Amir was searching for more stones to boot around. He couldn’t find any, so he twiddled his ears. “But Michelle Malloy thinks you’re a mad freak.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She does.”
“She just doesn’t know me yet, that’s all.”
“But how are you going to make her want to shag you?”
“Can you stop whispering the word ‘shag’?”
“Shhhh, Dylan. Blooming heck.”
“What age are you, Amir?”
“I’m sixteen and two months.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“We are at the age when we should be shagging girls.”
“I dunno about that, Dylan.”
“Well, I do, and I am saying I’m at the age for shagging.”
“Really?”
“I’m like a tomato.”
“A tomato?”
“Ripe.”
“Wow! Dylan! That’s pure head-mong stuff. How are you going to do it?”
“There are ways.”
“Seriously?”
“Loads of ways.”
“Is it not really dangerous?”
“Dead easy.”
“So when are you going to rape her, then?”
“What?”
“When are you—”
“Are you serious?”
“Erm—”
“What kind of person do you think I am, Amir?”
“I j-j-just thought—”
“Well, if you’re going to think, use your noggin first.”
“You said it.”
“Said what?”
“Rape.”
“RIPE, I said. RIPE! Not bloody rape!”
“Oh.”
“What kind of nutter do you think I am?”
“I just—”
“You want me to go down for a five-to-ten stretch in the jail or something?”
“Of course I don’t want you to go to the jail.”
“Well, then.”
“Okay, then.”
“So, then.”
“Well, then.”
“That’s sorted, then.”
“Well, then it’s sorted, then.”
“Just don’t act like a pure moron when I’m telling you things.”
“Okay, Dylan.”
Then Amir laughed, but he was trying super hard to stop himself from laughing in case I socked him a stonker across the face. Or I gave him a Glasgow Kiss or a Mars bar down his cheek or a swift kick to the balls. But he didn’t need to worry, because there’s no way on earth I’d have laid a finger on Amir or anyone—not even Doughnut, although when Doughnut called me Dildo instead of Dylan I wanted to crack his head open with a big giant concrete slab. Mom told me to wiggle my fingers and count to ten in my head when that happened. I rubbed Green in my palm and thought of how many grains of sand there are on Largs Beach. That was where we went with the school last summer for our annual day trip; it was pissing down, and we had to watch the waves crashing onto the shore from inside the bus. It was crap. Lisa Degnan shat herself as well, and the whole bus smelled like a baby’s nappy. I started counting the grains and breathing out of my mouth.
“Why are you laughing, Amir?”
“Because of the jail thing.”
“And?”
“There’s no need for you to go to jail, because you will never see out your five-to-ten stretch.” What Amir said blasted me in the face. “Because, you know . . . you’ll be . . . you know . . .”
Then I knew. We knew. And my face and insides felt all sad.
“Oh, Dylan, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t . . .”
“It’s no probs, Amir. We’re just having some banter, that’s all.”
“Well, if it’s banter you’re after, think about this . . .”
“What?”
“You might get Michelle Malloy up the duff and leave behind a wee baby Mint.” Snap! Crackle! And Pop! Amir was right. I’d never thought about baby Mints.
“What if I put a sleeping bag on it?”
Amir looked confused.
“A rubber.”
“Oh.”
“I’d be okay then, wouldn’t I?”
“Erm . . . I . . . erm, suppose so, but you’d have to flush it down the toilet to wash away the evidence.”
“Right.” I tried to act as if I knew what the hell’s fire I was talking about. The problem was, I hadn’t really seen any rubbers in the flesh, unless you count the skanky ones left in the park. The ones I saw on the Internet looked like rolled-up nipples. I’d be terrified to buy one. Maybe Amir could be an incredible bud and buy them for me. Or steal them from his dad. Wow! That would be something. I never considered rubbers.
Then we kicked some tiny stones around, because all the big ones had already been booted away. There was this weird silence between us, which made me want to slap my forehead twelve times in a row.
“I’m going to make my move at the Halloween disco,” I said.
