by Adam France
I ran back inside and picked Marty up. I threw him over my shoulders and ran out of the store. Every shopper stopped and stared. I didn’t blame them; it’s not every day you see a kid in overalls and a legionnaire’s hat sprinting through the mall piggybacking a mannequin.
My legs burned. My heart raced. But I didn’t stop. I wanted to be as far away from the mall as possible.
I had no idea whether or not it was too late. Whether or not Marty was still inside the mannequin.
We were a block away from the school when I felt Marty’s arm move and grip my shoulders. I stopped and felt him slip down to the road. My legs gave way and I collapsed to the ground.
‘Well, that didn’t tickle,’ Marty said as he gingerly stood up.
He was back. Marty had beaten the curse of the jacket.
I quickly jumped up and helped him regain his balance.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
Marty turned and looked towards the mall.
‘Trent Rowe has poor taste.’
We looked at each other and laughed hysterically. If only Trent knew.
The sound of music could be heard in the distance.
‘Come on,’ Marty said. ‘You still have time for that dance with Jemma.’
We both smiled and made our way back to the school disco.
I did finally get to dance with Jemma for a whole twenty-five seconds before the last song of the night finished. It was worth it. I promised her I would dance for a full minute at the next disco.
What made the disco even better was that it remained Trent-free. He never showed. And I’m pretty sure I know why.
Trent wasn’t at school the following Monday. Or for the rest of the week, in fact. The school seemed to be a different place. A place where you could be comfortable wearing two-star shoes or oversized shirts. It didn’t matter. It was no longer a big deal.
On Friday night, Mum dragged us back to the shops to find Dad a birthday present. Even though I was well hidden behind the legionnaire’s hat, I still felt a little nervous.
‘What do you reckon, kids?’ Mum asked as we made our way towards CrazyMart.
‘What about some new undies?’ Troy suggested as he swung on the side of the trolley to the point where it could almost tip over. ‘Or a new toothbrush?’
‘Hmm, what about this?’ Mum called, stopping a clothes rack outside Kazaar Clothing.
Mum played with the zipper. She cleaned the four steel studs. She ran her fingers down the two red stripes. ‘He is due for a new jacket.’
‘Ew, gross,’ Nina replied as she took a rare moment to look up from her phone. ‘That jacket is so last winter.’
‘Fair enough then.’ Mum moved away from the jacket, grabbed the trolley and made a beeline for CrazyMart with Nina and Troy in toe.
I stood there looking at the cursed jacket. It didn’t look comfortable on the mannequin. A little too tight. And the red stripes lost their glamour against the blond streak in the mannequin’s dark hair.
I smiled before joining my family in finding the daggiest gift possible.
Trent did return to school the following week. But not the Trent we once knew. Instead of a blond streak through his hair, he arrived with a clean-cut look. And to match his new hairdo, he brought along a new positive attitude. He even offered an apple to Marty when Marty had forgotten his lunch. It was incredible.
But not as incredible as the new student who had started at Top Hill Primary. He was tall and had bright blue eyes. His gleaming smile revealed a row of perfect white teeth. He was funny and kind to all the students. He made everyone feel good about themselves. He was perfect.
Everyone was curious though about the V-shaped scar on his cheek.
The Black-Toothed Bandit
I could smell it straight away. That distinct sour odour. Like the smell you get when you open the milk to realise it’s been out of date for weeks. Or the stink of the garbage bin on New Year’s Eve after the summer heat has fermented Christmas Day’s prawn shells. Combine those two smells and multiply it by a hundred. That’s what lingered in my nostrils.
Dad turned onto Daffodil Drive. There was nothing daffodil about it. It should’ve been called Decomposing Drive. All the same, we were almost there.
By ‘there’, you might be thinking the transfer station, or as Dad likes to call it, the tip. Or maybe you’re thinking we were approaching swamplands with ibises, pigeons and other dirty birds. No, this was worse. We were approaching my uncle’s house.
