Flickers of light, sparklers, cartwheels … the whole works.
As I watched the mini fireworks show slow to a stop, I realised I’d had my fingers crossed so tight they’d gone white.
But suddenly it seemed that the squirrel-stress had been worthwhile.
Cos there in Jackson’s arms was a normal, guinea-pig-sized guinea pig.
And in the hutches and pens, average-looking, non-floaty furries were sneeting and squeaking.
I can’t pretend to know what rodents are chatting about, but I bet right now it was something to do with the heaps of jelly babies piled up in all their food bowls.
‘Er … what’s with the jelly babies?’ I asked Thing.
‘They nice food,’ it purred nervously. ‘Make hammies and giggly pigs and germbles healthy and stroing. Yes, please, Rubby?’
I didn’t answer, cos right at that second, Delilah gave an extra-loud ‘sneet!’
‘What did she say?’ I asked Thing.
‘She say sorry,’ it purred, blinking up at me with don’t-be-cross eyes.
‘Sorry for what?’ I asked, frowning.
‘Urghhh …’ groaned Jackson, holding Delilah away from him and studying the warm, damp patch that had leaked on to his cool T-shirt.
‘Ah, here you are,’ came a familiar, lovely voice at the door.
‘Mum!’ I called out, sweeping Thing into Jackson’s backpack. ‘Is it still mayhem out there?’
‘Yes – but the runaway sheep have been caught by a teenage tiger, cow and meerkat, so it’s settling down. Hey, isn’t it nice and quiet in here?’
‘Fnurghhhhh!’
Poor Mum.
She must’ve thought me and Jackson had gone loop-de-loop crazy crackers.
And we kept laughing all the way home in the car …
Boo!
There – that got your attention again.
Just thought you might have wandered off to get a drink or a snack or something, thinking my story was over.
But it isn’t quite.
Yes, it’s been fun to tell you about Jackson being pooed, furballed and weed on.
But the fun doesn’t stop there, oh no.
‘Can you believe it?’ said Jackson the other day, as we mooched at our straggle of trees.
‘What – that you have a brain?’ I suggested. ‘Well, it is quite hard to believe, I guess.’
‘No!’ Jackson answered with a frown. ‘Can you believe that Frodo’s owners have named their baby after me?’
‘I know,’ I said, more seriously. ‘But personally, I think it’s kind of cruel to call a kid “Donut” …’
I got a handful of leaves in the face for that (no surprise).
Jackson grabbed them from the pile that had unexpectedly – OK, magically – fallen off the tree the week before.
Frodo was snuffling round the pile, pretending he was a tip-top sniffer dog, instead of a perfectly dopey pup.
‘Ha ha!’ Jackson said sarcastically in my direction.
But my baboon of a buddy really was hugely chuffed that Valerie and Paul Thomson had decided to call their brand-new baby boy Jackson after him, because they liked the name so much.
Or maybe it was because it was just cos he’d offered to look after Frodo for a few days, till they got themselves ‘sorted out’.
(Don’t know what ‘sorting out’ is needed when you have a baby, but in Frodo’s owner’s case I thought it might mean getting a muzzle for Posy.)
‘BOO!’ yelped Thing, bursting out of the leaf mound and frightening the life out of Frodo.
CLAMP! went Jackson’s hand over the dog’s mouth, before he began barking the place down again.
‘Ha! I do funny thing to barker, Rubby!’ Thing announced as it rustled over to my lap.
‘Well, I’m just glad you two are friends now,’ I replied with a smile. ‘That’s a really happy ending.’
‘What is happy endinging, Rubby?’ Thing asked, gazing moonily up at me.
I could’ve told the truth, of course. But I was suddenly in the mood for a lie.
‘It’s this!’
I grabbed Thing – and blew a giant raspberry on its tummy, making it giggle and giggle like a sneezy kitten.
So, did you like my story, and its tickly happy ending(ing)?
Maybe you’d like to hear another.
I’m sure there’ll be one right along soon.
Beware of the Snowblobs!
‘Peh!’
