My Life and Other Stuff That Went Wrong (7 page)

The VLM drags us out of the ball pit and parades us past the parents. Some of them actually clap, congratulating him on his arrest.

‘Wake up to yerselves,' a dad shouts.

‘You frightened the life out of those kids,' says a mother.

‘
Us
? Did you see them hurling nappy grenades?' Jack asks. ‘We were under siege!'

The VLM leads us into a back room. We sit there, covered in goop, while he calls Jack's mum. Barney is brought in by a lady wearing an eye patch and a skull-and-crossbones bandanna.

‘I'm thirsty,' Barney whines.

Jack is ready to explode.

‘Can I have a creaming soda?' Barney asks.

‘No!' Jack snarls.

‘You can have whatever you like, darling,' the lady says, sneering at Jack, ‘after that terrible ordeal.' She takes Barney off to the cafe to get his drink. Barney grins at us over his shoulder.

‘Worst. Birthday. Ever,' Jack grunts.

His mum arrives a few minutes later. She is not as happy as she could be.

I climb into the back seat with Barney. Jack gets in the front, and she says, ‘I ask you to do one thing. One thing!'

‘On my birthday!' Jack says.

‘Well, I'm sorry the whole world didn't stop for you. I had to do some work so that I can put a roof over your head and food on the table. Oh, and you can forget about going to the movies.'

‘What?'

She reaches her hand through to the back seat and squeezes Barney's foot as she drives off. ‘I'm so sorry I left you with these awful
boys. I thought I could trust them. Do you want some of Jack's birthday cake when we get home?'

‘Yes please, Mummy,' he says.

‘This is so unfair!' Jack shouts, giving Barney an evil glare.

Barney pokes out his tongue, grins and says, ‘Happy birthday, Dack!'

Jack's head explodes all over the front seat.

‘Don't wake up too early, Tom.'

‘Don't be too noisy when you do wake up.'

‘Don't use your bed as a trampoline, Tom.'

‘Don't watch TV or play Lego before school.'

‘Don't sneak into the chocolate cupboard and eat Caramello Koalas before breakfast.'

‘Don't eat seventeen Weet-Bix.'

‘Don't dribble milk down your chin.'

‘Don't burrow your hand to the bottom of the cereal box to get the Shrek pencil sharpener.'

‘Don't read comics while you're eating breakfast.'

‘Don't take forever on the toilet.'

‘Don't read comics on the toilet.'

‘Don't forget to shower.'

‘Don't put the soap in your bottom.'

‘Don't wee all over the glass in the shower to clean it.'

‘Don't sing in the shower.'

‘Don't moonwalk in the shower.'

‘Don't do ballet in the shower.'

‘Don't use your sister's expensive shampoo as a bubble bath.'

‘Don't scrub your toenails with your sister's toothbrush.'

‘Don't wipe your bottom with your sister's towel.'

‘Don't forget to brush your teeth.'

‘Don't just let the tap run for two minutes and pretend you've brushed your teeth.'

‘Don't try to wiggle perfectly good teeth just to get cash from the tooth fairy.'

‘Don't forget to make your lunch.'

‘Don't pour hundreds of Mini-Wheats into your lunch box like they do on the ad. They're expensive and the people in the ads get them for free.'

‘Don't put six slices of cheese on your sandwich.'

‘Don't make jam sandwiches.'

‘Don't make Vegemite and lettuce sandwiches.'

‘Don't make peanut butter-honey-jam-Vegemite-banana-Nutella-bacon sandwiches.'

‘Don't make six sandwiches just so you'll have mouldy ones to show Jack in two weeks' time.'

‘Don't forget to make your sister a sandwich if you're making one for yourself.'

‘Don't lick your sister's sandwich or rub it under your armpit before you wrap it.'

‘Don't let the dog lick your sister's sandwich.'

‘Don't go to school if you have a virus.'

‘Don't go to school if you have nits.'

‘Don't go to school if you have a brain.'

‘Don't go backchatting your teachers.'

‘Don't go outside the school grounds at lunchtime.'

‘Don't go into the girls' toilets again.'

‘Don't scab canteen money off other kids.'

‘Don't give horsey-bites.'

‘Don't give horsey-bites to kids you've scabbed canteen money off.'

‘Don't miss your bus home.'

‘Don't watch TV all afternoon.'

‘Don't make traps to injure your sister as she enters the house.'

‘Don't fight with your sister.'

‘Don't throw hamburgers at your sister.'

‘Don't call your sister a stinky-poo-pants.'

‘Don't laugh.'

‘Don't move.'

‘Don't breathe.'

‘Night, Tom. Sleep tight.'

‘Seriously, you do not want to hear what my grandfather has to say.'

I was standing at the bus stop in front of my school. All the other kids were on the bus already.

‘We are all different, Tom,' said my teacher, Miss Norrish. ‘That's why we're participating in Living Libraries. To preserve the wonderful variety of voices in our community.'

‘But, please, not my pop.'

‘Yes, your pop, too. Each student has been assigned a nursing home resident.'

‘Well, can't someone else have him?'
I asked. ‘He's inappropriate. Mum reckons he's not even the same species as us.'

‘Tom, of course your grandfather is the same species as us. Hop on the bus. We're late.'

I stared at her. Miss Norrish clearly did not understand.

She gave me a gentle shove.

So I did. I hopped on the bus.

This is a story from a while back, before Pop broke out of the nursing home, before he almost won the hot-dog eating contest. Before he died.

‘Cliff Weekly.' That's what the sign on the door said. I stood at the end of a long white hall in the nursing home. It echoed with
sounds of TV, a squeaky dinner trolley and the happy voices of nurses doing their rounds. The other kids from my class had already started interviewing the old folks.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. Pop was asleep in the chair by the window, mouth open, saliva stretching between his top and bottom lips.