Keith Pimble. Or as Mum liked to call him, the HOARDER.
‘He’s a collector,’ Dad would always argue. Deep down I’m sure he knew Mum was right.
Uncle Keith collected everything. I’m not just talking about things with value, like porcelain, books, stamps and paintings. He collected ev-er-y-thing. Old newspapers, egg cartons, sauce bottles, fruit stickers, shoelaces, worn tyres, broken fence panelling. All the stuff most people throw out. Our garbage was his treasure.
The only limit to what he collected was how much he could fit on his property. From what I could see ahead of me, he had obviously reached his boundary and was now building up towards the sky.
As we pulled up on the street outside, I realised I couldn’t see the house. It was completely covered in rubbish, a yellow fog lingering above it. A tunnel had been burrowed out of the mass of refuse that I assumed led to the front door.
I was wrong about one thing: there were ibises and pigeons. They browsed among the piles of old wrappers, bottles and papers. It was putrid.
‘Are you sure about this, Andrew?’ Mum asked, leaning into the back seat and covering Bella’s nose with a tissue. ‘Does he not have someone else?’
‘I’m Keith’s brother, sweetheart,’ Dad said. ‘He’ll have nowhere else to stay.’
You see, Uncle Keith was about to be kicked out of his home. All the neighbours had complained about the mess and smell. On top of this, Uncle Keith had lost his job at the car dealership, so he could no longer afford it. We had driven up here to tell him he could move into our place. Mum wasn’t very thrilled about this, and neither was I.
But Dad would always say, ‘You do for family,’ and we couldn’t argue with that. Nina and Troy were smart. They had both organised sleepovers, knowing that today would be a disaster. I hadn’t thought quickly enough.
So here I was with Dad, Mum and Bella out the front of the most disgusting house in Australia.
We got out of the car and made our way up the tunnel of filth, our only light the holes that had been gnawed out by rats and scavenging birds. We made it to the front door and knocked softly, just in case the tunnel decided to collapse.
We could hear someone rummaging through the house, possibly looking for the door. Glass bottles, tins and papers being disturbed.
Then the door opened.
Standing there, in the same light brown suit that he had been wearing since the early 1970s, was Uncle Keith. He wore his black, greasy hair slicked to one side, clearly hoping to hide all that he had lost on top. His long, thick sideburns were slightly grey. His eyebrows were the same colour but were beginning to take on a life of their own as they sprouted in every direction.
‘Well, well, well.’ He chuckled, revealing a not-so-gleaming set of yellow teeth. A similar yellow to his shirt. ‘It’s about time you got here.’
Dad held out his hand, but Uncle Keith leaned in and gave Dad a big hug. I could see by Dad’s face that he was holding his breath.
Mum faked a cough and held Bella tight in her arms when Uncle Keith let go of Dad.
‘Sorry Keith, I have a bad cold. Better not come too close.’
Uncle Keith chuckled again before wrapping his arms around Mum. Poor Bella’s cheek was squished up against his smelly shirt.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing too bad,’ he insisted, squeezing Mum tighter. ‘Besides, I’m so thankful you came.’
‘It’s … lovely … up here,’ Dad lied, looking around at the rubbish-stained walls.
&nbs
p; Uncle Keith let go of Mum. Her eyes were almost popping out of her head. Bella looked up at Mum in shock.
He reached over and squeezed my cheeks. His fingers felt like they were covered in grease.
‘I see you’ve lost the cheeks, Paddy.’
All I could do was let out a nervous chuckle.
‘Come on in.’ Uncle Keith turned around and led the way inside. He had made a trail through the knee-high debris. I scrubbed my cheek with my shirt. Mum looked at Dad in disgust. Dad could only shrug his shoulders.
We were led to what must have been the dining room, as a table and four chairs rose out of the junk. Mum, Dad and Keith sat down at the table. Mum perched Bella on the table as far away as possible from any of the rubbish.
Uncle Keith motioned to the back of the house.
