‘Break a leg.’ Jack turns and goes.
I slump to the floor, my back against the brick wall of the hall, head in my hands. The best night of my life is now the worst. Jack will kill me if I kiss Stella. Mr Skroop will kill me if I don’t, because it’ll ruin the play. I may die if I kiss Stella again. Stella is desperate to kiss me, but if Sasha hears that I’ve been kissing Stella, she may never go out with me. I can’t win!
‘Positions, everybody!’ Skroop calls. ‘First positions!’
The actors take their places in the forest set. Red Riding Hood and her mother are inside a little cottage. I’m hidden behind a tree. The tree is played by Brent Bunder, the biggest kid in my school. His armpits smell like two dead possums.
‘Ha!’ the tree whispers to me. ‘You’ve got to kiss Holling.’
The curtains part, the audience claps and cheers, and the play begins with Stella’s opening line.
‘Oh, please, Mother. I so wish to go and see Grandmama.’
That’s not even what I wrote! She’s changing the script and ruining my masterpiece with her terrible acting.
In spite of Stella’s performance, the first act of Here Comes Mr Wolf goes off without a hitch. The audience laughs in all the right spots, no one forgets their lines, and I almost get to eat Stella. I slink offstage to lots of back-patting and ‘That was so good!’ and ‘You were great!’
But I don’t feel great. I head for the corridor at the back of the stage.
‘Where are you going?’ Skroop snaps.
‘I need to go to the toilet.’
‘Well, hurry! We only have a couple of minutes while we change the set for the second act, and then we’re back on.’
I head into the bathroom, flip my wolf mask up on my head, twist the tap on and flood my face with cold water. It feels good. I stand and wipe my eyes. I look in the mirror. I’m staring at a different guy than the one I saw at home earlier tonight. I look like I’ve been to war. Some kind of war where the troops get to dress up in wild animal costumes. I’ve aged about nine years worrying about kissing Stella.
Maybe I should just run. I’ll slip out the back door of the hall, bolt across the top oval, down the main street and catch a train to … Wagga Wagga.
Just then I hear a small voice. At first I think it’s in my mind. But then I hear the voice again: ‘Help!’
I listen harder.
‘Heeeelp!’ says the tiny voice.
I know this is weird, but it sounds a bit like … Sasha.
The door screeches open. ‘Back on stage, Weekly. Now! One minute till curtain.’
‘Mr Skroop! I think I can hear Sasha. It sounds like she’s in trouble. Listen.’
‘We don’t have time –’
‘Please, just listen a moment.’
Skroop sighs. We wait, listening for ten, maybe 15 seconds. I can hear him breathing noisily through his mouth.
We hear nothing.
‘Let’s move it.’
‘No, really, I –’
‘NOW!’ Skroop booms from the deep, dark pit inside him.
I head out of the bathroom and into the corridor, my ears still tuned. ‘It sounded like it was coming from there,’ I say, pointing to a door with a black-and-white label that reads ‘Storage Room’.
‘GO!’
I jump and move quickly through the wings and out onto the stage. The set has been changed to the courtroom. I pull my wolf mask down over my face and take the stand.
The curtains open. The audience claps and we dive into the second act of the play. I churn through my lines with no feeling at all. I can actually see audience members, mostly dads, asleep. Those who aren’t asleep are shuffling in their stiff plastic chairs. Before I know it, I am regurgitating Grandma in a breathtaking explosion of special effects, smoke-machine wizardry and strobe lighting. A few of the dads wake up.
Stella cuddles Grandma, wipes off some of the wolf saliva and stares at me with her devilish, creepy brown eyes. Then she moves in for the kiss. Jack, standing behind her, pretends to sharpen his cardboard axe and gives me not-so-jolly woodcutter eyes of death. In my imagination I can hear Sasha quietly calling, ‘Help! Help!’
Stella says, ‘Oh, Wolfy, thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.’
The audience says, ‘Oooooooooooooo,’ sitting up, knowing what’s coming.
Don’t! I think. Don’t repay me! I’d be happy to regurgitate your grandmother a thousand times. No payment necessary.
