My Big Mouth

by Steven Camden

  Mum reached across and touched my hand. ‘Sweetheart. We know this is a tricky time. We understand you have questions.’

  But the truth of it was, right then, at that moment, I didn’t.

  I wasn’t thinking about where Dad was, or why he had gone. I knew. He was in Australia, on a secret writing mission that needed my help. Yes, that was my made-up truth, but after what had happened at school, it felt like enough for right now. I wasn’t thinking about being angry. About being left out of the ‘grown-up’ facts. All I was thinking about was how cool I felt. How Danny’s cool had rubbed off on me and made everyone else look at me differently. I looked across at Dad’s chair in the corner. Empty and untouched since he left.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m cool.’

  The two of them exchanged a brief, confused look, then decided to let that be the end of it for the time being. Then Mum clapped her hands. ‘I need cake!’ she said, and went into the kitchen.

  Donna finished her juice, smiled, then started to clear the table.

  ‘You don’t have to pretend, you know,’ she said, and for one scary second I thought she might know everything. That she might somehow be able to read my mind and see what had happened at school. Then she rubbed my head. ‘It’s OK not to be fine, soldier.’

  She didn’t know. She was just trying to be a good big sister.

  ‘OK,’ I said, trying to look troubled. ‘Thanks.’

  Later that night, when it felt like everyone was asleep, I sat on the end of my bed in my pyjamas, staring up at my wall. At the map that Dad had put there. Light from my lamp made it look like some old cave painting. Gus was snoozing in his spot under the radiator.

  I thought about Danny. How excited he’d got as we talked in the library. I thought about Marcia Brown & Lucy Cheung, standing next to our table. Everyone’s eyes on me.

  I heard Mr Bukowski’s velvety voice: ‘Thank you very much.’

  I took a black felt tip from my desk and drew a black circle around Sydney. The pen tip squeaked against the laminated surface.

  I sat back down on my bed and stared at the world. I could feel Dad. A memory of watching him as he sat, where I was sitting right now, and made up stories, out of nothing. Just looking at the place I’d pointed to and running with it. And that’s when it hit me.

  Was I like him? I’d made up a story, out of nothing, and people liked it. Is this what Dad felt when he made up his stories? Is this why he did it? To feel cool? I looked at Gus, snoring happily under my radiator.

  ‘Am I like him, Gus?’

  Gus’s back foot twitched, like he was kicking a football in his dream.

  ‘Am I?’

  I didn’t know how I felt about it. Did I want to be like Dad? Somebody who could just leave like that?

  My head started to hurt, so I went over and sat down next to Gus. He opened one eye slowly as I started to stroke him.

  ‘It did feel good though,’ I said, thinking about my day. Feeling cool. And I wanted more.

  That’s when the ticking in my stomach started again.

  An idea sprouting up from deep inside.

  Of course.

  I stood up, staring at my map.

  It was so clear what I had to do.

  ******* MY PLAN *******

  If they thought I was cool because of one story I’d made up, I’d make up more. And the more I made up, the cooler I’d get. That could be how it worked. Simple equation: More Stories = More Cool. I had five weeks of school left. How cool could I get in five weeks? How good would that feel?

  My skin started tingling. Gus let out a small, sleepy groan.

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll have to be clever. Not get caught out. Meticulous.’

  I said the word again. ‘Meticulous.’ It felt like I was reciting a spell.

  I could be meticulous.

  I’d keep a record of what I made up, here, on my wall. I’d write what I’d said and who I’d said it to up on the map so I wouldn’t forget. I could check my map every night to refresh my memory before I went to sleep. If I kept a record of everything I made up, I could refer to it at any time and nobody would catch me out. What an amazing idea.

  Foolproof.

  What could go wrong?

  I clapped my hands in celebration. ‘What could go wrong? Right, Gus?’

  Gus didn’t move.

  ‘Gus. Are you listening? Meticulous. Cool. Brilliant plan, eh?’

  Gus opened one eye to look at me . . .

  . . . and farted.

  Pause.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Or, rather, I know what I think you’re thinking.

  I think you’re thinking: I agree with Gus, Jay. In fact, if I could fart right now, and send it to where you are, I would. That is a terrible plan. A real stinker. Have you never read old fairy tales? Do you not remember the one with the boy crying wolf and all the sheep that got eaten and then he got eaten and had to live with the old guy inside the wolf’s belly? Maybe that’s not how it goes, I can’t remember the exact details, but I hear what you’re saying. The moral of the story is, don’t tell lies or you’ll end up in someone’s belly. You’ll think you’re being clever, but it can end up badly. Yeah yeah yeah.

  But I always thought the characters in those old stories were pretty stupid, really. They always let things get out of control. I wouldn’t. I would be smart enough to take things just as far as I wanted to, and stop when it was time. I was in control enough to decide how things would end.

  Maybe this story should’ve ended right there. With Gus looking at me and saying, ‘Don’t do it. Who cares about being cool? Just enjoy your last few weeks of Year 6 before the summer. Now go to sleep.’ A little fart, and then . . .

  THE END

  But that’s not what happened.

  See, ideas are powerful. I didn’t understand just how powerful back then, but I do now.

