My Life and Other Weaponised Muffins

by Tristan Bancks

  ‘Just a moment please, Anjali,’ he continued. ‘I agree entirely. Parents who let their children watch television should be jailed.’

  I tapped his shoulder again.

  ‘Just a moment please, Anjali.’ He was annoyed now.

  I jabbed his shoulder harder and he spun around. ‘WHAT is so important that you must interrupt our very important discussion?’

  ‘Ggggmm! Mgggmam! Lummmmgggg!’ I said, which is toffee-speak for, ‘My mouth is stuck!’

  ‘Hmm?’ Dad asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  I tried again. ‘Ymmmmmi mrrrrrrrrrrottthha sssssstugg!’

  ‘What are you saying? Don’t be so ridiculous, Anjali.’

  ‘Ugghhh,’ I groaned with exasperation and went into the classroom to grab a piece of paper and a pen. Leaning against the teacher’s desk, I wrote, ‘MY MOUTH IS STUCK LIKE GLUE. HELP!’

  I went back out onto the veranda and passed the note to Dad.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to Miss Green before turning to me. ‘Anjali, this is unacceptable. I expect you to know bett–’ He read my note, looked at me and realised how serious I was.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to my teacher and shuffled me away from the crowd to the edge of the veranda.

  ‘Why is your jaw stuck?’ he whispered

  ‘Muuuuumm graaarth guuum goooobie,’ I explained.

  He leaned in, got a grip on my nose and chin, and pulled and tugged, but he could not pry my mouth open.

  ‘It’s not one of those stupid toffees, is it?’ he asked.

  I lowered my head in shame.

  He was so disappointed, and he looked around to see if anyone had heard. ‘Wait right here,’ he said. Then he ran off towards our camper van.

  ‘Gag?’ I called, toffee-speak for, ‘Dad?’

  But he didn’t look back. Where was he going? Was he embarrassed, too?

  ‘Is everything alright, Anjali?’ Miss Green called over the roar of kids and parents. She looked suspicious.

  I covered my mouth, nodded and turned away. She would flip if she knew I’d glued my jaw shut with toffee. She’d have me expelled and held up as an example in the school newsletter of what happens to those guilty of sugar-related crimes. I couldn’t let that happen.

  Dad emerged from the van a few minutes later, carrying a steaming saucepan. He marched triumphantly through the little kids’ sandpit and past the climbing equipment. As he came closer, I saw what was in the pot – a disgusting green liquid that looked like slime.

  ‘Eeeeeeeewwwwww!’ said my friend Isobel, looking over my shoulder. ‘Is that, like, hot snot?’

  Dad beamed proudly. ‘Heated green smoothie.’

  ‘Guuuuumry caaaan griii,’ I said, shaking my head urgently, toffee-speak for, ‘Your green smoothie is the most disgusting substance known to humankind.’

  ‘This’ll help,’ he said. ‘Come down here.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the veranda and onto the grass, out of sight.

  ‘Okay, tip your head back,’ Dad said.

  I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him where he could stick his green smoothie. But I also kind of wanted to be able to open my mouth again.

  I knew exactly what the smoothie was made of – a disgusting mix of kale, celery, rotten bananas and broccoli. Dad’s ‘Detox Delight’. He absolutely swears by it. He says it could ‘unclog a cat’s bum’! (Wow, Dad, you should totally be a poet.)

  I reluctantly tilted my head back and he poured it into my mouth. It was, as usual, unearthly, outrageously atrocious! The warm green goo seeped around the edges of the toffee and drizzled down my throat. Then, when I’d swallowed almost a litre of it, a stray piece of kale-clogged celery shot up my nose. I couldn’t breathe! Panicking, I jerked my head forward. Now I couldn’t breathe through my mouth or my nose.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dad asked.

  I turned away from him and let out the biggest sneeze EVER. The celery dislodged from my nose like a giant snot stick, and the toffee un-stuck! It flew from my mouth like a missile and, to my great horror, landed in the perfectly straightened black hair of Miss Green.

