What I Did (19 page)

— I'm fine.

 

Sometimes Dad turns the trying-not-to-laugh thing into a special game.

— Look at me and try not to laugh, he says. — You'll fail. I'll have you laughing in under a minute. Not with tickling or pulling funny faces. Just by sitting here looking straight at you. Don't believe me? Give it a try.

I normally get ready by shaking myself and moving my lips all around and crossing my eyes and blinking hundreds of times before finally looking straight at him. But even if I hold my breath and squint until I nearly can't see him, just his outline sitting there not moving but staring straight back at me without even blinking, I can only last for ten or twelve seconds. I don't know why. It's like popcorn in a hot pan: normal, normal, normal, normal, pop: totally funny.

And sometimes when I go pop and laugh I feel angry and growl as I'm laughing and kick him in the shin relatively hard, but he just sits there and says, — Come on then, tough guy. If you're that cross surely you won't laugh next time. Get yourself ready: let's go again!

 

Mating is crucial. Without it David Attenborough would have much less to do on the African plain. Every animal mates there and quite often David Attenborough watches through his camera so we can, too, and that is necessary for the survival of the fittest, otherwise everything would die out, including us. We don't live in Africa but in fact that doesn't matter because mating happens on every continent and even in the sea, where dolphins seem to enjoy it.

— Anthropomorphization, Dad said, when I told him that, which made no sense at all. — Who can tell anyway with those fixed grins?

Not everybody at school understands about mating.

Mum said I should wait until one of the teachers brought it up before explaining.

But Red Steve in my class does know a bit about mating in humans because he's seen it happen. Red Steve is called Red Steve because the other Steve has normal hair and Red Steve's is red like his brother Joseph's hair in Year Six. That's how Red Steve knows a bit about mating: he's watched it with his brother Joseph on their computer.

David Attenborough has never shown me humans mating. Mum said it wouldn't be right, seriously, and Dad stopped smiling to agree. But still I think Red Steve either wasn't concentrating or remembered it wrong, because his explanation didn't sound correct. He was right about the first part: it makes sense that mating happens when the man aims his willy up the woman's bottom, because vertically all mammals do that, but he got the rest wrong: it doesn't make sense to put your willy in a woman's mouth for the last bit when the sperms come out because the eggs are in the ovaries not the stomach; the pipes don't join up, so the sperms would be swimming in a pointless direction. Red Steve got that part wrong and that is why he only knows a bit about mating.

If you do mating wrong nothing terrible happens; it's just the end: dead sperm, dead eggs, no new young. The ingredients have gone stale. When one person's pieces can't move anymore in chess the same thing happens: stalemating.

 

Nobody in our house moves normally over the weekend apart from Grandma Lynne who goes away, which is normal, but then she comes back again.

And after that it's not half-term anymore but time for more school, and the strange thing about that is that although I don't want to go back to school at all, and nearly cry when Mum first tells me it's time, a part of me knows that school will probably be more normal than home, and this is in fact quite luring. We have hot chocolate the night before as well.

 

But sadly I was wrong! School is not normal at all. Normally we have planning time after assembly but on the first day back they swap it round and then at lunch the packed lunch tables are up the other end of the hall. It feels wrong. Even the little scissors-in-the-tree thing has moved from the create corner to Miss Hart's desk, so that instead of just taking a pair to cut out with and putting them back when I've finished I have to go up to Miss Hart and ask to use them specially.

And Miss Hart is not quite normal either.

First, when I ask her about the scissors, she leans a bit close to me and blinks kindly before saying, — Of course, Billy, be my guest. And the way she says
Billy
is just odd; it's either as if she's not heard my name before or thinks I may have forgotten it, or for some other reason wants to make it sound special.

Then, after I've cut the teeth out for a model of a shark I'm making with Fraser, and I've left Fraser red-felt-tipping the crumpled bit of paper we're using as a seal carcass so that I can take the scissors back, Miss Hart says my name again, — Billy.

— Yes.

— How are you today?

