Just Annoying! (8 page)

‘No, I don't think that would be a good idea,' says Mum. ‘He's probably put his germs all over it. I don't want you getting sick as well.'

Mum picks up his plate and stretches a sheet of Glad Wrap across it.

‘Well,' she says, ‘what are you waiting for? Go and set up the camp bed for Fred. I expect he'll be wanting an early night, poor thing.'

‘Can't he sleep in Jen's room?'

‘But he's
your
friend. Besides, I think someone should be with him. In case he gets sick during the night.'

I go to the hall cupboard to get the bed. I have to unpack about a billion other pieces of junk to get to it. Old surfboards, Dad's golf buggy, a totem tennis set, boxes of Christmas decorations and a huge red esky have to be removed before I can reach the bed.

I drag it out. Looks like it was the original camp bed made before they'd worked out how to make them properly. It weighs about seventeen tonnes. Its springs are all sticking out at crazy angles. I lug the beast down the hallway. One of the springs catches on my windcheater. I start to unpick it. A daddy longlegs appears from the top of the mattress. It's right in front of my eyes. I get such a fright that I drop the bed. It falls onto my foot. A perfect five-toe crush.

‘FRUIT TINGLES!' I scream.

‘Andy!' says Mum from the living room. ‘Language! We have a guest, remember?'

How could I forget? I've got five toes' worth of throbbing pain to remind me.

I drag the camp bed the rest of the way up the hall and into my bedroom. I wrestle with the catch. The bed springs open with lethal force.

I go to the linen cupboard and get sheets, blankets and a pillow.

I bring them back and start making the bed. If there's one thing I hate it's making beds. I can never get them smooth. There's always this stupid ripple running from one corner to the other. Someone should invent spray-on sheets. They would make a fortune.

After about five hours I finish the bed. I come back to the loungeroom.

Tonight it's
The Simpsons.
I've been looking forward to watching it all day. But Mum is watching some stupid documentary about the economy.

‘Mum, can we watch
The Simpsons?'

‘Well, I wouldn't mind,' she says, ‘but Fred said he prefers documentaries . . . he's very intellectual, you know.'

Very funny, Mum,' I say. This has gone far enough. I don't care about the sports carnival any more. I just want to watch
The Simpsons.

‘I surrender,' I say. ‘You win, okay?'

‘What do you mean?' says Mum.

‘There's no such person as Fred!'

‘Andy,' says Mum. ‘You'll hurt Fred's feelings.'

‘But he doesn't have any feelings. He doesn't exist!'

‘Andy, that is a horrible thing to say. How would you like it if Fred said you didn't exist?'

‘That would be a laugh. Somebody who doesn't exist telling somebody who does exist that they don't exist.'

‘That's it. Fred and I have had enough of your rudeness. Go to your room.'

 

I'm home from the sports carnival. I can hardly walk. My legs are aching. And I didn't win a single ribbon. Not that I tried, of course. I had to let the others have a go.

The house is empty. The lights are off. Mum is out.

I'm in the kitchen spooning honey over a bowl of Vita Brits when the front door opens.

I can hear Mum talking and laughing.

She comes into the kitchen. She is holding a stick of fairy floss.

‘Where have you been?' I ask.

‘At the zoo,' she says.

‘Why didn't you take me?'

‘Well, I know how much the sports carnival means to you. Besides, I wanted to do something special for Fred.'

I pound my fist on the table. ‘Fred's my imaginary friend,' I yell, ‘not yours. You've got no right to take him to the zoo without me.'

‘Come now, Andy,' says Mum. ‘Fred's had a pretty miserable time of it. We have to make allowances.'

I look at the fresh stick of fairy floss in her hand. Pink, shiny and fluffy. Perfect.

‘Is that for me?' I ask.

‘No,' says Mum. ‘It's Fred's.'

‘Can I have some?'

‘Well, I don't know. You'll have to ask Fred.'

I feel really dumb asking an imaginary person for fairy floss, but I'm desperate. Mum never buys fairy floss for me.

‘Fred,' I say to the blank space where Fred is supposed to be standing, ‘may I please have some of your fairy floss?'

We both look at the blank space.

I can't hear anything, but Mum is nodding intently.

She turns to me.

‘He says he'd prefer not to share it with you, because he's worried that you'll get his disease.'

‘It's not fair. Why does Fred get fairy floss and I don't?'

‘Because it rots your teeth.'

‘What about Fred's teeth?' I say.

‘He's sick. Surely you wouldn't begrudge him this little pleasure, would you?'

 

I give up. I might as well try bashing down a brick wall with my head. Mum's not going to budge.