My Life and Other Stuff That Went Wrong (8 page)

‘Don't be an idiot, boy. I know where I am. Go and get me a beer out of the fridge. The cold ones are in the door.'

I looked around the room. ‘You don't have a fridge.'

‘Not in here. In the garage! Oh, forget it. I'll get it myself. Kids!' He tried to stand but stopped halfway up, his face pulsing red, eyes bulging. He clutched at his back.

Debbie the nurse dropped the bedsheets she was folding and came to the rescue. ‘Just sit down, Cliff. Everything's going to be okay.'

‘Don't mollycoddle me!' He slapped at her hand and lowered himself gently back down into the chair. ‘I have a plan to break out of here,' he whispered loudly to me.

‘I heard that, Cliff,' said Debbie, smiling.

‘Good. I want you to help me.'

I decided to change the subject. ‘What are some of the good things about our society?' I asked.

‘Good?' he asked.

‘Yes. Good. Like, what are you happy about?'

‘You can find joy in every moment if you look for it,' Debbie said, shaking a pillow into a pillowcase.

‘Bah! What have I got to be happy about? I'm surrounded by twits and incompetents. I always have been my whole life. Why don't people just see the world like I see it?'

I leaned in, wondering if Pop was about to share something personal.

‘For instance, what's the point of whales?' Pop asked.

‘The country?'

‘No. Whales! The fish, you nincompoop.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Exactly. Stupid animals, they are. And yet you've got those imbeciles gettin' around in their rainbow T-shirts, throwing eggs at whaling boats. But what's the point of whales?'

‘Well … they're an endangered species,' I offered.

‘Ohhh, here we go. They've got you in their clutches, too, have they? Hippies. Let's all be happy. Save this, save that. The world's going to end. Well, I wish the world would end so I wouldn't have to listen to any more of this “Save the Whales” cra–'

‘Pop, you're not really allowed to swear.' I stopped recording.

‘In my day a person could swear all they liked.'

‘But this is for school.'

‘So?'

‘Were you allowed to swear at school?' I asked.

‘Of course. That was one of the subjects. Latin, Mathematics and Foul Language.'

‘Yeah, right,' I said.

‘It's true. They taught us some ripe words, too. I could tell you a couple if you like.'

‘Cliff!'
Debbie snipped.

‘Not just poo-poo and wee-wee either. Let me see, there was …'

I clicked ‘Record' again. This was getting interesting.

‘Cliff, I forbid you to –' Debbie began.

Pop blurted a rude word.

‘Cliff!'

And another one.

‘How's everything going in here?' said a voice. I turned to see my teacher, Miss Norrish, standing in the doorway.

Then Pop said the worst word of all.

Miss Norrish's jaw dropped. She raised a hand to her mouth.

Silence.

‘This is Tom's grandfather,' Debbie said, glaring at Pop.

‘Is that another rotten nurse?' Pop asked, squinting. ‘What are you going to stick into me today?'

‘I'm Tom's teacher,' Miss Norrish said, eyes wide.

‘Oh, you look very pretty.' Pop brightened.

‘Pop!'

‘What? I'm not getting any younger.'

I covered my face with my hands.

‘Well, thank you,' Miss Norrish said. ‘Tom, time to go!'

I hit ‘Stop'. ‘Thanks, Pop. See you next week.'

‘Don't bother coming,' he said, cranky again.

‘But –'

‘Not unless that teacher of yours is coming.'

‘Bye, Pop.'

‘Get lost.'

‘So how did it go today?' Miss Norrish asked as we walked up the hall. The other kids from my class were waiting near the nursing home entrance.

‘Well …'

‘Your grandfather seems like an interesting man. Let's go back to school and have a listen.'

‘Um, I think I forgot to press “Record”.'

‘Don't be silly. I'm sure it's a wonderful interview. You can be first cab off the rank when we get back.' Miss Norrish paused. ‘He didn't use that language all the way through, did he?'

I searched for the ‘Delete' function on my recorder. We walked past room after room of old people sitting in their chairs by the window, mouths open, saliva hanging between their jaws, snoring.

I realised that half of these people would never be heard again, except by the nurses.
Most of them didn't even have flowers.

I looked at my recorder. I rewound and pressed ‘Play'.

‘No. Whales! The fish, you nincompoop,' said Pop's voice on the recording.

I hit ‘Stop' and looked at Miss Norrish. ‘I guess there is no-one else who sounds quite like my pop.'

She smiled.

I stopped searching for the ‘Delete' button.

Jack slept over again last night. We stayed up till midnight playing ‘What Would You Rather Do?'. Here are a few of our best …

My friend Raph, he's pretty awesome at drawing and making up stories. He asked me if I'd include one of his stories in my book, so I thought I'd cut the kid a break. If you want to see one of your stories in my next book or on the My Life web page, send it to [email protected], and maybe I'll include it!

It is now official. I AM DOOMED. Very doomed. As doomed as doomed can get. And it's all the fault of my pet sausage dog, Morris.

All.

His.

Fault.

I stood at the front of the class holding Morris for show-and-tell. His shiny collar glinted in the annoying, blinking fluorescent light. A silver triangle with his name engraved on it in fancy writing dangled from his collar.

All eyes were on me. Even the class pet Psycho, the evil goldfish that swims around in a bowl drinking his own wee, was watching me. I tried looking into his eyes to intimidate him. But it's hard to look into both of his eyes at the same time, because a goldfish has eyes on both sides of its head. So I ended up looking like a fruitcake, holding a fat, brown sausage dog, trying to intimidate a fish.

‘Raph would like to show you Snot Bags, his rotten little dog,' Miss Brandy said to the class.

‘Actually, his name is –'

‘So you'd better listen!'