The garlic smell of my breath is making me sick, but Stella, just centimetres from my face, inhales it like French perfume. Her sea-creature lips are dangerously close to mine, and I’m staring into her galaxy of sweaty freckles when I hear the loudest shriek I have ever heard. Stella and I turn. So does everyone else on stage, and in the audience.
It’s Sasha. She’s running across the stage towards us. Skroop, her parents and Miss Norrish are chasing her. Sasha’s eyes are wild, her hair is a mess. She launches herself through the air towards me and Stella, her arms outstretched.
‘That’s my wolf!’ she screams, then collides with Stella in a slap of skin and a crunch of bones, tackling her to the floor. Stella hits the stage and does not move – she’s been knocked out cold. Jack drops his cardboard axe and runs to her side.
Sasha peels herself off the ground, stands and looks me in the eyes. She tears off my wolf mask and leans in towards me. I know that I must be dreaming because this sort of thing does not happen to me in real life. I never get the girl. Only, this feels so real. Sasha’s soft lips press against mine. If this is a dream, I never want it to end.
The crowd goes wild. They must think that Stella being knocked out was all part of the show. They stand and clap and hoot and stomp their feet. They think it’s the greatest ending to a play in the history of theatre, but I could never write something this good.
Sasha pulls back suddenly and the crowd settles down. The kiss is over.
She whispers, ‘Have you been eating garlic, Tom?’
I don’t want to lie to her, so I say, ‘Yes. Sorry. It’s Mum’s sauce.’
She stares at me. The crowd stares at us.
Sasha smiles and whispers, ‘I don’t care.’ Then she kisses me again, right there in front of everyone we know. The crowd goes crazy again. We continue kissing until the curtains close and the house lights come on.
Next day at school Stella is given a week-long lunchtime detention for locking Sasha in a cupboard at the back of the storage room and making up the story about food poisoning.
In the playground, kids whistle at me and Sasha. They ask if we’re girlfriend and boyfriend now. I say, ‘Maybe’ and ‘I guess so.’ Sasha says, ‘No.’ So we agree to disagree. But I figure that even if Sasha and I don’t get married and have three kids and a labradoodle and a house overlooking the ocean with secret passages and revolving bookcases, we’ll always have that kiss – the one time in my life when everything went even better than I had planned.
Lately I’ve been getting into trouble for lots of little things. I mean, adults are way too sensitive. You break two or three windows in a week and your mum gets so upset. You get caught passing a note in class five or six times a lesson and your teacher goes crazy. You stretch the truth a little when it comes to your involvement in a particular incident involving fireworks and a cat, and your next-door neighbour gets so worked up about it.
No video games. Detention. Pocket money suspended until further notice.
It stinks.
But adults have been around for thousands of years – maybe more – and I’m probably not going to be able to change their weird little ways during my short childhood, so I figure I’ll try playing by their rules – for today, at least. If I can make it through an entire day without doing a single thing wrong, maybe I’ll try it again tomorrow. Over time, if I can allow adults to turn me into a robot with no feelings or originality, and I do exactly what they say all the time, maybe I’ll get my video games and pocket money back. Maybe I won’t have to spend my lunch
times reciting times tables outside Skroop’s office, and I’ll live happily ever after.
Maybe.
It begins today. Starting right now, I’m going to be good for an entire 24 hours.
I pull my bedroom door open and step out into the world. I look both ways. Nothing. I’m doing well. It’s five seconds past 7.00 am and nothing has gone wrong yet. I turn left and head down the hall towards the kitchen, ready for anything.
‘Morning, Mum!’ I say, trying to sound as chirpy as I can without making her suspicious.
‘Hi, Tom. Can you please empty the dishwasher?’
I stand and stare at her as she sits on the couch in her work clothes and fluffy pink slippers. She’s straightening her hair, eating buttered toast and watching a morning show … and she wants me to empty the dishwasher. Why should I be working like a dog while she’s watching a story about a celebrity wedding in Las Vegas?
‘Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘Dishwasher. Now. Bus goes in less than half an hour. Move it.’
My instinct is to say, You’re a bit snappy this morning! or Why can’t Tanya empty it? or Comfortable, are you? Can I get you another cushion?
