Brain Freeze

by Oliver Phommavanh

  All of these photos are going to scare the shirt off Rohan . . . and his pants, well hopefully not his pants, because that would be gross.

  Mr Ferris wipes his forehead. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in ages,’ he says. ‘You will send me those photos, right? I hope my dinosaur phone can handle them.’

  Mr Ferris takes me inside the house, letting me take more photos. ‘If you want to get a shot of my best rose, take a photo of that picture,’ Mr Ferris says.

  ‘Um, okay,’ I say. It’s a photo of a couple sitting on a bench. The man looks younger but it’s obviously Mr Ferris, with his frizzy hair sticking out in all directions. ‘Is that you and your wife?’

  Mr Ferris adjusts his glasses and gazes at the photo. ‘Yes, that’s Stella,’ he says. ‘My most precious rose.’

  Taking photos to scare Rohan seems like the dumbest idea in the world right now. I put the phone away.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I say, showing him my snacks. ‘I love gingernut cookies.’

  Mr Ferris takes one and breaks it in half. He gnaws on one half like a rat. ‘Hmmm, a bit too hard for me. Maybe if I melt it into some tea first.’

  I walk into the kitchen and put the rest of my snacks on his dining table. I take an apple and bite into it. ‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask.

  ‘Close to forty years,’ Mr Ferris says, bringing out a bottle of juice from the fridge and winking at me. ‘I got this from my recent shopping trip.’

  ‘Cool, thanks, Mr Ferris,’ I say. ‘How often do you go shopping?’

  ‘Um, about once every couple of weeks,’ Mr Ferris says. ‘Mr Nim from Mayfield Church takes me to the supermarket and if I need to see the doctor in town.’

  I nod. That’s how Mum knows him. ‘Do you have any friends?’ I ask.

  ‘I have plenty,’ Mr Ferris says, staring out his window. ‘They’re all waving at me.’ He laughs at his roses outside.

  We drink our tea until Dad arrives to pick me up. ‘You can keep the biscuits,’ I say.

  Mr Ferris shakes his head. ‘I can’t eat all these on my own,’ he says.

  ‘Pop them into a container,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you next week, Mr Ferris.’

  On the way home, I flick through my photos of Mr Ferris’s roses.

  ‘I wonder how he does it?’ Dad says.

  ‘He uses a lot of rose food and water,’ I say.

  ‘No, no,’ Dad says. ‘How does Mr Ferris manage on his own?’

  I stare out the window. It’s a good question, but I don’t have an answer.

  I spend the rest of the weekend wondering if I should go ahead with my prank on Rohan, but decide it can’t do any harm. The next day, I give Zac his phone back with the ton of photos I took.

  ‘I put some of the shots in a special folder called Slaughterhouse Man,’ I tell him.

  Zac nods. ‘How come there are so many pictures of roses in the other folder?’

  ‘Being a gardener is his cover,’ I say. I don’t mean to lie to my best friend, but I’m sure he’ll laugh about it when I tell him later.

  After school, I share some of the photos from the Slaughterhouse Man folder and I take the kids through each photo like I’m a tour guide. ‘This is the death shed up close.’

  Tayla shivers at each photo but Rohan just scoffs. ‘That could be anyone’s shed,’ he says.

  ‘Well, why don’t you come up and see for yourself?’ I say, standing up and facing him. ‘Or maybe you don’t have the guts.’

  Rohan clenches his fist. ‘Why you . . .’

  ‘I’m Mr Ferris’s accomplice now,’ I say, poking his chest. ‘If you ever touch me again, then Mr Ferris will pay you a visit and you can help his roses grow as mulch.’

  Rohan opens his mouth but no words come out. He hops on his bike in a hurry and disappears in a puff of dust.

  Zac and I grin at each other. ‘The days of being picked on by Rohan are over,’ I say.

  ‘Cool,’ Zac says. ‘Does that mean you’ll be working for Mr Ferris now, like a slaughterhouse assistant?’

  ‘I dunno, I just have two more weeks of my punishment left,’ I say.

  I don’t know if I want to hang out with Mr Ferris after that. But I hope someone else can visit him. It must be lonely living in the only house up there on Slaughterhouse Road.

  It’s an overcast day when I turn up at Mr Ferris’s house the following Saturday.

