The Boy Who Made Everyone Laugh

by Helen Rutter

  “WILLIAM!” his mother barked from over her shoulder, and with that he kicked the fallen box and shuffled after her.

  As I was staring over at the shreaded wheat, my mom came and asked really loud, “What on earth are you doing looking at cat food? We don’t have a cat! You’re a strange creature, Billy Plimpton!” I had to duck down really quickly like I was scratching my ankle. The last thing I want is for Mom to embarrass me in front of Blakemore. He would definitely use that against me.

  Today I sit and watch him for ages. He just sits there with his head in his hands. He’s much stiller than usual. He doesn’t write a single thing the whole time I’m watching. He’s rubbing his forehead and his cheeks are pink. I try to imagine him at home eating shredded wheat, with his mom shouting at him and his big brother shoving him around. I think maybe Blakemore’s not a happy kid. I wonder to myself what would I rather be like, Blakemore without a stammer or be like me?

  While Skyla and I are eating our fries at lunch, I have an idea. “D-do you want to come to the theater after this?” I say, trying to act relaxed.

  “What, to sit in silence and stare at an empty stage?”

  “No.” I pause and then go for it. “To watch me do some jokes … on the stage.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just shoves the last of her fries in her mouth and grabs her tray. Then, with a mouth full of food, she looks at me and says, “LET’S GO, FUNNY BOY.”

  It feels really strange actually having someone looking back at me, instead of row after row of empty chairs. I go flush and don’t know what to do with my hands, but after a couple of jokes, I start to relax.

  Skyla sits right in the middle and laughs at everything … but she REALLY laughs when I’m doing impressions of the teachers. I’m just making it up on the spot, after I have finished my set list. Falling asleep and forgetting everyone’s names, while talking about the periodic table in a wobbly high-pitched voice, like Mrs. Carpenter in chemistry. Pretending to be Mr. Randall, the head of the math department. Jumping around and clapping my hands together, like an excitable puppy.

  “G-g-go on, class, throw the ball, I’ll fetch it. P-p-please please please please. W-woof,” and then I run off for an imaginary ball and stop in the middle of the stage to scratch an itch on my back that is just out of reach. When I do this, Skyla’s howling with laughter.

  She makes me do that impression over and over again until we both have tears rolling down our faces. When the beaky-faced ballet teacher comes in and says, “What on earth is going on in here?” it just makes us laugh even more. Somehow we manage to mumble, “Sorry,” grab our bags, and fall out of the door into the corridor, tears still streaming.

  “I don’t think I’m ever going to stop laughing,” Skyla says, wiping her eyes.

  I look at her and am about to tell her about signing up for the talent show when the beaky teacher stomps back out of the theater and looks at us like an angry bird. We both look down at the floor, trying to control our shrieks of laughter. I think I’ll leave the talent show as a surprise.

  * * *

  At afternoon break, Blakemore ties me to the basketball post with a jump rope from the gym. Then he makes me beg him to be released.

  “Say, ‘pretty, pretty please,’ Plimpton.”

  “P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p—”

  When he gets bored of waiting for me to finish, he just walks off and kicks a basketball over the wall, leaving me firmly attached to the post with no way to escape.

  Skyla finds me and tries to undo me, but she can’t untie the knot. He has pulled the rope too tight, and it’s wet. Skyla’s getting really cross and says she’ll kill him. Mrs. Peat, the music teacher, can’t undo the knot either. Eventually Matthew, Josh, and Alex come running over with some big scissors from the art cupboard and cut me free. Mrs. Peat sends William Blakemore to see Mr. Osho, and me, Matthew, Alex, Josh, and Skyla all have to go too.

  Blakemore just says that we’d been “messing around.” I don’t want to say anything different, so I just nod. It’ll only get worse if I say anything. I know the boys won’t tell—he’s horrible to them too. But then I see Skyla start to speak. She sees me looking at her, and I shake my head and mouth the word please. She stops.

  Mr. Osho looks really worried, and I feel sorry for him. He can’t do anything unless we tell him, and he knows from the look on my face that I’m not saying a word.