He was only wearing undies. Bright yellow ones. Pop refused to wear anything but undies. They changed the nursing home rules for him after the Uprising, when the other inmates started getting around in their undies, too. But if he went out in the hall he had to wear pants. That was the new
rule. So Pop never left his room anymore.

I hadn't seen Pop for a few weeks. Visitors were not his favourite thing. He always told them to … I probably shouldn't say. He always told them to go away, just not as politely.

‘Pop?'

Nothing.

I stepped into the room. ‘Pop?'

Still nothing.

Maybe he's dead
, I thought. I wasn't proud of it but part of me was relieved. If he was dead he couldn't say the things he would say if I interviewed him. Then my whole class and my teacher wouldn't have to
hear any of it and I wouldn't be sent to the principal's office.

‘Pop?' I said it quietly one more time just to be sure.

No response.
Oh, joy
.

This was terrible news. But such good timing. I would really miss days like Christmas when he threw ham at the nurse and told Mum her pavlova tasted like soap. But at least I wouldn't have to interview him. I turned to leave. I would tell a nurse that he had passed on to a better place in the night.

I stopped in the doorway and listened. Something wasn't right.

Snoring.

Dead people don't snore.

I listened carefully.

‘Hello!' said a loud, cheery voice behind me.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

‘You're part of the school project, aren't you?'

‘Um …' I turned to see a nurse – red-faced, unnaturally happy, about the same age as Mum.

‘I'm Debbie. Are you any relation to Cliff?'

‘Well …' I said. I wanted to say ‘no'.

‘I bet you're his grandson. I can see the family resemblance.'

Part of me died when she said that.

‘I'll just wake him up.'

‘No!' I said, a little too fast. ‘Don't do that. Let him sleep … Please.'

‘It's time for his medicine.' She wrote something on his chart.

‘Maybe I can just interview someone else? I saw a nice-looking lady down the hall. The one with the missing leg and the party hat on. Pop needs his sleep.'

‘No, it's fine. He's –'

‘No, it's
not
fine!' I said, raising my voice.

She eyed me. There was an awkward pause.

Pop gave a loud snort and stirred. He smacked his chops, raised his head and looked around.

‘Guess who's here?' Debbie the nurse said loudly, leaning close to Pop's good ear.

‘Osama bin Laden?' Pop asked.

‘No, your grandson.' She propped him up with a pillow and looked at the name tag on my jumper. ‘Tom!'

‘Great,' said Pop, but not in a good way.
‘Has he brought that woman with him?'

‘Mum?' I asked.

‘She put me in this place and they're trying to kill me.'

‘Take your medicine,' Debbie said sweetly.

‘See! They put poison in it to try to make me less angry. But I've always been angry. There's no medicine for that. Anyway, what are you here for? Come to steal my money?'

‘No, Pop, I –'

‘Well, I lost it in The War. The commies took all of it,' he said. ‘Apart from that, it was quite an enjoyable war.'

‘I've got to interview you … for school.'

His face lightened. Pop loved being the centre of attention. Each year in the lead-up to Fast Eddie's Annual Hot Dog Eat he'd be interviewed by the local paper – and he kept every single clipping in a scrapbook.

‘Why didn't you say so? Sit down!' he said with a smile.

I sat on his footrest. ‘I have to record it,' I said. I dreaded pressing that button.

‘Good.'

‘I've got some questions.'

‘Fire away.'

I hit ‘Record'. ‘What do you think is the greatest challenge facing our society?'

Pop thought for a moment then said, ‘Kids. I hate kids.'

‘You hate them?'

‘Yep. Kids stink. They're disgusting. It used to make me physically ill when your mother had her nappy changed. I never did it myself, but even from the next room – the smell of it! You wouldn't believe.'

‘So you think
kids
are the greatest challenge facing our society?'

‘Yep,' he said, looking me in the eye. ‘They have head lice, too. You probably have them now, don't you? You're probably infecting me with them.'

‘I don't have nits,' I said, lying.

‘That's another reason I hate kids – they lie all the time. Anything to get a lolly or an iceblock. Let me ask you a question: am I a nice person?'

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes.'

‘Liar!' he shouted, then laughed hysterically. ‘Another thing I don't like about kids is how small they are. I mean, look at you. You're like a scary little garden gnome. And kids have so much energy, screaming and running around and laughing their heads off while the rest of us get on with the serious business of life.' He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Imagine if adults carried on like a pack of galahs all the time. Nothing would ever get done.'

‘What do you do every day, Pop?' I asked.

He chewed on the corner of his mouth. ‘Well …' He licked his lips. ‘Well, I just sit here. They won't let me out. I've got a million things I could be doing. Like getting ready
for next year's Hot Dog Eat, but they won't feed me hot dogs in here. They say they have sodium nitrites and sodium triphosphates in them that will kill me. But if death is my ticket out of here, I'll take it.'

‘Pop, don't say that.'

‘Here we go. Another do-gooder. That's another problem with kids. Always trying to be nice. Did I ever tell you that I try to run them down when I'm out in my car?'

‘Pop.'

‘You know those school zones that tell you to go forty? Well, I speed up and go eighty, hoping to knock a few of the little ratbags over.'

‘That's terrible, Pop.' I thought about pressing ‘Stop' on the recorder.

‘What's terrible is that I always miss them. Never the right time of day. What time does school let out?'

‘Three twenty-five.'

‘Right. Got it.'

‘But you don't have a car, Pop.'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘No, you're in a nursing home now. Remember?'