Time is a funny thing, isn’t it?
How many times have you checked the clock before bedtime and seen you had nearly an hour before you have to brush your teeth, then you blink and check the clock again and it says you only have five minutes?
Or, how many times have you been sitting in class in your last lesson of the day and the clock says five minutes left before the bell, so you get on with your work, happy that it’s almost time to go home. Then when you check again, it still says five minutes?
What is that? Some evil game that clocks play on us? Is it the power of our own minds to project our fears and control time with some bad telekinetic juju?
I don’t know. What I do know is, during that weekend, I stayed in bed feeling awful the whole time, and time seemed to disappear. It got dark at night and light in the day, but I had no idea what time it was at any point, and all I could hear were two little poisonous words.
Mr Liar.
Mum brought me dry toast and water when I told her I felt ill. But what I was feeling was something not even the greatest super-boss nurse could fix.
I’d done this to myself, and now I was stuck in it. Covered in lies.
So I just lay there, not asleep, but not really awake, and then I blinked and it was Monday morning.
Week Five
Sitting in my seat on Monday morning as Mr Bukowski took the register, I felt more out of place than I ever had in my life. If there was one word that would not be right to describe how I felt, it would be ‘cool’. My eyes were stinging from lack of sleep. I felt hungry and queasy at the same time and those two words were still rattling round in the basement of my brain: Mr Liar. Mr Liar.
Everyone else was super-hyped. Last week of term. Last week of our primary school lives. On Friday we would break up for summer and say goodbye to this place, and everyone was pumped up about our big send-off: THE TALENT SHOW.
Mr Bukowski went round checking names of people who were going to perform, and double-checking what their acts would be for the programme he was going to print out for the audience.
Andy Roberts was going to do magic tricks. Jamie Woon had trained his pet mouse to walk on a piece of string like a tightrope. Marcia Brown & Lucy Cheung were planning a full-on gymnastics routine to some famous pop song. As people talked, the whole room crackled with excitement.
Except for me.
I just sat in my seat, near the back, wishing I was at home, curled up under my radiator.
Then Dominic put his hand up.
‘Sir!’
Mr Bukowski hushed the class. ‘What is it, Dominic?’
‘I need to change my act, sir.’
I felt my stomach turn over. Dominic hadn’t even acknowledged me when I walked into class earlier. He just sat facing forward like I didn’t exist.
‘It’s just a solo dance piece now, sir. Just me on my own.’
Mr Bukowski made notes. ‘I see, and may I ask why that is?’
Dominic still had his hand up. ‘My partner’s not up to it, sir. He’s all talk.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that, Dom.’
Dom turned and looked right at me, his eyes like knives.
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry too.’
I felt like I was shrinking in my chair. And I wanted to. I wanted to just shrivel up and disappear. Nothing felt like it mattered. Mr Liar. Then the bell went for first break and everyone started packing up. I didn’t move. My plan was to hang behind and avoid Dom, and everyone else. Just me on my own. Mr Liar. Mr Liar.
And then Danny Jones was standing right next to my table, smiling like a dog outside a butcher’s window. Dad’s letter. Monday morning. Our routine. I hadn’t done it!
I’d spent the whole weekend in bed curled up, hiding from the world, and forgotten all about it. Now Danny Jones was standing right there, waiting for his new assignment to help Dad on the mission I’d made up at the start of it all.
‘Silly me,’ I said, slapping myself on the side of the head, trying to come up with an excuse. ‘I’ve left it at home, Danny. Sorry.’
The look on Danny’s face. Like that same dog outside the butcher’s if you came out carrying steaks for yourself and offered him a bowl of Brussels sprouts. He was gutted. Getting the letter from Dad and a new research assignment was his favourite part of the week. For a moment, I genuinely thought he might burst into tears. I watched him compose himself and put on a brave face.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to yours after school and get it then.’
I was so glad he didn’t ask any more questions, I just agreed. I figured I could distract him with something when we got back and quickly scribble a fake letter from Dad. As I packed my bag, all I was thinking was, Thank God there’s only one week of school left.
I spent the rest of the day hiding.
Lunchtime, I sat alone in a cubicle in the library toilets. I told myself if I didn’t speak to anyone, if I didn’t open my mouth, nothing else could come out.
A couple of times people came up to me asking about stories I’d made up in the weeks before. But each time they did, I just pretended I had to go and see a teacher or take a note to the school office and got away as soon as I could.
Dear Mr Liar,
Mr Liar. Mr Liar. Mr Liar.
Liar
Liar
Liar Liar . . .
Walking home by myself, I felt like I was dragging a skip behind me. A massive metal bin, full of all the stuff I had made up since the start of term. All the things that had made me feel cool now felt like they belonged at the dump.
When Danny Jones caught up with me, out of breath, I’d completely forgotten he was coming back to ours.
‘I waited for you,’ he said, smiling. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Lot on my mind.’