  Sometimes an idea can overtake you. Sometimes an idea can grow so big inside your brain that it blocks out other stuff. Facts. Truth. Your ability to see what might be coming. All just to make sure it gets its own way. I understand it better now, trust me.

  Ideas can have their own life. And the idea of being cool and getting cooler had planted itself firmly in the centre of my brain and started to grow roots. I would get cooler and cooler and stop having to waste time thinking about Dad.

  More Stories = More Cool = Less Dad = Winning.

  And as I finally climbed into bed that night, I was ready to be the coolest winner the world had ever seen.

  Week One

  Walking into school with Dominic on the Tuesday, I felt like I had springs in my shoes. I was so charged up to put my plan into action, I hadn’t really noticed how quiet Dom was being. Dom was never quiet on the walk to school. As we passed the old church, I turned to him.

  ‘Why aren’t you talking?’

  Dom looked down.

  ‘My mum told me about your dad.’

  I felt something heavy in my stomach, but made myself keep walking.

  ‘Is he really gone?’ Dom said, sheepishly looking my way.

  I got a flash of Danny’s face from the day before in the library.

  ‘Yep,’ I said, staring forward, trying to keep all emotion out of my voice. I could feel Dom’s eyes on me as we approached the corner.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he said.

  I cooly shook my head. ‘Nah. I’m fine.’

  As we turned on to the road school was on, I spotted a couple of Year 5 girls on scooters looking at me like I was famous. One of them waved at me. I waved back. They both giggled.

  Dom put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Jay, you’re allowed to be sad.’

  I could feel something in my throat. I swallowed it.

  ‘I’m fine, man. Seriously. Now, don’t we have a talent show to plan for?’

  It was like the words snapped him back into normal Dom mode, bursting the tension of the moment, and I breathed a
sigh of relief as he dived into his ideas.

  ‘We need to choose a song,’ he said. ‘Something powerful, but funky. I was thinking last night, and I reckon James Brown. What’s that one with the saxophones at the start, the one from Sheila’s wedding?’

  He pulled out a little notebook and pencil like a detective from an old film.

  ‘Jay?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘“Cold Sweat”?’

  Dominic grinned. ‘Yes!’ He made a note, then chewed the end of his pencil. ‘I reckon my dad will have it somewhere.’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to mention . . .’

  He was squirming because he’d said the word ‘dad’, like that was somehow a word he wasn’t allowed to use around me, and it was annoying. Like a person who wasn’t even here could still have a power over things.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m not even thinking about him.’

  Which was actually true. My mind was already thinking of story ideas. Dom put his notebook away. ‘We need to draw up a rehearsal schedule. I’ll do it. Five weeks is tight, but if we get on it, we’ll be fine. We are winning that thing, Jay. Trust me.’

  As we walked through the school gates it felt like most of the other kids turned to watch me. Like in those old western films where a mysterious stranger walks into the saloon. That was me. New Jason. Cool Jason.

  Dom didn’t even notice. But I did. I put on my coolest ‘not really bothered’ face and walked to class line-up. My plan was already working and I hadn’t even opened my mouth.

  Here’s the thing.

  If I listed all of the stories I made up over the following five weeks, this book would be 50,000 pages long and weigh as much as an elephant who loves McDonald’s. If I typed up every single thing I told people during that time you’d still be reading this when you are old and wrinkly, and your great-grandchildren are running around playing with their virtual reality unicorns.

  So I won’t.

  I’ll just pick a few at random from the VERY LONG list and share them as we go along.

  For example:

  WEEK 1. Tuesday. Morning Break.

  Back Playground:

  ‘Me vs Mickey Mouse’

  Georgette Foster was telling everyone by the climbing frame that she was going to Disneyland in the summer holidays with her family. I told her (and everyone else gathered round) that, when I was eight, me and my family went to Euro Disney near Paris and stayed in one of the log cabins. I said it was lots of fun and we were having a great time, eating giant pretzels, riding on roller coasters and stuff, until we got thrown out by security because I punched Mickey Mouse in the face.

  ‘What?’ people said.

  ‘No way!’ people said.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘We were taking a photo and Mickey Mouse kept tickling me and I was telling him to stop and he wouldn’t and I got really angry and he kept tickling and then something came over me and I jumped up and smacked Mickey Mouse in his massive mouse head and it fell off and the man inside the costume looked at us like all his clothes had just disappeared, and ran away.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep.’

  They believed me.

  To this day, I’ve never been to Euro Disney. But I’d seen it on TV plenty of times, and I knew who Mickey Mouse was, so when Georgette started talking I just let the film of me fighting Mickey Mouse play out in my mind and my mouth described it out loud.

  People were leaning forward, hanging off the monkey bars as I spoke.

  I felt like the centre of the universe.

  Standing in the queue for lunch, holding my tray, everything felt different. Colours. Sounds. Things felt brighter. Clearer. Better. It was like up until then I’d been wearing sunglasses and headphones my whole school life and now I’d taken them off.

  Sitting in our usual spots near the gym apparatus, I did my best with the dry school potatoes and rubbery gravy while Dom made more notes in his little pad about Full Force and thought aloud.

