My Big Mouth

by Steven Camden

  How about marshmallows?

  15,000 football-sized marshmallows. That sounds like the kind of swimming pool I’d like to dive into. Can you eat while you swim? Would you sink?

  I can think of worse things than sinking in a pool full of marshmallows, to be honest.

  Great. Now I’m hungry, for marshmallows.

  I’m getting distracted from the story, sorry.

  That’s the thing about the brain isn’t it? If you just let it run, sometimes you can end up lost.

  Danny’s report on Borneo that Friday was even more thorough than his Tokyo one.

  Did you know that Borneo is the third largest island in the world? Neither did I.

  I made sure to put it straight into my bag this time.

  Our homework for Monday was to write a page on what we thought about the future. Mr Bukowski had been talking to us about secondary school and we’d watched this little film about starting Year 7 in September. It was all about going from feeling like the biggest people in school to feeling like the smallest.

  Most of us in the class were going to Wakens Tip High School together, so would still see each other, and, having never once felt like the biggest person in school, I couldn’t see what was going to feel so different.

  But then I realized something. I did feel bigger. Maybe I still wasn’t physically the biggest kid in school, but my status had definitely grown. People ignored me way less and I definitely took up more space. The stamp of approval from Danny, and my new role as storyteller supreme, had seen to that, and feeling as cool as I did, I couldn’t let my momentum slip.

  In PE, while we lined up to vault over the wooden horse thing, I told Simon Harris, Mark Halpin and Chris Northall that my mum one time saved a guy’s life in the big Tesco in town with some frozen crab sticks and an empty fountain pen.

  ‘No way!’ they said.

  ‘Serious,’ I said.

  ‘Like an actual operation, with blood and stuff?’ they said.

  ‘Fully. It was all over the floor by the freezers,’ I said.

  They believed me.

  That afternoon, while we were crossing out words in newspaper pages to make found poems, I told Heather Cunning and Catherine Onyade that scientists in North Korea had found a way to graft a great white shark’s head on to a rhino’s body to use in case of a ground war with the South.

  ‘Get lost!’ they said.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘They don’t have any of the ethical regulations of the West.’

  ‘That’s disgusting. And really sad,’ they said.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t believe it either. My mum’s friend is a reporter. She told us.’

  They believed me.

  That night, as I stood at my map, circling places and jotting notes, I realized I’d lost count of how many things I’d made up. After I’d reached the sixties, I’d stopped counting. How many didn’t matter as much as the details, and I didn’t want to waste any brain space with numbers. I’d started joining up the different entries with lines to show which ones were connected. It was just two weeks after I’d started, and my wall already looked like the enormous messy scrapbook of a crazy giant.

  I flopped on to my bed, exhausted, but smiling with pride.

  ‘It’s working, Gus,’ I said, folding my arms behind my head. ‘My brain is full to bursting, but it’s working.’

  Gus let out a little murmur, and when I looked down, he was sitting up, staring at me.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  I slid on to the floor and sat next to him. Gus just stared.

  ‘You OK?’ I stroked behind his ears and he flopped into my lap.

  ‘It’s like I’m a different person,’ I said as he rolled over to show me his belly. I scratched and stroked his chest as he nuzzled his nose behind my knees.

  ‘You’re still the same, though,’ I said, giving him a squeeze. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Gus grunted and gave me a ‘Just shut up and stroke me’ look.

  So I did. I just stroked my dog and felt the calm of my brain growing quiet as Gus fell asleep in my lap.

  I slept late that Saturday morning.

  By the time I woke up, the sunlight was already halfway across my room. My map was washed golden and the black pen of my scribbled notes seemed to sparkle like cat’s lies eyes.

  Lying in bed, I could hear talking through the floor. I couldn’t hear actual words, but Mum and Donna were discussing something with more volume than a normal conversation. As I tuned in to try and work out what they were saying, the similarities in their voices became clear. Donna’s voice was basically a slightly higher-pitched version of Mum’s, which kind of made sense. I wondered if my voice sounded like a younger version of Dad’s and whether I liked the idea of that or not.