“With Michelle?”
“Yeah.”
“But Halloween’s ages away. We’re still in August.”
“That gives me plenty of time to put my master plan into action.”
“Phew. That’s okay, then, isn’t it?” Amir said. “Are you going to tell Michelle what’s wrong with you as well?”
“No chance.”
“It might be easier to . . . you know . . . have it off with her.”
“How?”
“She might have some super sympathy for you.”
“I don’t want her super sympathy.”
“But then you could get one of those . . . what-do-you-call-its.”
“A pity pump?” I said. I knew what Amir was getting at, but I couldn’t think of the exact phrase that was on the tip of his tongue.
“That’s it. A pity pump.” That wasn’t it, though.
“No need. Once she hears the Dylan Mint patter, her knickers will fall down like Mad Skittle’s do.”
Amir laughed loudly. Skittle’s real name was Philip Doyle and he was in our class. He had a leg-disease thing that made his bones all squishy like Play-Doh. “You’d better not say that to Skittle’s face.”
“Spaz-ball!”
“I would never say anything ba-ba-bad to Skittle,” Amir spurted. “Never to his fa-fa-face.”
Sometimes Amir got a wee bit ruffled when bits and bobs flew out. Miss Flynn told me to “always stay positive” when they came out unexpectedly. I didn’t know what this meant, however. Dad used to say that Miss Flynn was “getting money for old rope.” Imagine paying someone for old rope when you could just go to Home Depot and buy new rope. Freaky deaky.
When we walked home I felt as though I should put my arm around Amir to remind him that things would be A-okay between us and to make him understand that we would be best buds for life. I saw the lads in the film Stand by Me do the same thing, and that was brilliant. Mom said I was crying during it, but I wasn’t. I only had a lump in my throat . . . the size of an eggcup.
“By the way, don’t say anything, Amir.”
“About what?”
“About you-know-what.”
“The de-de-dead thing . . . March?”
“Yes, and don’t call it ‘the dead thing.’”
“What should I call it?”
“You could call it ‘the holiday’ or ‘the trip’ or ‘the thing’ or ‘the journey’ or ‘the elephant.’ Call it anything as long as you don’t say the word ‘dead.’”
“Okey-dokey, captain.”
“Mum’s the word, okay?”
“Mum’s the word,” Amir said.
We half punched, half pushed each other on the arm to put a stamp on it and then continued to walk.
“What are you going as for the Halloween disco?” I asked him.
“Don’t know. What about you?”
“Don’t know.”
Amir rolled his eyes, because he had his thinking hat on. And when this happened, it was
Strap Me In Time!
“I know what you could dress up as,” he said.
“What?”
“A rubber!”
That guy was
fun
fun
funny.
10
War Zone
77 Blair Road
ML5 1QE
September 15
Dear Dad,
Mom told me all about the ban on letters being sent out from your war zone area. That’s Billy Bonkers! She said that the war zone you’re in is mad dangerous and that if they find out where the letters are posted from, it could be a major life threat to you and your ultrabrave buddy comrades. But she told me you two sometimes speak on the phone, although this is usually during my schooltime, which is a major super pain in the bumbaleery because it would be good to have a wee chat with you on the old blower now and again. This could be why she cries loads. Because she misses you like a crazy woman when she hears your voice. So do I, even though I don’t get to hear your voice that often.
I think it was December last year—just before you got the call from the big bosses—that I last heard your voice. I remember you creaked into my room and said, “Dylan, wake up. I’ve brought some chips in. Come on! Wake up and come down for the chips I’ve bought.” But by the time I got downstairs you had gone on a snooze cruise. It was dead funny seeing you facedown on a bag of chips. Sorry for laughing, Dad, but it was a real YouTube moment. I bet it would have got bagillions of views as well. But when the chips are down (that’s a joke!) and I want to hear your voice, I just look at the letter you sent me. Thanks for that. Maybe I’ll put it in a frame on my wall.
