Then Mom said in her whisper voice, “Well, there’s the situation with his dad.”
“I understand,” Miss Flynn said in her own whisper voice, which I’d never heard before. “It must be tough for everyone concerned.”
“It is tough.”
TOUGH?
Of course it was TOUGH.
There was Dad, lying deep in enemy territory, being blasted at by rebels on a daily basis, and Miss Flynn and Mom were calling it “tough.” What a blinkin’ insult. Brave Dad was fighting against the forces of evil in order to build paths for a country’s freedom, and these two were sitting on big soft chairs drinking sweet cold water and saying how TOUGH it must be.
INCREDIBLE OR WHAT?
If “tough” was a tiny tent, then Dad was a mammoth skyscraper. In fact, I’d have gone further and said he was a supersonic space-scraper.
It would’ve been much better if I’d just stopped listening and thought about other things, like Amir stuck in English class without me. Mrs. Seed was doing mad hard past-tense verbs, and he was shock shocking at verbs. He was shock shocking at grammar in general, but that didn’t make him a bad person. He’d be rocking on his chair in agony because he didn’t know the past participle of the verb “to eat.” His dad would be Mr. Angry Pants because the bold Amir was never going to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. He’d make a brilliant waiter or kitchen helper, though—he loves home economics.
“This isn’t funny, Dylan. This is deadly serious,” Mom said.
“What?” I said.
“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, young man.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Take that smirk off your face this minute.” Mom said this through her gritted teeth.
“Dylan, this isn’t a time for laughter,” Miss Flynn said. “Do you understand that? Dylan?”
“But I’m—”
“We want to help you,” Miss Flynn said.
Why weren’t they listening to me? Who were these heartless people?
“Look at him, Miss Flynn, sitting there sniggering away. He’s got no respect for anyone anymore. He’s a cheeky little runt . . . You’re a cheeky little runt.”
“I’M NOT FUCKING LAUGHING.” This wasn’t in the other guy’s voice, and certainly not in the dog’s either; it was all mine. When the stares and silence came, I sank deep into the comfy leather chair, folded my arms, breathed through my nose, and thought of all the soccer teams in the Scottish, English, Irish, and Welsh leagues that didn’t have any of the letters S, O, C, E, or R in their names.
Now this was TOUGH too.
“See what I have to put up with, Miss Flynn?”
“Call me Sandra.”
“He hasn’t really had a father figure in his life,” Mom said in her whispering voice.
“Is that situation likely to be resolved anytime soon?”
“God only knows, Sandra. We’re still waiting on word.”
“And that could be a while, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“Shame.”
“These things seem to go on for an eternity.”
“I can imagine.”
“It’s just one thing after another.”
“And he still doesn’t . . .”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Probably for the best, Moira.”
“I think so.”
They looked at me with big floppy hound-dog eyes.
“Yes, probably for the best,” Miss Flynn said again.
“It is.”
“Indeed.”
“Anyway, he’s got enough to worry about without me landing that on his lap as well.”
“I think you’re absolutely right, Moira. Better for everyone.”
“It is.”
“He probably needs protecting from it.”
“Oh, he does.”
“Yes.”
“Look, Sandra, I know he can be a wee bugger at times, and I lose my patience with him, but deep down he’s a good lad, and he’s not got long to go here now, as you know.”
AS YOU KNOW WHAT?
Miss Flynn knew?
Jeeze Louise!
Was there nothing sacred anymore?
“No, I suppose he doesn’t have long to go here, which, I may add, we’re all sad about. Dylan will be a great loss to our school when he eventually leaves.”
Really? Was Miss Flynn talking about me leaving school? Or leaving leaving?
“I’ll make sure he pulls his socks up.”
“We’d appreciate that.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that.”
“The fighting and aggression is something we can deal with in-house, but the truancy can be problematic.”
“Oh, he’ll be in school all right, even if I have to drag him here myself every morning.”
“It’s just that Dylan would be placing himself in a vulnerable, if not precarious, position if he were wandering the streets all by himself instead of coming to school, you know?”
“Oh, you don’t need to tell me, