Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy

by Lara Williamson

  “In your nipples?” To say I’m surprised is an understatement.

  A snort escapes from Dad and he shakes his head vigorously. I bet his brain is wobbling like a blancmange in there. “No, don’t be silly. I imagine you’d feel it in your heart. It’s a hard concept to explain.” So much for Dad knowing everything there is to know about superheroes. He doesn’t even know what he means. “Anyway,” continues Dad, “there are lots of superheroes living right here in Pegasus Park.”

  I give my best goldfish impersonation. After a few further seconds’ consideration, I realize that what Dad’s just said is a load of rubbish, because I haven’t seen a single person in a cape or wearing their pants over their trousers in Pegasus Park. Dad is no help. I’m just going to have to sort this out all on my own. Because if I don’t Mum might not smile again. And I don’t want to think about that.

  Dad was zero help last night and the lucky four-leaf clover drawing that Tiny Eric gave me is as much use as a chocolate kettle. I’ve brought it out of my blazer pocket lots of times and stared at it for ages. It has brought me nothing except sore eyeballs. As for Tiny Eric’s drawing of me as a superhero which is actually just a boring picture of normal me, that’s under the bed where it belongs, with a load of other rubbish. I looked at it earlier and it made me fume all over again. How is that supposed to inspire me into being my most excellent self? On closer inspection, I noticed Tiny Eric had roughly scrawled something in titchy letters below the picture, but it looked like the work of a broken-handed gibbon using a pen for the first time.

  “You’re not bringing me enough luck. I thought everything would be brilliant by now,” I scold the clover. Gazing goggle-eyed at the drawing, I add, “Make me an instant superhero and I’ll forgive you.” I set down the drawing and run over to the mirror and stare at myself. Nope, it’s still just me, wearing my Pegasus Park Junior uniform. Clearly I was pushing my luck. There’s no special glow, and no gamma ray has turned me into a radioactive superhero. I’m still an ordinary school kid living an ordinary life in an ordinary flat in an ordinary town. And Mum’s still fed up. “Fail,” I retort, picking up the drawing again. My fingers trace each heart. “I wanted to be extraordinary. And I don’t mean just extra ordinary. Come on. Make me excellent. Give me a sign that you’re working and not broken.”

  Nothing happens. There’s no lightning bolt from the heavens. I shove the four-leaf clover drawing back in my blazer pocket, close my bedroom door and make my way to the kitchen. Everyone’s there when I plonk myself down for breakfast. Mum says we’re starting a new healthy-eating regime because she thinks it’ll make us all fit as fiddles, although I’ve no idea what she’s on about. Her cheeks colour and she glances at Dad as she puts a bowl in front of me. Then she pats me on the bobble hat and says she’s offering a menu of porridge this morning. Minnie is staring at her bowl in disgust and says we’re not in a Victorian orphanage so why are we eating gruel? Mum says it’s important for us all to keep our insides healthy. She’s very firm about it and she rubs her temples and her eyes look misty. Meanwhile, Velvet’s putting her bowl on the floor and telling Sausage Roll to eat it, and Dad’s looking at his and asking for sugar, by the bucketload. Mum says sugar is the enemy and Dad asks what about fat then? Mum says fat is also the enemy. Dad looks hopeful when he asks about bacon. Mum shakes her head.

  “Okay, bacon is the enemy,” sighs Dad. “Especially if you’re a pig. Eggs? Fried bread? What about a teeny-tiny hash brown hidden under some fried tomatoes? What about beans? They’re not an enemy, unless you’re full of wind afterwards and stuck in a lift with your work colleagues. Surely they’ve got to be one of your five-a-day?”

  “Spaghetti hoops aren’t the enemy, are they, Mum?” Spaghetti hoops are my favourite.

  “What about chocolate?” says Velvet.

  “Shush, everyone,” warns Mum. She turns to Dad. “You already know why this is important, Clark.” There’s a flicker of fire in Mum’s eyes and Dad reels back and picks up his spoon. “Now everyone eat your porridge and not another word,” adds Mum.

  To be honest, no one could say another word anyway, because our teeth are glued together with porridge. If Mrs Chatterjee ever runs out of glue for the classroom, Mum could just mix her up a big pot.

