Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy

by Lara Williamson

  “Do you like the name Jack?” I tug on my earlobe as Dad switches channels. “Is it better than Adam?”

  “You mean like Jack Frost from the Marvel comics? I love how Jack Frost can manipulate snow and ice. And then there’s Adam Strange from DC Comics.”

  “I’m not talking about superheroes. I mean Jack is a good name for a jelly bean.” I stare at Dad, searching his eyes. Dad holds my gaze and gives me his I-don’t-have-a-clue-what-you’re-talking-about face, which isn’t all that different from his usual face.

  “Er…for a jelly bean, I’d prefer hot buttered popcorn or tutti-frutti as a name,” says Dad.

  No baby should be called Tutti-frutti. Dad has lost the plot. I shake my head and slump back on the sofa. When Dad goes into the kitchen to make tea, muttering about how he’d like a box of hot buttered popcorn right now, I text my real mother again. I beg her to meet up. It’s getting urgent now. I know it’s not big or clever to beg, but finding out the baby is going to be called Jack makes everything feel even more real. Winners don’t quit, I tell myself over and over again. And superheroes are winners. After a moment I send her a heart emoji, and when she doesn’t reply I send her a broken heart emoji.

  When Dad comes back into the room he sets down his mug of tea and says, “I know Mum’s health kick makes us all dream about sweets – Lord knows I’ve been thinking of salty chips and egg-custard tarts sprinkled with cinnamon – but if you’re desperate for a jelly bean I could sneak out to Sharkey’s and buy some. Just don’t tell Mum.”

  “I don’t want a stupid jelly bean,” I mutter. “If the jelly bean was here now I’d have to go straight away and I don’t want to. Don’t you understand how I feel?” A rocket fires up my chest.

  Dad looks confused. “Maybe we’d better not talk about jelly beans.”

  “Maybe we’d better not,” I reply.

  After school on Thursday I’m walking home and I send Rose one final text asking for anything, any tiny crumb of interest, a little speck, one little word, anything at all. There’s no reply and when I reach Sharkey’s I’ve worked myself up so much that when I see the poster in the window I go inside and tell him to take it down and rip it up.

  “Okey dokey,” says Sharkey, leaning on the counter. “Your time is up anyway unless you want to pay another fifty pence for a second week.”

  “There’s no point. She contacted me and said she didn’t live here any more.” The words feel like barbed wire in my mouth.

  Cool as a cucumber in a fridge in Iceland, Sharkey replies, “She’ll be in Switzerland, I suppose.” He arranges some Mars bars on the counter and then shuffles a few magazines, before setting them down again in a neat pile. “She’ll not want that interior design magazine she sometimes buys then. No one else in Pegasus Park will want it either, so I suppose I could cancel the order.”

  Pow! There’s a bang inside my head when I realize what Sharkey’s saying. I blink so much I think I’ve used up all my blinking for the week. I echo what I think I’ve heard – that Rose Walker is in Switzerland – and Sharkey answers in the affirmative, saying she lives there for months at a time. Then he says if she’s not in Switzerland, she’s in that big blue house on Maltman’s Hill because she also lives in Pegasus Park.

  “Mrs Sharkey would love a house like that. It’s grand,” says Sharkey, whistling through his teeth. “Rose Walker’s husband is a banker though. He doesn’t sell chocolate and quick noodles.”

  My mouth is open so wide you could fit an extra-large pizza in there and still have room for the Ganymede moon. “You know Rose Walker?” The words stutter out like tiny guinea pig droppings. “Why didn’t you tell me when we brought in the poster?”

  “You didn’t want my opinions,” says Sharkey. “Anyway, I didn’t understand the poster and I said so, because there was this drawing of…”

  But I don’t hear what Sharkey is waffling on about because I’m already out the door. It feels like I’ve got wings on my feet and they’re carrying me towards Rose – towards my real mother, a new home and a new beginning.

  This is going to be better than when Dad gave me a rare comic featuring a make-your-own Ariadne out of washing-up gloves and said I could keep it. Who cares if Rose didn’t text me back? Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was in Switzerland, like Sharkey said. But now I can go to her house and even if she’s not there at the moment I can return another day. In fact, I can keep returning until I meet her. My feet barely touch the pavement as I run towards Maltman’s Hill. I’ve passed this area before, but we don’t go there much because the houses are really posh and we don’t know anyone who lives there.

