“Do they go to your school?”
“No. And they’re older than Wills. They look about sixteen.”
Mom shot upstairs before I had a chance to stop her, which meant that I was most likely in for a battering from Wills when he next got me on my own. I went up to my own room, closed the door, and threw myself on the bed. I picked up the book I had been reading, but put it down again because I couldn’t concentrate. Then I pulled the flyer from my backpack and studied it.
The National Tell-Us-A-Story Competition. First Prize in each age group: a dictionary, a thesaurus, 20 books of your choice, and publication of your story in a national magazine. Second Prize: a dictionary, a thesaurus, and 10 books of your choice. PLUS 20 runner-up prizes of a dictionary and a thesaurus.
Not exactly mind-boggling prizes, I thought to myself, even though I enjoy reading. I mean, money or a vacation would make you feel it was worth all the effort of writing 1,000 words, which was what they wanted. I liked the idea of having my story published, but I was never going to win first prize—NO WAY JOSE! Who was I kidding? I was never going to win any of the prizes, not in a million, zillion years. I didn’t know why I was even bothering to read the stupid flyer. I balled it up and threw it across the room.
Mom poked her head around the door and said that dinner was ready. Wills was still in his room, still maintaining that he wasn’t well and saying that he wasn’t going to eat, which proved that he wasn’t well. He had told Mom that when I had seen him with his two friends, he was telling them that he wouldn’t be able to meet up with them in town after school because he was feeling ill and was going home to bed. Mom didn’t say she didn’t believe him, but I know she didn’t and I know she was worried. When I went to watch the television, she took the telephone into the kitchen and I heard her talking. I think it was to Dad.
I went up to bed early to read, but I saw the balled-up flyer on the floor and the thought of entering the competition got into my head. What would I write about if I did decide to enter? I wondered. I didn’t have the slightest idea. At school you were given a subject and that’s what you had to write about, whether it inspired you or not. But if you can write about anything—ANYTHING—how do you choose? I mean, there are so many things you could write about, how do you narrow it down to just one? How do you decide what the best subject is for you—one that won’t be boring, or lead you up a dead end, or make you feel at every turn that all you’re doing is writing about something that everybody in the whole wide world has already written about? Everything I thought about sounded boring, like MY BEST VACATION, or MUFFIN THE MOUSE (that would have been all right except I couldn’t think of anything much he could do—you can’t write a whole story about a mouse doing wheelies!). I tried to think of something more imaginative. THE GIANT POSTMAN sounded more fun, but apart from scaring people and stealing their letters, I didn’t know what else he could do. Anyway, I had this vague feeling that I had seen a book with that title in the library. That’s the trouble. Everything’s been done before.
And then I had a BRILLIANT idea. I would write about Wills! Or someone like Wills. Nobody could possibly have written about someone like Wills before. It would be about what it’s like to live with a psycho. Nobody could possibly know what that’s like unless they live with a psycho themselves. I could make it really funny because I could exaggerate the sort of things he does, like the pickled onion football—not that that needs any exaggerating.
Suddenly, I was excited about entering the competition. Even if I didn’t win, it would be good to write down how I felt about Wills. I found some paper and a pencil and wrote the title: MY BROTHER. Just putting down those two words gave me a sense of achievement. MY BROTHER by Chris Jennings.
The bedroom door swung open and Wills’s face appeared. I quickly sat on the piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” asked Wills.
“Writing,” I said.
“Writing what?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Snot.”
“Snot yourself. I thought you were supposed to be ill?”
“I was, but I’m feeling a bit better now. Thanks for telling on me to Mom. She didn’t believe me because of you.” Wills sounded genuinely hurt.
“She didn’t believe you anyway,” I said back.
“She might have if you hadn’t stuck your big nose in,” he sulked.
“Mom’s not stupid,” I said. “You’re stupid thinking you can blow off school and get away with it.”
“School’s boring”, said Wills, “and the kids in my class are all donkeys.”