— Fine.

— That's good. What are you up to?

Over her shoulder I can see Fraser finishing the coloring bit.

— Making.

— Making! That's great. And what are you making?

— A thing with Fraser.

He's crumpled up the seal paper now and . . . no, no, no: I told him not to stick it into the shark's mouth until I came back. Paper teeth are delicate and anyway we agreed: it was my idea so it's my job!

— Great! What sort of thing?

— Can I go now, please, it's just—

— Of course, in a second. You can show it to me after school, perhaps. I wanted to have a chat with you then anyway. Okay? Nothing to worry about. Just five minutes after the day ends.

— Okay okay, okay, I say, and I immediately run-walk round her desk back to Fraser who is cramming the last bit of the whole dead crumpled red-seal paper through the shark into its cardboard tube stomach. And I can see that the teeth are all twisted and bent and . . .

— No! I told you not to! I try to grab it off him before he makes it worse but he just holds it annoyingly behind his back so I have to grip his arm. He yanks me toward him trying to pull away, and before I know what I've done, oh no, I've done judo, and Fraser is on his back crying incredibly hard. He is nice but weak.

Miss Hart arrives immediately, picking Fraser up and pulling us apart and telling everyone else to carry on carrying on because it's none of their business. She takes us to the corner by the chipped sink next to the stork cupboard and it's amazing how quickly Fraser stops crying: doing judo on him is like letting go of a balloon. Easy throw, scream, cry, stop: totally un-flated.

And shall I tell you why what happens next is not normal either? Okay, it's this. Even though it really was me who threw Fraser over and made him cry, and even though I admit it, because she probably saw it anyway, Miss Hart still listens carefully when I tell her my excuse about the bent shark's teeth and torn red-paper seal carcass model which Fraser broke, and when I've finished all she does is stare at me for a long time blinking, before telling Fraser he really should keep his word and asking us both to — Carry on nicely.

That's it! Just that!

No trip to Mrs. McCabe's office. No golden-time deduction. Not even a sad-face mark. Miss Hart is a brilliant teacher. Just
carry on nicely
!

 

But later, during cross-legged mat time for the story before the end of the day, my stomach feels like a pinecone: light and prickly. To start with I don't know why, until I stop listening to the story about the boring dragon that doesn't kill anybody or even get killed himself, and remember instead that she wants to see me after school. The pinecone pops. She probably knew I was about to be naughty before it happened, and that's why she told me I would have to stay behind later. Have you ever made a smoothie? I have, with Mum. Imagine if we'd put a dry old pinecone into the mixer thing. As the chunk of pages left to go in the dull dragon story grows thinner and thinner, my stomach mixer speeds up so much it makes me need the toilet, and by the time there are only one or two pages to go I am desperate.

— Miss.

— One moment, Billy.

— But Miss . . .

— The story is nearly over. Just sit tight and listen.

— But Miss I need—

— Shh, Billy. We'll talk later.

But I already know we are going to talk later. That's the whole problem. So when she tells me we are going to talk later again it just makes the pinecone blender whiz down faster from my stomach to my bladder balloon chipping sparks and did you know that pinecones are very flammable and no, no, no . . .

A flame of wee spurts out.

It just does!

Hot and wet and darkening the gray of my trousers in front and between and behind.

And now my eyes start itchy-hot sparking, too.

No, no, no!

When wombats sense a bush fire they dig down deep to hide away while the fire passes overhead, and when kestrels and other small birds of prey have made a kill they shield it with their wings so other bigger predators don't see it and attack.

Quick as I can, I yank my sweatshirt over the top of my head and press it down, little school crest thing first, into my terrible lap. Then I hunch my shoulders forward and stare down Superman-hard at my knuckles which go little and white with gaps in like Lizzie's baby teeth.

Somehow I stop crying before I've really started.

The wee-fire puffs out.

And everyone else is still listening to the story, so I sit there looking down while it ends and they all jump up to get their book bags and stand in line — quietly please children — for the lobby.