  Mr. Osho tells the others to go but keeps me and Blakemore in the room. I feel a little sick when it’s just us. I didn’t realize how much better I felt having the others around me until they’d gone. I almost wish I had let Skyla tell Mr. Osho everything.

  “Okay, boys,” Mr. Osho begins. “Now, I know you’re not going to tell me the full story and that’s totally up to you, but it’s clear that something’s going on and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t try to help you both.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Blakemore snarls. He really doesn’t even care how he speaks to teachers. I’m amazed he hasn’t been kicked out of school yet.

  “Everyone needs help with something, William,” Mr. Osho says, smiling. “You know, in my last school what they used to do if two kids weren’t getting along was organize a playdate at one of their houses.”

  “Wh-wh-what?!” I say, panicking. I imagine being stuck at Blakemore’s house with his mom shouting at me and his massive brother pushing me around.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t do that today—but you know what? It really worked. It made the kids see each other differently and find common ground. So maybe we can do something similar here.”

  What on earth is he doing? The last thing I need is to spend more time with Blakemore. I can’t even look at him. If Mr. Osho knew about the filming in the bathroom and all the other horrible things Blakemore has done, maybe he wouldn’t be doing this.

  “Mr. Osho, I n-n-need to t-t-tell you s-s-s-something,” I say. Then I look at Blakemore, who cocks his head as if he is interested … and I can’t go on.

  Mr. Osho waits for a while and then, when he realizes that I’m not going to say any more, he says, “Okay, so I have an idea. William, you’ve been struggling in math class, right?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s not what your test results are saying. Billy, math is your strongest subject, so how about we get together one morning break each week and, Billy, you can be William’s very own tutor.”

  “No way!” Blakemore and I both say at exactly the same time.

  “Well, in that case, I guess I will have to invite your parents in and see if there’s another way of resolving this.”

  I really don’t want Mom coming in—I would never hear the end of it. I can see Blakemore doesn’t want his mom to come in either, so I say, “Fine, I’ll d-d-do it if he w-w-wiill.”

  “Fine,” he spits. “But don’t think we’re gonna be friends.”

  “Let’s just see how it goes,” says Mr. Osho. “How does Wednesday morning sound?”

  As we’re walking back down the hall, I realize that this is the first time I’ve stood next to Blakemore without him doing something awful to me. As we pass the theater, I notice a different poster up next to all the ones for the talent show. I stop to look at it while Blakemore keeps going.

  “See you Wednesday, B-B-Billy,” he says over his shoulder. “I c-c-can’t w-w-w-wait!”

  Somehow I think it will take more than some math to make him stop being horrible, but at least Mr. Osho will be there to protect me. I look up at the new poster.

  “Are you into it, Billy? I’ve seen you eyeing up the drum kit!” Alex is standing behind me.

  “Yeah, I really want another go on the kiiit.”

  I remember Ellie saying that she would be at the rehearsal, and it makes me want to go even more. I can’t do comedy, not yet—not until I’ve taken the course—but I could play the drums for her. I’ve been practicing like crazy since Mr. Osho showed me the kit.

  “I think you need to be in a band, though,” I say to A
lex. “Dooo you play anything?”

  Then I realize what I’ve said is probably a bit stupid, seeing as he can’t hear much. I’m about to apologize when he sees the embarrassed look on my face and laughs.

  “As crazy as it sounds, my mom has made me learn the piano for the last seven years. I don’t know why. I can’t even hear what I’m playing! She says ‘reading music is a skill everyone should learn.’ ”

  “That’s pretty awesome,” I say.

  “I guess so. Mom just treats me the same as my brothers. They have piano lessons, so I have them. It makes no difference that I can’t hear as well. I just learn it a bit differently, I guess.” Then he becomes his mom again, “ ‘It’s good to be different, Alex. Use it to your advantage.’ ”

  Alex does a great impression of his mom. He puts on this high voice and swishes his hair. I’m still laughing when the last bell goes and the hallway’s instantly filled with kids. I grab the flyer from the board and stuff it into my pocket.