  But you do, I tell myself.

  Your real mother lives there.

  You’ll live there soon too.

  Maybe you’ll visit Switzerland like an international jet-setter.

  As I get closer, the houses get larger and the streets get wider and the roads are twice as big as the roads around the tower block. Trees line the pavements and the houses are all different and the colour of sherbet sweets – pale lemon, raspberry, pink – and there’s one big blue house in the middle and I can feel my gut bubbling like it’s got its own internal fizzing machine and I know it’s the one. It’s Rose’s house. As I walk towards it I can hear a piano tinkling through the open downstairs window. Rose might be inside after all. Expectation travels up my spine and makes me shiver slightly. Slowly I saunter past, whistling. Then I turn and walk the other way, whistling. I turn again and stroll past humming and then I turn again and begin to sing. I can do this, I tell myself. I can knock on the door and tell her who I am.

  Everything is going to be okay. The four-leaf clover worked after all. I was wrong to destroy it thinking it wouldn’t. Suddenly the piano stops and I see a curtain twitch and I run away down the alley beside the house. I pause, my heart pounding and then I laugh like a hyena being tickled with a feather. What’s the point in running away when I’ve been waiting for this moment?

  The fence at the side of the property is high but not too high for a superhero like me. I pull myself up to the top of it and peer over into the back garden.

  “It’s like blooming Buckingham Palace,” I mumble, my eyes wide. The garden is full of plants and one little rose bush with a single rose on it. It makes me smile. A rose for someone called Rose. It’s nothing like the dark smudgy drawing I did. There’s a pale grey summer house the colour of a pigeon at the bottom of the garden and the doors are wide open and I can hear the yapping of a little dog. The piano starts again and the music ribbons around me and then it suddenly stops. It takes me a few moments to pluck up the courage to go towards the front of the house again, and as I reach the end of the alley I see a black car pull out of the front drive and zoom away, small gravel stones spitting around me.

  My jaw hardens as I realize that if it was Rose inside, she’s gone now.

  All the way back to the flat I could kick myself for not going to the door sooner. But I won’t kick myself because that would hurt and anyway I can go back tomorrow. A superhero like me doesn’t give up that easily.

  I’m so excited about knowing Rose’s address that I hardly slept a wink last night. Minnie said I looked different this morning and I said it was because the world was a beautiful place, and then she said it wasn’t a beautiful place because it was full of useless men. Dad raised an eyebrow and said she wouldn’t want any pocket money from her useless dad then, and Minnie screamed that she was talking about Callum and she couldn’t do without the latest red lip gloss called Dragon. Mum told everyone she’d turn into a dragon if we didn’t stop arguing and then said she has an appointment this morning while we’re at school.

  “At the hospital?” I ask.

  Mum looks at me. “Um…yes, how did you know that?” I shrug and say appointments are usually at the hospital so I took a guess. I’m not telling Mum I saw the letter from Pegasus Park Hospital in her drawer calling her in for a scan. And I can’t say I overheard her talking to Grandma. Mum looks at Dad and
he shakes his head and Mum says it is a quick appointment and she’ll be back by the time we’re home. She smiles and hands me a white jellyfish on a plate. She puts one each in front of Velvet, Minnie and Dad too.

  “What the blazes is this?” Dad’s in shock.

  Mum says, “It’s an egg-white omelette.”

  “You’re yoking,” replies Dad.

  Ignoring the joke, Mum says she isn’t. Dad pokes his fork into the centre and it wobbles and he jerks back. He says it’s alive. Mum isn’t laughing. She stands up from the table and says she’s working her fingers to the bone making sure we all eat well. “You want to be fit and healthy on the insides, don’t you? A healthy body is important and I should know.” Mum’s eyes go misty again and as I open my mouth she looks at me and says, “Yes, yes, yes, conjunctivitis, I know. I’ll mention it to the doctor along with the million other things I’m asking.” Mum flounces towards the door, then turns and says, “And it’s not just healthy eating, everyone. You need exercise too.”

  “Extra fries, you say?” Dad asks with a grin. Mum glares at him and leaves, slamming the kitchen door.

