Head Spinners (7 page)

‘Promise?'

I didn't want to say it, but Erin's eyes gave me no choice. ‘Okay, I promise.'

It wasn't easy watching Erin trot away. On the monitor, she looked so tiny.

Jack and I stayed in the office, watching her pass through each camera view as she ran the back way around to the other end of the hall leading to the exit doors. Just as we'd planned, the guard at the exit was the first to see her. He called out, and Erin turned and bolted.

I held my breath as the guard called out again. He looked up and down the hall, waiting for the others. Then he gave up and ran after Erin.

‘Good man,' said Jack to the monitor.

Outside our door came the clatter of running feet, growing louder then fading as they passed.

Now was our time. Together we slipped out of the office and bolted straight to the sliding doors. I could hear shouting from the direction Erin had run but I couldn't see what was happening.
We dashed through the doors and into the hall. This time the alarm didn't even sound.

Without a word we raced for the stairwell, pausing only to make sure the door didn't slam behind us. Jack was ahead of me, taking two stairs at a time. The first landing had a small window and a camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. I turned my face away from it. Would anyone still be watching the CCTV?

When I made it to the ground floor, Jack placed his hand on the doorknob. ‘Ready?' he asked.

‘I . . . I guess,' I stammered, but suddenly I wasn't sure. Now that we were so close to showing ourselves, I couldn't help thinking about Mum: I can't stand to think how they'd treat her. The awful things they'd say.

What would she say once she realised I'd shown the whole world?

‘We don't have to . . .' Jack began.

Then, from outside at street level, came a scream followed by cries of alarm. We were at the window just in time to see something glide past. Bigger than a bird, with wings held wide.

It was Erin.

‘Oh . . . man!' cried Jack, nudging me out of the way and straining to see out the window.

At the door I squashed an ear to the crack, trying to hear what was going on. I couldn't hear a thing.

‘Now?' I asked Jack. When he nodded, I pushed the door open.

Walking through the entrance to the foyer was Erin. Her wings were folded shut. Behind her trailed a bunch of reporters, camera lenses pointed at her.

It was almost eerie. They were all quiet . . . stunned by what they had seen, I guess. It was as if they were too shocked even to mob her. They just followed to see what she would do next.

Together we ran for Erin. I picked her up in a hug. ‘Erin? Are you okay?'

She smiled. ‘Those guards were about to catch me but I didn't let them. I ran out onto the balcony and I did it, Brooke. I flew!'

I couldn't help laughing. I'd been worried about keeping her safe, and she was braver than I had been. ‘Yes, Erin,' I smiled. ‘You did it.'

Jack was beaming when I looked his way. ‘Come on, you two.'

Together we turned to face the reporters. To one side I could see Dr Drew walking towards us with a phone to his ear.

I looked at Jack.

He nodded at me and winked, so I clenched my fists – all three of them – and raised my right arms in the air. Look at this.

For a moment, the room stayed quiet. A camera flashed. Then another. And another. Suddenly, all was movement around us. Two reporters pushed closer. More seemed to come from nowhere.

‘What's your name?'

‘Did you send the email?'

Microphones and other gadgets were shoved in our faces. Jack crouched, said something to Erin, then lifted her onto his shoulders. I was glad she wasn't being smothered. A woman in a white coat asked the reporters to stand back before saying something to Jack. I didn't hear what she said but then Jack nodded and pointed to the back of his head. The woman rubbed her chin, nodding. I wanted to ask who she was – some kind of scientist maybe – but a familiar voice to one side made me turn.

‘Brooke!' Mum stood between two reporters,her mouth open and her forehead crinkled in confusion. She rushed forward as if ready to spring into action, to hide me away. As she came close, though, she must have realised that she couldn't hide me now. She stopped and shook her head helplessly.

‘Mum . . .' I stepped towards her, holding my arms out, palms up. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to say. ‘I'm sorry . . . I don't—' I shook my head. ‘It . . . it's my arm.' Flashes were still going off around us, but I barely noticed. All that mattered was Mum.

For a while she stared at me. Her eyes slid down to my new arm. They lingered as if looking at it for the first time. Then she stepped closer and took my new hand in hers, cupping it gently and stroking my small wrist with the backs of her fingers.

The feel of her touch ran up my arm and into my chest. It made me breathe in, tears in my eyes. This was the first time anyone had touched my arm like that.

Like she was touching me.

After a while Mum looked up and smiled, tears in her eyes too. ‘It reminds me of when you were a baby,' she whispered.

I threw my arms around her and squeezed. More flashes went off.

When I pulled back to glance over at the others, Jack was still talking to the woman in the white coat. Erin grinned and waved at me from his shoulders.

When I turned back to Mum she shook her head but still managed a smile. ‘I hope you're sure about this, Brooke.'

I nodded. Yes, I'm sure. More than anything I felt an enormous sense of relief. I wasn't sure what to expect from here, but I was glad I didn't have to hide my arm anymore.

