Blabber Mouth (4 page)

And him doing what I've always feared he'd do.

Looking hurt like he did with Mr Cosgrove but ten times worse because it was me, then glaring at me and walking away.

The gun went off and I leapt forward and squashed the picture in my head.

Suddenly I felt so angry I wanted to scream, but of course I couldn't so I concentrated on pounding my legs into the ground as hard as I could.

The kids on either side dropped back and suddenly the only one I could see out of the corner of my eye was Amanda Cosgrove, and then she disappeared too.

I was in front.

Then I saw Dad, up ahead by the finish line, a big grin on his face, eyes gleaming with excitement, jumping up and down and waving his arms at me.

And another picture flashed into my head.

Dad, after I'd won, sharing his excitement with the other parents.

Slapping them on the back so they spilt their drinks.

Digging them in the ribs so they dropped their sandwiches.

Sticking his hand into their armholes until they all ran for their cars and roared away as fast as they could and had serious accidents on the way home so all their kids had to go to special schools and I was the only one who didn't.

And suddenly I could hardly move my legs any more, and as I stumbled over the finish line Amanda Cosgrove was there at my side.

Sorry about that interruption, it was Dad coming in to say goodnight.

He must have noticed I've been pretty quiet since the race this afternoon because he walked into the room on his hands and he only does that when I'm depressed.

He flipped over onto his feet, or tried to, but landed on his bottom.

He didn't speak for a bit because he was using his hands to rub his buttocks and then to say some rude words. Me and Dad have got an agreement that we're allowed to swear with our hands as long as we wash them with soap afterwards.

‘That's life, Tonto,' he said finally. ‘Sometimes you try to pull one off and you don't quite make it. Though in my book a dead heat with the school champ's nothing to be ashamed of.'

Then he sang me a Carla Tamworth number the way I like best, with him humming the tune and doing the words with his hands. He doesn't get so many notes wrong that way.

It was the song about the axe-murderer who's a failure because his axe is blunt, but his sweetheart still loves him anyway.

Then Dad gave me a big hug.

‘In my book,' he said, ‘you're the champ.'

How can you be angry with a Dad like that?

‘Today'll be better than yesterday,' Dad promised this morning when he dropped me at the gate, ‘partly because fourth days at new schools are always better than third days, and partly because any day's better than a school sports day where the other parents are cheese-brains and the judges are bent.'

He was right.

Completely and totally.

Today is the best day of my life.

It started wonderfully and it's still wonderful.

Well actually it started strangely.

I walked through the gate and who should come up to me but Amanda Cosgrove.

‘Nice turtle,' she said.

I stared at her, partly because she was the first kid to come up to me at that school, partly because I didn't have a clue what she was on about, and partly because she was speaking with her hands.

My heart was thumping and I hoped I wasn't imagining things.

Sometimes, when you're desperate for conversation, you think someone's speaking to you and they're just brushing a mozzie away.

She wasn't brushing a mozzie away.

She was frowning, and thinking.

‘Good air-crash,' she said.

I still didn't have a clue what she was on about, and I told her.

She seemed to understand, because she looked embarrassed and thought some more.

I wondered if that extra bit of effort to catch up with me yesterday had starved her brain of oxygen and she hadn't fully recovered yet.

‘Good race,' she said.

Her hand movements were a bit sloppy, but I understood.

I nodded and smiled.

‘You're a good runner,' I said.

She rolled her eyes. ‘I hate it,' she said with her mouth. ‘Dad makes me do it.'

Normally I'd have been sympathetic to hear something like that, but I was too busy being excited.

Here I was having an actual conversation with another kid at school that didn't involve insults or an amphibian in the kisser.

Then something totally and completely great happened.

‘Glue,' she said, with her hands.

She saw from my expression I didn't understand.

She shook her head, cross with herself, ringlets flapping.

‘Twin,' she said, then waved her hand to cancel it.

‘Friend,' she said.

I stared at her, desperately hoping she'd got the right word.

And that she wasn't asking if I'd seen her friend or her friend's twin or her friend's glue, she was asking if I'd be her friend.

She said it again, grinning.

I grinned back and nodded like someone on a TV game show who's just been asked if they'd like a mansion for $2.99.

Actually I wanted to do cartwheels across the playground, but I didn't in case she thought I was trying to tell her something about a cart.

I asked her where she'd learnt sign language, and she said on the sun.

I suggested she tell me by mouth.

She told me she'd learnt it at a summer school in Sydney, something to do with a project she's doing. Before she could fill me in on all the details, the bell rang.

It was great in class this morning because even though we sit on opposite sides of the room, we were able to carry on talking.

When Ms Dunning said something funny about Captain Cook and hamburgers, I caught Amanda's eye.

‘She's nice,' I said under the desk.

Amanda smiled and nodded.

And when Ms Dunning asked Darryn Peck a question about clouds and he rabbited on for several months boasting about how his brother the cropduster pilot can do skywriting, I caught Amanda's eye again.

‘He's a dingle,' I said.

She looked puzzled.

I remembered ‘dingle' was a sign Dad and me had made up ourselves, so I tried something different.

She understood ‘cheese-brain' and smiled and nodded.

We've just had a great lunch break sitting under a tree on the other side of the oval yakking on about all sorts of things.

She doesn't go to the hairdresser every day, her curls are natural. She told me she wishes she had straight hair like mine, and how she tried ironing it once but her dad hit the roof because he thought something was burning inside the telly.

I told her how Dad bought me some electric curlers for my birthday and tried to run them off the tractor generator to keep his legs warm in winter and they melted.

She's got a younger brother in year two who eats fluff.

I told her how I couldn't have any younger brothers because of Mum dying, and she was really sympathetic.