Miss Brandy is, unfortunately, our teacher. She is a rude, short, angry, annoying, lazy, green-haired woman of colossal size. At the end of my presentation I asked the class, ‘Any questions?' A few hands darted up. ‘Theo,' I said, pointing to my buck-toothed best friend, who was going to blow his sphincter if I didn't pick him soon. ‘What's your question?'

‘What does his poo look like?'

‘Um …' I muttered.

‘Does he smell other dogs' butts?' Theo asked. ‘Does he roll in dead cane toads? Does he drink out of the toilet? Because I do!'

I looked away and decided to give someone else a chance. Before I could, Miss Brandy looked at her watch and snapped, ‘Everyone outside! We're going to the hall for a special assembly.'

We walked out obediently. Morris
struggled in my arms. I tried to hold him still, but he slipped free and ran across the playground. I started to run after him. Miss Brandy grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back into line.

‘And where do you think you're going, Raph?' she asked with an evil grin.

‘To go ge–' I began.

‘RHETORICAL QUESTION!' she screeched, her face centimetres from mine, spit projectiles pelting my face.

Morris continued running across the field and disappeared into the Wetlands Nature Reserve, a big muddy forest that grew next to the school. We walked silently in two straight lines. But we weren't the only ones. Everyone
in school seemed to be filing out of their classrooms and heading to the hall.

Roars of excitement came in waves from the kids inside. The teachers were running around, trying to shut them up, but it was no use. When we reached the hall I realised why.

Cameras clicked and flashed. News reporters scribbled notes. Others were having their make-up done. There were cameramen wearing big headphones, carrying massive, furry microphones, pushing each other to get the best position. Even the Prime Minister was there, smiling and patting kids on the head.

‘What is this?' I asked Theo.

We sat on the cold, wooden floorboards, waiting for something to happen. Our principal, Mr Bernard, walked onto the stage and stood next to a large bedsheet that was hanging from the ceiling. He held up his hand for silence. You could have heard a pin drop.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, ‘Prime
Minister, esteemed guests, teachers –'

Then Theo farted.
BLAARB!

‘THEO!' screeched Miss Brandy. ‘DETENTION!'

‘Kids,' Mr Bernard said. ‘We have some very special guests here today. They come from the local birdwatching team. I know you have all been busy studying about the Jagrofest in class, and how the last two of their kind are living in OUR Wetlands Nature Reserve. Well, now you – and the rest of the world – will witness, for the very first time, a live feed from the cameras that have just been installed in their nest.'

The birdwatchers stood at the side of the stage, grinning like madmen. Cameras pointed at them, clicking and whirring, as a massive round of applause rose from the audience.

‘IT'S A WORLD PREMIERE!' Mr Bernard declared.

Grinning from ear to ear, our principal
galloped down the steps and turned on the data projector balanced on a table in front of the stage. He typed into his laptop. Suddenly his desktop flashed onto the bedsheet, and the entire school started giggling. It had the usual icons running down the side – but his wallpaper wasn't what any of us had expected. I thought it would be something boring, like a times-tables chart. I was wrong. It was a picture of Mr Bernard and his wife at the beach, she in a red bikini and he in nothing but a hot-pink G-string. The colour drained from his face as his big, hairy bottom was beamed on live television around the globe. He muttered a few bad words and scrambled like a maniac to get his desktop off the screen. He clicked the mouse crazily, but that only made the computer freeze.

‘AAAAAARGH!' he yelled. The image of the hot-pink G-string refused to come down. The Prime Minister tried not to laugh.
Mr Bernard fumbled with the projector and wound up knocking it off the table. It fell towards the floor. He dived and caught it, crashing onto the floorboards himself. He rose to his feet, holding the projector in his quivering hands, and carefully placed it on the table. He clicked an icon that looked like a camera and the desktop disappeared. Live images from the nest beamed onto the bedsheet.

Everyone craned their necks to see two
very ordinary-looking brown-and-white striped birds sitting in a nest of sticks and feathers, doing nothing but peck each other in the backside. The teachers went, ‘oooh' and ‘aaah'. The chief birdwatcher walked onto the stage, hands behind his back, and stood next to the bedsheet.

‘These birds are the last remaining male and female Jagrofests on earth,' he said matter-of-factly. ‘I've been tracking Jagrofests for twenty years now. It's my life's work. I lived around these parts before I left on my lifelong journey, travelling the world in search of these wonderful creatures. Who would have known that I was going to be led all the way back to my home town?'

He looked as if he was about to cry.

And then he did.

He blabbered like a baby.

‘FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, KIDS! WAAAAAAAH! I DID AND I REACHED
THEM! NOTHING CAN STOP YOU!'

A lady from the birdwatching team walked him calmly down from the stage. He was a sobbing mess.

The little brown birds on the bedsheet let out a good squawk and everyone sighed, ‘awwww'. Then the nest started to shake. The birds squawked louder. Branches were cracking and leaves ruffled wildly.

And then it happened.

The end of my life as I knew it.

A brown, sausage-shaped dog jumped onto the nest and started snapping at the last two Jagrofests on the planet. The birdwatching chief screamed, got down on his knees and pounded the floor with his fists.

‘MY LIFE'S WORK! NOOOOOO!' he wailed.

The audience gasped and my entire school turned to me. Four hundred kids. Eight hundred eyes. Glaring.

‘What?' I said. ‘That could be anyone's sausage dog …'

The dog barked at the camera, a feather dangling from its mouth. A silver triangular name tag hung from its neck. Engraved on its surface in fancy writing was ‘Morris'.

‘I stand corrected,' I said.

Morris bolted at the camera lens.

The chief birdwatcher bolted for me.

I bolted towards the door.