  When the bowls are cleared up, Mum tells everyone to stop, and everyone freezes like we’ve been playing musical statues all this time and we didn’t know. Minnie is mid-rolling her eyes. I swear one is going one way and the other a different direction. Dad has a finger jammed in his ear. Velvet has one jammed in her nose. Mum says she has an announcement. My heart leaps up into my throat, along with what’s left of the porridge.

  I blink.

  “Apparently, it’s someone’s birthday coming up.” Mum winks, manages a smile for the first time in ages, and then lowers her eyes until her lashes tickle her cheeks. “To be honest, I didn’t know about this birthday until recently.”

  Everyone else looks at each other. I’m totally confused. Is this the big surprise I heard Mum and Dad talking about? My birthday is in November so it’s not mine. Dad’s birthday is in December so he’s saying it’s not him, and Minnie’s is in April and she’s saying it’s not hers, adding that she’s a ram with a fiery personality. Then she tries to say that she should date a Leo as they’re a good match, and Dad says she should date a saint, because that’s the only person who could put up with the fiery personality.

  “I knew there was a surprise. I just knew it!” I exclaim. There’s a loose thread on my school jumper and I give it a tiny tug. It unravels in my fingers and then I end up trying to hide half a ball of wool under my arm, which isn’t easy.

  “You did!” shouts Velvet, hugging me. She lets out a little whoop of excitement that confuses me. Then she starts barking, which confuses me even more. “Sausage Roll says thank you for remembering his birthday. Mum says we’re having a party later,” explains Velvet.

  Oh.

  “You can come and bring presents,” Velvet says, her eyes glistening with joy.

  Minnie’s eyes do a three-sixty and Mum glares at her. “Oh, did I just roll my eyes out loud?” says Minnie innocently. Then she adds, “I’m not sure about presents but I’m happy to bring my presence.” Anyone would think the Queen was coming.

  Dad looks at Mum. “Since when did we start having birthday parties for a dog? It’s the first I knew about it.” He shakes his head.

  “A birthday party for an invisible dog,” I’m muttering to myself as I walk past Sharkey’s corner shop on my way to school. Why in the name of holy doughnuts are we doing that? And Dad didn’t know anything about it, so that can’t be the surprise Mum and Dad were talking about.

  As we left, Mum assured us it was important to Velvet and there would be cake – lots of gooey home-baked cake. Dad was drooling so much that he left a snail trail of saliva all the way along the hall floor. I’m wondering whether it’ll be a chocolate cake when the four-leaf clover drawing suddenly delivers a sign, just like I asked. Right in front of my eyes I see a ginger cat and it’s up a tree. Now, you can’t tell me that a cat trapped up a tree isn’t a job for a would-be superhero to investigate.

  There’s a skip in my step and my school rucksack no longer feels like I’m carrying the weight of a wildebeest in it. In fact, I’m so light and cheery I could nearly float up the tree like a helium balloon to save the ginger cat that is eyeing me suspiciously. “Hey, kitty, kitty,” I whisper, looking up into the branches. “I’m here to save you. I’m a superhero. No, you don’t have to thank me.” The cat narrows its eyes to slits and hisses. “Okay, like I said – no thanks necessary.”

  I begin climbing and it’s obvious within thirty seconds that I’m nothing like Spider-Man. He could be up a skyscraper in no time and I can’t even climb a small tree without huffing and puffing more than a man in a fancy-dress sumo suit running to catch a bus. When I eventually reach the right branch, the cat swipes at my hands. Who knew a cat could have a paw full of sharpened razors cu
nningly disguised as claws? There’s a sharp sting across my knuckles and I’m about to shout something rude at the cat when I hear whooping and whistling below. When I look down I see a group of kids from Minnie’s school, Blessed Trinity, looking up at me, and a few are saying the cat doesn’t look like it needs saving.

  “Looks can be deceiving.” I wince, thinking I’ll never be able to use my hand again.

  “Why are you bothering?” shouts someone else. When I don’t answer, they shout, “Cat got your tongue?” There’s a ripple of laughter. Honestly, everyone’s a comedian these days. My feet slide on the bark but I haul my body higher, because time waits for no schoolboy when the morning bell is imminent. The cat couldn’t look less in peril if it tried though, because it’s lifted its hind leg and appears to be casually licking its bottom as if it hasn’t a care in the world.

  “Come on, four-leaf clover, you gave me this sign. Now I need you to help me follow it through. We can do this.”

