The Day I Was Erased

by Lisa Thompson

  Of course! I was so used to calling my friend Charlie Geek that I almost thought of it as being his real name. I smiled at her. She must be joking with me.

  “I mean, Kapoor. Hello, Mrs Kapoor.” I gave her another smile but she was still frowning. “Is Charlie in?”

  She looked me up and down.

  “Wait there,” she said, and went inside.

  I pushed the door a little and peeked into their hallway. In one corner was their tall, wicker basket that was supposed to hold long, old-fashioned umbrellas but actually contained two lightsabers, a badminton racket and a long pink spade. Next to the basket were Charlie’s school shoes and rucksack. I relaxed a little. Everything looked the same.

  I smiled as I breathed in the delicious scent of their dinner but my face dropped when Charlie appeared.

  “C-Charlie?” I said. The boy standing in front of me was Charlie, but he looked so … different. His hair was short and shaved around the sides and the top was all spiky like he’d put wax or gel on it. His nose looked fine too. The plaster that he’d been wearing at the ball was gone.

  “Yes?” he said, glaring at me.

  “Hi! Wow, your nose looks better. Did I say how sorry I was about that? Well … I am. I’m really sorry. But I see you’ve got the bandage thingy off already so I’m guessing there’s not much damage or anything.”

  I nodded at him, smiling. He frowned and stroked the top of his nose, then looked back at me, blankly. I cleared my throat.

  “And the thing with the electricity at the school tonight, the Centenary Ball? Well, that was just a whole other misunderstanding…” I did a little cough. “Your hair looks good by the way. Did you get it cut?”

  Charlie Geek put his hand to his hair and frowned.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Who are you?”

  My legs began to tremble. I reached up and held on to the wall.

  “Don’t mess about, Charlie,” I said, doing a weak laugh. “It me! Maxwell. Maxwell Beckett. Your best mate? Well, we were best mates until I hurt your nose. Which was an accident, obviously.”

  Charlie stared at the floor for a moment and then he looked back up at me. His nose scrunched up like it does when he gets angry, and then he laughed. It was a weird laugh though, kind of manic.

  “Ha! Oh yeah, I get it. This is one of Marcus’s wind-ups, isn’t it? Ha! He’s a one, isn’t he? Ha! Well, you tell him I’ll get him back tomorrow. OK?”

  I took a step forward and opened my mouth to say something but BANG!, the door slammed in my face.

  My stomach plummeted. Charlie Geek didn’t know who I was! He really didn’t have a clue. And his nose was absolutely fine – there was no sign that it had been hurt at all. I slowly walked down the path and turned left.

  I was scared.

  Something had gone wrong here.

  Something had gone very wrong indeed.

  There was only one place left I could go. Reg’s bungalow.

  Reg’s kitchen light was on and I knocked on the door. I’d usually walk straight in but this time I waited for him to answer. When he opened the door I got the reaction I was expecting.

  “Can I help you?” he said, a puzzled look on his face. But then Reg always looked like that.

  “It’s me. Maxwell. Maxwell Beckett. Do you remember?”

  He smiled but shook his head.

  “I come and visit you most days and we sit in your lounge and drink tea and eat biscuits. We’re … we’re friends.”

  Reg studied me for a moment.

  “Tea and biscuits you say? Well that certainly sounds like a friend I’d have,” he said, smiling. “And if you say you’re Maxwell Beckett then that’s who you must be.”

  I smiled back at him.

  “I … I’m sorry to knock so late. But … I wondered if I could come in?”

  The wind got a little stronger and Reg pulled his cardigan tighter around him, then opened the door a little wider.

  “How about a hot chocolate?” he said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  As he stirred the hot chocolate I tried to explain how confused I was. He listened quietly as he poured the rest of the water from the kettle into an old blue hot-water bottle. He was clearly getting ready for bed.

  “Everything looks different, you say?” he said.

