Just Tricking! (6 page)

‘Oh my God!' says Mrs Bainbridge.

‘Oh my God!' says Mum.

‘Oh my God!' says Dad.

‘I know this seems a little unusual,' I yell, ‘but there's a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation! See, while I was saying grace, I saw this cockroach in the salad bowl, only I didn't want to say anything because . . .'

But I might as well be telling it to the man in the moon.

Mum and Dad and the Bainbridges are too busy gabbling on about ladders and fire brigades and irresponsible young idiots who can't even be trusted to sit the right way on a toilet seat.

I close my eyes and wonder if I'll be able to interest anybody in bidding for the TV, newspaper, magazine, film and book rights to my story, and whether the proceeds will make up for the pocket-money I'm about to lose.

One door closes, another opens.

Like Mr Bainbridge says, there's a world of opportunities out there.

have long, shiny black hair and big grey feet with black toe-nails. I have enormous hands with big stubby fingers. I have a spiky black mohawk, a big flat nose and a mouth that moves.

Normally, you would find a creature like me in the jungle or in a zoo, but tonight I am loose on Lygon Street.

I am headed for a restaurant called La Trattoria, where Jen, my sister, is having her sixteenth birthday party.

If you didn't know I was wearing a gorilla suit you would swear that I was a real gorilla. That is, until I start dancing and singing ‘Happy Birthday'.

Real gorillas don't sing ‘Happy Birthday'.

Real gorillas don't sing much at all.

Not the ones I've seen in the zoo, anyway. I guess there's not much to sing about when you're stuck in the same enclosure day after day with all these human beings sticking their noses into your business.

There's not that much to sing about when you're stuck in a gorilla suit, either.

It's a pretty weird experience. You feel sort of cut off from the world. It's like you're there but not there at the same time.

And to make things worse, the suit is about ten sizes too big.

I've only had it on for ten minutes and already I'm boiling hot. I can't see properly because the mask keeps falling forward over my eyes. I have to keep pulling it back against my face, which is a pain, because the inside is already slimy with sweat and stinks of rubber.

Everybody I pass either stares or waves at me. They're all trying to figure out what a gorilla is doing on Lygon Street. To tell you the truth, I'm starting to wonder myself.

At last I come to the restaurant, but I can't open the door. My hands are swimming in these big rubber gorilla gloves.

Luckily, one of the waitresses opens it for me. I feel like I should say thank you, but I can't, because real gorillas don't speak English.

The restaurant is full of people. They all turn to look at me.

Jen's party is on the second floor. I pull my mask back tight across my face for the five thousandth time and hunch over to the spiral staircase in the middle of the room. I pass a woman in a purple dress who says to her friends in a know-it-all voice, ‘It's just a gorillagram.'

Talk about a party-pooper.

The staircase is difficult to climb because my feet are so large and the steps are so small. When I get to the top, I look across the restaurant at Jen's table. She's sitting with her back to me.

I creep up behind her and put my paws over her eyes.

‘Who is it?' she asks.

I don't say anything.

‘Come on,' she says, trying to pull my hands away. ‘I give up.'

I crouch down, put my head close to hers and take my hands away.

She screams.

I jump up and start dancing around the table. I can't see properly. The inside of the mask is dripping with perspiration.

All I can taste is rubber.

I knock my knee on a corner of the table. It hurts like hell but I don't stop dancing.

I start singing a version of ‘Happy Birthday' without words – just grunts.

Everybody is laughing. Jen's friends, Mum and Dad, the people at the surrounding tables – everybody, that is, except Jen.