My Big Mouth

by Steven Camden

  Without warning, Dad pulls over next to a row of thick privet hedges. There’s nothing obviously special about this spot, but Dad seems sure. ‘Everybody out!’ he says, and opens his door.

  The glare of the sun makes me squint as we all get out and stand next to the car.

  ‘What are we doing?’ asks Donna.

  Dad answers with a smile, then walks straight into the hedge and disappears.

  I look at Donna; Donna looks at Mum; Mum looks at us both, and shrugs.

  The hedge has rough twigs that scratch my arms as we squeeze through. Donna is starting to moan as we burrow through the shady tunnel. I can smell the soil. Then the light hits us again and we’re out, standing at the edge of a huge field, ploughed into straight, brown, earthy rows. There’s a white farmhouse in the distance and, right in the middle of the field, about fifty metres away from us, is Dad, talking to a man in a straw hat. He turns to us and waves us over. The other man just stands there, his arms stretched out either side of him.

  It’s a scarecrow.

  As the three of us reach Dad, I can see the sack for a head, with eyes and a mouth painted on. Its chequered shirt is weather-beaten, and the pockets of its dungarees have straw sticking out of them.

  ‘What’s going on, Dad?’ says Donna, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  Dad points at the scarecrow. ‘This is Greg. Greg, meet everyone.’

  Greg doesn’t move. Dad waves. ‘Say hello, everyone.’

  ‘I’m not saying hello to a scarecrow,’ says Donna, looking at Mum.

  Dad looks at me. I wave. ‘Hi, Greg.’

  Donna rolls her eyes. Mum looks at Dad. Dad shrugs. ‘Guess he’s not her type.’ Mum looks stern, then cracks a smile, and the pair of them laugh. Donna doesn’t.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she says. ‘Why are we even here?’

  Dad holds out his hands like he’s offering her a gift. ‘It’s a story. This will be the time you turned down a date from a scarecrow.’

  He waits for Donna to take his hands. She doesn’t.

  ‘Jesus, Dad. Are you serious? Not everything has to be a story!’ Then she turns and walks back towards the hedge. Dad looks at Mum. Mum shrugs, then walks after Donna.

  I watch the pair of them getting smaller. Dad turns to me.

  ‘Just me and you then, big man.’ There’s a sadness in his smile.

  I point at the scarecrow. ‘And Greg.’

  Then Dad hugs me, his heavy arms squeezing, and it feels amazing and safe, and I just want to sleep right here. In his arms.

  I woke up needing to wee.

  I don’t know about you, but whenever I do that, there’s always that first moment when you don’t want to get up. Your dream still has you in its arms all cosy in bed and the idea of getting out from under your duvet is the worst, and the long trip to the bathroom feels like an Arctic expedition.

  My next thought (and I’m not that proud to admit this) is always, What if I just weed right here? What If I just lay back, relaxed my bladder and let it go? How bad would that really be? Wee is pretty warm. It might feel quite nice. I think I’m gonna do it.

  Then comes the flash forward to feeling guilty and having to go into your mum’s room and tell her what happened and the painful minutes of standing there in shame as she changes your sheets and tips up your mattress.

  So, I got up.

  My eyes adjusted to the dark as I walked to the bathroom. I left the light off, and everything looked like an old black-and-white film. The moonlight through the bathroom window caught in the tap water as I quietly washed my hands. When I came back out on to the landing, I noticed a stick of light on the carpet further down the landing. Donna’s light was still on. She pretty much went to bed when she liked, so it wasn’t weird for her to be up late, but this felt really late, even for her.

  I edged closer to her door, curious. Mum’s bedroom door was shut and lifeless.

  I got right up to Donna’s and put my naked toes in the line of light. I couldn’t hear anything from inside. I could probably count the times I’ve been allowed into Donna’s room in my whole life on one hand. Usually she’d give me a dead arm for even looking at her door, but there’s something about the middle of the night that changes the rules, right? Have you experienced that? Like when you’re on a trip somewhere and you get home really late, everything feels different? Things that aren’t allowed in the day are now possible. A sneaky hot chocolate. A delicate question. The middle of the night loves risks.