  Even though they were going back and forth, Donna was speaking way more than Mum. There’d be a blast of Donna, followed by a short, calmer bit of Mum, then more Donna, for longer. It was almost like when you can half hear somebody else’s tunes through their headphones on the bus.

  Then there was a bang. Gus lifted his head. I tilted mine, waiting for what came next. Donna said something and then I heard heavy footsteps, followed by the front door opening and slamming shut. Then it was quiet – an empty quiet I’d almost got used to in the house over the past couple of weeks, but which right now felt wrong, and I wanted to do something about it.

  Mum was sitting at the table, head in her hands. I stood in the doorway in my pyjamas for a while, not sure if she knew I was there.

  ‘Mum?’

  Mum wiped her face with the back of her hand, and I got the urge to run over and hug her. I didn’t, though. And I’m not sure why.

  ‘Morning, sweetheart,’ she said, smiling. ‘How’d you sleep?’

  ‘Fine. Are you OK?’

  Mum tidied her hair. ‘I will be.’

  ‘Is Donna all right?’

  Mum sighed. It was the kind of sigh that you’ve seen your mum do a bunch of times, I’m sure. The kind of sigh that comes when you’ve been carrying something heavy for a long time.

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ said Mum, then she beckoned me over.

  When I reached her, she stood up and held me at the shoulders.

  ‘I think you grew,’ she said.

  I shrugged. Her fingers squeezed me. ‘My big, big man.’

  Then she pulled me in and hugged me.

  Now, I’m not a hug expert. I haven’t conducted any registered studies into hugs, their quality and properties or the power scale, but I would happily bet everything I own in the world on the fact that hugs from mums carry more power than any others.

  Whenever I hug my mum, I feel like I’m in a time machine. I am four. I am two. I am ten. I am a newborn baby, fresh in the world. And I am safe.

  I hugged her back and it felt as though we were speaking without words.

  I was saying, ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Mum was saying, ‘I’m not going anywhere . . .’ We stayed right there for a while, then Mum stroked my head and said, ‘Let’s take Gus to the woods.’

  Like I said before, Gus was already seventy at this point. His usual walks were just a slow stroll-around-the-block-type deal. The park was something we used to do back in the day, all four of us together. We’d spend half the day stomping through the leaves, collecting pine cones and catapult sticks. Gus was never the ‘throw-and-catch’ type. When any of us threw a ball, he would just watch it arc through the air, land somewhere in the distance, and then he’d look up at you as if to say, ‘What do you think is going to happen now?’

  He did used to enjoy running, though. In his younger days he was pretty fast too. He’d race around after bigger dogs and then spend some long minutes getting a good sniff of their bums and faces and having the occasional wrestle. But as he got older, the trips to the woods became less frequent. He ran around a lot less. Sometimes we’d get halfway there and he’d start walking really slowly or even just sit down in the middle of the pave
ment, letting you know he wasn’t up to it, so we stopped taking him and just let him sleep.

  When Mum grabbed the lead and did her ‘We’re going to the woods’ wolf whistle that morning, I think Gus was just as surprised as me. He went with it, though, and as we walked along our old route to Warley Woods, I could tell by his steps that he was almost excited.

  We took our time ambling through the trees, waiting for Gus as he investigated rotting stumps and rabbit holes. At one point a young German shepherd showed up and Gus fell in love. I could see it in his eyes. They went all cloudy and his head tilted as he watched her bouncing around and chewing fallen branches. I reckon if he had hands and not paws, he might have sat down and written her a poem.

  I could tell that Mum had brought me along to talk. There’s a specific type of quiet that grownups get when there’s something important to tell you and they’re struggling to find the words. It’s like when you press MUTE on the TV remote control. You know there’s sound there, it’s just not coming out right now.