But I don’t. I remember the promise I made to myself 37 seconds ago – I’m going to be good for an entire day. It can’t be that hard.
‘Okay, Mum,’ I say with a forced grin. ‘No problem. Just let me know if you need anything else.’
‘You’ve woken in a nice mood,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve been so horrible recently.’
Horrible? She actually uses the word ‘horrible’ to describe me, one of the nicest people I know. But instead of getting annoyed I say, ‘Sorry, Mum, I know I’ve been a little bit difficult to live with. I’m doing my best to turn things around.’
She looks at me and frowns. ‘You’re not sick, are you?’
I choose to ignore her rudeness. ‘No, I feel great!’ And I sort of do. This whole ‘being good’ thing isn’t as hard as I thought. You just have to say ‘yes’ all the time.
‘Yes,’ I whisper under my breath, practising my new mantra. ‘Yes. Sure. No problem.’ I can do that for 24 hours.
I turn and see my sister, Tanya, sitting at the island bench that separates the lounge room from the kitchen. She’s slurping down a bowl of Froot Loops. She opens her mouth and shows me the soggy rainbow mash of cereal on her tongue.
‘Mu-um!’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself.
‘Don’t dob, Tom,’ Mum tells me.
I stop. I breathe, slowly, deeply. I remember that I am a robot and I must say ‘yes’ to everything my adult overlords tell me to do. I continue past her to empty the dishwasher. I lean down to pick up the cutlery basket, and Tanya says, needling me, ‘Don’t you have a French assignment due today, Tom?’
I clench my jaw and squeeze the handle of the cutlery basket so tight that the forks and spoons start to jingle from the earthquake inside me. I pray that, somehow, Mum is too involved in the celebrity wedding to have heard Tanya, but no such luck.
‘That’s right,’ Mum says. ‘Aren’t you supposed to cook us a French dessert or something?’
I stay low, beneath the level of the bench, so that she can’t see me baring my teeth, or the saliva dripping down my chin.
‘Miss Norrish says it’s not even an assessment task,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even. ‘It’s just if we want to do it.’
‘That’s not what the assignment sheet on the fridge says,’ Mum tells me.
‘It’s too late now. It’s due today,’ I say.
‘Oh, good, you can cook it for us this afternoon and submit the assignment online tonight,’ she says, standing and switching off the TV.
I peek over the island bench. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Don’t “Yes, Mum” me. If I have another note home about a late assignment, I’m donating your organs to science. Finish emptying the dishwasher, eat your breakfast and go brush your teeth.’
I love how she casually mentions that she’s going to have my heart, lungs and kidneys removed, but she still wants to keep my teeth in tiptop condition.
Mum puts her plate on the bench and heads for the front door. ‘See you this afternoon. Tanya, do you want a lift?’
‘Yes, thanks, Mum,’ Tanya says sweetly, then turns to me and whispers, slowly and huskily: ‘Su-u-ucked in.’
I want to throw a fork at her … but I am being good for an entire day, so I’ll have to wait till tomorrow.
They leave. Tanya slams the door. I growl and sit on a stool at the kitchen bench. My life stinks. This whole ‘being good’ thing is overrated. Bando, sitting under the bench, licks my hand. I give him the crust from Mum’s toast. He winks at me and yawns excitedly.
‘I wish you could do my assignment for me,’ I say to him.
He gives me that goofy, black-lipped smile of his, as though he thinks it’s a really good idea. Bando thinks everything I say is a good idea. I scruff him on the neck.
For the assignment we have to make a French dessert for our family, photograph it and write a journal entry about the process, but I’m a terrible cook. I once burnt a smoothie.
I finish unpacking the dishwasher, eat breakfast and brush my teeth. I still have five minutes till the bus goes, so I raid the pantry for ingredients. I don’t even know any French desserts. I try to remember what Miss Norrish said. Soufflé? I wonder what’s in a soufflé. I pull out anything that looks slightly dessert-y – cinnamon, rice bubbles, sugar, oats, vanilla essence, hundreds and thousands, and a big bag of carob powder. I take a couple of pears from the fruit bowl, sit them on the kitchen bench next to the rest, grab my bag and head out the door. I’ll work out what I’m going to make at school.