  “OMG,” a voice shouts. I’d recognize that whiny, complaining tone anywhere. It’s Minnie. When I glance down, she’s draped over this boy and she looks at him and then at me. After that her lips are so tightly pursed you couldn’t slip a penny between them. “Ignore him, Callum,” she eventually says to the boy. “We’ve got rehearsals first thing.” Only the boy is gawping up at me, saying he wants to see if I save the cat. Apparently I’m better viewing than TV, much to Minnie’s horror. I hear her ask, “What about that decorating programme where you actually watch paint dry? He’s not more interesting than that, I can promise you.”

  At this point I imagine clutching the cat in my hands and shimmying down the tree to set it on the pavement. Maybe I’ll give a little wave to the waiting audience. Perhaps some of them will have filmed the rescue on their phones and they’ll ask me who I am and I’ll say, “Watch out world! I’m a superhero, just call me Ace.” Of course, they’ll agree and maybe the cat will snuggle up to me and purr happily.

  But as I’m daydreaming I lose my grip on the branch.

  There’s an “Ooww” from the crowd.

  There’s an “Ahhh” from the crowd.

  There’s an “Ooof…ooof…ooof…ooof” from me as I hit the branches.

  There’s a splat as I hit the ground.

  There’s an “Ouch” from the crowd.

  Then there’s a soft flump on my belly.

  Minnie trots over to me and says at least I provided a soft landing for the cat. I don’t know what’s worse – the pain in my coccyx or the humiliation of seeing the cat sitting on my stomach with a smug look between its whiskers. To be fair, it does purr happily, but only after it starts sharpening its claws on my school jumper.

  The boy with Minnie asks her what kind of moron tries to help a cat and then falls himself. Minnie looks at him and says, “I have no idea. Oh, Callum,” she whispers, “imagine the poor, beautiful girl who can act, sing and dance having a nut like him for a brother. I pity her, despite her being gorgeous and singing like an angel.” She pulls a face at me and wraps herself around the boy like a boa constrictor before dragging him away.

  I limp towards school, fearing that I’ve broken my bum and may never sit down again without the aid of Velvet’s inflatable rubber ring. I tip my head towards my pocket where I’ve got the four-leaf clover drawing and hiss, “Thanks for the sign, but next time can you try not to kill me in the process? I expect better from you.”

  Next thing I know The Beast pushes past me, snorting with laughter. “Hello hello, pocket. Come in, pocket. Are you receiving me?”

  Ground swallow me up.

  Mrs Chatterjee has set up a table at the back of the class with lots of cardboard boxes and she’s telling us we can start making our family trees today. “Not only are we having an exhibition of the trees, but I felt it would be a nice touch if I gave a prize for the best tree too.”

  There’s a big whoop.

  “It’s a certificate,” says Mrs Chatterjee.

  The whoop gets smaller.

  “And there are sweets too.”

  The whoop gets bigger.

  “A big bag of liquorice.”

  The whoop gets smaller.

  “Okay, there’s another prize.”

  The whoop gets bigger.

  “A visit to the head’s office.”

  The whoop gets smaller.

  “For anyone who complains.”

  The whoop gets bigger.

  “Great, thank you for that. So I take it from your whooping that you’re all really excited about the project.” Mrs Chatterjee claps her hands so loudly it’s like she has ripped a hole in the galaxy, then she tells us we can go and collect some materials from the table. Everyone speeds towards the back of the room except Tiny Eric, who is drawing a picture in his notebook of a church with a tall spire and there’s a house beside it with lots of windows.

  “That’s amazing,” I say, passing Tiny Eric’s desk. “Where is it?”

  “It’s just a house,” says Tiny Eric, covering the drawing with his hand – but not before I’ve noticed something else. When I looked at the upstairs window of the house in the drawing, I swear Tiny Eric had drawn himself there, staring out with what looked like one tiny perfect teardrop on his cheek. I walk towards the table to collect some cardboard, thinking that something is wrong with Tiny Eric. Only I don’t know what it is.

  Later that afternoon as we leave school, I offer Tiny Eric the four-leaf clover drawing back. When he asks me why, I say, “You look like you need some good luck and I’ve already had a bit of luck today.” Tiny Eric looks up to the sky and blinks rapidly before looking back at me. “Honestly, have it back. I don’t mind,” I squeak. “It’s yours, Tiny Eric. I can manage without it.”

