How to Be Good(ish)

by Karen McCombie

  “You’re really quite cute, aren’t you?” I smiled at him – and then caught a whiff of his blankie and nearly fainted myself.

  “His blankie really stinks!” I moaned, wondering how a small, scruffy bit of material could smell so much of boiled cabbage and sardines.

  “Yeah, he was found with that blankie when he was picked up originally, and he gets really upset if you try to take it away from him,” Mum explained. “But something that smelly doesn’t really help get a new owner interested in him.”

  The poor DIB – his comfort blankie wasn’t the only problem. If you were walking past his pen and saw him sitting motionless in the corner like I’d done when I first arrived, you’d probably mistake him for a half-filled black bin liner…

  Actually, I’d suddenly been hit – splat! – by a good idea.

  “I’m going to do a CV for him!” I told Mum excitedly. “You know, a list of all his good points! And you can pin it to the outside of his pen, so that anyone passing can read it and find out more about him!”

  “Hmm…” mumbled Mum, raising her eyebrows thoughtfully. “And what good points are you going to write about exactly?”

  Ooh, that was tough.

  None of that sounded like much of a talent. Which reminded me, that new list of talents for Miss Levy was due first thing in the morning.

  I didn’t know which list of talents was going to be harder to write: the DIB’s or mine.

  (Although at least I didn’t look like a potato, I hoped!)

  “Do you think Miss Levy was really cross with me?” I asked Soph and Fee, as we strolled around the mini-zoo in the park on Saturday morning.

  It’s horrible if you’re worried that your favourite teacher thinks you’re as annoying as a snotty cold, isn’t it?

  “Indie, you’ve asked us that seventeen trillion times,” grinned Soph, as she licked her ice cream. “She wasn’t cross, she was just a bit … sigh-y!”

  “‘Sigh-y’ isn’t a proper word!” Fee corrected her.

  “Whatever,” shrugged Soph, hopping to one side as two little kids hurtled after a pygmy goat, trying to pet it. “You know what I mean. Anyway, Miss Levy couldn’t have been too cross with you yesterday, Indie – she gave you till Monday to come up with your list of tal–-”

  Soph got stopped in mid-word by a strange noise.

  It wasn’t the OINK of a pot-bellied pig.

  It wasn’t the HOOT of a cockatoo

  It wasn’t the EE-AW of a donkey.

  It was the HOWL of my daft dog, Kenneth, who – like George – had to wait tied up by his lead at the zoo gate.

  "Meeeee-hoooow!"

  “That is the weirdest doggy howl I’ve ever heard!” giggled Soph.

  She was right. If I had to do a CV for Kenneth, it’d say…

  I was getting very good at CVs now (only not for myself, of course). The one I’d done for the DIB turned out really well, in the end. I’d written…

  “Poor Kenneth,” I said, trying not to listen to his sad mee-howling. “He doesn’t know why he can’t come in here with all the other animals!”

  “I bet there’s a queue of people out there staring at him, thinking he’s the zoo’s new special attraction,” said Fee. “A cross between a cat and a dog!”

  “A cadog!” sniggered Soph. “Or even a dogat!!”

  “Don’t be silly!” I butted in. “Kenneth’s just your plain, ordinary, standard nutter dog!”

  Poor Kenneth. If only he could understand human-speak and hear me, Soph and Fee laughing at his expense. He’d probably bite our ankles – either that, or deliberately give us his fleas.

  “Hey … talking about weird dogs,” said Fee, as we all giggled our way over to the donkeys’ paddock. “Did your special CV help that DIB dog get a new owner yet?”

  “Not yet,” I replied, shaking my head. “But Mum said most people visit the rescue centre at the weekends, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

  I wasn’t the only one keeping my fingers crossed for the DIB – Dylan had texted me to say he wouldn’t just keep his fingers crossed but his toes too, which might make walking a bit tricky…

  “Y’know, you’re so GOOD with animals, Indie – you’re just like your mum!” said Fee, resting her elbows on the fence around the paddock.

  I turned to say thanks for the compliment, but then came over all embarrassed and weedy and just said

  mmmmff!

  instead.

