum gave a quick smile. She’d never make a poker player. They thought they had me hooked. Surest way to be sure I try to struggle free.

‘Oh, say a B average, eh Jill?’

‘Give or take a grade.’

‘Sure. So you get your results and we’ll spring for a decent round-the-world air ticket, and the first five hundred of your spending money. How does that sound?’

Hands up, tell the truth, I was choked.

‘It’s fantastic. It’s just the best thing I’ve ever heard anyone get offered. You’re brilliant. It’s so good I feel terrible. I’m so sorry.’

I’d just given them big, big smiles and as quickly there were frowns.

‘Why sorry?’ Mum asked.

‘Because I’m going to take a Gap year. I’m going off to South America like I told you. I’m going down the…’

‘Down the trans-America Highway, we know. Look, it sounds like a marvellous trip. So we don’t have to get a round-the-world ticket. We could get a ticket to fit in with that. But you’re sixteen, Micky.’
He took a deep breath. That meant he was going to come over all dad-like and put on his stern hat.

‘You have a good think about the offer we’ve made you, start planning for the trip, and start planning for those good grades. Think how much better your Spanish will be after your A levels. We’ll order you a Spanish newspaper so you can read it every weekend. We’ll help. Maybe see if there’s a Spanish station we could get on the cable. But this Gap thing this year, it’s just silliness, Micky. It isn’t going to happen so let’s all forget about it and move on. OK?’

I shrugged.

‘Can I go out?’

‘Where?’

I put on a sulky teenager voice to help them think we were past it and moving on and I was just banging on out in a big barely sixteen strop.

‘Out. Just not in. Out.’

‘Sure. Be careful.’

Parents can say some infuriating things.

I slung my back pack over my shoulder on the way out, from its place in the shadows underneath the stairs. Measured and weighed so it could go hand-luggage. Packed for speed. I took a quick look round the hall and up the stairs towards my room. This was a jumping off point. I knew I wasn’t really being fair to my Mum and Dad. I knew things would never be the same again. I didn’t know how completely it would change and that’s the truth. If I had known, maybe I’d have hung around and stuck it through my A levels like a good boy. But then I always think I know better so maybe I wouldn’t.

I opened the door and shouted,

‘Laters.’

I think they made some goodbye sounds back. Maybe they didn’t.

It was half six in the evening. I walked to the tube. District Line, change at Mile End, Central line to Holborn, onto the Piccadilly and I was on the way to Heathrow. Timing mattered. I had a cheap flight with a connection to Madrid and on to Colombia—more South American connections out of Spain—no surprise. I could check in late as I only had hand luggage. That way I could call home from Madrid after check-in for Colombia at about the time they would be expecting me to be home.

I wasn’t expecting this to be a fun call. Right up until I dialled, I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell them everything, or if I’d just tell them I was having a sleepover and then call again when I arrived. Ouch.

‘Mum, hi.

‘Micky?’

‘It’s about the travel.’

She sighed. Some people say ‘you know’ all the time. Then there’s the ‘innit’ crew. My mum is a sigher. She sighed again.

‘Can’t it wait until you get home, Micky?’

‘Sorry Mum but it can’t. I’m at Gatwick,’ I said from my Madrid call booth. That was a lie, but at the time, given the bigger picture, it didn't seem to matter.

We learn.

‘I’m gated. I’m on the next flight to Mexico City. I’ll call you. Don’t try to stop me. It won’t work. I’ll take care and I’ll be home before you know it. I’ll keep in touch, really. Sorry Mum. I love you, Dad too. Bye.’

‘MICKEY!’

I hung up. The flight was boarding, I was exhausted and despite the madness of the day I was ready for sleep. At the same time I felt a bit sick, like I’d just stepped off a precipice, slightly drunk, strapped to a second hand, badly patched hang-glider. I kind of knew what I was doing and where I was going. But I was on completely new ground and more than a bit scared because I really wasn’t in control.

I hoped to drop off right after the food and wake in Bogota. They would have a mad hour trying to get me off a flight I wasn’t on at an airport I wasn’t at, headed to an airport I wasn’t going to. I didn’t rate their chances. The ticket was booked online, but I’d wiped the record from History and by the time they figured out what had happened…

My guess was they wouldn’t figure it out before I called from Bogota.

I already had a hostel booked from my Rough Guide. Booked in a false name. I knew they’d try to get to me: call the Foreign Office, go through the channels. But I’d done my enquiries too. At sixteen years old, the Foreign Office would make sorry noises, they’d pass my name to the Embassies down that way, but that would be that. No serious sweat. After all, where I was going, most sixteen year olds had been in work for a couple of years, some of them for six or eight years. I would be no bigger news than a barking dog.

That’s no word of a lie.