It turns out to be the worst day ever. The one day I try to be good, everything bad happens. First lesson is barn dancing for P. E. I’m paired with Stella Holling and have to dance with her for an hour. I try to keep her at arm’s length, but she keeps me in a death grip and manages to kiss me three times – once on the left shoulder and once on each ear. I have a massive wedgie the whole time from the underpants Mum shrank in the dryer, and because of Stella’s wrestling hold I can’t pick it out.
In the afternoon we have ‘buddies’, where each of us is teamed up with a kindy kid for an hour. I have a kid named Braden Chambers. I accidentally drop him when he asks me to catch him off the monkey bars, so he bites me really hard on the hand. I want to pinch him, but you know what? I don’t. Even though I know the world is out to get me, I keep my cool. I don’t flip out. I say ‘yes’ to it all.
By the time I’m on the bus I’ve done eight-and-a-half hours of the good boy routine. In five hours I’ll be in bed. I’m totally going to make it across the finish line.
Or so I think.
I know something’s up as soon as I open the front door. For starters, Bando’s inside. Bando should not be inside. I was supposed to put him out before I went to school. He licks me and wags his tail and bolts around the lounge room like a maniac.
The second thing I notice is that the ingredients I placed on the kitchen bench are no longer there. The boxes and bags are all over the floor, but they’re empty.
‘Bando,’ I say in a low voice. He stops running around like a maniac. ‘Did you eat all the ingredients for my assignment?’
He lowers his head and stares at the floor.
It occurs to me that if Bando has eaten that much food, he’s probably done something else, too. The first rule of dog ownership: what goes in, must come out. I search the kitchen and lounge room floors, the bathroom, Tanya’s room … and then I look in my room.
And there it is. A very large pile of poo coiled in the centre of my rug.
‘BANDO!’ I shout, and he slumps to the floor in my doorway.
The poo is laid in a perfect, tall spiral, like a chocolate soft-serve ice-cream. I pray that it hasn’t leaked through the rug and into the trapdoor where I keep all my banned foods, comics and best scabs. I have an unwrapped pineap
ple doughnut in there at the moment. I flick on the light and slowly approach. I kneel down next to the poo and inspect it, wondering what I’m going to use to remove it.
You know what’s really strange? It actually doesn’t smell too bad. In fact, it kind of smells … sweet. I use my hand to waft the aroma towards my nose. It’s sort of cinnamon-y, with a hint of vanilla and the freshness of pear. Up close, it looks shiny and fluffy, like the chocolate mousse we had from the French patisserie on Jonson St on Mum’s birthday.
French patisserie, I repeat in my mind.
Chocolate mousse.
‘Mousse au chocolat’ is a French dessert.
I saw it in a library book at lunchtime. Only this one’s made with carob instead of chocolate, which is lucky because doesn’t chocolate make dogs really sick?
If I can, somehow, scoop this pile up and get it onto a plate, maybe I can photograph it and say that I made chocolate mousse. I’m not going to make my family eat it or anything, but if I take the photos and write the journal entry, I’ll tell Mum it was so delicious that I ate it all myself. I’m pretty sure she won’t mind, as long as the assignment is submitted.
Tanya will be home soon, so there’s no time to waste. I run to the kitchen, grab the wide spatula thing that Mum uses for pizzas, take a big, white plate from the top cupboard above the fridge and extract the ‘mousse’ in one clean swoop, leaving almost no trace of it on my rug. I slide it onto the centre of the plate and … it looks amazing. I take it out to the kitchen, place it on the bench, spray a little whipped cream on the side, plop three frozen raspberries on top and – boom! – my assignment is almost done.
‘Good boy,’ I say to Bando. ‘Who knew you were a chef?!’
He pants happily and smiles.
I place a spoon on the edge of the plate and take 17 photos of my mousse au chocolat de Bando from various angles before I hear a rattle at the front door and it swings wide. I dive in front of my doggy dessert and stand up straight, just as Tanya walks in.
‘Hi!’ I say a little too eagerly.
My Life and Other Weaponised Muffins Page 6