  “Here, little donkey! Want some ice cream?” asked Soph, holding her cone out towards the grey-brown donkey ambling towards us.

  “Don’t listen to her!” I called out, ushering the donkey towards me instead. “You’re not supposed to eat ice cream. It’s bad for you!”

  The donkey stopped, flicked its ears like it was listening to me, then clip-clopped in my direction.

  “Cool!” laughed Soph, not in the least bit offended that her offer of ice cream had been turned down. “You’d think it knew what you were saying, Indie!”

  “Hey, Indie – maybe you’re like Dr Doolittle!” said Fee excitedly. “You know. The guy in that story who can talk to animals!”

  Maybe Fee’s right! I thought to myself, as the donkey nuzzled its damp, rubbery nose into my hand.

  Maybe I could be like Dr Doolittle and talk to animals.

  Maybe that could be my talent?!

  “Say something else to it, Indie!” Soph encouraged me.

  I wanted to, but what?

  “Um, hello…” I muttered softly, practically going cheek to hairy cheek with the donkey. “Do you understand me?”

  “Wumph,” the donkey wumphed, its breath smelling of apple and hay and carrots.

  “If you can understand me, then flick your tail once for ye–-”

  I’d hardly finished saying the word “yes” when I heard either Soph or Fee give a surprised shriek.

  Wow … it must have worked! They must have seen the donkey flick its tail!

  I tried to turn my head to ask them – and…

  “Washappenin’!!” I mumbled at high speed.

  The sudden OOOOOF-y head-jerking wasn’t a nice feeling, and I didn’t really like the sound of all that munching either…

  “Naughty donkey! Let go !!” I heard Fee flapping about, though I couldn’t turn my head enough to see her.

  “Oh no!! It’s eating one of your bunches, Indie!” I heard (and saw) Soph squeal.

  “Make it stop!” I begged whichever one of my friends might make that happen.

  “Quick, Soph!” Fee said urgently. “Try to tempt it away with your ice cream!”

  I didn’t know if that was going to work, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see one of the zookeepers rushing over to help.

  I tried not to notice all the mums and dads and kids pointing and giggling at me. And I tried not to think about the fact that talking to animals was something I was very, very untalented at.

  "Meeeee-hoooow!!"

  At the sound of Kenneth’s distant miaow/howl, I wished upon wish upon wish that I was safe at home with the dogs and Mum and the baby hedgehogs, instead of here at the zoo, being a mid-morning snack for a donkey with the munchies…

  “Why does your hair look weird, Indie?” said Dylan, walking into the kitchen and plonking himself down on a stool at the other side of the breakfast bar to me.

  “Hi, Dylan!” I answered him, remembering my manners, even if my stepbrother didn’t see the point of them.

  It was Sunday and I was round at Dad’s for lunch, even though Dad was nowhere to be seen. (He was in the darkroom developing his latest wedding photos. And when Dad goes in his darkroom it’s like he’s been abducted by aliens.)

  “Uh, yeah, hi,” mumbled Dylan, giving me a vague wave hello. “So why does your hair look weird?”

  “A donkey ate it,” I told him, tugging self-consciously at the slightly shorter bunch. “Why?”

  “’Cause I was trying to talk to it. I thought talking to animals would be a good talent to have, but i
t didn’t work out.”

  “Oh,” said Dylan. “So, did the DIB get a new home yet?”

  I don’t think Dylan meant to be rude; it was just that his faster-than-average brain was skipping on to the next subject already.

  “Not yet,” I shrugged. “But Mum said a lot of people mentioned the notice, so that’s good. Maybe someone will–-”

  “Hey, you could do a poster, Indie!” Dylan butted in again. “You could do a poster with a picture on and everything. And you could put it up somewhere where lots of people would see it!”

  “Where? Like on a tree, you mean? Sort of like a ‘Lost Cat’ poster?”

  Dylan shook his head at me.

  “Not enough people would see it on a tree. Is there a noticeboard at your school?”

  “Yes … there is!” I nodded, getting a rush of excitement at Dylan’s dead-good idea.