  So I tapped. Gently, of course, but she heard me, and the next thing I knew, her door was opening.

  I sat in the chair at her desk. Donna was sitting on her bed, legs crossed, an open red shoebox with folded papers inside next to her. Bruce Lee was doing a high kick on the wall next to the wardrobe. Donna’s bedside lamp made all her music posters cast little jagged shadows at their corners.

  ‘Bad dream?’ she said. And in a strange coincidence, right then, my eyes fell on the photograph next to her bed of all four of us standing outside a caravan holding ice creams. I looked about five, grinning at my two-scoop cone. Donna was licking her lolly trying to seem cool while Mum and Dad had tangled their arms together so they were licking each other’s ice creams. I had no idea who took the picture, but as Donna looked at me, I stared at Dad. He only existed in photographs and dreams now.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Donna. ‘I’ve been having them too.’

  ‘You have?’

  I must’ve sounded a little bit too shocked because Donna’s voice changed to offended.

  ‘Yes, Jason. I am also a human being.’

  We laughed a little bit, then stopped. I still couldn’t believe where I was sitting. Donna put some paper back into the shoebox and closed the lid.

  ‘Ask what you want,’ she said. And my chair felt warm. Like I was sitting in a spotlight on some kind of game show where I’m supposed to know loads about something, but my brain is drawing a complete blank. Donna was talking to me. Like a regular person. I wondered if that was how it worked: when someone leaves, does their role get filled by the people who are still there?

  ‘Why did he go?’ I said.

  There was a pause. I watched Donna chew a couple of possible answers and swallow them. Then she did the best impression of Mum sighing I’ve ever seen, and said:

  ‘Because he wanted to.’

  I felt my throat getting tight, the ticking in my stomach start, and something tapping my shoulder all at the same time.

  ‘Did we do something wrong? Was it me?’

  ‘No!’ She shuffled down the bed a bit towards me. ‘People make choices, Jay.’

  I got up before she could say more. I felt like I was going to cry, and I didn’t need to hear the same script again. Donna jumped up and cut me off before I could get to her door.

  ‘Hey. Wait up.’

  She leaned down so her face was near mine. I could smell her peach shampoo.

  I looked everywhere except right at her.

  ‘Oi,’ she said, holding my shoulders. My face was doing the tingly thing it does right before I’m going to cry. I didn’t want her to see me cry. I know it sounds stupid. I wanted her to think I was strong like she was, but I could feel the tears coming.

  ‘Can I show you something?’ said Donna.

  And my surprise stopped my eyes from leaking, just in time.

  She led me to her bed and sat me down.

  ‘Some things don’t make any sense. No matter how much you want them to.’

  She picked up the shoebox and handed it to me. ‘Have a look.’

  I held it in my lap.

  ‘Open it,’ she said.

  So I did.

  It was full of little notes. Torn pieces of paper with handwritten scribbles in different-coloured pens. Quotes and doodles. I saw a badly drawn unicorn and what looked like a man bending over farting lightning.

  ‘I kept them all,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Every single idea we scribbled together from when I was little. All our stupid st
ories.’

  I touched the notes at the top. Some of them had coloured glitter sprinkled at the edges.

  I couldn’t read the words clearly, but I recognized some of the handwriting as Dad’s.

  I looked at Donna. My big sister. Strongest fifteen-year-old around. She smiled and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t understand it either.’

  Week Four

  Dear Jason,

  The São Paulo report was excellent. Please give an extra special thanks to Danny.

  My time here has been very productive.

  My next destination is New York.

  I have meetings with the publishers to discuss my progress.

  I look forward to your helpful research.

  Dad

  Do you ever feel like your body is here, but your mind is somewhere completely different? Like your mind got up, put on its comfiest shoes, opened a door at the back of your head, waved goodbye to your body and walked off towards the sunset?

