Danny? Jack-in-the-box? My head hurts, that’s for sure, but I don’t remember getting hit. I don’t remember anything about a jack-in-the-box. And I don’t remember anyone called Danny.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say.
‘Try sitting up,’ he says.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I say.
‘I’d better get you inside,’ he says.
He helps me to my feet. The ground is spongy. It’s like walking on a mattress.
I look around me. We’re in somebody’s backyard. There is a clothesline in the centre. It’s bent over at a forty-five degree angle, one of the corners practically sticking into the ground. There’s a half burned-down fence running alongside the driveway. In the carport there’s a mangled pram that looks like it’s been run over by a truck. The whole area looks like it should be cordoned off with yellow tape and declared a disaster zone.
‘Where am I?’ I say.
‘In your backyard,’ says the boy.
‘My backyard?’ I say.
He sighs.
‘Take it easy up the steps,’ he says.
I wobble my way to the top of the porch.
The boy opens a sliding glass door and guides me through it. Inside the house it’s dark and cool.
‘Mrs G!’ he calls. ‘Mrs G! Come quick! Andy’s been hurt!’
‘Who’s Mrs G?’ I say.
‘That’s your mother,’ he says. ‘You must remember your own mother.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember anything.’
The boy looks around the room. He grabs my arm and leads me over to a shelf full of photographs.
He points to one of a man and a woman.
‘That’s your mum,’ he says, pointing to the woman.
‘And who’s the guy with the big ears?’ I say.
‘That’s your dad,’ he says. ‘But you’d better not let him hear you saying he’s got big ears. He goes ballistic.’
Hmmm. He’s obviously got a bad temper. That would explain the state of the backyard.
‘Here’s a photo of you,’ he says.
He’s pointing to a picture of a group of people in a restaurant. They are all staring at someone in a gorilla suit. The gorilla has spaghetti all over its head.
I recognise the man and woman from the other photo, but nobody else looks familiar.
‘Which one am I?’ I say.
‘You’re the one in the gorilla suit,’ he says. ‘Remember? You gave Jen a gorillagram for her birthday and she tipped spaghetti all over you.’
‘Jen?’ I say. ‘Who’s Jen?’
‘Your sister,’ he says, pointing to the girl in the middle of the photo.
‘She looks nice,’ I say.
The boy looks at me closely.
‘You really do have amnesia, don’t you?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Mrs G?’ he calls again.
Nobody answers.
‘The mother must be out,’ I say.
‘Not the mother,’ he says. ‘Your mother.
You’re really starting to freak me out. Maybe you should go up to your room and have a rest.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Somebody will be home soon,’ he says. ‘I’ll drop by later and see how you are.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But where’s the bedroom?’
‘Upstairs. The one with the big red skull on the door,’ he says. ‘You can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m glad I met you.’
‘Get some rest,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you later.’ I go up the stairs and find the door with the skull on it. Underneath the skull there’s a sign that says ANDY’S ROOM. DANGER! ENTER AT OWN RISK!
I walk in.
Wow, what an amazing smell. Sort of like a sports changing room crossed with a rubbish tip. And the mess! It looks like a bomb went off. Not a normal bomb though. One filled with undies, socks and towels. They’re everywhere. Hanging off the light, the curtain rails and the desk.
There is a gorilla suit thrown across the bed. A half-eaten banana on the floor. A fish tank full of green slimy water on the windowsill.
And the bookshelves have some very weird stuff on them. A severed hand. A jar with an eyeball in it. And a horrible pink teddy bear with a human skull for a head.
What sort of boy is this Andy?
I look at a photograph on a pinboard. The boy has his thumbs jammed in the corner of his mouth and his pointer fingers in the corners of his eyes. He is pulling his eyes down and his mouth up. And sticking his tongue out as well. What an idiot.
I look in a mirror. I don’t look anything like that. I can’t be this boy. Whoever I am, I’m not Andy. Unless . . . I’d better just do a quick check. I rest the photo against the mirror. I put my thumbs in my mouth and my fingers in my eyes and try to pinch my fingers and thumbs together. I stick my tongue out.
The resemblance is uncanny.
But this can’t be right! I can’t be Andy. He’s sick! He’s disturbed! Me looking like him is just a coincidence. Yeah, that’s it. Just some sort of crazy coincidence. I don’t belong here. Somewhere, somebody’s probably missing me. I bet they’re really worried. I know! I’ll ring Missing Persons and see if anybody has reported me missing.
I go downstairs and find a telephone. I ring up the police.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’d like to see if anybody has reported me missing.’
‘I see . . .’ says the man on the other end of the phone. ‘What is your name?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I say.
‘You can’t remember?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m ringing you. I think I might be missing and I wanted to see if anybody is looking for me.’
‘Is this a prank call?’ says the man.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not a prank call. I’m serious.’
‘So let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You’re the missing person, are you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’
‘Can you describe your exact location at this moment?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m in a house talking on the telephone.’