‘Zoe’s back there, mate.’
My eyes widened. Zoe Pimble was here. The one and only Zoe Pimble.
Although her father was a little weird, Zoe Pimble was a GENIUS. Literally. Zoe had been away for the past two years at a top-secret science camp in China. She was invited after she created a washing detergent that, after one wash, made clothes remain clean and ironed for the rest of their existence.
But now Zoe Pimble was back in Alpine Park.
‘Is that you, Paddy?’ Zoe stuck her head out from her bedroom. She still had the same bob cut as the last time I saw her.
‘Hi, Zoe,’ I responded, still in shock.
‘Come in here.’ She waved me over. Her voice was full of excitement. ‘I’ve got to show you something.’
I pulled myself through the rubbish and made my way to Zoe’s room.
‘Quick, close the door,’ Zoe said.
Surprisingly, her room was spotless. Not a piece of rubbish in sight. Her bed was made, her carpeted floor freshly vacuumed. Even her books on the shelf had been sorted in size order. I was impressed.
‘You’ve come just in time,’ Zoe said as she sat at her desk. In front of her were what looked like plans. A long list of letters and numbers and arrows and lines. None of it made sense to me.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
Zoe smiled, baring her black tooth, a reminder of the time she tried to create a toothpaste that never wore off. Her black tooth was the test tooth. The toothpaste had had the reverse effect.
Zoe opened her top drawer and pulled out an old soft drink can.
‘What is this?’ she asked, pointing to the can.
‘Is this a JOKE?’ I replied.
‘No, seriously, what is it?’
‘It’s a can, Zoe,’ I said, confused. ‘Are you all right?’
Zoe opened her bottom drawer, pulled out a small yellow container and placed it on her desk.
‘This is going to change everything,’ she announced as she put on a rubber glove. ‘This is going to solve all our problems.’
Zoe carefully opened the container. Inside was what looked like purple sand. Using a pair of tweezers, she pinched a tiny sample of the purple grains from the container and placed them on top of the can. Then, using an eye-dropper, she took some water out of her bottle.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Her black tooth stared back at me as she smirked.
‘Um, I guess,’ I replied.
Zoe hung the eye-dropper over the top of the can. She gently squeezed it until one droplet fell on to the sand.
An amazing sight met my eyes. A plume of purple smoke rose, consuming the can. Flashes of purple electricity from inside the cloud lit up the room. A low rumbling sound like distant thunder stirred within.
And then it stopped. I had to blink my eyes a few times to adjust back to the room. I felt like I had just stared into the flash of a camera. Zoe was waving her hands in the air, clearing the remnants of the smoke.
As my normal sight returned, I noticed the can had disappeared. Instead, sitting in its place sat a five-dollar note.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Neither could Zoe. Our eyes were wide with excitement.
‘It worked!’ she yelled.
‘What is it?’
Zoe picked up the purple powder.
‘This substance will turn any piece of rubbish into a five-dollar note.’ Zoe ran over to her door and opened it up. The knee-high garbage collapsed into her room. ‘And I have
enough to transform every piece in this house.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
‘You mean you can turn all of this junk into money?’
Zoe nodded.
‘That’s amazing! You’ll be rich!’
Suddenly, a popping sound came from underneath Zoe’s bed.
‘There is one problem,’ she said.
The popping sound grew louder, more frequent. A noise like popcorn in a pan. That’s when Zoe’s bed started to rise as a mountain of rubbish began to grow beneath it. The popping continued for a few more seconds, and when it stopped Zoe’s bed was up against the ceiling. Refuse covered the floor.
I looked over at her.
‘As you can see, it wears off after a couple of hours.’ She walked over and picked up the five-dollar note on her table. ‘But that’s enough time.’
‘Enough time for what?’ I asked.
Zoe handed me the five-dollar note.
‘I have a plan, Paddy,’ she said. ‘But I need your help.’
Zoe led the way out of her bedroom window. The backyard was not much different to the front. However, instead of tunnels, the rubbish was built up like a labyrinth, with various paths leading in different directions.