I guess she’s told you all about my situation. This also makes her cry loads, I think. Sometimes I spot her curled up on the sofa with her hands around a mug of tea, sobbing and sniffing away. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying all this stuff about Mom but, since you are her One True Love and One and Only, you have a right to know. And since I am your flesh and blood, I have a duty to tell you. Anyway, the big day is in March, so it would be amazing if you could be here. Mom said that there is a brilliant chance that you could be home way before that time anyway. She told me that it all depends on the level of madness in your war zone. Fingers and toes crossed!
Remember when you used to say “a-mayonnaise-ing” instead of “amazing”? I liked that. I’m going to start saying it from now on. I made up a new word of my own, but you can use it if you want. The word is “shizenhowzen,” which you say instead of saying “holy shit!”
Amir and me are playing for the school soccer team next week. You remember Amir, right? He’s my best bud. Some people call him a Paki, which makes both of us as angry as a couple of mofos. He’s not very good at soccer, which is a shame. His favorite game is cricket, which is a mega shame because it’s mental boring, and I don’t fully understand the rules. I don’t think anyone does it at Drumhill anyway, apart from Amir, so he’s stuffed if he wants to play a game. He can’t exactly bowl and bat to himself, can he? It would be a howl to see that, though. The thing is, the soccer team was short of players, so we had no choice but to ask Amir. If he’s rubbish, we’ll just chuck him in goal. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I have a ton of pipeline things to do before March—like school stuff, mainly. I still want to pass all my exams. (Maybe they will let me do them early.) I also want to make sure that Mom’s A-okay and full of beans again. But there are some other “personal” things I need to do. I will tell you more about them nearer the time.
Now, since Mom’s gone to her boot-camp class, I’m going to play some computer games. She says I shouldn’t be playing them because it can make the old brain get even wonkier. It doesn’t. It just makes me blink more than normal, that’s all. Anyway, please don’t tell her I was playing computer games. Just imagine if you were here; you could be her boot-camp instructor, and she wouldn’t have to go out twice a week for three hours a pop. I’m going to whisper this bit, but I can’t really see the difference in her weight! Please don’t tell her I said that. Please. Please. Please. But if you were here, you could just shout instructions at her in the backyard, and I’m sure the weight would fall off her in no time. That would be funny to see. I could bring you a beer for your trouble and Mom a piece of celery in between exercises.
Okay, Señor Mint. I am off to master level four of Halo 2 before Mom gets back from fat camp (I can’t believe I said that). Speak to you soon, amigo. (I do Spanish in school now.)
Dylan Mint xxx
11
Chores
When I heard the front door opening I nearly shit a brick. Mom would go jumbo bananas at me for playing computer games all night. She’d be Herbie Goes Bananas at me for not doing these bleeding house chores:
Homework (but the house wouldn’t fall down if I didn’t do my homework, so I didn’t understand the reason why this was in the House Chores part of Mom’s brain)
Separate my socks from their little balls (’cause “our washing machine doesn’t bloody separate socks”)
Pick up the orange seeds that are scattered over my bedroom floor after they pop-pop-popped out of my fingers (brill game to play when I’m feeling anxious and annoyed with myself or the world)
Dust the windowsill and tops of the radiators (my top tip is to do this with a stinky sock; the sock will get washed, and I’ve killed two birds with the one stone!)
Change my sheets and pillowcases (Mom said I had to do this once a week now that I was a big teenager. She didn’t know that I knew what she meant, but I didn’t want to tell her that I wasn’t that type of teenager, ’cause I tried to avoid redneck conversations)
These sheets hadn’t been changed for two months. I didn’t like sleeping on new bedsheets. The front door slammed as though a ten-ton ax had battered it. I heard Mom chugging up the stairs, heavy footstep on each stair.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
My heart was doing laps around my body, and I went into tic-tastic mode. I hadn’t done any chores; I hadn’t even managed to get to level five. The brick was coming fast.
Then another door crashed shut. Mom’s bedroom. Banging’s not good for me or my haywire potential.