Miss Hart helps with the coats and sees them all out. While her back is turned I wriggle my sweatshirt around my waist and tie the arms tight and think my hardest what to say about judo-throwing Fraser and the dark patch on my trousers which she might still see. What would Dad say? There's not enough time! Here she comes back with her big friendly smile, ready to use her not-normal voice again.

— So,
Billy
.

— It wasn't my fault.

— What wasn't?

— Fraser crying. He was putting it on because he only fell over when I pushed him and it can't have hurt very much and even if it did my dad says a little bit of pain never hurt anyone because that's what happens in life you should expect it especially if you make people angry and if you do you have to deal with the sequences because pain will make you tougher in the end and anyway there's a crack in everything and—

— Whoa! Miss Hart holds up her hand. — Slow down. What are you saying, Billy?

— Nothing!

— Calm down. It's all right. Come here.

— Please no.

— No? There's no need to look so worried — it's just a chat. Come and sit at the table with me.

— I don't want to. It's not my fault. I had to go and you wouldn't let me so it just happened.

— What's happened? Come on. Sit down next to me here and explain.

I desperately don't want to do what she says but it's impossible not to, so I clutch the sweatshirt wings forward to guard myself from her predator stare and shuffle over hoping she won't notice. And it works. At least, she doesn't look like she's seen; she's too busy shuffling papers and pretending to clear up the desk when really it's obvious that she is in fact just trying to think what to say next to make me feel extremely bad about Fraser, and yes, I was right, because what she eventually says is this.

— Why do you say that a little bit of pain never hurt, Billy?

One wing of my sweatshirt flops sideways then. I have to grab it quickly. The pinecone is on fire again burning through me, right up to my cheeks.

— Who told you that? she asks.

— It wasn't on purpose. He was spoiling my thing. I didn't mean to hurt him.

— I know that. The . . . accident with Fraser isn't why I wanted to see you.

— It isn't?

— No.

Suddenly I realize Miss Hart must have known I was going to have a different kind of accident altogether and when I understand that, it's like her predator talons are gripping into my arm wings, very mean.

— I wanted to ask you how things are at home.

Not just mean: nosy, too.

— Fine.

She does a little nodding smile and glances at our life-cycle-of-tadpoles display, which gives me time to sort out my wings again, but no, no, no . . . the patch has definitely spread. I shuffle forward onto the seat edge so I can tuck it over and keep the dark bit out of sight but then two things happen. First, I spot Dad peeping in through the door glass, and second, the smell of it swims up warm and yellow-nasty.

— Well that's good. And . . . she trails off for a bit, but then does a weird little I-can't-resist-that-last-slice-of-cake grin and blurts out — and everything is all right with Mummy and Daddy as well?

— Yes.

— Good. She does another long pause. — But if you ever feel you need to talk to somebody . . . about anything, then remember that's what I'm here for.

She cocks her head to one side next like Alan's spaniel; dogs have good noses so she must be about to notice.

— And of course there's the worry box, she says eventually, nodding at the wrapping-papered shoe box on her desk. — If ever you have a worry you don't want to talk about you can always put a note in the worry box.

— But what about spelling?

— Spelling doesn't matter in the worry box! She laughs. — It's just a place to put things you don't want to talk about. To get them off your chest!

— I don't have anything in my chest.

— Well that's good. Very good. She pauses again. — Nobody wants you to have worries. And, if you don't, then there's certainly no need to make them up! But you're sure you're okay, Billy? You do look a little . . . worried. Is everything really okay . . . at home?

I nod hard, hoping it will end, but she's still just sitting there waiting, and the Dad shape moves across the door window, and she's going to spot what I've done unless I say something to get away quickly, so I start talking fast. — Yes Mum and Dad are fine nearly but Grandma Lynne is helping with that because actually Mum and Dad won't move or speak normally anymore. They are stalemating. So Dad sleeps downstairs and does imposing poses the other way without eye contact when they're together to avoid violent behavior like prime-apes do.