Walking into school that morning I met Dominic outside Mr Rogers’s corner shop like always.
Dominic Clarke. My best friend. Best friend since nursery.
Have you got a friend you’ve had since nursery? If you do, and you’re still close to them, you’ll know that it means you’re basically family. We’d do sleepovers at each other’s houses. His mum knew my mum and his older brother Noah was in the year above Donna at secondary school.
We were both two of the youngest in our year. His birthday was just before the end of school and mine was in the summer holidays, which meant by the time we were ten, a lot of our class were nearly eleven.
Dominic was about the same size and shape as me, but he had light skin and fair hair and every summer he suddenly got freckly, like someone had snuck into his room while he was sleeping and dotted his face with a copper felt tip. Dom had this crooked smile that made it look like even when he was happy, he was still slightly confused.
We were into most of the same things: we shared computer games, swapped comics and had the same calculator watch – you get the idea.
One thing that was different about us, though, was that Dominic was into big gestures.
He loved doing dramatic things. Like the time he made himself a flying-squirrel costume out of his dad’s overalls and was going to jump off their garage to test it. Luckily he had called me over to be his witness, and I managed to tease him down from the garage roof with fizzy laces and questions about black holes, before he splatted himself on their driveway.
Dominic loved science, especially outer space. If you got him started on the Big Bang, you better grab some popcorn and a comfy seat because he could (and often did) go on for hours.
The best thing, though, when I think on it now, was that he wasn’t fussed about what people thought. Dominic just concentrated on the things that he liked and what made him happy. He never bothered about what other people thought was cool. I used to say I didn’t care, but deep down I did. I always wished I was cool.
He used to eat fish-paste sandwiches.
Have you ever had a fish-paste sandwich? If you have, you know.
If you haven’t, picture a bowl of fish in your lap. Got it? Big bowl of fish, happily swimming around, la-di-da. Now grab a wooden spoon, and mush them up – mush mush mush – and keep on mushing them up until all you’re left with is a brown sticky paste that stinks like fish. Now spread that on some floppy white bread, and bingo. Fish-paste sandwich. Want one? Me neither.
Dominic did. He ate them almost every day, and even when people would point and shout, ‘Eurgh! You’re disgusting, you’re eating poo sandwiches!’ Dominic would just smile with his mouth full and say, ‘Yep. I’m eating poo. Mmmm.’
He really didn’t care like I would have. Kind of amazing.
When I met him that Monday morning, he’d been away with his family for half-term and I hadn’t spoken to him for the whole week so when he showed up with a buzz cut I was so shocked I almost forgot about Dad.
‘What the hell, Dom?’
Dominic just shrugged. ‘Yeah. Noah was supposed to give me a trim, but then he “slipped” and here we are. At least it’ll improve my aerodynamics.’
As we walked to school he broke down his trip to the caravan park. How he’d spent the whole time befriending one particular seagull with breadcrumbs, with the intention of training it to go on missions for him and be his ‘eyes in the sky’.
‘How did you even know it was the same bird?’ I said.
Dom just rolled his eyes. ‘Distinguishing marks, Jay. I’m not stupid.’
I wanted to tell him about Dad. But at the same time I didn’t want to. I wanted to share my messed-up half-term news, but I didn’t know what to say. It felt weird and the truth is, I was embarrassed. Like I’d failed at something. Like I’d done something wrong.
‘You OK, Jay?’ Dom asked as we approached our school. I could hear squeals from behind the playground wall.
‘I flushed my dad’s toothbrush down the toilet.’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Why?’
A car beeped its horn and we both jumped. We both stood still outside the gates. I could feel my face getting hot as I looked at Dom.
‘It didn’t work. It wouldn’t flush. So I threw it in the bin.’
I walked into the playground. Dom followed me, his face covered in what looked like concern.
‘But. How will he brush his teeth?’
I shrugged.
And then we saw the poster.
Hold on a second.
Have you ever had something you wanted to tell someone, but then when the time came for you to tell them, it somehow didn’t feel right, so you didn’t, and then the moment felt like it had passed by like a train you were supposed to be on?
I didn’t tell my best friend about Dad leaving that morning. Why?
I could say it was because I couldn’t think of the right words. I could say it was because I didn’t think he’d understand, but the truth is, I think it was because I didn’t understand myself.
Dom stood staring at the poster, which was big enough to almost cover the glass doors to reception. In among the stars and glitter were the words:
It didn’t mean anything to me, but I watched Dom’s face light up like Fireworks Night.
‘Yo. We’re gonna win!’ he said.
I could already see familiar figures scattered around the playground. A few people were playing football. Marcia Brown & Lucy Cheung were dancing over a skipping rope while a semicircle of other girls gave them a round of applause. Dominic punched my arm.
‘Do you hear me?’
‘Ow. What?’
He pointed at the poster. ‘Me and you, talent-show winners, school legends!’
He had the same crazy look in his eye as Gus gets.
‘What are you talking about?’ I said, rubbing my arm.
Dominic balled his fists and pressed them against his temples. It was what he did when he was trying to think.
‘School legends, man. Me and you!’