  ‘If I can get Noah to lend us his boombox, we can practise in the garage, or the park. We’ll need batteries, though. Can you backflip?’

  ‘No, Dom, I can’t backflip. And neither can you.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said with a grin. Then Danny Jones sat down right next to him.

  Dominic went rigid as Danny sniffed, and stabbed his juice carton with the straw.

  ‘All right?’ he said.

  Dominic looked at me, like a dog trapped inside a car. I ate another potato and nodded.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  Danny sucked on his straw until the empty carton folded into itself, then he crushed it on the table like a Viking finishing his tankard of ale. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  He looked at Dominic, who seemed to shrink into his own shoulders, then at me.

  ‘I’m good at research.’

  I nodded calmly. ‘OK.’

  Dominic made a noise that was half cough and half yelp, then put his notepad away.

  ‘I’m gonna . . . I just . . . I said I’d help Mr Bukowski with a thing.’ He stood up, careful not to bump shoulders with Danny. ‘Good chatting with you.’ He gave me a quick ‘What the hell is going on?’ stare, then he left, almost falling into the bin as he emptied his tray.

  Danny slid over into Dom’s seat. ‘If you find out where he’s going to next, I can research it for him, so he’s got info,’ he said. ‘Then you can read it to him when he calls you. So he’s prepared.’

  There was a strange expression on his face that didn’t seem to fit. Like the muscles weren’t used to making it. Looking at him, I realized what it was. It was hope. Danny Jones was hoping I thought his idea was good. I felt the air filling my lungs as I sat up straight and said, ‘That’d be great.’

  Danny Jones smiled, and for a second, I thought he was going to flip the lunch table over in excitement. He composed himself, then just stared at me. I nodded. He stared expectantly.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, eventually realizing what he was waiting for. ‘Sorry. Japan. He’s going to Japan.’ The place had just popped into my head. I nodded with more certainty. ‘Yep. Tokyo. He wrote me a letter. He flies this weekend.’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘I know. He’s a writer. Don’t ask.’ I had no idea where that came from, but it worked.

  Danny Jones nodded once, like a samurai who’s just been given a mission.

  ‘I’m on it,’ he said, in a stone-cold serious voice. And he started eating his potatoes.

  And that’s what we decided. Our routine.

  Danny, helping me, helping Dad. Like a team.

  Every Monday, I would bring in a letter from Dad. (There hadn’t been a single letter, message or anything from him since he left. I would have to write them myself, but I would keep them short and as long as I switched up my handwriting, I’d be fine.) The fake letter would say where Dad was planning on going to next for his writing mission. I’d bring the letter to school, show it to Danny and then he would spend the rest of the week preparing a report on that place. Important locations, historical facts, population, things that I could then relay to Dad when I spoke to him.

  I can’t even take credit for coming up with the idea, to be honest, it was all Danny’s. All I did was go along with it and fake the letters. Danny got so excited about researching places around the world it almost felt like I’d given him a gift. He spent less time giving people grief because he was too busy, so I kind of gave them a gift too. Some of the football gang got annoyed because they lost their best player for most lunchtimes to the library, of all places. None of it was real, but it was to him, and he loved it.

  A purpose for his passion.

  What could be wrong with that?

  Walking home that afternoon, I was going over the things I’d made up.

  • Punching Mickey Mouse.

  • Dad’s letter.

  Before home time we’d been talking in class about heritage and family histories. Mum’s side of the family are from Jamaica. Her m
um and dad came over in the 1960s looking for work. Mum was born here, but she used to go to Jamaica a lot when she was younger, before she had her own family. I’d never even been to Jamaica, but I’d seen lots of photos and heard stories, so when Mr Bukowski was asking about where people’s families came from, I told him, and everyone else, that I was born in Jamaica. Everyone was impressed, so I took it further. I told them I was actually born in an area called Nine Mile, which is where Bob Marley was born. I knew this from Mum talking about it. People were even more impressed by that. Mr Bukowski too.

  ‘That’s a pretty special fact,’ he said, in his super-silky calm voice. And I beamed like the cat that got the cream.

  • Nine Mile.

  I would write them all up on my map when I got home. Two days in. Things were going great.

  Then Dominic caught me up, out of breath.

  ‘Yo! Why didn’t you wait for me?’

  He leaned on me, panting.

  ‘Sorry. I forgot.’ The words felt weird coming out of my mouth. Different to almost all the others I’d spoken that day. They were the truth.

  Luckily Dominic wasn’t really paying attention.

  ‘Two minutes and fifty-five seconds, Part One,’ he said, starting to breathe normally again. ‘Three minutes and fifty-five seconds, Part Two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“Cold Sweat” by James Brown. That’s six minutes and fifty seconds in total.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Is that good?’

  ‘No! That’s way too long to dance to. We’ll have to use just one part. I say Part One, that’s the most funky, right?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Dom winced. ‘Two minutes and fifty-five seconds. That’s still a pretty long time to dance for. Lot of choreography.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t bother then,’ I said.

  Dominic looked down his nose at me, then laughed and punched my arm. ‘Good one, Jay. Always joking.’