As I waved back at Erin I felt something on the back of my left arm, halfway between my elbow and my shoulder.

The fingers of my right hand hovered over the spot . . .

Omigosh! I knew that sensation; I'd felt it before.

It wasn't sore or itchy the way a bite might feel.

It was tingling and weirdly warm . . .

Let me make one thing clear:
I didn't steal anything from the Big Cow Cafe. Why would I? I don't even
like
smoked-trout sandwiches, and I'd already had lunch – a steaming sausage roll with zigzag sauce.

I was only in the cafe because my older brother, Connor, was selling bait worms to the cafe owner. That guy sure used a lot of fish in his cafe.

The cafe owner paid Connor while I waited beside the sandwich counter, staring up at the ceiling fans and sniffing the air – fresh cakes, warm pies, even the coffee smelled good.

But as we headed for the door, the owner rushed around the counter yelling, ‘Stop! Stop, thief!'

I glanced around, looking for the thief.

The owner raced up to me, his fat cheeks wobbling. He grabbed something poking out of the top of my gym bag. It was a smoked-trout sandwich.

‘Why didn't you pay for this?' he asked gruffly. His breath smelled like stale coffee.

My neck burned and I barely managed to shake my head. I hadn't taken the sandwich. How did it end up in my bag?

‘Jamie!' hissed Connor behind me.

A lady with sunglasses whispered to her granddaughter and pointed at me.

‘How old are you, young man?' asked the cafe owner and crossed his arms.

‘Eleven,' I squeaked, looking around at all the faces. ‘But I didn't take the sandwich. I promise! How could I have reached it?'

Everyone watched as I walked back to the counter and tried to reach over. There was no way! Somehow, I would have had to extend my arm over the counter and then back under the glass covering, like an elephant's trunk curling under to reach its mouth. Even on tiptoes my hand barely made it to the other side.

‘See?' I said, jerking a hand into thin air.

Everyone turned to the cafe owner. ‘But how did the sandwich get in your bag?' he asked.

Everyone turned back to me. ‘I . . .' My shoulders slumped. ‘I don't know.' My face burned mega-atomic-red.

‘I'm not going to call the police,' said the cafe owner. ‘But I would like to speak to your parents.'

‘Mum's at the supermarket,' said Connor helpfully.

Thanks, Connor.

It was so embarrassing. The owner made me sit out the back, scowling at the stupid sandwich on the bench beside me, waiting for Connor and Mum.

After a while, my face stopped burning quite so hot, and something began to nag at my mind.

Even though I hadn't taken the sandwich, I had the uneasy feeling that this was a weird kind of punishment I deserved. Maybe it was happening because of what I'd done two weeks earlier – something so bad that I still felt sick just thinking about it.

When Mum turned up with Connor, her face was bright red too. She glanced at me, then started babbling to the owner and pushing a ten-dollar note into his hands.

My heart sank.
Thanks a lot, Mum. Thanks for sticking up for me
. She just assumed I'd done it, without even asking me.

Then I realised what was happening. Mum knew what I'd done two weeks earlier. So why should she be on my side now? I wasn't her ‘good little Jamie' anymore. Since that day two weeks ago, everything had been different.

In fact, stealing a sandwich was nothing compared to what I had done.

At one point, Mum leaned in to the owner and whispered, ‘We have some issues going on at home.'

I closed my eyes and wished I could disappear.
Please don't tell him what I did. Please don't tell him . . .

When I opened my eyes, they were both looking at me. The owner had his head tilted to the side, as if he felt sorry for me.

I gulped and tried to stop looking guilty.

‘Never again, okay?' said the cafe owner, and wiggled a fat finger from side to side.

I tried one last time. ‘I didn't . . .' I stopped and sighed. What was the point? I looked down and nodded.

As we walked home, Connor hung back so that Mum and I could walk together, but I knew that he would stick close enough to hear what we were saying.

Mum tried to rest her hand on the back of my neck as we walked, but I shrugged her off. I was angry that Mum thought I had stolen the sandwich. I was angry and scared. I wasn't used to this kind of thing happening to me. Connor was the one who always got into trouble.

At first we said nothing, but Mum kept fiddling with her earring, so I knew she was working up to saying something.

I knew what it would be, too. It would be about Monty.

‘I just don't understand,' Mum said eventually.

‘No, it doesn't make sense, does it?' I said hopefully, stepping over a puddle on the footpath.

‘You've never stolen anything in your life!' Mum said.

‘So why would I start now?' I said, but my voice sounded thin. ‘Think about it, Mum. I didn't steal the sandwich. I promise!'

Mum shook her head sadly. ‘But how did it get into your bag? I mean, no one else could have put it there.'

‘Yeah? Well it wasn't ME,' I yelled. I had no idea who had swiped the sandwich, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being punished.

Two weeks ago, Monty died. And it was all my fault.

On the day Monty died, I was home on my own, which didn't happen very often. I had a long list of things to do – handstands in the hall, computer games in Connor's room – but first I was going to sneak some ice-cream.