  At school I can’t stop daydreaming about meeting my real mother. Even when Mrs Chatterjee tells us to make any last touches to our family trees for the Forest For Ever project, I’m still imagining what it’ll be like to tell her I’m Ace. Tiny Eric is putting the last leaf on his tree and his fingers are all glue and he’s peeling it off like sunburned skin. He turns to me and says he can’t believe my real mother lives on Maltman’s Hill. Only rich people live there.

  “In a massive house,” I reply. “She’s got a nice car too. It’s black and much better than the Binmobile.” Tiny Eric laughs and says the Binmobile was special. “Yeah,” I reply. “Special in that it didn’t have brakes. I can’t believe I found out where she lives, Tiny Eric.” I feel excitement and nerves bubble inside my stomach. “If you hadn’t drawn that poster it would never have happened. I’m going to go back and this time I hope she’s inside and if she is I’m going to ring the doorbell and then WHAM!”

  Everyone turns to look at me. Clearly I said, “Wham!” a little too loudly. Mrs Chatterjee says she’s glad I’m either talking about an ’80s boy band or happy about the project, but either way my tree is still looking quite bare. I put my hand up and say it won’t be bare for long, and I hold up three new tags where I’ve written that my real mother has a big house on Maltman’s Hill and she’s got a black car and she plays the piano (okay, so I’m not one hundred per cent sure it was Rose playing the piano but that’s not going to stop a superhero who wants a gold star for this project).

  “Good, I’m glad you’ve got more tags to add,” says Mrs Chatterjee. “Please tie them on your tree. The exhibition is on Tuesday, so today and Monday are your last days to finish up.” I put the tags down and pick up my glue pot as Mrs Chatterjee continues, “I hope you’ve given your family the invite.”

  Holy doughnuts! Mine is still lying in my school bag. I didn’t take it out. When I go to my real mother’s house, I must take it with me. After she’s answered the door and hugged me, I’m going to tell her about the project and she’s going to say she’d be delighted to attend. Oh, I can see it all now. It’s going to be the best moment. And I’m bound to be on the front page of the Pegasus Park Packet. I haven’t forgotten about that. I’ll be famous. I’ll tell the reporter I’m Ace and my real mother will nod. “He’s Ace,” she’ll confirm. “And I’m lucky that he lives with me now.”

  “Wake up, Adam,” says Mrs Chatterjee. “You’re spilling glue.”

  It takes ten minutes to peel it off my trousers, while Nish is busy shouting that it looks like a seagull has pooped on me and Tiny Eric says if a seagull poops on you it’s good luck and then he goes on to repeat that he knows all about luck.

  I clear my throat and lean over towards Tiny Eric and whisper, “Talking about good luck…I feel bad and we shouldn’t keep secrets so I’ve got to tell you this… I tore up the four-leaf clover drawing. I’m sorry. I got angry and I thought it wasn’t working and I got rid of it and then I had all this good luck and I feel rotten because you helped me.” I squint, waiting for Tiny Eric to get mad. Instead he says it doesn’t matter.

  “You believed,” explains Tiny Eric. “So you don’t need it any more. You’ve got enough good luck to carry you on.”

  “You could draw me another one.”

  “I haven’t got my green pencil on me.”

  “Bring it in.”

  “I’ve packed it away,” says Tiny Eric.

  I look at him and say, “How hard is it to unpack your pencil case?” Tiny Eric shrugs and it looks like it’s very hard.

  At lunchtime Tiny Eric and me are sitting in the dining hall eating our sandwiches (mine look like they’re filled with porridge, although Mum insisted it was homemade hummus) when The Beast sits down beside us. The Beast has egg sandwiches and they stink and Tiny Eric wants to move but I say we should stay. Tiny Eric gives me a look. To be honest, I’d like to talk to The Beast about superheroes, but it’s hard to know what to say because I’ve never talked to The Beast properly before. No one talks to The Beast. To start some sort of conversation, I stretch my hand across the table to show the watch. “It’s still not working,” I say.