  At the Oaks after school, I rush in and nearly bump headfirst into Mrs. Gibbens, who is slowly making her way out of Granny Bread’s room, still clinging on to the picture of the dog. I mumble an apology and try not to look at her too much. She’s like a living ghost. When I’ve edged around her, I see Granny Bread in her usual spot in front of her game show.

  “I can’t even see the letters anymore, Billy. I don’t know why I still watch the daft thing. Turn it off, sweetie, and tell me about your day.”

  “Well, I have some big news for you,” I say, barely able to keep my excitement in.

  “Go on, then—this sounds fun.”

  “It is! I’ve entered a talent sh-show, Granny Bread! I’m going to tell my jokes on a stage, just like you wanted me to. Remember the promise I made? Well, this is it. I’m going to do it.”

  “Well, Billy.” She smiles and grabs my face between her tiny hands and looks me right in the eye. “I’ll be there in the front row cheering you on. I can’t wait!” Then she holds out her little finger, and we make our pinkie promise all over again.

  What does a cat like to eat on its birthday?

  Mice-cream cake.

  I’m twelve years old! I like being twelve. Next year all the grown-ups will be going on about me being thirteen. They’ve already started! Not long now till you’re a teenager! As if it’s an original thing to say. Just like when I was ten. I kept count of how many people said, “Double digits!” to me. It was forty-eight, and that’s not including the ones who said it first and gave me the idea of counting. So I reckon it was more like sixty. That’s a lot of people repeating the same thing. I didn’t know what to say. What are you meant to say to that?

  Chloe has the same thing now but with her wobbly tooth. “You need to tie a piece of string to that and attach it to the door handle.” Over and over again. I can see the look on her face when yet another person says it. Not knowing what they want from her. I’m counting for her too. So far it’s seventeen, but it could get much higher if the tooth doesn’t fall out for ages. I’m betting it gets to over twenty-five. I told her I’m keeping score. She smiled like she was glad that someone had noticed and then kept dressing her pony.

  When there’s a knock at the door this morning, I run to answer it, hoping it’s something for my birthday. A pale-looking delivery man is standing on the doorstep and asks, “Where do you want the drum kit?” I nearly explode!

  I read the note:

  Mom says under her breath, “I think she’s losing her marbles,” when she reads it.

  I can’t believe Granny Bread bought it for me. I don’t think Mom and Dad are too pleased. She didn’t even tell them!

  I get dressed as fast as I can and run all the way to the Oaks without stopping. I’m totally out of breath, and when I get to her little room, I hug her so hard. She’s chuckling and saying “my boy” over and over. I can feel her thin body underneath her dressing gown, it feels like it’s going to break. Apparently she got one of the care workers at the Oaks to order the drum kit online for her. She says she had some savings and wanted to give me something really special. Then she falls asleep while I’m talking to her, so I don’t even get to say goodbye properly.

  A full-size drum kit! I thought I would be practicing with pencils forever. I love it so much. When I get back, Dad’s setting it up in the garage, not looking too happy. I play it for four hours nonstop, until I start to get blisters on my hands. Then Mom comes in and says the neighbors have complained, so we “need to put some rules in place.”

  I wish I had a soundproof studio so I could play all day every day. Dad says it’s probably a good thing to limit it; otherwise he says I’ll lose my hearing! He’s making me wear ear defenders, which are these stupid-looking earmuff things. I don’t see the point of them. Drums are meant to be loud! I’ll only wear them when he’s with me.

  I’m working on my double stroke rolls. (That’s like a normal drumroll, but you hit it twice with each stick.) It’s hard. Dad gets his old guitar out of the loft and plays it with me. I didn’t even know he could play the guitar. He’s pretty good! It feels like a real band. I think we should be called the Sharks.

  It feels so good when we get into a rhythm together, like we’re talking to each other with music. He calls it being in the zone, and I think he loves it just as much as I do. So I think the drums are here to stay.

  Mom and Dad got me this cool microphone for my birthday so I can practice my jokes. It looks like real gold and has buttons you can push to change your voice. When I’m not allowed on the drums anymore, I do a show for them in the living room. I make my voice sound like a chipmunk and go through my latest jokes.