  I do. I get it a lot.

  And it happened to me that Monday morning.

  School was winding down, with only two weeks before we broke up for summer and said goodbye to the building forever. Mr Bukowski didn’t even ask to see our homework, which was lucky because I’d completely forgotten all about it. I’d spent the weekend watching films with Donna and going over the notes on my ever-filling wall.

  The energy in class felt kind of lazy, and I was glad because it meant not many people asked me about Dad or anything else. At the end of the week we were due to get our final reports, but the general feeling was that nobody really cared since we wouldn’t be coming back after summer anyway.

  Dominic wasn’t talking much. He’d been quiet on the walk into school that morning too, but I was fine with it because it meant I didn’t have to listen to him moaning about our stupid Full Force rehearsals. Him being quiet was fine with me.

  People were making posters to put up around the school to advertise the show to parents and, as lessons went on around me, my body clicked into autopilot and my mind packed a lunchbox, grabbed some bus fare and said ‘See you later’.

  This is where it went . . .

  Me, riding a horse. A big horse. Only it’s not really a horse. It’s Gus. A horse-sized version of Gus. And I’m riding him, charging through the streets waving a sword like I’m some kind of medieval knight. But it’s not actually a sword. It’s a rolled-up piece of paper. A map. I’m riding a horse-sized Gus through town, waving a rolled-up map like a sword.

  Then Gus stops too quickly and I’m flipped forward, off his back, over his head. I’m spinning through the air, still holding the rolled-up map and Gus is shouting something. In a big horse-dog voice, Gus is shouting, ‘I’m sorry!’ And I’m spinning through the air and I’m shouting too. I’m upside down, shouting, ‘I’m sorry!’ And then I hit the floor. I splat on the pavement and somehow the map has rolled itself out. The map is rolled out flat on the pavement and I’m lying flat on top of it and my whole body is aching from hitting the concrete and I’m groaning, ‘I’m sorry,’ and I look up and there’s people standing all around me. A crowd circling me and the map, and I see Danny. And Dominic. And another Danny and another Dominic and everyone is either Danny or Dominic and they’re all looking down at me and pointing and shaking their heads, and I’m groaning and then I notice they’re not pointing at me, they’re pointing at the map. It’s covered in scribbles. Black circles and rushed notes. And my whole body aches and I’m surrounded and one of the Dannys says . . .

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I blinked and I was standing in the cloakroom, Danny Jones next to me.

  It was morning break.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Danny again. I rubbed my eyes, trying to get my bearings.

  OK? I wasn’t sure what I felt, but OK wasn’t it.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Bit tired.’

  Danny just stood there. Looking at my bag on the peg. He was waiting for Dad’s latest letter. As I took it out, I noticed Dominic standing over by the toilets, watching us.

  I felt the spike of guilt in my stomach as I handed over the fake letter to Danny.

  ‘New York? Sick!’ Danny’s face was full of excitement. ‘I knew he’d like the São Paulo one. Your dad is the coolest, Jay!’

  He started to walk off. Dad? Why was Dad the coolest? I was the one making this stuff up.

  ‘You coming?’ said Danny, turning back. ‘We need to get started on this.’

  He held up the letter. Dad didn’t write that, Danny, I thought to myself. I’m the cool one.

  I looked over at Dominic. His face told me that he wanted to talk.

  I didn’t have time for Full Force. I had enough on my plate with trying to juggle everything I’d made up, and being with Danny. The letters meant so much to him, I couldn’t drop the ball now, or he’d be gutted.

  ‘Come on!’ Danny was holding the hall door open for me.

  I looked at him, then back at Dom. I knew I was letting him down. It felt like my body was split in two halves, and the halves were wrestling each other. Dom smiled his crooked smile. And I wanted to smile back, but I didn’t.

  ‘Jay! The report!’ Danny was getting impatient. He was eager to be part of Dad’s cool.