That little noise was made by my very small friend.
My very small furry friend.
No, it’s not a pet. Not exactly.
And it’s not a person, though it does talk.
My very small friend is … well, a thing, called Thing.
Thing used to live deep, deep in the dark, dark woods behind my cottage. But there are no dark, dark woods to live deep, deep in any more. Not since a big, ugly new housing estate was built in its place.
When that happened, Thing scuttled to the safety of the straggle of trees just behind my garden. And that’s where me and my neighbour (and friend and idiot) Jackson found it.
Thing’s been our fuzzy, talking, magical secret ever since.
‘Peh!’
Thing makes that little noise whenever it’s fed up. I guess ‘peh!’ is Thing-speak for ‘sigh’.
Jackson hadn’t noticed the peh-ing because he was too busy tossing jelly babies in the air and catching them in his mouth.
Hurray! One missed, hit him in the eye and bounced on to the hard, scrubby ground.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘No, not really. Ouch,’ said Jackson, covering his injured eye with his hand.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ I replied, with my gaze turned on Thing.
The three of us were hunkered down by the tree roots, with my garden wall and Jackson’s tall fence sheltering us from our parents’ view.
Jackson’s mum and dad and mine; they think we have a den. They think it’s cute that me and Jackson spend lots of time here after school and at the weekends.
They might be just a teeny bit completely shocked if they knew we were not alone.
And just a weeny bit totally alarmed to know we were best buddies with a weird, winged, talking creature.
‘Not OK, Rubby,’ mumbled Thing, in its funny, purry voice.
‘Ruby,’ I gently corrected it.
Which was a waste of time, since Thing never gets my name right. And it can’t even remember Jackson’s name.
‘What’s bothering you?’ I carried on.
I wondered if Thing was fed up because I’d just told it that soon we wouldn’t be able to come and visit after school, as it was getting dark really early cos of winter.
But nope; it wasn’t that.
‘This mess very wrong,’ it said, pointing to a nearby knobbly tree root. Or at least something that was growing on it.
‘You mean moss?’ I checked, leaning over to peer at the bright-green fuzz.
‘Yes, please.’ Thing nodded.
‘What’s wrong with it? Wrong colour? Do you fancy some purple moss? Or red? Tartan, maybe?!?’ Jackson joked uselessly.
Thing looked up at him with its huge moon eyes and then turned to me.
‘What Boy is saying, Rubby?’ it asked.
‘Ignore him,’ I told Thing. ‘Now what exactly is the problem?’
Thing rocked a little from side to side, rubbing its paws together.
‘When time for cold is coming, I make nice, cosy, crunchy beddy,’ it explained.
Er, I didn’t exactly understand its explanation. Still, like Jackson, I turned to look at the mound of assorted twiglets and ferns that hid Jackson’s once-upon-a-time-favourite toy.
The toy was an old Scooby Doo Mystery Machine van, which had turned out to be the perfect home for a homeless Thing.
Here’s a very short list of stuff that Thing kept inside the van:
(Told you it was a short list.)
But, yes, winter was definitely on the w
ay. The sky was packed full of fat grey clouds, the wind was sharp and whippy, and the end of Jackson’s nose was red and slightly dripping (yuck).
So I could see that Thing might want to make its nest a little more snuggly.
‘How do you make a cosy, crunchy bed, then?’ I asked.
‘With right mess, not wrong mess,’ said Thing, wrinkling its wee nose. ‘This mess too softie.’
I touched the green fuzz growing on the knobbly tree root – it really was soft. What kind of crunchy moss had grown in the deep, deep woods where Thing used to live? I wondered.
‘Hey, look!’ Jackson suddenly blurted out, pointing up at the branches above us.
At first, I thought he’d spotted a patch of Extremely Rare Crunchy Moss growing higher up in the trees.
Then I saw the wonderful twirls of white spiralling down …
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed, smiling at the sight of snowflakes big as cornflakes.
‘Brilliant!’ yelped Jackson. ‘My cousins and my nan are coming this weekend. Me and Matt and Luke are going to have the fun with snowballs!’