  “Why are seagulls called seagulls? B-b-because if they flew over the bay, they’d be bagels!”

  Chloe pees her pants she’s laughing so much at this one.

  After the show in the living room, I put the microphone on the top shelf in my room so I can look at it when I go to sleep. I’ve decided that I’m not going to use it again until I’ve taken the course. So that I can speak into it the right way. It’s exciting, looking at it. Knowing that the next time I use it I’ll be able to speak without a stammer.

  The stutter school still haven’t emailed me back. They’d better hurry up—it starts in a week! I’ve already started packing and repacking my bag in secret. I’ve packed my favorite blue hoodie and my black jeans to wear on the box at the end. I’m hiding the bag at the back of my wardrobe.

  When I come downstairs, I see a big envelope with my name on it lying on the floor under the mailbox. The postman’s already been here, with my cards from great-aunties I’ve never met and presents from my cousins, so I can’t think who this would be from. When I open it, I know straightaway. It is a handmade book with a beautiful drawing of a stage with velvet curtains … and in the spotlight is a picture of me with a microphone. At the top it says:

  Inside on each page is one of my favorite jokes with a cartoon drawn alongside it. It must have taken Skyla ages. When I get to the end, there are loads of empty pages with the words:

  I feel a bit overwhelmed, so I slap myself on the cheeks and say, “Pull yourself together, Bill! You are twelve years old, for goodness’ sake,” and then I take my very own joke book and put it on my shelf with all the others. I can’t believe Skyla remembered all my jokes. Maybe that’s what she’s been doing at lunchtimes, spending all her time drawing them so beautifully. I can’t wait until she sees me up on that stage, telling them officially for the first time.

  * * *

  Matthew, Josh, and Alex all arrive later that afternoon and I have my first ever sleepover.

  When they get here, we have my favorite meal: macaroni and cheese with big dollops of pesto and garlic bread. Then we have a Nerf war in the woods at the end of the lane. Mom and Dad give us each a Nerf Blaster and two hundred darts! Chloe doesn’t want to play, so she stands at the edge with her pom-poms cheering us on.

  The teams are me, Alex, and Mom against Dad, Josh, and Matthew, with C
hloe watching. We have to rescue a Toblerone from a tree and get it back to our base without getting hit. If we do it, we can eat it. We have three games, and we win two of them. Afterwards we share the Toblerone and then Mom, Dad, and Chloe go back home. Me and the boys stay and play until our fingers go numb from the cold; then we go in for hot chocolate and birthday cake.

  After cake, we play on the drums. Matthew takes a turn on Dad’s guitar. He’s started lessons at school, and he’s pretty good. Josh plays the tambourine since that’s the only other instrument we have. I do an impression of Josh jiggling around with a tambourine, like he can’t stop playing it. Josh joins in, and we keep jumping around the garage until we’re all laughing so hard. We don’t have a piano for Alex, so he plays Chloe’s old toy xylophone.

  When we play, we actually sound okay. I ask them if they’ll play at the rehearsal day in the Music Lounge so I can use the drum kit at school. I don’t tell them I want to play for Ellie. No way! They say they’ll think about it. After that, we watch Jumanji in my room and eat popcorn.

  Alex falls asleep at 10:30 p.m.! I can’t believe it. Especially since he bet me five Hershey bars that he would stay up the latest. Alex is really competitive. Once, he bet me a dollar that he could hold his breath for longer than me. I won by twenty seconds, but he never gave me my dollar. Josh and Matthew both fall asleep before midnight. We haven’t even had the feast.

  I end up eating two bags of M&M’s and all the Haribos and then feel really sick. Not quite how I had planned my sleepover. It’s so dark and Alex is so still I have to check he’s still alive. I touch his toes with my fingers, and when he rolls over, I nearly jump out of my skin!

  It takes ages to get to sleep after that. Thinking about my birthday and my friends all snoring around me. I actually have friends! As soon as I have gotten rid of my stupid stutter, my life will be complete. Although, to be honest, my birthday feels pretty complete just as it is. Lying in bed, listening to the snores, looking up at my beautiful joke book and my microphone, I actually feel happy.