  ‘Hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty,’ Mr Ferris says. ‘I’m spreading the mulch around my plants this afternoon.’

  I roll up my sleeves. ‘Let’s get into it.’

  We shovel the mulch into a wheelbarrow and start with the front garden. I help roll the wheelbarrow, dodging the gnomes along the rocky path, straight into a police officer’s legs.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Are you Mr Ferris’s assistant?’ the officer asks.

  I read her badge. Officer Jenny. ‘Yeah . . .’

  Another police officer joins her. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders. ‘I’m Constable Brady Schuh,’ he says.

  ‘Huh?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s pronounced like shoe.’

  Mr Ferris comes around the corner of the house holding his axe like a sword. ‘Ai-yaaaahhhh,’ he screams, pretending to strike me. He looks at the police officers and stops midway. ‘Oh my!’

  The police officers step back and take out their guns. ‘Hold it right there.’

  Mr Ferris freezes on the spot, like he’s posing for one of my photos.

  ‘Now drop the weapon,’ Constable Schuh says.

  Mr Ferris lowers the axe in slow motion, gently laying it down like it’s a precious rose stem.

  Constable Schuh shoves Mr Ferris down to the ground.

  I reach out to stop Constable Schuh. ‘There must be some mistake,’ I say.

  Officer Jenny tugs my arm. ‘We’ve had an anonymous tip-off that this gentlemen may be up to no good,’ she says.

  Mr Ferris looks as fragile as a ceramic gnome. His face could shatter at any second.

  ‘We’d like to take you both to the police station,’ Constable Schuh says.

  He marches Mr Ferris to the back door of the police car.

  In the distance I spot Rohan, with his silly mop of hair. He has his mobile phone out, filming me as I step into the car beside Mr Ferris.

  I strap on my seatbelt and it feels like a python crushing my chest. There’s deathly silence all the way down Slaughterhouse Road. When we reach Main Street, Mr Ferris chuckles his chainsaw laugh. He turns to me with his petal-shaped eyes. ‘I’ve never been in a police car before, what a treat.’

  We arrive at the police station, which looks more like a classroom because it’s in a demountable building. Mr Ferris and I sit down on one side of the table while Officer Jenny and Constable Schuh stand in front of us.

  Officer Jenny takes out her notepad and pencil. ‘This anonymous tip said that you were both, in their words, “hacking up bodies”.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mr Ferris says. ‘Yes, well that is true.’

  Constable Brady touches his gun. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I’ve killed Shelly, Brenda, Wilbur . . .’

  Officer Jenny scribbles down the names so fast that I’m scared her notebook may catch on fire.

  Constable Schuh swallows hard. He looks shaken. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asks.

  ‘It was for their own good,’ Mr Ferris says. ‘They weren’t budding as much.’

  ‘Huh?’ Officer Jenny says. ‘They’re flowers?’

  ‘Roses,’ I say. ‘This is all my fault.’

  I come clean about the whole Slaughterhouse Man prank, except Officer Jenny and Constable Schuh aren’t laughing. Mr Ferris just shakes his head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Ferris,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to trick this mean kid at school.’

  ‘And did you scare him?’ Mr Ferris asks.

  ‘Well, I did for a bit,’ I say. ‘It was too good to pass up because you’re th
e only person living on Slaughterhouse Road.’

  Mr Ferris starts to laugh. He laughs so hard that if he was a chainsaw, he would have cut the table in half. ‘Can you imagine me, as a killer?’

  A tiny smile sprouts on Officer Jenny’s face but Constable Schuh doesn’t budge. ‘I will still need to call your parents but you were already being punished,’ he says. ‘Plus no actual bodies were harmed. So, consider this a stern warning.’

  ‘But I want to be punished,’ I say, standing up. ‘Maybe I should do some more community service work for Mr Ferris.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Officer Jenny says.

  ‘Like more gardening and some shopping,’ I say. ‘And inviting him to my parent’s place for dinner.’

  Constable Schuh turns to Mr Ferris. ‘Is that okay with you, Mr Ferris?’

  Mr Ferris smiles. ‘Only if the food is good.’

  I sit back, feeling as bright as a budding rose. It’s probably the first time in history that a kid’s been happy to be punished.