After I waved goodbye to the car, I headed straight to the freezer, grabbing a spoon on my way. Who needs a bowl when you're home alone? Yum.

That's when I heard a knock at the door.

It doesn't take long for your life to change forever.

I will always remember exactly what the man said when I opened the door: ‘Do you own a scraggy black dog? I'm so sorry. We've run over someone's dog.'

For some reason, the way he called Monty a ‘scraggy black dog' made the whole thing even worse. I loved Monty just the way he was; I loved his curly hair. He had been the family dog, but he had played with me most of all.

At first I was in a daze. As the man carried Monty into our front garden I stayed quiet. It wasn't until after the man had gone that I realised how it had happened. In my rush to get back inside for ice-cream and computer games, I had forgotten to shut the gate. It was my fault that Monty had run onto the road.

I knelt next to Monty feeling dizzy with guilt. He just lay there, still and floppy. I wanted to shake him, to try to wake him up, but I knew he was dead. Blades of grass rested against his nose, but he didn't sneeze or move his head.

I loved Monty so much. If only I had shut the gate, then he'd still be alive.

It seemed like hours that I knelt beside him in the garden, sniffling and waiting for my family to come home. But it was even worse when they did.

As they climbed out of the car I started crying, hard and loud. But the words still came out, the words that were spinning around my head: ‘I left the gate open.'

Mum hugged me while Dad and Connor leaned over Monty. After a while, Dad went to dig a grave in the backyard.

I gave Monty one last pat and unbuckled his collar. When Dad came back pushing the wheelbarrow, I turned away. I couldn't watch.

Monty's favourite stick was lying on the grass. I picked it up too. The wood was smooth because all the bark had been chewed off. Monty loved playing fetch with that old stick. For the rest of the afternoon I held that stick and the collar to my chest.

None of my family yelled at me or even seemed annoyed. They just looked at me sadly; even Connor said nothing about what I had done.

And that made me feel even worse. I had done something awful, and I deserved to be punished for it – grounded for a year or forced to quit gymnastics. But no one said anything at all.

From then on, the guilt sat inside me like a disease. I could feel it living in me, making my breath smell bad. I could see it in their faces when my family looked at me.

It changed the way I felt inside.

Now, as we walked home from the Big Cow Cafe, Mum asked a heap of questions about my friends and whether I had told them about Monty. ‘What about your friends at gymnastics?'

She seemed to have decided that I had stolen the sandwich because of Monty, as though I had turned to the dark side now. Kill your dog, become a thief – it was all a natural course of events.

But I just felt sick. I couldn't talk to Mum about any of it. I couldn't bear to keep thinking about it.

When we got home, Dad looked up from the newspaper. ‘Is everything okay?' he said as I passed.

But I just kept going straight to my room and slammed the door.

I lay on my bed and buried my face in my quilt, crying until the light blue cover had a dark blue patch around my face. There were a lot of tear-stained patches on my quilt.

Eventually the tears slowed. I sat on the edge of my bed and reached into my gym bag for a drink of water. But as I pulled it out, I gasped and hugged the bottle to my chest.

There, in my gym bag, was the trout sandwich. The one I'd been accused of stealing. But it wasn't sitting quietly as it had been in the shop.

It was jumping up and down.

I stared at the trout sandwich, too amazed to move. It was flopping around like a fish out of water.

With one massive leap, the sandwich was out of the bag and onto my bed. It started flopping towards me.

Eek!
I pushed myself backwards off my bed, hitting the bookcase with a thud and dropping my bottle on the floor. Water trickled out of the bottle and onto the carpet, but I wasn't worried about that.

The sandwich looked like a freaky ocean beast. Cling wrap flopped around it like a limp fin and lettuce trailed after it like seaweed.

The sandwich flopped onto the floor and jumped towards the bottle I'd dropped. It landed in the wet patch on my carpet and lay there flapping, like a kid splashing in water.

I stared at it with my mouth open. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Was the sandwich somehow alive?

I found a ruler on my bookcase and knelt on the floor. Using one end of the ruler I dragged open the last bit of cling wrap. Then I flipped the top piece of bread over as if I was flipping a pancake. Underneath were slices of tomato, some floppy lettuce . . . and six or seven slivers of shiny trout.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then a single piece of trout started jumping. Flip, flop . . . flip flop . . .

It looked exactly like a fish trying to flip itself back into the water. Except, it was just a
piece
of fish. A freaky fishy blob.

The trout flicked what looked like its tail-end, flopped itself into the mouth of the bottle opening, slithered down the neck, and was soon swishing around in the water left inside.

The next thing I knew, the other pieces of fish were flipping across my bedroom floor. They looked as if they were having a party, dancing to music that I couldn't hear.

One by one, they dived into the bottle. The last piece was wider than the others, and wider than the mouth of the bottle. It sat for a while on the carpet. Then it rolled itself into a tube and wiggled into the bottle opening.