  “Yes. I don’t understand it. My family … they’re … they’re not in our house any more. There’s a strange man living there with all of his stuff. And … and Mrs Banks’s flamingo has got a head again…”

  I picked up my mug and we made our way to the living room.

  “And Charlie … well, Charlie Geek doesn’t even know who I am! And my dog, Monster. I … I don’t know where he is and I’m worried something might have happened to him.”

  Reg’s eyes widened.

  “Well, that really is a predicament, isn’t it? What to do though, eh? What to do.”

  I liked Reg, but he didn’t fill me with much confidence. He sat back in his armchair and his soft, grey eyes focused on me.

  “And everything has been fine up to this point?” he said, hugging the hot-water bottle. “No sign of anything strange going on beforehand?”

  “No. Although I have had a really bad week. And I mean really bad. I got into some big trouble at school. I accidentally headbutted my best friend, and … and I ruined the school’s big Centenary Ball when the TV crew were there. It was called off, all because of me.” I sipped my hot chocolate. “Everybody hates me.”

  Reg’s eyes were drooping.

  “And what was the last thing you remember? Before everything changed?”

  I took another sly look to my left. Reg’s cabinet of curiosities was still there.

  “Well, I ran away from the ball after I’d ruined everything. I didn’t want to go home as I knew Mum and Dad would be arguing, so I came here.”

  Reg yawned.

  “I see, I see,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “Well, I think what we should do is this. I think you should go home and get some sleep and tomorrow we’ll see if we can come up with a plan. OK?”

  I opened my mouth to remind him that I didn’t have a home, but I closed it again.

  “OK, Reg. You head off to bed. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Right you are,” said Reg. He yawned again, and then levered himself out of his armchair and shuffled towards the door that led to the hallway and his bedroom.

  “Night, night, Maxwell Beckett,” he said, and he closed the door behind him.

  I looked at the sofa I was sitting on. I was going to have to sleep here. I wanted to be home, in my own bed, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. This was the only place I could stay.

  I drank the rest of my hot chocolate then put the empty mug on the coffee table. There was a grey woolly blanket on the back of his armchair and I took that and arranged it over my legs the best I could. I plumped up a red cushion for a pillow and settled down as I waited for sleep to come. Reg was right. This would probably seem much better in the morning. There must be a reasonable explanation for what was happening. It was probably a big, elaborate hoax, planned between my parents and the school to teach me some kind of lesson. Yes, that’s what it must be! Well, if that was what it was then stuff them. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of being upset or anxious or scared any longer. If they thought they could fool me, then they had another thing coming.

  I woke to the sound of shouting.

  “Who are you?! And what are you doing on my sofa?”

  Reg was standing by the sofa, holding his hot-water bottle up like it was some kind of weapon. I sat up.

  “It’s me, Reg! Maxwell! You let me sleep here last night. Remember? I came to see you because … because I was having a bad day. You said I could stay.”

  It felt bad lying but I had to say something.

  “Did I?” said Reg, putting the hot-water bottle down. He looked sad. “I don’t remember that at all. I don’t have the best memory, you see. It’s a bit of a problem.”
>
  I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

  “It’s OK, Reg. I know all about it.”

  Reg looked embarrassed so I tried to change the subject.

  “This sofa is quite comfy you know,” I said, doing a little bounce. “I had a lovely sleep last night. Thank you!”

  Reg smiled and nodded.

  “That’s good, that’s good. Well, I’ll go and see what I’ve got for breakfast, shall I?” He wandered off to the kitchen. My stomach churned a bit when I thought about home. There was no Mum and Dad, no Bex and no Monster, but I still thought the most likely explanation was some kind of trick. They were obviously trying to teach me a lesson for all the bad stuff I’d done. The school were probably involved too. I bet the evil Mrs Lloyd was behind it!

  “Toast all right for you, Maxwell?” called Reg from the kitchen. I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon and I was starving.

  “Yes please, Reg,” I called back. I heard him switch the radio on.