‘Don’t be stupid, Dom. What exactly would we do, eh? What possible thing could me and you do to win a talent show?’
Dominic lowered his hands. ‘I dunno yet. But it’s gonna be awesome.’
Then the bell went.
As we walked inside, I could see from the look on his face he wasn’t going to think about anything else for ages, but I was still thinking about Dad’s toothbrush and the ticking feeling in my stomach, and as we sat down in class and Mr Bukowski started to take the register, I just knew something was coming.
Have you got a favourite teacher?
I think even if it’s just the one who annoys you the least, there’s probably a name you could say. Something about human beings makes us choose a favourite.
OK, so think of your favourite teacher. Now try and think what they might be doing right now. Picture your teacher somewhere normal. At home, making a cup of tea. Standing in front of the cereal in the supermarket trying to choose between loops and flakes, or in the shower, singing some ancient pop song while they scrub their back. Go on. Try.
It’s hard, right?
Thinking of any teacher anywhere outside of school is weird. It’s just the way it’s always been. It’s like trying to picture Santa naked.
I definitely had a favourite teacher though. His name?
Picture a badger. No. Wait. Forget the badger. Picture a bear.
Take a second. Any bear. Polar. Grizzly. Pizzly. Doesn’t matter.
You got it? Close your eyes if it helps. Now zoom in on just the bear’s head. On the face. Yeah? With me? Got the bear’s face? Right.
Now shave it.
Shave off the fur, but leave a little beard, and tufts above both ears. Done it?
Now put glasses on him. Those round glasses that make anybody look clever. Yeah?
Right, now give him a smile. A warm, friendly-bear smile. Got him?
Bi
ngo. Friendly shaven bear. Mr Bukowski.
He loved stories. I loved stories. We got along.
He had one of those calm voices. You know the ones? Like, super-silky calm.
I mean, super-silky, golden-sticky-honey stupidly calm. The kind of voice that could stop water boiling. Say the following sentence out loud in the calmest voice you can:
‘Good morning, everyone. How was your weekend?’
Try it again. Calmer.
Now imagine a voice twenty-seven times calmer than that, and you might be halfway there.
Mr Bukowski’s voice was like the sound of a blue whale’s heartbeat, which is about ten times slower than your heartbeat.
If you were on a plane, and it was going to crash into the sea, you’d want Mr Bukowski sitting next to you.
You: ‘AAAAAAAAHHHHH! We’re gonna diiiiiiieeeeeeeee!!!!!’
Mr Bukowski: ‘Don’t worry. Relax. Breathe. Yes we’re going to crash, but if you think about it, the ocean is a truly fascinating place full of wonderful creatures, we’re actually very lucky. Mmmmmmm.’
That kind of calm.
In fact his voice was so calm, that if he ever got even slightly angry for just one single split second, it was like the switch was too much for your brain to handle and you completely froze. Which is exactly what I did, that Monday morning, when he called me out to the front of the class.
Book reports.
You’ve done one before, I’m sure. If you haven’t, lucky you. There aren’t many things that will squash your enjoyment of something more than having to write a report on it. The routine went:
Dominic loved them.
He always managed to find a book somehow related to space, and prepared detailed presentations about Jupiter’s orbit or whatever.
I hated them. Public speaking was not my thing at all.
I’d grabbed some random book on Friday afternoon when we broke up.
My plan, as always, was to leave it until the very last minute, and then get it done the night before school started again, in a state of combined panic and frustration. But I didn’t. Because of Dad. And not getting answers. And his toothbrush. All of it.
To be honest, I don’t even remember the title of that book now but, whatever it was, I hadn’t even picked it up, let alone opened it and read it. I hadn’t even thought about writing a report. And now, there I was, standing in front of the entire class, feeling like I was naked on stage as everyone’s eyes burned into me, waiting for me to speak.
‘We’re waiting,’ said Mr Bukowski in his stupidly silky calm voice.
I scanned the room. The familiar cast of classroom characters now felt like a blood-hungry mob of Roman citizens at the Colosseum, waiting for my sacrifice. Dominic was pretending to scratch his face, giving me the sneaky thumbs up, thinking he was helping.
Trying to avoid him, I looked towards the back left of the room. And that’s when I saw him.
Most of us know a Danny Jones.
They might not share the same name, but they’re pretty similar characters in all our stories, and that character is . . .
Danny Jones was in the same school year as us, but he looked, like, five years older.
He walked like he was trying to crush paving stones with each step, swinging big boulder shoulders that were genetically designed for pushing you over.
His older brother was known locally as an actual gangster and the whole family had these kind of puffed-out chunky cheeks like some kind of hardcore hamsters.
Danny was captain of the football team and the fastest in PE. Everyone always laughed at his jokes, even though they were never really any good, and if he gave a wrong answer to a question in class, nobody ever laughed behind their hands. That guy.
For some reason, he didn’t like me. I never really understood why, but I think that’s just the way it works with bullies.