“It won’t just be you who gets into trouble if you don’t go. Mom and Dad will as well,” I snapped at him.
“It’s all right for you, goody goody. You’re not in a class where everyone’s a year younger than you,” Wills snapped back. “It makes me feel like I’m a dope.”
“Playing hooky won’t change that,” I said. “You’ll get even further behind.”
“Why don’t you want me to see what you’ve been writing?”
The change of subject was so sudden I couldn’t think what on earth Wills was talking about. Then I felt my face change color.
Wills began to snigger. “You’re not writing love letters, are you? Go on, show us.”
“No, I’m not,” I protested hotly.
“What’s so secret, then?” he grinned.
“Mind your own business,” I snapped again. “You don’t tell me what you’re up to in your bedroom.”
“Nothing to tell,” said Wills innocently. “It’s just me and my fossils.”
“I wish you’d turn into a fossil,” I said lamely.
Mom called us down for a mug of hot chocolate. I had to watch Wills being butter-wouldn’t-melt with her, like he is when he knows he’s in the wrong and wants to be forgiven. Mom resisted for a while, but eventually Wills got around her and made her sit next to him on the couch to watch television. I said I was tired and that I was going to bed early. Wills nudged Mom and said, “I think Chris is writing lovey-dovey letters.”
Mom told him to stop talking nonsense, but Wills gave me a big wink as I went out of the door.
MY BROTHER by Chris Jennings.
I stared hard at the piece of paper, as if just by doing that I could make the words of my story appear. I chewed the end of my pencil and doodled all around the edges of the page. Then the opening came to me with a rush.
There’s a hurricane smashing through our house. There’s a hurricane smashing, trashing, bashing through our house. CRASH! BANG! WALLOP!
I read it over and over again. It was a great opening, I was convinced of it. CRASH! BANG! WALLOP!
Chapter Twelve
Wills bought Mom an enormous box of chocolates the next day, and said that he was sorry for upsetting her, and that he would never ever miss school again, and that he was going to try really, really hard to concentrate on his work so that she would be proud of him, and that he had spent all the pocket money he had saved up to buy her the biggest box of chocolates he could find to show her how sorry he was. Mom gave him a hug, but told him that he didn’t need to spend all his money on chocolates for her, and that she would be just as happy if he buckled down and stuck to the routines they had agreed on to help him with his work.
I made up my mind to search Wills’s bedroom. I know it was a real spoilsport thing to do when he was promising to be good, but I had to know if he still had the knife, because I didn’t want him to have it. If I found it I was going to throw it away. I was going to take it as far from our house as possible to get rid of it forever, and if Wills screamed and shouted at me when he found out, then he would just have to scream and shout, because I wouldn’t tell him what I had done with it. NO WAY JOSE.
I had to wait two more days for the house to be empty to grab my chance. Wills had gone off with his friends after school, and Mom wasn’t due back from work for another hour. I ran home as fast as I could, crashing through our gate just as our neigh
bor was coming out of her front door.
“You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” she said. “What mischief have you been up to, then?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Hobbs,” I puffed. “Just desperate for a—”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” she chuckled.
“—bag of chips,” I finished, before dashing into the house.
I couldn’t go straight upstairs. My heart was pounding so hard that I sat down on the bottom step and tried to calm myself. I felt like a robber. I felt as though this was someone else’s house and I had broken in. I was terrified of being caught. Why? I asked myself. If Wills came home and found me, well so what? I would just scold him for being so stupid. And if Mom came home and found me in Wills’s room, then I would tell her why I was there.
It was now or never. I tiptoed up the stairs and stopped outside his door with its ENTER-AND-YOU-DIE notice hanging from the handle. I tapped on the door, just in case, waited a few seconds, then opened it.