  ‘WHAT AND WHO WAS THAT?!’ she screeched, plunging her hand into her hair and getting her fingers stuck in the saliva-and-green-smoothie-covered toffee. She tried to pull it out but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked. ‘It smells like … sugar! Who has been eating sugar on my veranda? I repeat: WHO has been eating sugar on my veranda?’ Miss Green had gone from white with shock to red with rage. Now she was turning an unattractive shade of purple.

  Dad grabbed my hand firmly and we dashed past the climbing equipment, through the sandpit, and made a beeline for our camper van.

  As we scampered away, I heard Miss Green shrieking: ‘Anjali and Scott Dutton, get back here right now!’

  I figure, since I’m going to be rich and famous and stuff, I’d better get used to being interviewed. Nobody’s knocking down my door for an exclusive – yet – so I thought, Who better to interview me than … me? I often talk to myself in the mirror, using a toothbrush as a microphone. So, this time, I recorded it. Check it out.

  Me: So, tell me, Tom, do you have any pets?

  Me: ‘Bando, a dog.’

  Me: Fascinating. Can Bando do any special tricks?

  Me: ‘He can roll over.’

  Me: Really?

  Me: ‘No. He can’t do anything.’

  Me: Favourite food?

  Me: ‘Meaty Bites.’

  Me: No, I mean your favourite food.

  Me: ‘Oh. Mexican. Tacos. Fish tacos. And Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice-cream.’

  Me: Colour?

  Me: ‘Always inside the lines.’

  Me: No, I mean, what’s your favourite colour?

  Me: ‘Um. Blue.’

  Me: If you could be any animal, what would you be?

  Me: ‘A hippo. Kind of cute-looking but unexpectedly deadly.’

  Me: Have you ever kissed a girl?

  Me: ‘Yes, but not by choice.’

  Me: Do you like pie?

  Me: ‘Yes, I do like pie. And please stop asking such weird questions. Blueberry pie, by the way. And Mexican.’

  Me: What’s your favourite joke?

  Me: ‘I have four.

  What’s invisible and smells like carrots? Bunny farts.

  Why did the toilet paper jump off the cliff? It was desperate to get to the bottom.

  Where do you find a tortoise with no legs? Right where you left it.

  Why did the student eat his homework? Because the teacher told him it was a piece of cake.’

  Me: Tell us about your new book.

  Me: ‘Well, it has an interview in it where I interview myself in a bathroom mirror.’

  Me: Wow, very original. What did you ask yourself?

  Me: ‘Oh, you know, just stuff.’

  Me: What sort of stuff?

  Me: ‘Stuff like, “Do you have any pets?”’

  Me: Yes, Bando, a dog.

  Me: ‘Fascinating. Can Bando do any special tricks?’

  Me: He can roll over.

  Me: ‘Really?’

  Me: No. He can’t do anything.

  Me: ‘Favourite food?’

  Me: Meaty Bites.

  Me: ‘No, I mean your favourite food.’

  Send me an interview with yourself and maybe I can put it on my blog or in my next book: TheTomWeekly@gmail.com

  Tonight will be the best night of my life – the night I get to kiss Sasha, the cutest and smartest girl in Australia, for the first time ever, on stage, in front of everyone.

  ‘Tom, have you died in there?’ Mum calls, pounding on the bathroom door. ‘We have to go.’

  I saw at my teeth with my toothbrush. This is the fourth time I’ve brushed this afternoon. Not to mention the litre of mouthwash and two packets of mints I’ve polished off. I’ve been waiting to kiss Sasha since I was six years old, and if my breath smells like the garlic that Mum put in the pasta sauc
e tonight, this may be the first and last time we kiss. This could destroy my plan for me and Sasha to get married and have three kids and a labradoodle and a house overlooking the ocean with secret passages and revolving bookcases. (I have this all laid out in a scrapbook hidden in the trapdoor under the rug in the middle of my bedroom floor. Not that I’m weird or creepy.)

  I wrote the school play Here Comes Mr Wolf with me in mind for the lead role – a young wolf about the same age as Sasha’s Red Riding Hood. The first half retells the fairy-tale of Little Red Riding Hood, up to the point when Mr Wolf is dressed as Grandma and is about to eat poor little Red. The second half is a courtroom drama where Mr Wolf goes on trial for murder, breaks down in tears, apologises for eating Grandma and regurgitates the old woman whole (which takes some serious acting skills to pull off). Red Riding Hood is so thankful and feels so sorry for poor Mr Wolf that she takes him in her arms and kisses him. They fall in love, Mr Wolf promises to become a vegetarian, and they live happily ever after.