‘That’s OK. I know the feeling.’ He smiled again and we walked together. Me and my friend Danny Jones. I almost smiled. It seemed so weird now that I’d ever been scared of him.
When we got back to the house, nobody was home. Mum had already left for her shift, and Donna wouldn’t be back until it was time to throw a pizza in the oven for me.
I took Danny to the kitchen and made us a Ribena.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked as we sipped, and I realized I was staring out of the window like Mum did.
‘Yeah. Sorry. I just . . . Yeah.’
‘You know, it’s good to share problems, you know? My mum always says that.’
He smiled at me, and I felt alone, standing in my own kitchen.
‘You ever feel like you’ve just made a big mess?’ I said.
Danny put his empty glass on the side. ‘Are you kidding? All the time! I think it might be my superpower!’
He puffed up his chest and struck a Superman pose. And I laughed. Out loud. For what felt like the first time in absolutely ages.
‘I need the toilet,’ said Danny. ‘Then let’s read the letter.’
I’d forgotten all about the letter from Dad that I still had to fake. I pointed him upstairs, put our glasses in the sink, then, as he went out into the hall, I quickly ran through into the living room, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the shelves, sat down and started to fake the letter from Dad.
Where was he going this time? How many of these had I written now?
Mr Liar.
Shut up. I’m trying to concentrate.
Mr Liar.
Shut up.
Alaska. Yeah. That’s where he’s going. Cold. Remote. Bears. Danny will love it.
I started to write.
Mr Liar.
Dear. Mr Liar. No.
Please stop it. But I couldn’t. The only words I could hear were Mr Liar.
And then I realized where I was sitting.
In Dad’s chair.
And the room started to spin. I gripped the arms to steady myself.
Dad’s chair.
Dad.
Mr Liar.
I
could see myself. Younger. Maybe five. Sitting on the floor in front of the chair. Donna next to me. Both of us looking up at him. Waiting. For a magical story. From Dad.
I blinked and there I was. Five years old, looking up at Dad as he told a story. My whole body feeling full with the magic of it. The smile on his face. The fun.
I blinked again and I was back in the room. The piece of paper in my lap. Pen in my hand. Waiting for me to fake a letter from Dad. Mr Liar.
And it hit me in the back of the head, like Thor’s hammer.
This wasn’t magic. What I was doing wasn’t fun at all. I felt awful. Dominic wouldn’t speak to me. And the only words I could hear were Mr Liar. Mr Liar. Mr Liar.
No.
I’m not him.
‘I’m not him!’
The words came out of my mouth like a burst of flame. And I meant them.
No more stories. No more fake letters. No more lies.
Right there and then, I decided to come clean. Starting with Danny Jones, right now.
If he got mad, so be it. If he went into a rage and knocked me out in my own living room, that’s just the price I’d have to pay. I liked him. Maybe if I told him the truth – the real truth – maybe we could still be friends.
I was on my feet in a flash. I left the paper and pen and walked out into the hall.
‘Danny!’
I started up the stairs.
‘Danny! I need to tell you somethi—’
I stood there, at the top of the stairs.
The bathroom door was open, and it was empty.
My bedroom door was open too and, as I stepped forward, there was a sound.
A horrible sound.
Danny Jones was sitting on the edge of my bed. Crying.
And what was making him cry?
My wall.
The map.
Covered in everything I’d made up. The jagged pieces of all the stories I’d made up to try and be cool. What I’d said. Who I’d said it to. Danny’s name plastered all over it. One big web of lies. I just stood there, frozen.
‘Danny, I . . . I . . .’
Danny looked at me, through thick, real tears and said:
‘It’s all lies?’
And then he left.
What’s the worst you’ve ever felt?
I mean, like, ever. The very worst?
There are different versions of feeling bad, right? Lots of different reasons and ways to feel like you just want someone to press DELETE on the playlist of your life, just so the feeling will go away.
If someone does something horrible or mean to you, that feels rubbish. You feel confused about why another human being could do something so mean. You close your eyes and just hope everything disappears because it’s like the whole world is an unfair and nasty theme park that you wish your mum could come and pick you up from.
That’s one way.
Here’s my theory, though. There’s a worse one.
And that’s knowing that YOU are the person who has made someone else feel that bad.
Something you have said or done has made another human being want to curl up and disappear.
That’s the worst.
That’s when you have all the horrible feeling of the first kind, but on top of that is the guilty poison that runs through your blood from knowing that all of it is your own fault. You did that to someone. To more than one person.
And it feels like your skin is made of mistakes.
That’s how I felt.
The rest of the week was horrible.
My oldest friend Dominic Clarke wouldn’t speak to me. Now my newest friend Danny Jones couldn’t even look me in the eye.
Sitting in class, each day that week, was like slow torture.
Everything felt like it was covered in what I had done. My desk. The walls. The lunch hall. Playground. Home. Every single surface grafittied with my guilt.
There was nowhere to hide from it, and the worst part was, I knew I deserved it.
Danny Jones didn’t tell anyone.
