When Mr. Dog Bites (14 page)

“Amir?” I said.

“This school’s full of dicks and arseholes,” he said, before launching the lion book across the room like the best ultimate frisbee player in Scotland. It almost hit the only other person in the class, Charlotte Duffy, full force on the napper. She hardly moved. She never did in the morning. That was when she was given all her drugs to eat. She was like a mad spacer in the morning time.

She turned in our direction and said, “Watch it, you, or else I’ll .
.
.” And after that she just muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t make out, but her face was all scrunched up; it was like she was talking to her desk. Round the twist or what?

“Sorry, Charlotte, that was an accident,” I said.

“I’m going to get you one of these days.” And then she said something that made my hands tingle and my face bendy. Something that made me want to jump on her
Teen Wolf
–style and yank a big chunk out of her cheek.

She called me a “Paki shagger.”

“What did you call me?” I asked her.

“You heard.”

“Say it again.”

“
Say it again.
”

“Say it again—I dare you.”

“
Say it again—I dare you.
”
I hated it when people did the imitation-voice stuff; it made my inside kettle hiss. I was totally hissed off at this stage.

“You’re off your head, Charlotte.”

“We’re all off our heads, daft arse. That’s why we’re in this shit hole.”

“Buzz off, desk-licker.”

“Is your ear sore?” she said.

“What?”

“Is your ear sore?” she said, tugging at her own ear.

“What have they been feeding you?”

“It’s a simple question. IS YOUR EAR SORE?” she screamed.

“I think you’d better take another pill, ’cause I haven’t a clue what—”

“Rubber ear.”

“What?”

“Rubber ear.”

I didn’t know what to say. I screwed up my face.

“Big rubber ear.”

“What are you on about, headbanger?” I said. Off-the-radar chats happened every hour at Drumhill—that was why there were always people shouting, screaming, crying, or trying to hurt either themselves or each other. On one side of our classroom was Amir with his head down hugging the desk; at the other was Charlotte Duffy doing an impression of the bonkers girl from
The Exorcist
. Add another forty or fifty people to the mix, and you had a typical day at Drumhill Special School. No wonder people actually shat themselves all the time.

“Michelle Malloy gave you a big giant rubber ear. HA!” Charlotte said, a witch cackling.

Charlotte Duffy and Michelle Malloy weren’t big boob-buddies, so I didn’t know how she knew all the juicy gossip. I’d say that Michelle Malloy’s brain was way too advanced for her and Charlotte Duffy to be anywhere near friends. I was positive Charlotte Duffy’s brain was half the size of a normal brain. She used to pick at her bogging ears and chew the wax, and before that she used to say to the boys in the normal school that she’d yank their ying-yangs so hard that their goo-goo would come out. Crazy with a capital
C
.

I couldn’t Adam and Eve it that she knew about Michelle Malloy. News spread around school like a gaggle of One Direction fans.

“Who told you that pish?”

“Everyone knows.”

“Bet they don’t.”

“Bet they do.”

“I don’t give a hairy arse, Charlotte.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“DO!”

“DON’T.” I think my shout silenced her a bit.

“I don’t blame her. I mean, look at the state of you,” she said.

“Look at the state of you,” I said.

“
State of you.
”

“State of you.”

“STATE OF FUCKING YOU!” she roared.

“STATE OF FUCKING YOU!” I roared back. The pressure was rising. Mr. Dog was simmering. I’d never wanted to scud a girl as much in all my puff.

“Look at you. You’ve got a face like a painter’s radio, Mint.”

“So, you’ve got a fanny like a ripped-out fireplace.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“NO, YOU SHUT UP.”

“YOU’VE GOT AN ARSE LIKE A BAG OF WASHING,” I shouted for real—it was nothing to do with Tourette’s. I didn’t mean to say these awful things. I only said them because Charlotte was being vile to me. I wasn’t even the one who threw the lion book at her in the first place.

“SHUT UP, HORRIBLE BASTARD!” she screamed, before smashing her head on the desk. I think she was bubbling away to herself; her shoulders were doing the crying boogie dance. I felt the opposite of a love song, but Charlotte Duffy bloody well deserved it. It wasn’t my fault that she’d decided she was going to be in a mental mood all day. Before I had the chance to turn back to Amir, she popped her head up from the desk and bawled, “DYLAN MINT, YOU’RE A DIRTY FUCKING SHITBAG, AND I HOPE YOU DIE!” She would regret saying that when March came.

I didn’t know what annoyed me most, being called a “Paki shagger” or everyone knowing that Michelle Malloy had given me a Big Knock-back. I wasn’t an expert in social things, but I was pretty sure Charlotte Duffy was being an atrocious racist beast when she said that I was a “Paki shagger.” I’m only saying this because I don’t think she meant that I had actually shagged someone from Pakistan, which I haven’t, and that’s not because I’m racist—I just hadn’t met anyone, other than Amir and his family, whom I hadn’t officially
met
met, but I knew they were from Pakistan, and I knew for a fact that I hadn’t shagged Amir or anyone from his family. So far I hadn’t shagged anyone from any country or any city in the world.
Cool Things to Do Before I Cack It: Number one
clearly said this. I did hope Charlotte Duffy didn’t think Amir and me were bare-arse boxers. I hoped nobody in the school thought that way.