  Sasha and I haven’t kissed at all in rehearsals. We want to save it for the performance, so that it seems really real, since the Wolf and Little Red have never kissed before either. If we’ve been kissing each other’s faces off in rehearsals, maybe the audience won’t believe it on the night.

  Actually, that’s not true. I wanted to kiss in rehearsals but Sasha suggested we wait. I didn’t want to seem desperate, so I said, ‘Yes. Definitely. Good idea. Let’s wait.’ But I didn’t mean it. We’ve been rehearsing for a month and I almost died from not kissing her. (‘Not Kissing Sasha’ is an official disease. Look it up. I broke out in a rash, got the shivers and my tongue swelled up like a sausage roll.)

  The worst part is that I couldn’t tell anyone how desperate I was to kiss her. If I’d mentioned it to Jack, he would have told everyone. And, anyway, he’s fallen in love with Stella Holling, the girl who’s been in love with me since second grade. ‘Fallen in love’ might be a bit strong. Let’s just say that Stella has turned her attention towards Jack and he isn’t complaining. He thinks we should go on a double-date – me and Sasha and him and Stella. Never. Going. To. Happen. I’m allergic to Stella.

  ‘I’m going to the car, Tom. You’re on stage in 45 minutes. Move your butt!’ Mum slams the front door.

  I set the toothbrush down next to the sink and gaze into my own eyes. In my mind, they are Sasha’s eyes. She is staring back at me, wearing a red hood. I lean in slowly and kiss the mirror tenderly. (I need to practise. The truth is that I’ve never kissed a girl before. Unless you count the hundred times Stella Holling has tricked me into kissing her. Which I choose not to.)

  The mirror tastes a bit like window cleaner, so I stop kissing myself. I wipe all the slobber off and I’m ready.

  Mum beeps the horn. Showtime.

  It’s chaos backstage. Chorus kids are singing warm-up scales. Stage crew are making final adjustments to the set and props. Actors are walking in circles, muttering their lines.

  Mr Skroop, the director of this evening’s performance, barks orders to the troops: ‘TEN minutes till curtain, everybody! Band members still backstage should find their positions in the orchestra pit IMMEDIATELY. Nicholas, that’s hardly an appropriate use of a trombone!’

  As well as being the play’s director, Skroop is our Deputy Principal and my next-door neighbour. He is tall and skinny with brown, gappy teeth and an attitude.

  I peek around the edge of the curtain to see the audience filling up the hall. Last time I performed here was at the Christmas concert, when Jack and I played our world-premiere show as The Clappers. We totally crushed it. Tonight feels different, though. The stakes are higher because of Sasha. And because Mr Wolf is the biggest role of my life – the only role of my life. I let the curtain fall back into place. I breathe into my hand and sniff. Still minty but thick with garlic, proving my theory that my mother is trying to ruin my life.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing, Tom,’ says my teacher, Miss Norrish. She tweaks the nose at the end of my long-snouted wolf mask.

  ‘Thanks. Have you seen Sasha at all? We need to go through our lines.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Are you still worried about throwing up Grandma?’ Miss Norrish asks. ‘I think they’ve fixed the smoke machine. It should be fine.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I whisper. Mr Skroop approaches. He despises me and would never have given me the role of Mr Wolf if I hadn’t written the play. Or if anyone else in the school had auditioned.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Miss Norrish says, scurrying away.

  ‘Weekly, I have some news for you,’ Skroop says.

  ‘Yes, Mr Skroop?’

  ‘Your girlfriend is sick. She can’t perform tonight.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Sasha’s understudy will be playing the role of Red Riding Hood this evening.’

  The understudy is the person who plays the role if the main actor is sick, and I know exactly who that understudy is.

  ‘No! That’s not possible.’

  ‘It is possible. And it is happening. Curtain in six minutes.’ He turns to go.

  ‘What’s wrong with Sasha?’ I ask as he walks away.

