My Life and Other Failed Experiments

by Tristan Bancks

‘Can you split the profits with us?’ the boy asks.

  ‘Well, the thing is, there won’t be many profits. See, if the price of a book is a pie, I get one slice of pie and the publisher and bookseller and other people who help make the book, they get nine slices.’

  ‘What kind of pie?’ a kid yells out.

  ‘Are you rich or poor?’

  ‘Well, neither really.’

  ‘My dad wrote a book of dad jokes, but he only sold nine copies,’ says the redhead.

  ‘Are you famous?’ a girl asks.

  ‘Not really, no. Only to people who read my books and –’

  ‘Is the guinea pig in your story dead?’ a year two girl calls out.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘NO more calling out!’ Skroop shouts from the side of the hall. ‘Listen to our very special guest, but no silly questions. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mis-ter Skroop,’ we all chant.

  The year two girl who asked about the dead guinea pig starts to cry, and the kids next to her put their arms around her. A wave of chatter washes over the room.

  ‘What could we name our guinea pig in the story?’ the author asks, trying to redirect attention.

  Kids are wriggling now.

  ‘Pickles!’ someone calls out.

  ‘Murgatroyd,’ says another kid.

  ‘Jeff!’

  A year three girl, Emily Pearce, puts up her hand.

  ‘Yes!’ the author asks.

  ‘Have you ever seen an emoo?’

  ‘An emoo?’ the author asks.

  ‘She means an emu,’ the girl next to her says. ‘She’s American. That’s the way she says it.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I have seen an emoo – I mean an emu. But … we’re talking about a guinea pig. Now, what happens to our guinea pig named Murgatroyd?’

  Jonah Flem, an annoying kid in my year, has his hand up. The author ignores him.

  ‘Who has an idea?’ he repeats, scanning the audience.

  ‘Jonah does,’ Brent Bunder says with an idiotic grin, pointing at his friend.

  The author takes a breath and waves his hand at Jonah. ‘Yes. What’s your idea?’

  ‘We should call the guinea pig Mister Sparkles, and he’s made of fireworks, and every time he farts fireworks shoot out of his you-know-what, and then a unicorn comes down from Unicorn Land and eats his brain.’

  The author forces a smile. ‘Thank you, Jonah. Very creative,’ he says. ‘Any other ideas?’ I notice that he doesn’t put Jonah’s genius suggestion up on the board. ‘Okay, look, this isn’t working. Why don’t we move on and I’ll read you a chapter from one of my books?’

  One of the kindy kids puts her hand up and waves it around like crazy.

  ‘Let me see,’ says the author, paging through his book, trying to ignore her. ‘Chapter four …’

  The girl’s arm is going to come off if she waves it any harder.

  ‘Yes, what?’ the author snaps.

  ‘She just pulled out my tooth.’ She points at the grinning girl next to her.

  ‘Really?’ he asks, looking at the tiny nub in Grinning Girl’s hand and the blood trickling down the girl’s arm. He looks up at Mr Skroop. ‘I think she actually did pull her tooth out.’

  Mr Skroop tiptoes through the audience, saying, ‘Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.’ He grabs the girl who lost the tooth under the armpits, lifts her up, grabs the amateur dentist’s arm and leads them out of the hall through the side door. As soon as Skroop leaves, thirty kids’ hands shoot up. Their teachers try to get them to settle, but the kids can’t be stopped.

  ‘Does your hand get sore when you’re writing a book?’ a kid yells out.

  ‘Do you have a wife?’

  ‘Do your books stink?’

  ‘Do you dream in colour?’

  ‘Mister, you have something in your nose.’

  The author wipes his nose.

  ‘Other side,’ the girl calls out.

  The author looks embarrassed and kind of picks his nose.

  Kids start to giggle.

  ‘You got it,’ the girl says.

  He seems to flick something onto the floor.

  ‘Right …’ the author says. ‘Now, chapter four, “The Worst Day of My Life” …’ He clears his throat to begin reading.

  ‘Actually, half of it’s still in there,’ the girl says before a teacher leans over and plucks her out of the audience.

  ‘No, let me go! It’s not my fault he had a nostril nugget. Stop!’