Aaarrrghhh. I was boiling mad.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists because I didn’t want to pounce on Charlotte Duffy, kick her desk, lob chairs at her, or introduce her to Mr. Dog. I kept my eyes tightly closed. Miss Flynn told me to try to solve random problems in my head when I got stressed out or felt like I wanted to freak out with my hands or tongue. Since I was rank rotten at math I did other problem-solving things. Miss Flynn called them brain-gym exercises.

So with my eyes in the darkness, to cool the jets, I did some brain gym. I tried to find another team in the Scottish, En-glish, Welsh, or Irish soccer leagues with the letter
J
in their name—apart from St. Johnstone, that is.

I couldn’t find any.

With my head on my desk I imagined scoring the winner for Scotland in the World Cup final after diving to get my noggin on the end of a rapido counterattacking move. I knew this wasn’t a brain-gym exercise or the solving of a difficult problem, but it put a supercharged brake on my jets.

*

When I opened my eyes I noticed that Amir’s shoulders were also doing the crying boogie dance.

“Are you okay, Amir, me old mucker?”

“I can’t believe you said that to her.” He was giggling; his shoulders were doing the
cheery
boogie dance.

“Said what?”

“That her fa-fa-fanny was like a ripped-out fireplace.”

“Did you not hear what she said to me?”

“Classic.”

“She deserved it.”

“I know.”

“What was up with you this morning?” I asked him, which seemed to bring back all his memories from earlier.

“Same old shite.”

“What same old shite?”

“All the stuff about curry breath and stop stealing our jobs and Pakis can’t play soccer. I’m sick of it.”

“Who was it? Doughnut again?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

“Snot Rag and Skittle.”

“Snot Rag and Skittle?”

“Skittle, mainly.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t take any crap from him.”

“What can I do?”

“Just nudge that wee clown, and he’ll fall over.”

“It’s every day now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Amir?”

“Because you have your own things to worry about.”

“So?”

“And Michelle Malloy gave you a big rubber ear.”

“Okay.”

“Well, she did.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I heard you, Amir, for the love of f .
.
.
,” I said.

“What can I do, Dylan?”

“What about?”

“All the Paki stuf
f
.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, you could have a square go with Skittle.”

“Have you seen me fighting, Dylan?” Big miserable face had returned to Amir.

“I wasn’t serious, Amir.”

“I don’t think I want to come to school anymore.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I wish I was a top scrapper; then I’d just give them a dink to the jaw and that’d be the end of it.”

“They never say anything to you when I’m around,” I said.

“They wouldn’t dare,” Amir said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go.”

“Do you think I smell of curry?”

Boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, what a question for one best bud to ask another best bud. If I gave my honest answer, it would have made a meteor dent in our best bud days. My eyes flicked like a camera.

“Do you?”

“Erm, of course not.”

“Really?”

“Don’t listen to any of those plebs, Amir.”

“So, no curry smell?”

“No, none.”

“You m-m-mean that?”

“’Course I do.”

“So I don’t stink of curry, then?”

“No, Amir, you don’t stink of curry.”

“But Skittle said—”

“Next time
you
just ask
them
why they always reek of grease and chips and pish and farts, then see what they have to say.” I had to tell porkies through my teeth so Amir wouldn’t tell me that he didn’t want to be best buds anymore, which was too scary to think about.

Imagine it!

I’d be left to kick stones about the playground on my own, and I’d have nobody to send text messages to, and nobody to talk dirty to either. I had to porky pie. Mine was a white lie. I felt rubbish after saying it to him, but the
truth
truth was that the bold Amir came to school loads smelling like he’d just popped out of Korma Chameleon’s
kitchen after a twenty-four-hour sweaty shift. I didn’t mind—I quite like the smell of curry in the classroom. It was one of my fave foods anyway, and the reek always got me in the mood for my din-dins. The curry smell sure as hell beat the constant whiff of bum pong that hovered about the school. Almost every student at Drumhill reeked of something ming, like cabbage, farts, grease, and damp towels. Give me Amir’s smell any day. I used Axe Apollo every day, sometimes twice a day, so I was all right in the pong department.

“But why does everyone keep saying it, Dylan?”

“I think it’s the color of your skin, Amir.”

“The color of my skin?”

“Yes.”

“What’s up with the color of my skin?” Amir asked, as if he didn’t know. Honestly, butter wouldn’t have dissolved in the mouth of that laddie.

“I think some people don’t like it.”

“But why?”

“Some people are scared of it.”

“How the bloody hell can you be scared of someone’s skin?”

“I don’t know, mate, but some people seem to be offended by other people’s skin color.” Amir looked at me similar to the way I look at Mom when the sad clouds float over me and she makes everything A-okay by giving me one of her hug specials. I wanted to give him a hug special, and then perhaps he’d return to sunshine and happy Amir. If I did hug him, though, Charlotte Duffy would probably put it all over Facebook that I was a Paki shagger for real.        

“But how can you be offended by something like skin, Dylan?”

“I don’t know, Amir, but some evil people are.”

“But skin doesn’t even t-t-talk.”

“It’s crazy, I know.”

“You bet it’s crazy, Dylan. You bet it in the nearest bookie shop it’s crazy.”

“It’s Billy Bonking Bonkers.”

“I j-j-just don’t understand it.”

“It’s like one of those mad questions that we can never answer,” I said to Amir.

“Like why do we have the same word for bark on a tree and bark for a dog’s talking?”