  When I get to school on Monday, everyone’s shocked to see me. A few kids make police sirens noises around me.

  ‘Rohan’s saying you’re going to be locked up in jail,’ Zac says. ‘Will I get in trouble too because you took those photos on my phone? Maybe the police will want to take it away as evidence.’

  I laugh. ‘You really do want a new phone, hey?’ I tell Zac about my silly prank on Rohan. ‘Sorry, I didn’t tell you the truth.’

  Zac smiles. ‘It was worth it, just seeing Rohan shake in his boots for a few seconds.’

  ‘You want to come around to see Mr Ferris’s roses?’ I say.

  ‘Is this another joke? I don’t want to go up there, it’s creepy.’

  ‘Mr Ferris’ is cool,’ I say. ‘I still want to check up on him now and again.’

  Then Rohan appears and shoves me in the shoulder. ‘Did you enjoy your ride in the paddy wagon?’

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m good mates now with Constable Schuh. He wants me to be his informant at school, sniffing out any bad behaviour.’

  Rohan grits his teeth and pretends to lunge at me. ‘You think I’m going to fall for that one?’

  I don’t flinch and fold my arms. ‘I didn’t tell him you were the anonymous tipster,’ I say, then continue in my best Constable Schuh voice, deep and gravelly, ‘So, consider this your warning.’

  Rohan backs off as if I’m covered in thorns. He grumbles to himself and walks away.

  ‘Nice work,’ Zac says.

  ‘There’s one special thing that I still have to do on Slaughterhouse Road,’ I say. ‘Do you want to help?’

  Zac raises his eyebrow. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  The following Sunday, Dad and I drive to Mr Ferris’s house.

  Mr Ferris is waiting outside the gate, holding a bunch of roses. He hands them across to me as he gets into the car.

  ‘Thanks for inviting me to dinner, Mr Al-awsi,’ Mr Ferris says.

  ‘It’s the least we can do,’ Dad says, giving me a sideways glance. ‘Although it almost seems like you’ve been keeping Amirul in trouble, not the other way around.’

  ‘Dad!’ I say, but Mr Ferris just smiles.

  We slow down at the junction. There’s a wooden sign, tied to the metal pole.

  Dad peers at the new sign. ‘Laughterhouse Road?’ he says. ‘That’s new.’

  Thankfully, Dad doesn’t recognise my handwriting. I ducked into his shed this afternoon and made up the sign. Zac helped me put it up there.

  ‘Why would someone write that?’ Dad says.

  Mr Ferris’s laughter ripples through the car. He leans back and rests his hands on his chest. ‘It is a nicer name,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think?’

  I smile. It makes much more sense to me.

  Ever since this pandemic started, so many parents have had to get used to their new work-from-home lives. Not mine. My parents have been working from home all their lives, running Thai-riffic! restaurant from downstairs. They’ve never been busier. My little brother Kitchai and I have had to work every night during the dinner rush hour (which is more like two hours).

  Tonight, in the empty restaurant, Kitchai crawls around under the tables like a hamster chasing a ball.

  ‘At least we’re out of the house,’ he says.

  ‘Pfft, this is still our house. We’re just downstairs,’ I say.

  Kitchai grins. ‘No, we just had school upstairs,’ he says, ‘at Living Room Public School. Ha ha!’ He jumps out from under the table, bumping off an upturned chair.

  I grab the chair off the floor. ‘Watch it!’ I say.

  ‘Boys!’ Dad hollers from the kitchen. ‘We need you at the packing stations.’

  We both go to the counter where Dad’s already in his apron, chef’s hat, mask and gloves. ‘It’s Thursday night,’ Dad says. ‘You know what that means?’

  ‘We get double pay?’ I say.

  Kitchai slaps me on the arm. ‘Wait, we’re getting paid?’

  ‘No. It’s our “Buy one curry, get one free” promotion,’ Dad says. ‘So, we’re expecting a ton of orders.’

  ‘No worries, Dad,’ I say. ‘This is easier than serving customers in person.’

  ‘Yeah, all we’ve got to do is just put the containers into bags for the turtles on wheels,’ Kitchai says.

  Dad raises an eyebrow. ‘Turtles?’

  ‘Yeah, the people with the giant square packs on their backs,’ Kitchai says. He picks up an empty box and holds it behind his back.