  Breakfast in bed! This wasn’t so bad. I never got breakfast in bed at home. I stretched my arms and put them behind my head as I lay back and looked around Reg’s lounge.

  Everything looked exactly the same. The beige curtains still hung at the window that looked out to the front garden. The old clock hanging on the wall by the door to the hallway was still ticking away. In the corner was the old curiosity cabinet, stuffed full of the usual junk. But over the fireplace, something was missing.

  I stared at the empty space and my stomach began to twist as though it was turning itself into a knot.

  I pushed my blanket off and got up.

  Reg was standing by the toaster when I went into the kitchen.

  “Reg? Where is my picture?” I said.

  The toaster popped and he put a slice on each plate.

  “Picture?” he said. “What picture would that be?”

  I took a step closer towards him.

  “The drawing I did of you. Do you know where it is? Mum had it framed. It was behind glass and you had it on your mantelpiece in there. Right there in the lounge,” I said, jabbing my finger towards the room.

  He stared at me blankly. I could feel my heart begin to pound. This was just making everything scary again.

  “A drawing? No. No, I can’t say I have any memory of that…”

  He began to butter the toast but I gripped hold of his arm.

  “But you must remember! Please, Reg. It’s really important. I drew a picture of you. There was a big competition. You had to draw something that made you proud of your town, and I drew you! And I won! The school … the school got a whole load of money and did lots of renovations. Reg? Please? You must know what I’m talking about!”

  Reg was pressed against the kitchen counter as I held on to him. His worried look was back again – the one he did when he couldn’t remember something.

  “I’m so sorry, Maxwell, but I don’t know about any picture.”

  I let go of his arm and ran into the lounge and searched everywhere: behind cushions, under the sofa, behind the television. I opened the cabinet and started pulling everything out. Reg appeared, waving his arms.

  “Oh no, no, no! My things … my things! Stop it! Stop what you’re doing right now!”

  Reg looked horrified.

  “You can’t do that with all my things, you can’t!” he said. I stopped and looked down. The carpet was covered: the shrunken head, the dark globe, piles of old dusty books and flimsy cardboard boxes. The carved, wooden egg was in pieces. It was all just a pile of junk.

  “But where is it?” I said. “Where is my picture?”

  Reg looked at me blankly and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Maxwell. I don’t know,” he said.

  I grabbed my jumper from the sofa and put my trainers on.

  “But where are you going?” said Reg, confused. “What about your toast?”

  “I need to go and check something,” I said, and I turned and ran out of the side door into the crisp autumn air.

  There was only one way I would know what was going on and whether all of this strangeness was just my family trying to teach me a lesson. And this time I knew exactly where to go.

  My school.

  I felt sick as I thought about the missing picture and everything else that had changed. If I could work out an explanation for each thing then I knew I’d feel better. As I walked to school I thought about it.

  Number one: the new flamingo in Mrs Banks’s garden.

  Although it was surprising that she’d swapped the headless one for a new one while I was at the Centenary Ball, it was not exactly impossible. So that’s what must have happened – Mrs Banks had changed the flamingos over during the evening. She wasn’t part of any plan with my parents and the school to teach me a lesson. The new flamingo was just a coincidence.

  Number two: our garden gate

  The garden gate looked exactly like the one I’d broken years ago. Dad must have replaced the buckled hinges and fixed it back on to the brick post. Dad was always pottering around outside and I never usually noticed what he did in the garden so why would I have seen this? He probably mended it weeks ago!

  Number three: no sign of Mum, Dad, Bex or Monster. No key under the plant pot. All our furniture gone. A strange man in our house. A cat.

  This was harder to work out. The only explanation must be that Mum and Dad were so fed up with me they decided to teach me a lesson. The man in the house was probably a friend of Dad’s and in on the joke. They’d moved the key, shuffled our furniture into another room, put some “fake” furniture in its place and the scene was set. I bet my family were keeping Monster out of sight and giggling behind the kitchen door while my shocked face stared in through the patio doors. The cat? Well, that was probably borrowed from someone up the road. There were loads of cats in our street and we already had a cat flap, so that wasn’t exactly hard.