I’d seen through the door often enough to know what to expect inside. The room was like a landfill, despite Mom’s efforts to keep some sort of order. The only tidy part was where Wills kept his fossils, on a bookshelf, all neatly laid out and labeled. There was the ammonite he’d shown me, in a place of pride on the top shelf. I was surprised at how many he’d got. I picked up a shark’s tooth, big and white and smooth, and imagined a whole row of them biting into someone’s leg—CRUNCH! YEEOOOW! I could see why you would want to collect a shark’s tooth, but I couldn’t see why you would want to collect some of the other minerals and gems and fossils that Wills had. Some of them weren’t even pretty, just boring bits of rock like you find in the yard or on the beach. Shells would be better, I thought.
I wondered where to start looking for the knife in all the mess that was strewn around. I stepped over several days’ worth of used boxer shorts and socks, and smirked at the thought of Wills doing his usual yell of, “Mo-om, I haven’t got any boxers,” in the next day or so. I went to his chest of drawers and quickly opened one drawer after the other, picking up the clothes, checking underneath, then dropping them back again. Nothing. I poked around in the wardrobe. Nothing. I climbed on his chair and felt on top of the wardrobe. Dust. Years’ worth. I crawled under the bed. More stinky socks, a half-eaten, rock-hard currant bun, 92 million chocolate-bar wrappers, a used wad of chewing gum stuck to the carpet, a magazine, and a polystyrene carton containing a few dried-up fries and a charred edge of ketchup-spattered burger. Lovely.
I began to think that perhaps I was wrong, and the annoying thing was that if I didn’t find the knife I still wouldn’t know for sure that it wasn’t there. I was running out of time. Where else could I look before I gave up? Where else might he have hidden it so that Mom was unlikely to find it? And then I remembered where they hid their loot in gangster-type films I had seen, and police programs where they advise little old ladies not to keep their savings: UNDER THE MATTRESS. It would be just like Wills to hide the knife there, gangster-style (not little-old-lady-style!). I pulled the bedding away from the side, plunged my arms under the mattress as far as they would go and moved them around. Nothing. I did the same at the end of the bed. Nothing. No, something. My right hand hit something papery. I grabbed hold of it and dragged it out. It was a crimpled brown envelope, fat and sealed. I turned it over and over in my hands, felt its weight and the shape of what was inside.
It felt like money. Lots of it. What else could it have been, shaped like that (unless Wills had been collecting Monopoly money!)? What else would he have to hide under his mattress so that nobody would find it, he hoped? It couldn’t just have been pocket money he had saved up. Anyway, he always spent his pocket money as soon as he got it.
The front door slammed. Wills. I bundled the envelope back under the mattress, straightened the comforter, dashed out of his room and into my own, threw myself onto the bed, and picked up a book. I could hear Wills raiding the fridge. I tried to get my breathing under control. After a few moments there was a loud burp followed by Wills’s great feet galloping up the stairs. I took a deep breath.
Through my half-open door I watched him go into his room, throw his schoolbag down, then bend to lift up his mattress. As he did, he must have sensed that he was being watched, because he dropped the mattress and turned. I snatched the book up in front of my face. Wills blew a raspberry and kicked his door shut. He came out again soon afterward and pushed my door wide open.
“You been in my room?” he asked.
My heart did an impression of a big bass drum.
“Not likely. I might catch something,” I muttered from behind my book. “Why?”
“Someone’s moved my shark’s tooth,” he said accusingly.
“Probably Mom trying to clean,” I suggested.
“I told her not to touch my fossils,” Wills complained.
Mom’s voice sailed up through the house. “Hello, boys, I’m back,” she called.”Anyone want a cup of tea?”
Wills charged downstairs and yelled at her for touching his things. I could hear Mom calmly telling him that she hadn’t been near his fossils and that he had probably moved his shark’s tooth himself. Wills was adamant that he knew exactly where he had last put it and that it had definitely, definitely, DEFINITELY been moved by someone else, and that if she hadn’t moved it then it must have been me and that I was a liar. Mom told him not to say that and that he was getting himself into a state about nothing.