  ‘You mean those thermal boxes?’ I say. ‘All the delivery people use them.’

  ‘Yes, we don’t want any food going cold,’ Dad says, grimly.

  Ever since lockdown, Thai-riffic! has been a smash hit with all the food delivery companies around Fairfield.

  Mum steps out of the storeroom. ‘Have you both finished your homework?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Everything we do is home-work,’ I say.

  Kitchai giggles. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  Mum’s still wearing her Thai traditional dress even though we’re closed for dining in. It’s an interesting look with a face mask and gloves. ‘You need to finish your studies first before you can help out,’ she says.

  I am tempted to use an English assignment as a get-out-of-Thai-riffic! pass, but I count the lines on Mum’s forehead. I should help out. Besides, this counts as an off-screen activity, which means I can play some games later.

  Dad pats my shoulder. ‘Thank you, boys. Thai-riffic! is more essential now than ever.’

  ‘Yeah, we are super-essential,’ Kitchai says, doing his superman pose.

  I shake my head. I didn’t think Thai food was essential to anyone, except maybe for Mr Winfree, my teacher who’s crazy for Thai-riffic! food.

  Dad joins Kitchai in the superman pose, sticking out his chest. ‘Yes, it’s up to us to feed Fairfield with our warming curries and noodles.’

  ‘For a price,’ I say.

  ‘. . . that is good value,’ Dad adds, winking at me. Trust him to have the last word.

  Kitchai and I put on our face masks and gloves and get to work. At 5pm, Dad’s iPad on the counter starts beeping like an impatient alarm clock, and a stream of orders come in.

  It’s our second week of going to delivery and takeaway only, so we’re used to the routine now. Dad cooks the dishes. Mum scoops them into containers. And Kitchai pops them into paper bags ready for delivery.

  That’s where I come in. I’m at the counter, dealing with the turtles on wheels. They come in with their phones and order numbers. No one’s comes for their own takeaway. We’re even getting orders from people just down the street. I guess everybody wants to be safe.

  At the end of the night, Mum and Dad are exhausted. I check out the night’s order list. ‘We must be getting a ton of moolah from all these Delivery App orders,’ I say.

  Dad takes off his chef’s hat. ‘Not that much moolah. Those app orders haven’t been a cash-cow for us. We’ve had to charge a
bit more for our dishes to cover the delivery costs.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s to pay the delivery drivers, right?’ I say.

  ‘No, the companies pay the delivery drivers,’ Dad says. ‘We have to pay a fee for being on their app.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I say. A super-essential flash goes off in my brain. ‘How about we deliver the food ourselves?’

  ‘Yeah, we can both help,’ Kitchai says, jumping on the spot. ‘You can pay us with gummi bears.’

  ‘No way,’ I say.

  ‘Fine, you can just give them all to me,’ he says.

  I tap Kitchai on the shoulder. ‘You are too young to be out there.’

  Mum taps me on the shoulder. ‘And you are too young as well.’

  Dad reaches for Mum’s shoulder and makes it a triple tap combo. We’re all tapped out. ‘Hang on, dear. Lengy may be onto something here,’ Dad says. ‘What if we had a delivery service just for around our neighbourhood?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ Mum says.

  ‘Come on, Mum, I can ride my bike with my eyes closed,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, like that time last year when Rajiv dared ya,’ Kitchai says.

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, pinching Kitchai’s arm. ‘A local delivery service is a great idea. Heaps of our orders come from around the block.’

  ‘It would mean our food would get there quicker,’ Dad says. ‘A hot curry is a good one!’ He smiles at me. ‘Great idea, Lengy!’

  I gulp. I wonder if I’ll be doing a Tour de Fairfield, cycling everywhere. Maybe I should have thought this through before I opened my big mouth.

  The next day, Dad writes on our blackboard sign outside the restaurant:

  FREE HOME DELIVERY

  FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHTS WITHIN 1KM.

  GIVE US A CALL!

  On Friday afternoon, Dad fits me with one of those thermal boxes, just like the delivery drivers.

  ‘Cool,’ I say.

  Dad decorates the box with Thai-riffic! flyers. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Um, slighty less cool,’ I say with a frown.

  Mum hands me a neon orange shirt with flashing lights attached to the back.