We stopped beside an old rusty BMX bike. Attached to it was a train of old shopping trolleys. I counted ten of them.
‘All right, I’ll start loading these ones,’ Zoe said. ‘You start with the others.’
She directed me around the corner. There I saw another ten trolleys lined up. But they weren’t attached to a BMX bike. No, these were attached to a tiny tricycle.
‘You’re not serious, are you?’ I called out. ‘That thing wouldn’t pull a bag of feathers!’
‘Trust me, I’ve tested it,’ Zoe said as she started filling her trolleys with rubbish. ‘Quick, we don’t have much time.’
I shook my head and started throwing all sorts of junk into the trolleys. Papers, bottles, egg cartons, car parts, cups, pencils, cutlery, clothes, toys. You get the picture.
It took about half an hour to fill all twenty trolleys. I felt disgusting, like I had just jumped headfirst into a wheelie bin. My grey shirt was as brown as the ground. My hands looked like I had been building sandcastles out of oil. And don’t get me started on the smell.
‘Great.’ Zoe smiled, her black tooth matching her once-cream shorts.
‘Now for a little magic.’
She pulled out the rubber glove and put it back on. Then she took the container of purple sand from her pocket.
‘You ready?’ Zoe’s voice was shaky, as though all her former confidence had disappeared.
I nodded. Zoe started sprinkling the purple powder onto each of the twenty trolleys. Once done, she walked over to the hose and turned it on. She aimed it at the ground and gave me a look of confirmation.
I closed my eyes as Zoe sprayed the trolleys. The backyard lit up with flashes of purple. Giant plumes of lilac smoke covered the trolleys. There was a boom and rumble, like an approaching storm.
Zoe ran over and turned off the tap. She shielded her eyes as the lightning continued to flicker. And with one last clap of thunder, everything stopped.
The smoke began to disappear and the trolleys came into view. Zoe and I gasped. Each of the twenty trolleys held a pile of five-dollar notes. There were thousands of them.
‘Yes!’ I screamed. ‘You did it! You’re rich!’
Zoe held up her dirty rubber-gloved finger, silencing me.
‘It’s not over yet,’ she explained. ‘We need to keep filling these until they’re full of notes, then get to the bank.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And we need to hurry.’
We didn’t waste
any time. We continued to fill the trolleys with rubbish and sprinkle the magic sand until we had all twenty of them filled to the brim with five-dollar notes.
Finally, with a nod of approval, Zoe ran to the BMX bike. I looked over at the tricycle. There was no time to argue.
I jumped on the tricycle and started to pedal. Surprisingly, I began to move. It was stronger than I expected.
Zoe pushed past me to lead the way through the labyrinth. We turned left then right and right again as we pedalled our way out of the maze of rubbish.
Finally, we made it out of the junkyard and began our journey to the centre of town.
People couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Two bikes pulling twenty shopping trolleys down the main street. Twenty shopping trolleys holding mountains of five-dollar notes. We didn’t have time to explain.
We made it to the entrance of the bank. I thought we were going to stop but just as a customer walked out, Zoe began pedalling hard, desperate to make it inside before the automatic doors closed. I had no choice but to follow.
People started screaming as the roar of the trolleys broke the calming silence inside the bank. Zoe came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the floor. I crashed into her, causing a deafening bang.
An overweight man in a suit came storming towards us. His ‘Manager’ badge swung on his blue tie.
‘What is going on here?’ he demanded, his face red and his eyes surveying the damage.
Zoe jumped off her bike and held out her hand.
‘Hi, Mr Williams, I’m Zoe Pimble, daughter of Keith Pimble.’
Mr Williams’s eyes locked on the trolleys full of money, wide in both disbelief and anger.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come to pay off Dad’s house.’
Mr Williams turned to Zoe, who was still holding her hand out, her black-toothed smile spread across her face. He slowly took the hand and gave it a shake.