  Which faded away in a second when I thought of a problem.

  “But how do you do a proper poster with a photo and everything?”

  “If you wrote the words, then I could design it on my computer!” Dylan offered. “And I could use that photo you sent me on your mobile!”

  I’d forgotten that Dylan was a nine-year-old whizz-kid on the computer. It wouldn’t surprise me if he designed a best-selling computer game by the time he was my age and became a multi-trillion-aire by the time he was twelve…

  And so me and Dylan worked on his dead-good idea all Sunday afternoon, and first thing on Monday, I stuck the finished poster up on the noticeboard at school.

  “I’m glad you had fun doing that project with your step-brother over the weekend, Indie, but I wish you’d taken time to do that assignment I gave you!” said Miss Levy, once I got to class and tried to give her my lame excuses.

  “I’ll do it for tomorrow – promise!” I said, feeling my cheeks turn pink.

  Miss Levy might have been a bit sigh-y again about me not doing my list, but I was still glad I’d done the poster with Dylan.

  For the next hour – while we were supposed to be concentrating on Viking history – I couldn’t help daydreaming about the poster and hoping someone at school would see it and give the DIB a home, since no one had offered him one over the weekend.

  And the poster was ACE; I’d worked really hard getting the words just right, and then Dylan had got this symbol of a hand pointing and placed it next to the photo I’d taken of the DIB – that looked pretty cute and funny. And then he’d picked all this really interesting lettering that makes you want to go right up and read what it says.

  Briiiiinnnnnnnngggggg…!!

  “Aaaachooo! OK, everyone – you can go,” said Miss Levy, waving us all off to break with her soggy tissue.

  (She was too busy sniffling and sneezing all of a sudden to notice that most of us were practically halfway out of the room and down the corridor already.)

  “I don’t think I like the Vikings,” muttered Fee, as we strolled together. “All they do is fight and wear silly pointy hats!”

  “I know! Why can’t we do the history of boy bands instead?” suggested Soph.

  “Or the history of crisps?” I chipped in.

  We’d just decided that the history of crisps would be totally excellent (as long as we could eat lots of different types for homework) when we all spotted a scrum around the noticeboard.

  “Your poster, Indie!” said Soph excitedly. “That must be what everyone’s looking at!”

  My tummy did a quick flip – was my ad for the DIB going to work? Actually, maybe doing ads (with Dylan’s help) was something I was talented at! Maybe when I was older, I could get a job at Cadbury’s and make brillant TV ads for Chocolate Buttons and stuff…

  “What’s up with that lot?” Fee frowned, when a ripple of laughter suddenly wafted our way.

  I started speeding up – like Soph and Fee – towards the crowd of sniggerers staring at my poster.

  “What’s going on here?” we heard Miss Levy say loudly, in a slightly croaky voice, as she click-clacked along the corridor.

  As if by magic, everyone trickled away at high speed, giving me, Soph, Fee and Miss Levy a clear view of the noticeboard.

  Please don’t let this have happened (except – duh! – it has).

  “Oh, dear. I’ll have to report this to the headteacher!” Miss Levy tut-tutted, staring at my poster.

  Me, Soph and Fee didn’t say anything – we were all too totally stunned.

  “Are you all right, Indie?” Miss Levy turned and asked me, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

  I wished she wouldn’t do that, ’cause I thought I might just blub, I was so upset…

  “Never mind. It was a good idea to put a poster up,” said Miss Levy, patting my shoulder again. “I think everyone in the school should be using this noticeboard more often – it normally only has the fire regulations pinned to it. But maybe I’ll suggest to the headteacher that there should be a glass front on it, so no one can vandalize anything like they’ve done here!”

  Any other time, it would be pretty nice to get a compliment from Miss Levy, but I didn’t feel too chuffed right then.

  Not when I was staring at a photo of the DIB with a moustache, specs and devil horns drawn on in felt pen…

  “I thought you said magic was boring?” said Dylan, rummaging through the box of tricks I’d brought round to Dad’s to practise.