  ‘Food poisoning, apparently.’ He turns and looks over his shoulder at me in a way that makes me feel as though he poisoned her. Although, in fairness, Skroop always looks like he just poisoned someone, so it’s probably nothing to worry about.

  I stand there in the wings of the stage, people crisscrossing all around, but I feel so alone, like one of those guys whose wife-to-be runs away on the wedding day, leaving him standing at the altar.

  Sasha’s understudy appears from behind one of the curtain wings. She is smiling and wearing Sasha’s red hood and chequered red-and-white dress. This makes my blood boil.

  ‘Hello, Wolfy,’ she says.

  This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening.

  My breathing is tight and I feel light-headed. I think I might faint.

  ‘Hello, Stella,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  Stella Holling, the girl who constantly tricks, swindles and bribes me into kissing her, is Sasha’s understudy.

  ‘Too bad about Sasha,’ she says, but her eyes are saying, Kissy-kissyyy. ‘Oh well, not to worry. We’ll just have to do the best we can. Do you want to run through our lines? Do you want to practise the –’

  ‘NO! I do not want to practise the …’ I can’t even say the word. I promised myself I’d never let Stella kiss me again. I stare at her, wishing my eyes were toxic slime-shooters. ‘I don’t want to practise anything with you. The only thing I want to practise with you is running in the opposite direction.’

  ‘That’s no way for the playwright and star of the show to speak to his leading lady,’ she says. She leans in and whispers, ‘This is our destiny, Tommy.’

  I shudder. ‘This is not our destiny, Stella. This is what’s known as a sick, twisted joke. And aren’t you meant to be Jack’s girlfriend?’

  She laughs and throws her head back. ‘Is that what he told you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘I could never fall in love with another man, Tommy. You’re my true love.’

  I gulp. It feels like I’m swallowing an emu egg.

  ‘What’s that smell, by the way?’ she asks. ‘Have you been eating something interesting?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say with a slowly spreading grin. ‘Garlic.’

  ‘Oooooo,’ she says. ‘I adore garlic. It makes me think of my grandma’s pizzas. Some people hate the smell, but I think it’s yummy-yummy-yummy. Anyway, I’ll see you out there, husband.’

  ‘I’m not your husband, Stella.’

  ‘Not yet. But you will be … Wolfy.’ She purrs like a cat, blows me a kiss with those scary, sea-creature lips and vanishes behind the curtain.

  I take three deep breaths.

  I would usually get angry about this and complain about how unfair it is. I’d say, ‘Why does this always happen to me?’ But I need to just accept that this is my fate. Stella
Holling is going to haunt me for the rest of my days. Why fight it? We might as well get married now. Who cares that she sends shivers down my spine? Who cares that I would rather kiss a baboon’s bottom than her? Who cares that it’s illegal to get married when you’re in primary school?

  ‘Three minutes!’ Skroop shouts from the backstage corridor.

  Jack appears out of nowhere, carrying an axe. He is playing the role of the jolly woodcutter, but he doesn’t look all that jolly right now.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I say. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ Jack snarls. ‘You’d better not lay a single lip on Stella.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘She’s my girl.’

  ‘Your girl?’ I say. ‘She’s not a girl. She’s –’

  ‘If I find out you poisoned Sasha so that Stella could play Red Riding Hood just so you could kiss her –’

  ‘As if I’d want to kiss Stella! She’s already kissed me, like, a bazillion times! And she’s so … Stella.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jack asks. ‘What does, “She’s so Stella” mean exactly? I oughta punch you right now.’

  I take him by the shoulders and shake him. ‘Wake up! Do you even know who Stella Holling is? She’s the devil and Voldemort and classical music all rolled into one!’

  I think Jack has tricked himself into liking Stella. For the past few weeks he has had a girlfriend called Aurora, a strict vegan (which means she doesn’t eat animals in any form, ever). Jack pretended to be vegan, too – until Aurora caught him stuffing a meat pie with sauce into his gob behind the canteen last Friday. Aurora dumped him on the spot. I think he’s using Stella to get back at her.

  ‘Just keep your big, disgusting, slobbery jaws off her,’ he says, raising his axe. ‘I don’t want to have to chop anything off.’

  I wince. The axe is made of cardboard and aluminium foil, but it still looks quite scary.