“BASTARD DOOR! SLAM FUCKING DOOR! BITCH SLAMMED FUCKING DOOR! FAT FUCKING DOOR BITCH! BIG DOOR ARSE BITCH!”
Shut the beep up, Dylan, the man in my head shouted. Shhhhhhhh, for the love of God.
I flung my face deep into my pillow so that the sound was muffled, but it was hard to breathe. I had to make a Great Escape from the voice. It must have been a tough boot camp. I licked Green.
“Go to sleep, Dylan,” she shouted across the landing.
I stayed quiet as the quietest mouse in a wee quiet town. I played statues with myself.
“Did you hear me?” Mom shouted.
I was like a master POW.
“Dylan, I know you can hear me.”
I was the David statue from the Italian Renaissance, which was what we were doing in our history class. But David isn’t really real, because he’s got a big giant muscular body and a wee tiny willy. The class was really boring, though. Maybe I’d show my teacher my stiff David moves.
“Dylan, answer me.”
I didn’t.
“Dylan, stop playing games. I know you’re there.”
I stopped being stiff David and shook my head from side to side and blinked as fast as possible for forty-three seconds. A new and improved record: one hundred and sixteen blinks. My head hurt.
“Dylan, I know you were playing computer games.”
Shit, bum, bugger, arse. How did she know?
“But it’s okay, son, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” Her voice sounded all blubbering woman again. It was much softer. My favorite. Like velvet and chocolate in a blender. Tender to make me feel safe and snug.
“You mean it?” I said.
“What?” There was a big giant pause. “I can’t hear you.”
“YOU MEAN IT?”
/> “Mean what?”
“THAT IT WAS OKAY TO PLAY COMPUTER GAMES?”
“Yes, it’s okay.”
“Ta.”
“What?”
“TA.”
“Did you do your chores?”
“YES . . . NO . . . YES . . . NO . . . NO . . . NO . . . NO . . . YES . . . FUCK CHORES.”
“Dylan, did you or didn’t you do your chores?”
“NO.” I put my ear toward Mom’s room and listened for the silence, but all I could hear was Mom saying things under her breath, like wee rats having a good old-fashioned chinwag. “EVERYTHING OKAY, MOM?”
“Everything’s okay, Dylan. Go to sleep now.”
Sleep was miles away.
“How was boot camp?”
“What?”
“HOW WAS BOOT CAMP?”
“Boot camp?”
“YES.”
“It was the same as it always is.”
“TOUGH?”
“Yes, Dylan, boot camp was tough. Very tough.”
“IS THAT WHY YOU’RE TIRED AND ANGRY?”
“Yes, Dylan, boot camp makes me tired and bloody angry.” Actually, she said, “BLOODY ANGRY” with lots of “!!!!!!!” at the end.
“I’M SORRY FOR NOT DOING MY CHORES.”
“You can do them tomorrow.”
“Okey-dokey.”
“What?”
“OKEY-DOKEY.”
“Right. Night, then.”
“I didn’t have time because I was writing a letter to Dad.”
“What?”
“I DIDN’T HAVE TIME BECAUSE I WAS WRITING A LETTER TO DAD.”
“Go to sleep, Dylan.”
“IT TOOK ME AGES TO WRITE IT; THAT’S WHY I DIDN’T DO MY CHORES.”
“Time for sleep now.”
“WILL HE GET TO READ MY LETTER?”
“Dylan, for the love of God, will you just GO TO SLEEP?”
The silence came again, and so did the wee rats. It was as if Mom were waiting for me to say something. But I was waiting for her to say something. Waiting kills me. I hate being in that place where I don’t know what I should be doing or how I should be acting or what I should be saying. Confusion world.
I did what I normally do: I tucked my ears inside themselves and twiddled Green between my fingers. Wow! They were so cold; the sensation was sensational. This was an a-mayonnaise-ing moment. My eyes were shut so tight that they made tiny white dots. I was laughing dead hard on the inside, though, because of Dad’s brilliant word. Then pop! Out came my ears.
When Mr. Dog Bites Page 5