And when I told her about Erin I thought she was going to cry.

She's really sensitive, which can be a bit of a pain with some people, but usually isn't a problem with people who are also good runners.

She apologised for her dad losing his temper yesterday and I apologised for Dad's antics with her mum's armhole, and we both had a laugh about how dumb parents are.

Plus we discovered we both like runny eggs.

I told her I'd make her some apple fritters.

Sometimes I had to write things down, and sometimes she had to say stuff by mouth, but the more we yakked the better she got with sign.

She even got the joke about the octopus and the combine harvester, which is only funny if you do it with your hands.

She was about to tell me more about her project, but the bell went.

It was the best lunch break I've ever had.

And now even though Ms Dunning's telling us some really interesting stuff about dinosaurs, I just can't concentrate.

I just want to think about how great it is to have a friend at last.

I wonder if Ms Dunning can see the glazed look on my face?

No problem, I'm sure she'll understand if I explain that I'm just feeling a bit mental because today's the best day of my life.

Cancel that.

This is the worst day of my life, including yesterday at the sports carnival.

No, that's not true.

The day Erin died was the worst day of my life, but at least that one started off badly with her being real crook and everything.

What I hate are days that start off well and end up down the dunny.

Like today.

This arvo everything was still fine.

Better than fine, because during art Amanda asked me if I wanted to go to her place tonight for tea.

Of course I said yes, and Ms Dunning, who I think might be a saint, or at least someone who has an incredibly well-balanced diet, let us ring Dad from the staff room to let him know.

Obviously I can't speak to Dad on the phone, except in an emergency when we've arranged I'll ring him and give three of my loudest whistles, so Amanda explained the situation to him.

‘He wants to speak to you,' she said, handing me the phone.

‘Tonto,' said Dad's voice, ‘are you gunna be OK with that cheese-brain of an old man of hers?'

I wrote on my pad, ‘Tell him I'll be fine and I promise no frogs', and gave it and the phone to Amanda.

She looked at me, puzzled, then remembered Dad was hanging on the other end.

‘Ro says she'll be fine and she promises no frogs,' she told Dad, then handed me the phone.

‘Right-o,' said Dad. ‘I'll come and get you at eight. If cheese-brain gives you a hard time, just ring me and whistle.'

Amanda said bye from both of us and we went back to class. I felt a bit guilty not telling her what Dad had said about her dad, but at that time I still thought she was my friend and I wanted to protect her feelings.

I did have a few doubts about Amanda's dad during the rest of the afternoon.

What if he flew into a rage when I walked through the door and said something hurtful about Dad?

Or Mum?

And my head erupted again?

And he was cleaning out a goldfish bowl?

Or a hamster cage?

Or a kennel belonging to a very small dog?

I told myself to stop being silly.

I watched Ms Dunning patiently explaining to Darryn Peck that painting Doug Walsh's ears wasn't a good idea, and told myself I should be more like her.

Calm and sensible.

But I did mention my doubts to Amanda while we were walking to her house.

‘Are you sure your dad won't mind me coming?' I asked.

‘Course not,' she grinned. ‘He'll be delighted to see I've got a community service project.'

I stared at her and felt my guts slowly going cold.

‘A what?' I said.

‘A community service project,' she said. ‘Dad's the president of the Progress Association and they're sponsoring a youth community service drive. It's where kids find someone who's disadvantaged and help them. There's a community service night tomorrow night where we introduce our projects to the other members so they can help them too.'

My guts had turned to ice.

Amanda must have seen the expression on my face because her voice went quiet.

‘I thought you could be my project,' she said.

I stared at her while my guts turned to liquid nitrogen and all the heat in my body rushed to my eyelids.

Words writhed around inside my head, stuff about how if I wanted to be a project I'd pin myself to the notice board in the classroom, and if I wanted to be a tragic case I'd go on ‘60 Minutes', and if I wanted everyone to point at me and snigger I'd cover myself in Vegemite and chook feathers, but I knew she wouldn't understand all the signs, and my handwriting goes to pieces when I'm angry and disappointed and upset.

‘No thanks,' I said, and turned and ran.

She called my name a couple of times, but I didn't slow down.

I didn't stop running till I was halfway home and the
ice
in my guts was stabbing me.

I walked the rest of the way and the trees all pointed at me and whispered, ‘Poor thing, she thought she'd cracked it'.

OK, I know trees can't point and whisper, but the insects did.

I decided if I ever make another friend I'll wait at least a week before I get excited.

A week should be long enough to find out if the person's a true friend, or if she just wants me for charity or to borrow money or because she needs a kidney transplant or something.

Dad was surprised to see me.

I must have looked pretty upset because he immediately switched off the tractor and the compressor and was all set to go and pay Mr Cosgrove a visit with a pair of long-handled pruning shears.

I calmed him down and told him about the community service drive.

‘Tonto,' he said, his face creased the way it is when he's trying to add up the purchase dockets from the wholesaler, ‘sometimes life's a big shiny red apple and sometimes it's a bucket of blue mould and disappointment.'

I nodded.

When Dad gets upset he tends to talk like a country and western song, but he means well.

‘It's like the time apple scab wiped out all the Jonathans at the last place,' he said. ‘I thought the potholes in my heart'd never be repaired, but they were.'

He started to sing ‘Highway Of My Heart' by Carla Tamworth.

I squeezed his hand and pretended to listen, but I was thinking of Erin.

Then we went into town and had a pizza and six games of pool, which made me feel better. Dad said he'd never seen me hit the balls so hard. I didn't tell him that was because I was pretending each one was Amanda Cosgrove.

The strange thing was I couldn't sink any.

Then we came home and we've been sitting here since, listening to Dad's records.