  The Beast looks pleased, which doesn’t seem quite the right response to my watch being broken. “Oh, right,” says The Beast, sausage fingers brushing my wrist. Tiny Eric shakes his head in horror. “But it looks good,” The Beast goes on. “The strap is going to snap though, you should get it fixed. I could get my uncle to look at it for you. He could fix the strap.” The Beast takes a bite of egg sandwich and follows it with a slurp of juice.

  “Maybe,” I reply, twisting the watch this way and that. I give it a little flick with my fingernail and then I hold it up to my ear. There’s still no ticking.

  Nish appears and says Mrs Chatterjee wants someone to help her clear up the art stuff in the classroom. When I ask him why he can’t do it he says he’s got a broken arm. I look at his arm and say it doesn’t look broken, and Nish asks me if I’ve got X-ray eyes.

  “Like Superman,” says The Beast.

  I’m about to talk to The Beast about heroes when Nish looks at me directly and says, “Mrs Chatterjee asked for you.”

  Tiny Eric shrugs and The Beast takes another bite of sandwich as I get up from my chair and walk towards our Year Six classroom. Gingerly I knock on the door and Mrs Chatterjee shouts for me to come in. “You wanted me to help clear up,” I say, shuffling into the room.

  Mrs Chatterjee smiles and nods. “I’d love a bit of help.” Her chandelier earrings swing as she rises from her seat and points towards the glue pots, telling me to put on the lids and sort out the paintbrushes. “They go in the tubs,” says Mrs Chatterjee.

  After a few moments of clearing up together, Mrs Chatterjee asks me how I’m getting on now the Forest For Ever project is coming to an end. She doesn’t look at me, just carries on picking up bits of rubbish and throwing them in the bin.

  “It’s fine,” I reply, throwing brushes into the red tub. I stack paints and then try to scoop up small mountains of stray silver glitter. Mrs Chatterjee shuffles some sheets of paper and says she brought me in because she thought I might like a little chat.

  “It’s just there were a few tags on your tree that were a little confusing to me.”

  I blink. “It’s okay, miss. I understand them,” I say. “To be frank, family trees can be complicated.” If you say “to be frank” it sounds like you know exactly what you’re talking about. Dad always says it to customers about broken locks. To change the subject, I show Mrs Chatterjee my watch. “Mum gave me this – it’s a watch from my Granddad Fred. He was important in our family. Only the watch doesn’t work.”

  Mrs Chatterjee peers down at the watch, saying that it’s lovely and she’s glad the project made me think about my granddad. With a smile, she asks if I’d mind putting the scissors away in the drawer and I offer to take th
e glue pots and tubs to the stationery cupboard too. I put everything away in the right place and when I come out of the cupboard Mrs Chatterjee says I’ve been very helpful and offers me a gold star.

  I nod, wiping my glittery hands on my trousers.

  Mrs Chatterjee smiles and reaches into her drawer and at the top I can see the register and there’s a bright green Post-it note beside the name Eric Kowalski-Brown and that’s Tiny Eric. I see the date 29th and the head’s name, and there’s an address, but I don’t think it’s Kink Street. Perhaps Tiny Eric’s parents have found their new house. I hope it’s near me. Mrs Chatterjee pulls out a gold star, closes the drawer and sticks it next to my name on the board. As I’m leaving the classroom, I turn back and say, “My tree is going to be the best tree in the forest. I’m going to be proud of it.”

  Mrs Chatterjee nods and says, “That sounds perfect.”

  “I’m going to bring my mother to the exhibition,” I add. “I’m just not sure if she can come yet, but I’m going to ask her.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned it to her already?” Mrs Chatterjee looks perplexed and her eyebrows form a long quizzical slug.

  “I’m waiting until everything is perfect, and it will be.”

  As I leave the classroom I swear Mrs Chatterjee is so touched by what I’ve said that she’s dabbing her eyes with a tissue she’s picked up off the table. To be frank, I don’t have the heart to tell her that was the tissue Nish was cleaning his glue brush with.

  Superheroes don’t get scared, I tell myself as my finger presses the doorbell on the blue house in front of me. I can’t hear a piano playing this afternoon, but inside there’s a tiny yip-yip-yip from the dog. The doorbell tinkles and I know someone is in there because I see a shadow behind the frosted glass and my mouth dries up and my legs feel weak. It’s stupid, but I want to run away again, and then I tell myself that I’m being silly.