  As we stood by the mossy marble fountain near the pine trees, waiting for Gus to drink from the trough, Mum leaned against the stone and looked at me.

  ‘We have to be strong, Jay,’ she said.

  I wanted so badly to say something that showed I was grown-up enough to hold my own in the conversation, but no words came to mind.

  ‘People make choices,’ she said. ‘And those choices have consequences.’

  My head started filling up with the wrong things. School. Dad’s made-up mission. My map. I tried to stay in the moment, but it was like my bedroom wall was right there in front of us, demanding my attention.

  ‘Do you know what I mean?’ said Mum.

  I watched Gus scamper off towards a scruffy-looking Jack Russell near the bushes.

  ‘I think so.’

  Mum took a deep breath

  ‘See, your father and me. We—’

  ‘Jason?’

  The voice didn’t fit. It was a boy’s voice. Saying my name. I looked at Mum’s mouth. It wasn’t moving.

  ‘Jay?’

  Mum pointed over my shoulder. Danny Jones was standing there, holding a dirty white football that looked like it had been eaten and pooped out by an angry bull.

  ‘Danny?’

  It felt funny seeing him outside of school. He didn’t look as ferocious. He didn’t look ferocious at all.

  ‘Hello. I’m Angela,’ said Mum.

  Danny looked at her. ‘Hi, Angela. I’m Danny, Jason’s friend from school.’

  Mum looked at me. I looked at Danny. He called me his friend.

  ‘It’s Danny,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve established that,’ said Mum as Gus and the Jack Russell came running over, tangled up like best buddies.

  ‘And who is this?’ asked Mum, squatting down to stroke the little dog.

  ‘That’s Razor,’ said Danny.

  Mum tickled Razor’s neck, and he immediately flipped over on to his back for some belly attention.

  ‘Razor, is it?’ said Mum, scratching Razor’s stomach. ‘You don’t seem so sharp to me.’

  Danny shrugged, and it could’ve been the light or the fact that we were surrounded by tall trees, but I swear he was smaller.

  ‘Did you get another letter’?’ he asked, and panic jumped on to my back.

  Mum looked up at me. ‘Letter?’

  ‘All good,’ I said quickly. ‘It hasn’t arrived yet. Postman comes in the afternoon. How come you’re here?’

  ‘We come here every Saturday,’ said Danny. ‘Razor likes chasing the birds.’

  Mum stood up and I could tell she was going to ask more about the letter. What was I going to tell her? That I was faking a letter from Dad about a secret writing mission he was on that gave Danny weekly research assignments? And admit it to Danny too? Not happening. I had to think fast.

  ‘You wanna do something?’ I said.

  Danny nodded. ‘OK. You wanna come back to mine?’

  I looked at Mum. She’d brought me here to talk and I knew there was more she wanted to say before Danny showed up, but I had to get out of this situation before anything else got revealed. Luckily, Mum read my face and body language like only mums can.

  ‘You go on, be with your friend. I’ll take Gus home. Do you live close, Danny?’

  ‘Biko Estate,’ said Danny.

  Mum put Gus’s lead back on. ‘Ah, that’s not far at all. Just be home in time for dinner, OK, Jay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Come on then, old man,’ Mum said, ruffling Gus’s ears. ‘Let’s get you back home.’

  Gus and Razor exchanged a doggy nod, and then Gus and Mum walked off back the way we’d come. Danny watched them until they were out of sight. Razor started sniffing my ankles like he was planning to pee on them.

  ‘So is your dad white, then?’ said Danny, turning back to me. The question kind of threw me. ‘Cos you’re, I mean, you’re a mix, right?’ he added.

  ‘Yep,’ I said, wondering why that even mattered.

  Danny nodded like a grown-up. ‘Cool.’

  He looked kind of lost. I wanted to help him. ‘We can stay here if you like,’ I said. ‘Build a fort or something?’