  I looked at Dominic again, shrugged, then followed Danny through the door.

  Out of order, right? That’s what you’re thinking. I get it.

  How could I do that? Abandon my oldest friend?

  I could make up an excuse. I could try and make you see it how I did at the time, but the truth of it is, right then, I didn’t even feel in control of what I was doing.

  It felt like I’d got on to a roller coaster and couldn’t see how to get off.

  guilt (noun)

  A bad feeling caused by knowing or thinking that you have done something bad or wrong.

  The next morning, while Donna was upstairs in the shower, I sat with my Rice Krispies at the table, making notes about a story I’d told some Year 4s the day before, about a time I got my hand stuck in the grate at the bottom of the swimming pool and managed to hold my breath for nearly two full minutes. They had lots of questions and I knew they’d pester me for more details. As I jotted down ideas and tested myself, Mum came home from her night shift at the hospital.

  ‘Morning, sweetheart,’ she said, dropping her bag and sitting down opposite me.

  I smiled and carried on with my notes. Incredible Hulk trunks. Old lifeguard with walrus moustache.

  Mum pulled a biro out of her hair. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Did you sleep OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I lied. Truth was, I had been up until after midnight checking details and rehearsing stories besides this one. Truth was, I felt exhausted. But at this point, the truth didn’t feel like an option.

  ‘What you working on?’ Mum said, pointing at my notes.

  I folded up my paper and put my bowl on top of it. ‘Nothing. Just a thing for school. We’re writing stories.’

  I watched her face change as I said the words. Mentioning stories put Dad in the room.

  I wanted to say something to make it better, but weirdly, nothing came. I opened my mouth, but it was like something was blocking the words, so I just ate another spoonful.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Mum, looking at me with her kind super-boss nurse eyes. ‘I know it’s been hard. And I know I’ve been working lots.’

  I just sat and chewed. Mum slipped off her shoes and started rubbing her feet.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘Your dad’s a complicated man.’

  It almost felt like she was defending him.

  ‘Everybody’s complicated,’ I said, and I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice.

  Mum felt it.

  ‘That’s very true, Jay.’

  She rested her chin in her palm.

  ‘That’s it?’ I said. ‘That’s all you’re gonna say?’

  I took another spoonful and felt the ticking in my stomach, only this time it was different
somehow, more spiky. I could see Mum fighting her emotions back. She did the thing where she brushes hair behind her ear and folds her arms.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I really know. I don’t have the answers, love. I wish I did.’

  And I believed her. She really didn’t understand either. Just like Donna. Just like me.

  I nodded my kindest nod, grabbed my bowl, and the letter, and stood up. I hadn’t got any more real information about Dad. But it felt like me and Mum had shared something.

  ‘How was your cake-eating contest?’ said Mum.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frances told me the plan last week. Dom’s birthday.’

  And it felt like someone had punched me in the chest.

  Dom’s birthday.

  Today was the 10th, which meant Dominic’s birthday was yesterday. And I’d completely forgotten! I felt my legs wobble, and leaned on the back of the chair to steady myself. That’s why he was so quiet walking into school yesterday! And in class! That’s why he wanted to speak to me. Not Full Force or Dad’s mission. And I’d brushed him off like it wasn’t important. He must think I don’t care about his birthday at all!

  ‘Are you OK, love?’ said Mum.

  Every year we did something together on our birthdays. Paintballing. Treasure hunt in the woods. Cake-eating contest. And I’d forgotten. Because of everything else. Because of Dad.

  ‘Sweetheart?’

  I looked at Mum. Get yourself together, I told myself. You’re cool, remember?

  So be cool.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Think I just stood up too quickly. I better go, I’ll be late for school.’

  On my walk towards Mr Rogers’s corner shop, I tried to come up with a story for Dom. Something to explain why I could’ve possibly forgotten my oldest friend’s birthday. Something that could have happened at home. It would have to be something big. Something dramatic that would switch my guilt into his sympathy.