  “Thanks. But it doesn’t work like that. I can’t take back the luck I gave you. That would sort of cancel it out and be unlucky.” Tiny Eric sighs before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, the drawing was for a person like you.” Tiny Eric emphasizes the word “you” like I’m an alien from another planet.

  “A person like me?” I think for a second. My breath catches in my throat and my stomach feels like I’ve downed a sachet of popping candy. “What do you mean, a person like me?” I ask as we trudge through the playground and then out the school gates.

  “A person who needs to believe and who needs a bit of magic in their life,” says Tiny Eric, as if he’s some kind of mystical guru. Pulling a face, I tell Tiny Eric I don’t believe in magic. “Shame,” says Tiny Eric, shaking his head. He stops suddenly, his eyes serious. “All it takes is for you to believe. Then, one day, when you least expect it, magic is everywhere and suddenly the world is as bright as the sun. And you realize you’re happy.”

  “You’re just like Yoda,” I reply as Tiny Eric takes his turning at the end of Agamemnon Road. Clever, but kind of hard to understand, I think to myself as I wave goodbye.

  I swing by Surelock Homes on the way home from school. When the bell tinkles, Dad looks up and smiles. He’s wearing a T-shirt I bought him for Christmas that says: Be yourself unless you can be a Zorbitan. Then always be a Zorbitan. And I can just see his clock tattoo poking out from under the sleeve. Dad asks what he’s done to get a visit from his son.

  “I dunno,” I reply, my fingers running along the rows of keys on hooks. Each one dances and sways as though moving to an invisible orchestra. “I just wanted to drop by.”

  “Don’t we need to get home soon for the party?” Dad laughs and puts a key he’s cut on the counter in a clear plastic bag, along with a green raffle ticket number 368. “I’m going to shut up shop early because I’m working late tomorrow night. Plus there’s cake and now Mum’s talking about us eating healthily I need to stock up on as much food as I can get before I waste away.” Dad jiggles his two bellies.

  Slouching against the counter, I muse, “Do you think Mum’s really into this health thing then?” Dad switches off his equipment and goes out the back and grabs his coat. As he pulls it on he nods and says she
’s got a point. “But why now? What’s the big deal?” I wait for Dad to answer but he doesn’t.

  Instead, he ushers me towards the door and turns the sign to CLOSED. When I repeat myself, Dad stops and looks at me. “Because she’s…” From where I’m standing I can see Dad’s Adam’s apple bob up and down like it’s on a super-springy trampoline. It’s as if the words are on the tip of his tongue but his lips are keeping them prisoner.

  “She’s what?” I stare at Dad.

  “She’s making sure we all keep well,” says Dad and he looks away as if he’s thinking about something else. “There’s nothing strange about that.” He glances back at me and then locks the door of Surelock Homes and tells me we’ve got to get to that cake before someone else eats it all.

  There’s a banner stuck on the front door of our flat. It says HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY in bright rainbow letters on foil and it gently flutters in the afternoon breeze. As we enter the hallway, Mum shouts, “We’re all in the party zone.” I think she means the kitchen. Dad zooms in, shouting that he’s ready for cake, and then he stops and his head droops. “Carrot sticks and cucumber slices at a party?” Something just died in Dad’s eyes.

  Mum turns from the kitchen counter with a cake in her hands. She says there are only three candles because she doesn’t know how old Sausage Roll is, but whatever age he is she’s not multiplying it by seven to get dog years. She doesn’t want to set the flat on fire. And apparently the banner on the door was one they had left over from Dad’s birthday.

  After we all sing “Happy Birthday” to Sausage Roll, Velvet blows out the candles and says Sausage Roll would do it but he’s too busy.

  “Licking his bum,” says Minnie. She laughs until Mum says we don’t want that kind of dirty talk at the table, and then Minnie says, “Muck, drains, cesspits,” and asks if that kind of dirty talk is better. By rights I should be laughing because it was quite funny, but I’m not, because instead I’m thinking of my last birthday and how I sat at the end of the table and Mum made a rainbow cake that had five different colours of sponge. There were eleven candles on it and I blew them all out and I was happy, but for a split second I thought about who I was and where I’d come from and I felt as if a tiny bit of me was missing and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find it.