  Number four: Charlie Geek not knowing who I am and looking very different.

  If number three was correct then this was easy to explain. Mum and Dad must have told Charlie and his mum what they were planning and asked them to act like they didn’t know me. He hated me! Of course he’d go along with it! He’d probably got his hair cut for the Centenary Ball. And he must have taken the bandage off when he’d got home and the swelling on his nose must have gone down really, really quickly.

  Number five: the missing portrait of Reg.

  Reg is an elderly man who suffers with memory loss. He doesn’t know who I am from one day to the next so it was highly likely that he’d just moved the picture somewhere else and completely forgotten about it. Simple.

  I smiled to myself. I felt a whole lot better already. My family would NEVER be able to get one over on me.

  I reached the end of the road, turned right and crossed over towards the school. It was Sunday and I’d only seen three cars on my way there. I passed the two wide-trunked trees which stood by the front of the school. They looked exactly as they always did, standing on a patch of grass in front of the black gates where the TV truck had been parked. I kicked at a pile of orange leaves and they scattered on to the pavement, and then I looked up.

  My arms felt heavy. It was as if all of my insides were suddenly plummeting towards the pavement.

  I stood and stared at my school and my head began to pound. I couldn’t believe it. How?! How did the school look so different? I’d won the competition back in Year Seven which had changed everything. But now … now it just looked all wrong.

  “Oh … no…” I said out loud, my throat tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Apart from Monster coming to live with us, the drawing competition was one of the best things that had ever happened to me. It was organized by a big supermarket chain and every school across the country was invited to take part. There was a large cash prize for the overall winner: not for the kid – for their school.

  The rules were simple: draw or paint a picture of something in your town that ma
kes you feel proud. Our school entered twenty pictures. I was quite pleased with mine, but to be honest, I’d forgotten about the whole thing until four months later when Mr Howard came into our form all flustered, saying that I had reached the last ten. I thought he meant the last ten in our area but he actually meant the last ten in the whole country.

  There was a big awards ceremony so me, Mr Howard, Mum, Dad and Bex all went on the train to the posh art gallery in London where it was taking place. When we arrived we were taken on a tour of the gallery which was really dull. Firstly, the man taking us round kept droning on and on about the “light” and the “depth” and the “symbolism” in each painting. And secondly, the paintings weren’t very good. In fact, they were rubbish. There was even one of an old sock! And it wasn’t even a nice sock; it had holes in it and it looked like it was covered in dog hairs. While the guide was rambling on about the meaning behind the painting’s title, The Sock, I nudged Mr Howard.

  “I’d have called it The Stink…” I whispered, creasing up with laughter, but Mr Howard just rolled his eyes at me. He’d been in a mood all day and kept checking his mobile phone when he thought we weren’t looking. I took a peek on the train and saw that he had a lot of texts from someone called “Clare H”. I knew immediately who that was. It was my Spanish teacher at school – Miss Huxley. It was obvious they fancied each other but she was leaving at the end of the week to work in Australia.

  After the boring tour we went into a big room which had a stage at one end and we found our seats in the second row which had our names on them. A man wearing a shirt that was too tight round his neck starting talking into a microphone about the competition and waving his arms. As he went on and on I watched the top button on his shirt, waiting for it to burst off, but it didn’t.

  The final ten pictures had been put on to big wooden easels and Mum tapped me on the arm and pointed at my one as if I didn’t know which one I’d drawn. The man went on about art in schools and blah, blah, blah and how this competition had shown that there were some really talented children out there and blah, blah, blah and how creativity was so important and blah, blah, blah and didn’t we all do well? He then handed the microphone to a woman who he said was from the big supermarket but she wasn’t wearing a cashier’s uniform, she was wearing a grey suit with bright pink high heels.