“It’s not nothing,” shouted Wills. “It’s not nothing when a little twerp goes into your room and messes with your things.”
I could tell from Mom’s voice that she was struggling to stay calm. I decided to go and face the wrath of Wills.
“It wasn’t Mom,” I said. “It was me. I didn’t mean any harm, I just wanted to see how many fossils you’ve got now, and I thought the shark’s tooth was really cool.”
I thought Wills would go berserk at me. I’m sure he was going to, but then he said, “That shark’s tooth is 20 million years old. That’s even older than Dad.”
“Funny,” said Mom, looking relieved.
“You can get even older ones,” Wills continued. “The oldest shark fossil ever found is 409 million years old.”
“That’s even older than Grandpa,” I chuckled, hoping that if we could all have a laugh together Wills would forget to be mad.
“Nobody’s older than Grandpa,” hooted Wills. “He’s got more wrinkles than the world’s wrinkliest tortoise.”
“Poor Grandpa,” said Mom. “That’s from years spent working outside in the sun and the wind.”
“Dad won’t get like that, then,” sniggered Wills. “His skin should stay as smooth as a baby’s bottom from being in an office all the time and from being fat, so the wrinkles all get stretched out.”
“He’s not fat,” retorted Mom. “He’s nicely rounded.”
“You’re only saying that cuz you still like him and you want him to come back,” said Wills. “But I won’t let him come back because he shouldn’t have gone in the first place, and that will be his punishment.”
“Shut up, Wills,” I jumped in.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up,” he fired back. “And don’t you dare go in my room again or I’ll break your scrawny neck.”
“Wills, stop it,” pleaded Mom.
“It’s his own fault,” said Wills. “He started it. He should say sorry for messing with my things.”
“I’m sorry,” I groaned.
“So you should be,” said Wills. “What’s for dinner, Mom? I’m starving.”
Mom closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. She opened the fridge.
“Fishcakes,” she said. “Now out of the kitchen and go and do your homework.”
“Later,” said Wills. “Come on, Chris, I’ll beat you at that Grand Prix game.”
“Wills,” Mom said loudly. “Homework, now. Remember your promise.”
“All right, Momsy-Womsy, no need to get snappy wappy.”
He went up to his room and came back down with his school books, which he spread all over the kitchen table. I disappeared up to my room. It wasn’t long before I heard the television go on, and Mom’s despairing voice urging Wills to come back and do his work.
I pulled my story out from under my bed and read what I had written so far. I was itching to write some more, but I didn’t want Wills barging in again and making rude comments, and anyway I had homework to do as well. I was about to put it away when the next bit flashed into my mind. I grabbed a pencil and scribbled it down quickly.
A hurricane can cause total devastation. It can flatten everything in its path. Can you even begin to imagine that? Now imagine living with one. I bet you can’t.
A loud shout from Wills made me stuff it back under the bed. I pulled my homework from my backpack and tried to concentrate on fractions instead, but I started to think again about the envelope under Wills’s bed. What was in it? Was it really money? Was he checking to see if it was still there when he caught me watching, or was he about to put something else there? And what about the knife? Was that there somewhere, and was there a link between the two? I wondered whether I dared go back and have another look.
When I told Jack about the envelope the next day, he said I should have opened it up the minute I found it.
“Holy cow, Chris,” he exclaimed. “Do you really think it was money?”
“It felt like it,” I said.
“How much money?” he wanted to know.
“How do I know? Fifty dollars. One hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred dollars! As much as that!”
“Maybe. Maybe less, maybe more. I don’t know what two hundred dollars feels like. And it might not have been money at all.”
“Why didn’t you look?” Jack persisted. “I would’ve.”
“Because Wills came home, and anyway I wasn’t sure I wanted to know,” I said.
“It would’ve been better than not knowing,” Jack argued. “All you can do now is to keep going around and around in circles in your head, because you don’t know.”
Hurricane Wills Page 8