  “Yeah, but I’m getting desperate to find a talent, so I thought I’d give it a go,” I shrugged, watching Dylan hold a plastic tube to his eye and stare at me through it.

  I’d bought the magic set yesterday after school to cheer myself up, after what happened to the DIB’s poster. I guess I’d kind of half-hoped there’d be a spell in there to punish vandals. But it was just full of stuff called ‘Mystery Tubes’ and ‘The Disappearing Ring’ and ‘ Phantas-magorical Fingers ’.

  “Are you any good at it yet?” asked Dylan.

  “Haven’t tried any of it out. When I got home yesterday, Mum said her boss at the rescue centre had asked me to make up more CV thingies for some of the other hard-to-home animals, so I did that last night instead.”

  And – oops – forgot to do my list for Miss Levy again. But luckily (for me, not Miss Levy), she was off with a bad cold today.

  “Which animals?” asked Dylan, looping a short piece of rope around his fingers.

  “The parrot that says rude stuff. And an iguana whose scales have fallen off.”

  “What did you write for the swearing parrot?” asked Dylan, picking up the instruction sheet.

  “Don’t!” I told him, taking the instructions and the rope out of his hands. “It’s supposed to be my talent, OK?”

  Dylan just shrugged, and didn’t get annoyed at that. He probably realized – same as I did – that he could do every single trick in the box better than me, if he put his mind to it.

  “So what did you write for the parrot, though?” Dylan persisted.

  “I said that he was very chatty, but that he’s unsuitable for very little kids,” I explained, folding the instruction sheet up neatly and making a total, scrunched-up mess of it.

  “A sort of PG-rated parrot, then?” said Dad, wandering into the kitchen, where we were sitting, and catching the end of our conversation.

  “Sort of.” I smiled at Dad, thinking that he was looking a bit down in the dumps today.

  “So … magic tricks, eh?” said Dad, trying hard to smile back at me. “I could do with seeing a few magic tricks to cheer me up!”

  “Photos,” Dylan mouthed at me, and nodded his head towards the latest copy of the local newspaper.

  Straight away I guessed what was wrong; yet another bride and groom hadn’t liked the weirdy, bug’s-eye-view snaps that poor old Dad had taken of their big day, and told him so…

  “OK, Dad!” I said, nodding. “I’ll do some magic tricks for you!”

  “Fantastic!” said Dad. “Well, let’s see them now – Fiona says tea’s not going to be ready for a while yet!”

 
That’s the feeling I suddenly got inside, knowing I had to perform, even though I hadn’t had a chance to practise yet. (Gulp.)

  Two minutes later, after a quick read of the instructions, I asked Dad, Fiona and Dylan to sit on the sofa – and to promise not to laugh if I messed up.

  “This first trick is called ‘Mystery Tubes’” I said out loud, then felt myself blushing when they all clapped.

  Uh-oh … the mystery of the ‘Mystery Tubes’ was how the stupid trick worked.

  There were two plastic see-through tubes that you put inside each other, and you were meant to poke a silk hankie through them and make one disappear.

  Only I didn’t have a silk hankie. So I was using a bit of kitchen roll instead, and suddenly, as I tried to shove the kitchen roll through, I ended up

  Only a lot of tugging (and no magic) set me free.

  “Yay!” shouted Fiona a bit too loudly, as she clapped her hands at my lousy attempt at a trick. (Or maybe she was just clapping Dylan for yanking the tubes off for me.)

  “This one … um … should be better,” I told my audience of three. “It’s called ‘The Disappearing Ring’.”

  OK, the trick with this was that you put a silver ring in a box and made it vanish by turning the box over so the ring was hidden under a false bottom.

  All set, I turned the box over, said

  “Shazam!!!”

  and then opened the box a bit too hard, breaking the plastic hinges. The lid, false bottom and ring all tumbled onto the living-room floor.

  “Nice try!” Fiona called out. (She is SUCH a good liar.)

  “Er … this one’s called ‘Phantasmagori-cal Fingers’,” I mumbled, too embarrassed to look at Dylan or Dad, I was making such a mess of things.