  Danny shivered, like he was snapping himself out of a thought.

  ‘Nah, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘My mum’s working till late, so we’re good. I can show you my encyclopedias.’

  He launched the battered football along the path and Razor darted after it.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Danny’s flat was on the eleventh floor of one of the three tower blocks on Biko Estate.

  Maybe it was because I didn’t ride in lifts very often and he did it every day, but I was clearly way more hyped about pushing the buttons and the whirring noise of the cable than I should’ve been. Razor sat obediently by Danny’s feet. He had walked close to us all the way back without a lead, which to me was also really impressive.

  The number on their front door was 111. It looked like three people standing in a row.

  A family.

  When we got inside, I started to take my shoes off by the door.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Danny, throwing his jacket on the floor by their phone.

  The flat was really warm and had that kind of pet shop smell. Clean, but animally.

  Danny poured us some lemonade, and he took me to his room.

  It was like Aladdin’s cave. Two of the walls were lined with standing bookshelves and each of the shelves was full of books and trinkets and little models. The window was small and the books on the windowsill made it seem even smaller.

  It’s safe to say that if you had given me a piece of paper and a pencil and asked me to sketch what I thought Danny Jones’s bedroom looked like before I’d seen it, my picture would’ve looked pretty different from the reality in front of me.

  He had the same Spider-Man duvet cover as Dominic. I imagined Dom’s face if I told him he shared duvet-cover taste with Danny Jones and smiled to myself. On the wall above his pillow I saw the list of places he wanted to visit.

  ‘This is a cool room,’ I said, sipping my lemonade.

  Danny was busy pulling some heavy-looking books down from a high shelf.

  ‘I wish it was bigger,’ he said sitting on the floor. ‘Check these out.’

  They were thick leather-bound editions of some old-school encyclopedias, the letters embossed on to the spines. He handed me one, and it was so heavy I thought my wrist might snap.

  ‘I’ve read them all,’ Danny said, opening one up in his lap. ‘They were my dad’s.’

  The word ‘dad’ hung in the air between us. I wondered if Danny knew any more about his dad leaving than I knew about mine. Did he have to fight to keep his dad’s stuff from the charity shop? Whatever had happened since, it was clear that Danny’s dad hadn’t been forgotten.

  Before I knew what I was doing, the words jumped out of my mouth.

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  There was this mome
nt of nothing, then Danny’s face hardened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Good riddance.’

  I opened the volume in my lap and pretended to read. Turned out Danny Jones wasn’t a very good liar.

  ‘I wonder where he’s going next,’ he said, looking at me.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Your dad? The letter?’ said Danny.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yeah. Postman should’ve been by now. I’ll find out when I get home.’

  Danny’s face lit up and he closed the book in his lap.

  ‘We could go to yours now and find out?’

  I squirmed. ‘Better not. My mum has a nap cos she’s on nights and my sister will only give us grief.’

  Danny gave a nod, hiding his disappointment.

  I watched his eyes move to the list above his pillow.

  ‘That must be the coolest job in the world. Travelling for a reason,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. I guess so.’

  He stroked the old cover of his book. ‘Remember that time you brought one of your dad’s books in for show-and-tell? Was it Year Two?’

  I tried to think.

  ‘It was so cool,’ he said. ‘Somebody in your family, an actual writer.’

  I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t believe he remembered that far back.

  ‘Thanks, Jay.’ He looked at me, with the most genuine smile I think I’d ever seen. ‘For letting me help.’

  And something cold tapped my shoulder, like before, right by my neck. I touched where I’d felt it and there was nothing, then I felt it on the other side.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

  But I wasn’t. I didn’t feel fine at all.

  Then we heard the front door and Danny’s face flooded with fear.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said in a serious voice. ‘Whatever happens, don’t come out.’

  Then he left me, pulling his bedroom door firmly closed behind him.

  Have you ever been at a friend’s house while they’re getting told off by their mum or dad?