‘Snowblobs, snowblobs, snowblobs …’ muttered Thing, practising this new word.
‘And we can go sledging too!’ said Jackson
‘What is sludging, please?’ Thing asked, its squirrelly ears and flightless, stubby wings twitching with interest.
‘Something you absolutely HAVE to do, Thing!’
‘It’s something Thing’s NEVER going to do, Jackson,’ I burst in. ‘You know it’s not safe to take it out where people might see it!’
‘Sludging is good?’ Thing asked Jackson eagerly, ignoring me and my sensible words as much as Jackson was.
‘It is SO good!’ said Jackson, holding his jelly-baby packet out so Thing could help itself. ‘A sledge is this flat chunk of plastic that you sit on and then you down a hill very fast!’
‘Oooh!’ purred Thing, entranced.
I knew Thing hadn’t a clue what plastic was.
Or a hill, for that matter.
What I did know was Jackson + Thing + snow equalled trouble for sure …
‘It’s going to be great, isn’t it?’
I wasn’t talking about the snow.
Though it was great.
Since the flakes began fluttering yesterday, the world had got itself whiter and whiter.
In fact, the playground at school today had a perfect padding of whiteness – till breaktime, when everyone tore outside and went nuts stamping all over it, scooping up snowballs or shaping snowmen.
Or snowdogs, if you were Jackson.
‘Isn’t it going to be great?’ I said again, as I drew my name in the snow with the toe of my wellie.
‘Mmm,’ mumbled Jackson, concentrating on his snowdog.
It was supposed to look like Frodo, our neighbours’ bouncy spaniel, which we sometimes take for a walk. If I was a mean person (I’m not) I’d have pointed out that it looked more like a lumpy snowpig.
‘I can’t wait, can you?’ I tried once more.
‘Mmm,’ Jackson grunted.
When Thing says ‘peh!’, it means ‘sigh’, right?
Well, when Jackson says ‘mmm’, I know it means ‘I’m only pretending to listen to you, Ruby.’
Grrr …
‘So, how about that alien standing right behind you, saying he’s going to eat your brain?’ I asked, as a test.
‘Mmm.’
Of course no alien would want to eat Jackson’s brain (it would probably give them a tummy upset, or even just terrible wind).
But I had proved that my donut of a friend wasn’t paying attention to me at all.
‘Jackson!’ I said loudly, crouching down beside him and his snowpig. ‘Don’t you think it’s great that we’re having an art day tomorrow?’
This morning, Miss Wilson our teacher told us about the different types of celebrations people hold in winter, like Christmas (for Christians) and Diwali (for Hindus) and Hannukah (for Jews). From tomorrow, we’d get a chance to make all sorts of celebration decorations. It was going to be brilliant fun.
‘Huh? What art day?’ grunted Jackson, his blond eyebrows bumping together in a frown.
‘Uh, hello?’ I said, crouching down beside him and waving a hand in front of his face. ‘Weren’t you listening to anything Miss Wilson was saying in class?’
‘Nope,’ said Jackson. ‘I was thinking about my cousins coming tomorrow night. Luke and Matt are so cool. Did I tell you about the time Matt ate cat food for a bet? And that Luke can burp any song you ask him to?’
Yes, Jackson had told me that already.
He’d also told me that Luke was the same age as us and Matt was three years older.
And I knew that Matt broke his arm last summer when he skateboarded into a post box and that Luke nearly drowned when he dive-bombed into a river dressed as Spider-Man, aged three.
Jackson might be a donut, but his cousins sounded like they were dangerous donuts.
‘I can’t wait to have a snowball fight with Lukey and Mattster!’
I shuddered at what Jackson just said.
His cousins’ nicknames weren’t the problem.
And neither was the snow.
I mean, I love snow.
I love snowmen.
But I hate snowballs.
That’s why I was glad Jackson had decided to make his snowpig over near the dinner hut, which was pretty far from where most of today’s playground snowball battles were happening.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jackson, suddenly noticing my shudder.