I never really understood that. Maybe he was just too angry, or upset.
Maybe he was embarrassed that I’d tricked him.
Maybe he was actually just too nice a guy underneath all that old hard-man persona from before. I’m not sure, but whatever the reason, a big part of me wished he had. I was pretty sure it wasn’t possible for me to feel any worse, and maybe if he told people about my lies, everyone could have got angry and had a go at me, and then at least it would all be out in the open. Out of me. We were leaving junior school on Friday, so maybe I could just take all the abuse, then leave for the summer and try and start over. A clean slate, without the lies.
But he didn’t.
So I had to sit in the guilty mess I’d made, for that whole week. People kept coming up to me asking about Dad, or wanting me to retell a particular story I’d made up over the last five weeks. Stories that had made me feel cool now all felt like rotten fruit sitting in my stomach.
I dodged everyone, made excuses, the whole time keeping my mouth shut, terrified of what might come out.
I made it through to Thursday afternoon. The last day but one of my junior school life.
Packing my bag at home time, I was telling myself: Just one more day. One more day and then we break up and maybe this can be over. You’ve lost your oldest friend, and your newest one too, but you can put all of this in a box of the past and bury it somewhere, then try and get on with your life. A box with two words on the lid: Mr Liar.
As everyone else left the classroom, I thought I saw Dominic glance my way, just for a split second. But it was just wishful thinking. I’d hurt him too badly.
I hung back till everyone was gone, so that I wouldn’t have to face any of them outside or on the way home. Then, just as I was stepping out of the room, I heard the calmest voice in the world.
‘Jason? Can I have a word?’
I sat down in the same chair next to his desk.
Lazy rays of afternoon sun gave the whiteboard behind him a warm glow, like one of those background curtains they use for passport photographs.
Mr Bukowski leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and smiled his friendly shaven-bear smile. I just wanted to go home, curl up in bed and block out the world.
‘How are you?’ he said, and I thought I was going to cry. The softness of his voice felt like a blanket I could hide under. My throat went tight, and I knew if I tried to speak, the tears would come, so I just offered half a nod.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’ he said. And that’s when the feeling came.
Deep down inside me, like it was underneath my stomach. The same crackle that started it all, but different. Stronger. Like the rumble before a volcano erupts deep under the sea. Mr Bukowski was staring at me and something in his eyes sparkled.
The crackle rose into my chest. Then up, into my throat. I felt my body sitting up straight in my chair. Mr Bukowski sat forward too, a look of excitement on his face. I thought I was going to burst. He grinned at me and nodded and I opened my mouth and . . .
It all came out.
Everything.
Dad. Mum. Donna. Not getting answers. The toothbrush. Questions. Frustration. The chain reaction. The mission. Danny Jones. Dominic. The stories. Wanting to be cool. My wall. The map. Not sleeping. The guilt. How sorry I was. How rotten I felt. How I wished it had never started. How I knew how mean I’d been. How I just wanted to go back in time and put everything right. Make things good with Dom. With Danny. With everyone.
All of it rushed out of my mouth like a rainbow of truth and as it did, it felt INCREDIBLE.
When I finally finished, and slumped back into my chair, I felt like I’d just climbed out from under an avalanche. Like I could breathe again. Like I was clean.
I sat there, breathing what felt like new air, and waited for Mr Bukowski to tell me off. To explain what I already knew. How I’d messed up. How I deserved everything that had happened.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there. Smiling. And then he said something I will never forget. He said:
‘It’s a bit like a fireman’s hose.’
I didn’t understand.
‘Sir?’
Mr Bukowski gestured with his hands. ‘A fireman’s hose. If you don’t know where to point it. It gets messy.’
I didn’t know where to look. And my face must’ve been a muddle of confusion, because he leaned even further forward and said, ‘What I mean, young man, is that I think we’ve found your talent.’
Then the pair of us sat in the empty classroom for nearly an hour, and he told me what he thought I should do.
Are you scared of spiders?
Snakes?
Sharks?
Cheese? The stinky ones with the blue veins in?
Old people’s feet?
Tell the truth.
Me too. Gross, right?
See, there’s different types of scared though, right?
There’s the type of scared that will turn a regular normal coat, hanging up in your wardrobe, into a werewolf when you turn your bedroom light off.
There’s the type of scared that turns your stomach inside out when you’re standing on the edge of the highest diving board at the swimming pool.
There’s the type of scared that will make your tongue stop working when there’s somebody that you really like and you can’t tell them.
Then there’s the type of scared you feel when you know there’s something that you have to do, but you don’t know what’s going to happen when you do it.
And that’s the type of scared I felt as I sat in the packed lunch hall that Friday morning. Last day of term.
It was rammed.
All the students. All the teachers. A big handful of parents. Dinner ladies. Even a bunch of Year 7s from Wakens Tip High school, for some reason. All crammed in to watch the acts perform. And I sat in the middle of the front row, with my plan, my stomach like a ticking time bomb.
My Big Mouth Page 10