  The whole audience falls apart laughing. It’s chaos.

  ‘Oh, will you all BE QUIET!’ the author screams.

  His words echo off the walls of the hall.

  The room drops to silence.

  Everyone stares at the not-so-jolly-anymore author with the silver beard.

  He’s looking down at the floor, sweating, rattled.

  Jack smiles.

  I kick him.

  I feel really bad for Gary Cleese. He’s usually tucked away in his little office in his ‘Reading is Fun’ pyjamas writing a book, and now he’s out in the world being forced to speak to humans, and we’re wrecking everything for him. The whole audience squirms. I hate seeing people feel embarrassed. I want to help him. I have an idea how I can save the day. My hand shoots up.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What?’ he snips, looking up.

  Kids in the audience turn to me.

  ‘I really like your books.’

  He stares at me for a moment. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They’re … amazing.’

  His shoulders seem to relax ever so slightly.

  ‘Which one have you read?’ he asks.

  My mind rattles through his talk so far. He hasn’t mentioned any book titles, and I can’t quite make out the titles on the books out front, so I say the obvious thing: ‘All of them!’

  He looks pleased. The deep creases between his brows start to smooth. A smile curls the edge of his mouth. ‘That’s … brilliant. Thank you. I appreciate it.’ He turns to the audience. ‘I’m very sorry, everyone, for losing my patience. I … don’t get out much.’

  Skroop is at the side of the hall again with the dentist and patient sitting on chairs next to him. He nods approvingly at me for saving the day. I might get a bronze award for this. I am a great humanitarian.

  ‘Which was your favourite?’ the author asks.

  My head snaps back to the front. He’s talking to me. He wants a specific book title. Why would he ask for that? I saved the day. He could just read his chapter and move on, but he has to ruin it by asking me which book, of all the ones I haven’t read, I like best. Everyone’s watching me. I have to come up with something. I’ll look like a liar if I don’t.

  ‘They’re all so good. Remind me, what’s your most recent book?’ I ask.

  ‘The Shadow Scrolls,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, that one. It’s great’.

  ‘It doesn’t come out till next week. How did you manage to get hold of a copy?’ he asks.

  I glance at Jack. He’s grinning, watching me drown. He knows that I haven’t read any of this guy’s books. Now I’m sweating. How did this happen? I was just trying to be nice –now I have 399 kids, 14 teachers and an angry author staring at me.

  Jack can’t believe what a liar I am.

  Kids all around the hall mutter and giggle.

  Skroop’s nod has turned into a glare.

  The author isn’t smiling anymore.

  ‘You haven’t read any of my books,’ he says, crestfallen. ‘Have you?’

  I shrink in my chair.

  He turns and starts to pack up his books. ‘NONE of you have! I swear this is the last time I visit a school.’ He grabs his tatty leather bag and throws the books into it. ‘I should start writing books for adults. I don’t even like children! You’re a bunch of greedy little snotty-nosed, question-asking, tooth-pulling liars. Do you hear me?’

  Silence.

  Mr Skroop dashes back onstage. ‘Ah, thank you very much for
your time. One of our students would just like to say a few words of gratitude.’

  Desperate, Skroop looks into the crowd and points at me. ‘Tom Weekly.’

  Why would he do that? I just offended the guy, lied to him, and I’m hopeless at public speaking. But I’m scared of Skroop, so I stand and walk to the stage. Skroop lowers the mic for me.

  I clear my throat and try to lick my lips but my mouth is as dry as the Sahara.

  ‘Sorry about before,’ I whisper to the author. He looks away, a sneer on his face.

  I lean into the microphone. ‘Um … thank you for coming to our school and … telling us so many interesting things about your books.’

  I realise that he hasn’t actually told us anything about his books. Except one.

  ‘I especially liked the bit about the guinea pig,’ I say nervously. ‘Would everyone please, um, put your hands together for … Mister Barry Cheese!’

  Nan pulls on her black balaclava – a woollen mask with eyeholes.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ she says.

  She has it on backwards. I help her twist it around.

  ‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘Thanks, love.’

  She looks like a proper robber. Until she puts her spectacles on over the top.