‘Excellent,’ says the man. ‘Case solved.’
‘Huh?’ I say.
‘Well,’ says the man, ‘as far as I can figure it, if you are the missing person in question then you just found yourself, so you’re no longer missing. Goodbye.’
He hangs up. That wasn’t really as helpful as I’d hoped. Just my luck to get the new guy. And my head is starting to hurt again.
I sit down on the couch.
There is a pile of books on the coffee table. I pick one up. Coping With A Problem Child. I pick up another one. Your Non-gifted Child. Under that is one called Smack Your Child To Success.
Gee, that Jen must be a real troublemaker.
The glass door slides open. I look up. It’s the woman from the photo, the man with the big ears and the girl called Jen. They are carrying plastic bags.
‘Well,’ says Big Ears, ‘don’t just sit there—give us some help.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘who am I?’
‘Andy, this is no time for a game of twenty questions,’ he says. ‘Get up off that couch and help us with these bags.’
‘So I’m Andy, am I?’ I say.
‘Andy,’ says Big Ears, ‘if you don’t get those bags into the kitchen in the next ten seconds I swear I will . . .’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say.
I was right. He has got a bad temper. Best not to get him too upset. I pick up the bags and put them on the kitchen table.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ says the mother, sighing. ‘The shopping isn’t going to put itself away.’
I put my hand into a bag. I pull out a box of washing powder.
‘Where does this go?’ I say.
‘In the cupboard in the laundry,’ says the mother. ‘Where do you thin
k?’
‘Where’s the laundry?’ I say.
The mother takes the box out of my hands.
‘On second thoughts, don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘It will be quicker to do it myself.’
‘Mrs G,’ I say, ‘you think I’m your son, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Worse luck!’
Big Ears snorts. ‘That’s what they told us at the hospital,’ he says, ‘but I think there must have been a mix-up.’
‘Really?’ I say. This could explain everything. ‘Do you think there’s any way of checking?’
‘Try the zoo,’ says the girl. ‘They’re probably looking for you right now.’
‘The zoo?’ I say. I guess it’s worth a try.
I turn to the mother.
‘Would you be able to take me there?’ I say.
‘Where?’ she says.
‘To the zoo,’ I say.
‘No!’ she says. ‘What is the matter with you, Andy? Why all these stupid questions?’
‘I’ve lost my memory!’ I say. ‘I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who you are.’
‘Very funny,’ says the mother.
‘It’s true!’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’m who you think I am.’
‘This is a poor time for another one of your incomprehensible jokes, young man,’ says Big Ears. ‘You’re already skating on thin ice bringing home a report with five E’s.’
‘Five E’s?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong with five E’s? Doesn’t E stand for excellent?’
The girl snorts.
‘Five E’s for EEEEEDIOT!’ she says.
The mother sighs again.
‘What about that talk we had last night?’ she says. ‘Don’t you remember what you promised?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t remember anything.’
Big Ears screws up his face.
‘So let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You don’t remember anything?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘You don’t remember who you are?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t remember your name?’
‘I think it’s Andy,’ I say, ‘but only because that’s what everybody keeps calling me.’
‘I see,’ says Big Ears. ‘Well the best cure for amnesia is to do the things you normally do in a familiar environment. That should help jog your memory.’
‘But what sort of things do I normally do?’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. What am I like?’
‘Well for a start you’re really annoying,’ says the girl. ‘You play really dumb tricks and you do really stupid things.’
‘Really?’ I say.
The mother laughs.
‘No, no, no,’ she says. ‘That’s just Jen having a little joke.’
I was right. That girl is a troublemaker.
The girl looks annoyed.
‘But, Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s true.’
‘That’s enough, Jen,’ says Big Ears. ‘Andy wants to know what sort of boy he really is. And we’re going to help him remember.’
‘Yes, please,’ I say, ‘tell me!’
‘Well,’ says the mother, ‘you’re very helpful. In fact, you’re never happier than when you’re helping others.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes,’ says the mother. ‘You just love housework.’
‘I do?’ I say.
‘But not just housework,’ says Big Ears. ‘You love working in the garden as well.’
‘Really?’ I say.
‘And you love being my slave and doing everything I tell you to do,’ says the girl.
‘I do?’ I say.
‘YES!’ they say.
The mother hands me a pair of dishwashing gloves and a bottle of detergent. ‘The sooner you get started,’ she says, ‘the sooner you’ll get your memory back.’
It’s 6pm. I’ve washed the dishes, mopped the floor, cleaned the cars, mowed the lawn, cleared out the gutters, vacuumed every room in the house, cut the girl’s toenails and sorted her CD collection into alphabetical order, but nothing has worked. I still don’t know who I am. All I know is I’m exhausted.
Big Ears walks across the backyard towards me.
He is holding a biscuit tin and an enormous metal spring with a doll’s head jammed on one end. ‘I assume this is yours,’ he says.