One time, he tied me to the tree at the back of the playground with my own jumper and practised taking penalties, shooting at my face. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a football booted straight into your face before, but if you have, you’ll understand the level of torture. When Dominic tried to stand up to him and help me, Danny tied Dom up too, and the pair of us had to wait for the whole of lunchtime to pass until the bell went and the dinner lady finally saw us and came to the rescue.
That’s Danny Jones.
And now he was staring right at me. Like only he could. The kind of stare that could burn a hole into wood. Like any second he could just jump up, grab me and eat me.
Like chewing me up and spitting out my bones would be easy.
I felt like I was going to melt. Or pass out. Or pass out, then melt. A puddle of me on the classroom floor.
‘We’re still waiting.’ Mr Bukowski’s calm voice.
Danny Jones’s stare.
Crazy Dominic over there.
Marcia Brown & Lucy Cheung were starting to giggle, then I felt the ticking in my stomach again. Like a clock in my belly. But this time it was moving. Up. Inside my chest. Up. Along my throat. Up. And I opened my mouth and . . .
lie (noun)
A false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.
FOR MAXIMUM EFFECT, READ THIS NEXT BIT OUT LOUD. START AT YOUR NORMAL SPEAKING PACE, THEN, EVERY TIME YOU SEE A , GET FASTER, UNTIL YOU’RE LITERALLY SPEAKING AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND MIGHT FALL OVER. IF YOU’RE IN PUBLIC, EVEN BETTER. THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE . . . GO!
‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t done it. I haven’t done the book report. I didn’t have time. I mean. I was too busy. Helping my dad. Yeah. I was, helping my dad. With his new story. See, that’s what he does, my dad. He writes stories. His new story is all about a secret agent, travelling the world doing different missions, so that’s what he’s doing. My dad. He’s pretending to be a secret agent, travelling the world. For research. And I’m helping him. It’s pretty full on. See, what he does is, he phones me up from wherever he is and tells me to choose a place, and then I look at the map, choose a place and that’s where he goes to next. It’s to keep people guessing. It’s top secret. The publishers are paying for it, sir. I have to research the places he’s going to so he has all the details he needs. And with time zones and everything. On Sunday night he called from Sydney, Australia, sir. They’re twelve hours ahead. Dad said it’s so hot there, you can fry an egg on the bonnet of a car. I had to wait up, and tell him facts that I’d researched. I hardly slept at all. I meant to do the report yesterday, I swear, but then Dad. And the mission. I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t done the book report, but when your dad calls and asks for help on a secret writing mission, you can’t say no, can you?’
NOW BREATHE. IF YOU DID IT RIGHT, YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FEEL YOUR LUNGS INSIDE YOUR CHEST, AND YOUR SKIN SHOULD BE TINGLING LIKE A MILLION TINY PINS ARE MARCHING OVER YOU. JUST LIKE MINE WAS.
It felt like something had exploded deep inside me. Something strong that I couldn’t explain. Waves of energy radiating out from my stomach, filling me up. A force.
I just stood there like a glowing nuclear statue of myself, looking at my class. Every one of them was still staring, but it felt different. Like they’d all just got camera-flashed by a lighthouse-sized bulb.
Danny Jones’s face looked like he was trying to do long division inside his head.
Marcia Brown & Lucy Cheung were staring at me with tilted heads like I’d just pulled my own face off like a mask or something.
‘Thank you very much, Jason,’ said Mr Bukowski, and I noticed the tiniest ripple in the calm of his voice. ‘You can sit back down,’ he said, smiling.
So I did.
I went back to my chair, my skin still tingling, and sat down.
Dominic’s eyes were wider than dinner plates, and as Mr Bukowski started the lesson, and the rest of the class snapped back to life, Dom leaned over and whispered, ‘Yo! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’ I said.
‘About your dad’s new story. The missio
n!’ His face was completely serious.
I felt my own face screwing up. ‘Dom, it’s not true, is it?’
Dominic looked at me like I was making no sense at all. ‘Which bit?’
And it hit me. My best friend believed me. The stream of words that came from somewhere inside me and out of my mouth in the moment. My dad? On a secret writing mission? How was that even possibly believable?
I didn’t know. But it was. I made it up, and Dominic believed me. Seemed like the rest of the class believed me too and, strange as it sounds, in that moment, I almost believed it myself.
I took a deep breath and the air felt different.
I just sat there, breathing it in, and the best word I can think of to describe how I felt, right then, is . . .
. . . powerful.
******* TIME OUT *******
See.
The thing about books is, well, it’s just reading, isn’t it?
Don’t get me wrong, I love reading. I would say now that reading is probably one of my top eleven things to do, but just like anything else, too much of one thing, in one go, it’s just, well, it’s just dry, isn’t it?
You’ve met a lot of people already and if you’re anything like me, it’s hard to remember names. Danny and Dom both start with the same letter which is extra-confusing too.
Dom: Good guy.
Danny: Bad guy.
Try saying everyone’s name you can remember out loud that we’ve met so far.
Yeah? How many?
OK. Pretty good. Now I suggest you take a break.
Get a biscuit. Stroke your dog if you have one. Tickle your little brother or sister if you have one of those. Do some yoga. Have a power nap. Then come back.
My Big Mouth Page 2