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’ I whisper.

  ‘You bet your bottom dollar I do.’

  We’re standing in a garden bed, pressed up against the brick wall at the back of the nursing home. It’s 8.37 pm on a cold, clear night. The window above us is open about 30 centimetres. It’s quite a climb to get up there, but we can smell what we came for – a fruitcake. Steam rises from it and curls out the window.

  ‘Put your foot in here,’ Nan says, knitting her knobbly fingers together to give me a boost.

  ‘We really shouldn’t be doing this,’ I tell her.

  ‘Why not? You’re not scared, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s just … wrong.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ she says. ‘That’s the problem with kids these days. Bunch of do-gooders. Always trying to be nice. Well, you don’t make it to the top of the fruitcake world by being nice.’

  ‘Why don’t you just win fair and square?’ I ask. ‘Your cake’ll be the best anyway – you’re the reigning champ!’

  ‘Can’t risk it,’ Nan says. ‘She’s threatened to take away my crown. I won’t be beaten by that monstrous woman.’

  ‘She’s my best mate’s grandmother.’

  ‘She’s a beast!’ Nan hisses.

  My nan and Jack’s nan had actually been getting along pretty well for once, until Sue entered the competition. Now Nan’s been banging on for weeks about how evil Sue is. I’m sick of it. I really don’t want to lose my best mate over a fruitcake.

  I sigh and peel off my balaclava. ‘I’m sorry, Nan. You’ll have to find someone else to do your dirty work.’

  She grabs me by the front of my shirt. ‘Don’t you go anywhere.’ She’s so close I can smell her milky-tea breath. Twinings English Breakfast, if I’m not mistaken. Two sugars.

  ‘Nan, I –’

  ‘Do you want to know the real reason we’re stealing the cake?’ she asks.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Please, Nan.’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ she says, looking down into the garden, poking a white flower with the toe of her shoe.

  ‘Shouldn’t what?’

  ‘You’re young and I want you to think that the world is a good and happy place full of fairies and unicorns and nice people.’

  ‘Nan, tell me.’

  She takes a deep breath, looks around to check no one’s coming, then whispers, ‘Sue Danalis has baked razorblades into her cake.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘That’s why she entered the competition. She hates Beryl Andrews, one of the judges. Beryl ran off with Sue’s ex-husband, so Sue’s out for revenge.’

  ‘Really?’ I look her in the eye.

  ‘Girl Guides’ honour,’ she says, holding up three fingers on her right hand. Nan never says ‘Girl Guides’ honour’ unless she’s telling the truth. And this definitely sounds like something Jack’s nan would do. She once tried to beat my nan up in a back-alley brawl. She almost ran her over in a hot-pink granny cart with monster truck wheels. And, once, I nearly suffocated when Sue farted in my face while she was doing the Downward Dog position in yoga. And, believe me, it was no accident – it was an assassination attempt.

  I look up. The edge of the cake plate hangs out from the lip of the window.

  I’m stuck. It’s wrong to steal. But it’s worse to kill. Sue Danalis has turned a fruitcake into a deadly weapon. Is it okay to steal if it stops someone from killing?

  ‘Help me up,’ I say, pulling my balaclava over my face again.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ she says.

  Nan knits her hands together. I plant my Converse in the stirrup and push up, half-expecting Nan’s hands to break apart, but she’s a tough old bird. Those fingers have been working out in the knitting gym since 1963. Her knuckles are glued together. I press myself against the rough brick and reach up until my fingers brush the bottom of the plate.

  ‘Bit higher,’ I whisper.

  She groans and strains, and I push up on my tippy-toes. Just as I reach for the edge of the plate … it disappears. The window slams shut with a bang. Nan’s hands come apart and I fall, landing on top of her, squishing her into the garden bed.

  Nan groans.

  ‘Sorry, Nan.’

  ‘Get off me, you big galoot,’ she croaks. ‘Have you got the cake?’

  ‘It’s gone,’ I say.

  Sue Danalis revs the engine on her hot-pink motorised granny cart with monster truck wheels. Nan and I are standing at the doorway to the Scout hall where the fruitcakes are about to be judged, and Sue is driving up the wheelchair ramp. She brakes hard and squeals to a stop.