It looks vaguely familiar.
‘It might be,’ I say. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m not sure,’ says Big Ears. ‘Looks like some sort of homemade jack-in-the-box.’
Ah! This must be the one that boy was talking about.
Big Ears forces the spring with the doll’s head on it down into the tin and pushes the lid into place.
He tilts the tin towards me.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ he says.
I hear someone calling out behind me.
I turn around. It’s the boy called Danny.
‘Hey, Andy!’ he says. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Not really,’ I say.
But the boy’s not looking at me or listening to me. He’s just staring at the tin.
‘Don’t open that, Mr G,’ he says. ‘It’s dangerous!’
Too late. It’s open. Everything goes into slow motion. The lid of the tin shoots off and whizzes past my ear. The doll’s head comes off the spring and hits me right in the middle of my forehead. The spring goes straight up and hits Big Ears in the face.
Everything comes flooding back.
I remember who I am.
I’m Andy. I don’t like doing housework or working in the garden. I don’t like being Jen’s slave. I don’t like helping people. I like annoying them. I like playing tricks on them. I am stupid. And I love it.
I hear a moan behind me. I look over.
It’s Danny.
He is lying in the driveway. The lid of the biscuit tin is on the ground beside him.
I run across to him.
‘Danny,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’
He rolls his head from side to side and looks at me with a confused cross-eyed stare.
‘Danny,’ he says. ‘Who’s Danny?’
‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Help me! Danny’s been hurt.’
But Dad doesn’t answer.
I look around.
He is standing in the middle of the yard, his face in his hands.
‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Talk to me!’
He takes his hands away from his face. He looks at me and frowns.
‘Dad?’ he says. ‘Who’s Dad?’
‘m drawing an invisible line down the middle of the table.
‘Cross that line and you’re dead meat,’ I say.
Danny puts his finger over the line.
‘You mean this line?’ he says.
I whack my ruler down the line. He’s too slow. The tip nicks his finger.
‘Ow!’ screams Danny.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I did warn you.’
Mr Dobson turns around from the board. He is glaring at me.
‘Please stand up, Andy,’ he says.
‘But . . .’
‘Stand up,’ he says.
I stand up.
‘Would you mind telling me what just happened?’ says Mr Dobson.
‘Nothing, sir.’ I say.
‘Then what was that noise?’ says Mr Dobson. ‘And why is Danny bent over double holding his finger?’
‘It’s his own fault,’ I say. ‘He crossed the line.’
‘What line?’ says Mr Dobson.
‘The line I drew down the middle of the table.’
‘Andy,’ sighs Mr Dobson, ‘you are acting like a child.’
‘I am a child, sir,’ I remind him.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ says Mr Dobson.
‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘It’s a fact.’
Sometimes I wonder about Mr Dobson. Does he think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t a child? I don’t see too many adults sitting in on his fractions classes for the fun of it. Not
that I would ever point this out to him. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. He probably thinks his classes on fractions are the best value entertainment around.
‘Facts?’ he says. ‘You want facts? I’ll give you a fact. The fact is that your behaviour is little better than I would expect from a five-year-old,’ he says. ‘In fact, if you don’t start acting your age I’ve got a good mind to take you down to the Preps’ class. How would you like that?’
‘But the line was very clearly drawn,’ I say. And I did warn him.’
Mr Dobson just looks at me. He’s frowning. I don’t think he understands how important invisible lines are in maintaining order in the classroom. The truth is that Mr Dobson should thank me for helping him keep control of the class because he certainly can’t. Mr Dobson is our substitute teacher, but if you ask me, he’s no substitute for Ms Livingstone. She’s been away for the last two months climbing Mount Everest. I wish she’d hurry up and get back.
Mr Dobson walks up to my table.
‘Come on,’ he says.
‘Where are we going?’ I say.
‘The Preps’ room,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Nobody dares laugh. It’s not the first time he’s threatened to send somebody to the Preps’ room, but it’s the first time he’s actually done anything about it.
I collect my books and pencil case.
‘Leave your books,’ says Mr Dobson. ‘You won’t be needing them.’
Of course! Going to Preps might not be such a bad thing after all. It will be easier— and a whole lot more fun—than fractions. I mean, how hard can a bit of cutting, pasting and colouring-in be?
I follow Mr Dobson out the door.
‘So long, suckers,’ I say over my shoulder to the rest of the class.
I follow Mr Dobson down the corridor and across the yard to the junior school.
‘Wait out here,’ says Mr Dobson at the entrance to the Preps’ building.
He walks down the corridor and knocks on a brightly coloured door.
A friendly-looking woman wearing a long dress with red flowers all over it opens the door. Mr Dobson talks to her in a low voice. The woman nods and smiles.
Mr Dobson motions to me to come closer.
The woman gives me a very sweet smile. She crouches down slightly so we can see eye to eye.
Just Stupid! Page 7