Just Tricking! (4 page)

‘I'm not a zombie!' I tell her. ‘I'm not dead – I was just tricking!'

‘Don't touch him, you bloodsucking freak!'

‘Mum, I haven't got time to argue! I've got to do this. It's Dad's only hope.'

I take a deep breath. Mum starts laughing. Poor Mum. The stress has affected her brain. And it's all my fault. But I can't help her until I've saved Dad. First things first.

I take another breath and am about to put my mouth over Dad's when he starts spluttering. First a sputter. Then a wheeze. And then a deep rocking laugh.

Dad opens his eyes. They are wet with tears.

‘Would you mind sharing the joke with me?' I ask.

‘Sure,' says my father, pulling himself together with great effort. ‘We were
just tricking!'

And then they really start to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

They're bent over double like a couple of maniacs. Even Sooty is rolling around on his back, wheezing and carrying on.

It takes a few moments for the shock to sink in, but then I realise that my parents have won.

I've been sucked in.

Sucked in, chewed up and spat out.

But then, maybe things aren't as bad as they seem.

Never mind that I'm wet and cold.

Never mind that I'm covered in mud.

Never mind that I'm the victim of a heartless practical joke that had me thinking I had killed my father and driven my mother insane.

No, never mind all this.

At least I got the day off school.

ou know, there's a world of opportunity out there,' says Mr Bainbridge. ‘A world full of opportunities, just waiting for a young man like you. Yes, a world of opportunities!'

‘Yes, sir.'

I feel like taking the opportunity to tell him to shut up, but I'm much too polite for that. Besides, Mr Bainbridge is Dad's boss.

I'm under strict instructions tonight to just sit quietly, behave myself and not muck up in any way. The worst thing is, Dad has made me promise not to play any practical jokes.

No squirting flowers. No exploding cans of peanuts. No rubber vomit.

Dad said that if I tried any funny stuff at the dinner table, my pocket-money would be stopped for a month.

I made the promise, but I don't think Dad realises how hard it is for me. See, the thing is, I'm a practical-joke-a-holic. I need to play practical jokes like other people need to breathe air and drink water.

I don't really see what's wrong with a few harmless practical jokes anyway. They help to break the ice. It's not like I've got a lot to say to Mr and Mrs Bainbridge.

I mean, how do you talk to people who think Ice T is a drink? Or, that doing your homework is more important than figuring out how to defeat Sektor in Mortal Kombat 3?

And, as if that's not bad enough, what can you talk about with people whose eyes go all glassy when you try to explain these things to them?

What a snore-fest.

‘Too many kids these days,' says Mr Bainbridge, ‘expect opportunity to come to them. But it doesn't work that way. Oh no.

You've got to go out and grab it by the neck. When I was a young man –'

‘Dinner is served!' says Mrs Bainbridge, coming into the room with an enormous bowl of salad.

Thank God!' I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

‘I beg your pardon?' says Mr Bainbridge.

‘Urn, I just meant, urn, let us be thankful to God for such a beautiful spread,' I say quickly.

Mum and Dad are glaring at me.

‘Oh,' says Mr Bainbridge, ‘that's all right then. For a moment there I thought you were taking the Lord's name in vain. That's the other trouble with young people today. They have no –'

‘Perhaps you'd like to say grace, Andy?' says Mrs Bainbridge. The lasagne is getting cold.'

‘Oh, ah, yes,' I say.

It's been so long since I said grace, I can barely remember the words.

Everybody closes their eyes.

For a moment I'm tempted to say, ‘Two, four, six, eight – bog in, don't wait!' but then I remember Dad's warning.

‘For what we are about to receive . . .'

I know I should have my eyes shut too, but somebody's got to keep theirs open to make sure that everyone else's stay closed. And, as I'm the one saying grace, it might as well be me.

But, as I'm trying to think of the next line, I see something in the salad bowl. Something oval. Something dark brown. Something that looks a lot like a dead cockroach.

At least, I think it's dead. It's sort of hard to tell. All I know is, there's a cockroach in the salad, and it probably wasn't put there on purpose. Unless Mr and Mrs Bainbridge eat cockroaches – which seems unlikely. I mean, Mr Bainbridge must get paid more than Dad, and
we
don't have to eat cockroaches.

‘May the Lord make us truly thankful . . .'

Truly thankful for a cockroach?

This would be funny if it wasn't so serious.

I can't just put up my hand and say, ‘Excuse me, but there's a dead cockroach in the salad.' It would make it look like the Bainbridges have a really dirty kitchen. They'd get really embarrassed because they'd think that we think that cockroaches fall into their food all the time.

But even worse still, Dad might think that I put it there for a joke. And that would mean trouble.

I have to get it out before anybody notices. For everybody's sake.

I grab my spoon to scoop the roach off the salad leaf . . .

‘Amen,' says Mr Bainbridge, finishing grace for me as he opens his eyes.

He picks up the salad bowl.

‘Salad, Andy?'

‘Yes please,' I say. Luck is running my way.

Mr Bainbridge passes me the bowl. I scoop a large portion of salad onto my plate, including the top two pieces of lettuce with the dead roach in between.

So far so good.

Mrs Bainbridge places a large slab of lasagne on the other side of my plate. Normally my mouth would be watering, but the cockroach has kind of taken the edge off my appetite.

‘Would you care for some potatoes, Andy?'

Mrs Bainbridge passes me a bowl full of steaming spuds. I pick out one and pass the bowl to Mr Bainbridge.

Now that the roach is on my plate, all I have to do is get it into my pocket before anybody notices.

But first I have to distract them.

‘What a beautiful landscape!' I point to a painting on the wall above Mum's head.

Everybody turns to look.

I lift up the piece of lettuce. But the cockroach has other ideas.

It's not dead.

It jumps off the lettuce leaf onto the table and starts running.

Straight towards me.

The roach reaches the edge of the table and tumbles onto my lap. I try to brush it onto the floor, but it disappears underneath my napkin.

Luckily, the others are all still studying the painting. Nobody else has seen the roach's 30-centimetre sprint. I discreetly lift the corner of my napkin to see where the roach has got to, but it's not there. I feel a gentle pricking on my stomach. It's underneath my shirt!

I freeze. The roach crawls around my side and onto my back.

I guess I could crush it by throwing myself back hard against the chair. It would probably work, but it might take more than one go to actually kill it and this could give Mr and Mrs Bainbridge the wrong impression. I don't want them thinking I've lost my mind.

‘Are you keen on painting, Andy?' asks Mrs Bainbridge.