  ‘Hello, Nancy,’ she rasps, looking down at us. ‘Ready to get knocked off your fruitcake throne?’

  ‘Not likely, fatso,’ Nan snaps back.

  I nudge Nan. Jack’s grandmother is the largest human I’ve seen outside of the Guinness World Records, but it’s still mean.

  ‘I’m going to show the people of this town what a real fruitcake tastes like,’ Sue threatens. ‘And teach my enemies a little lesson.’

  ‘You –’

  Nan is interrupted by an announcement over the speakers: ‘Judging of the fruitcake competition is about to commence. Please make your way to the main hall for the annual Kings Bay Show Fruitcake Bake-Off, the highlight of today’s program.’

  Sue revs her engine again. ‘I’ll see you from the top of the winner’s podium, you old bag.’ She lets out the brake and roars off through the large double doors.

  ‘They’d need a crane to get you up there! ’Nan shouts. She screws her program into a ball and throws it at Sue’s back, hitting her in the large sweaty patch. Sue doesn’t turn around.

  Inside, Nan and I take our reserved seats in the front row.

  ‘Last year’s winner always gets the royal treatment,’ Nan says.

  The hall is an old timber building with Scout flags on the walls and a stage at the front end. It’s packed with about 200 people –a sea of silver hair with a few shiny bald heads bobbing around.

  ‘What should we do?’ I ask Nan.

  ‘Sit tight,’ she says, chewing on her thumbnail.

  ‘We can’t just sit tight. If there are raz–’

  ‘Attention please, everybody,’ says a lady onstage in a frail voice. She’s wearing spectacles and a big sticker name tag that says ‘Beryl’. ‘Thank you for coming to the judging. I’m sure it’ll be an event that we’ll all remember for a very long time.’

  I twist in my seat to see Sue parked atthe back of the hall, a shifty look in her eye. Although, Sue always has a shifty look in her eye, so it’s difficult to tell if this is shiftier
than usual.

  Beryl explains the judging criteria: aroma, moistness and flavour. ‘And, now for the judges’ tasting!’ she announces to wild applause. ‘Afterwards, there’ll be tea and samples of each cake for you to try and select the People’s Choice winner.’

  Another burst of applause.

  Seven fruitcakes are lined up on a long trestle table covered in a pink floral plastic tablecloth. Nan’s is first, on the far left. Beryl cuts the cake and passes a small slice on a plate down to each of the other three judges.

  The crowd falls silent.

  Nan watches, mouth open, eyes flitting from one judge to the next.

  They chew carefully, jotting notes on their pads. They gather and mutter to one another.

  The crowd mutters, too.

  The judges mutter some more.

  The tension in the room is unbearable with all this muttering. Beryl stands, her chair scraping the floor, calling for silence.

  ‘The judges have decided … that Nancy Weekly’s cake … is …’

  Nan’s brows are narrowed.

  ‘… a nine out of ten!’ Beryl announces.

  There’s a big round of applause. I put my arm around Nan. I’m so proud of her. She laughs, raises her hand to say thank you and turns to look over her shoulder at Sue. Nan gives her a beat that! kind of a look.

  Beryl passes the microphone down the line and the judges use words like, ‘Delectable’, ‘Scrumptious’ and ‘A revelation!’ to describe Nan’s cake.

  ‘Now, a first-time entrant in the fruitcake competition – although, she did come ninth in the pickled onions category in 2011.’ A wicked smile slithers across Beryl’s lips. ‘Sue Danalis!’

  One person claps up the back. It’s Sue. The sound echoes around the hall. I think her fan club has yet to sign its first member.

  ‘That’s enough now, thank you, Sue,’ Beryl warns, and she begins cutting the cake.

  ‘You have to say something,’ I whisper to Nan.

  ‘No. Let her rot in jail.’

  ‘But if –’

  ‘Give her 25 years, for all I care.’

  ‘You can’t just –’

  ‘I never really liked Beryl Andrews much anyway,’ she says. ‘She’s a sticky-beak. And she once accused me of using imported sultanas.’