‘When I was in Year 1,’ I began, ‘Shaun Robertson hit me on the back of the head with a really icy, hard snowball.’
‘Ouch,’ said Jackson.
‘Exactly!’ I nodded. ‘I sat all through afternoon lessons feeling dizzy. And the snowball was wedged in my ponytail, so it melted really, really slowly down my back and …’
It was bad enough when Jackson was ‘mmm’ing at me.
But now he did something much worse.
In the middle of what I was saying, he bolted upright, completely ignoring me!
‘Hey, that’s ru—’
I didn’t get to the ‘de’ part.
I was too busy watching Jackson jump in slooooowwwww motionnnnnn and he expertly caught a speeding snowball in mid-air.
If Jackson hadn’t leaped to my rescue, it would’ve clonked me right in the face.
‘Thanks, Jackson,’ I said, all stunned and grateful. ‘You’re my hero!’
Jackson blushed pink to the roots of his blond hair.
‘S’all right,’ he mumbled shyly.
‘And aww, look! Catching that made you squash your snowpi— I mean, snowdog!’
I pointed at the stomped-on mound of snow under his wellies.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Jackson, shrugging off his good deed and squished snow sculpture.
I do moan about Jackson.
Especially when he acts like a big baboon and suggests dumb stuff like smuggling Thing into the outside world.
But y’know, when he tries, he can be a really, truly, excellent best friend.
‘Hey, Ruby,’ he said now, tossing the snowball up and down in his hand.
‘Uh-huh?’ I smiled.
‘I was thinking – can we take Thing sledging? My dad’s got this big, floppy hat with flaps that I could wear, and if Thing maybe lies flat on my head and peeks out under the front …’
As Jackson wiggled the fingers of one hand near his forehead, I stared down at the other, which was still holding the snowball.
Now, if I slipped my hand underneath …
Just one quick flick upwards …
It was so tempting.
I shouldn’t do it.
Will I?
Won’t I?
SPLAT!
‘Hey, what was that for?’ Jackson spluttered through a mouthful of snow.
‘Because you should know why we can’t take Thing sledging!’ I said. ‘And if you don’t, then your squish
ed snowpig is smarter than you, Jackson Miller!’
‘Yeah? Well, at least I can spell my name, Ruby Morgan!’
I turned to look where snow-faced Jackson was pointing, and saw the letters I’d absentmindedly scraped with the toe of my wellie.
They spelt ‘RUBBY’.
‘I meant to do that,’ I lied, then stepped over the squished snowpig and stomped off in a huff.
SPLAT!
I think that have been a handful of snowpig landing in the middle of my back.
But maybe, just this once, I deserved it…
Whatever Dad was cooking for tea smelled good.
And more importantly, it smelled nearly ready.
Uh-oh – I’d have to be
‘Where are you going, Ruby?’ asked Dad, as I flipped up my hood and headed for the back door.
‘Um … just down to the trees,’ I replied, hoping he wouldn’t ask what the bulge in my skirt pocket was.
‘But it’s dark out there,’ he said, peering out of the kitchen window.
True. While Mum and me had been at the shops after school, the sun had tipped right off the edge of the sky.
‘It’s OK, I have this!’ I said, smiling brightly and waving the pumpkin-shaped torch I got for trick or treating at Halloween. ‘I just want to see how pretty the garden looks in the snow!’
Dad rolled his eyes, but gave a ‘whatever’ shrug. ‘You’ve got five minutes, Ruby. All right?’
‘All right!’ I answered, pulling the back door closed behind me.
SCHLUMF! SCHLUMF! SCHLUMF!
(That’s the sound of running through deep snow in your wellies.)
SWOOSH! THUMPFF.
(That was me jumping over the low stone wall at the bottom of the garden and landing on the other side.)
‘Oh!’
(That was me being surprised at finding myself alone.)
Where was Jackson? I supposed he’d already been and gone while I was at the shops with Mum.
I shone my pumpkin on the ground, but didn’t spot any boy-shaped footprints.
The Great Expanding Guinea Pig & Beware of the Snowblobs! Page 5
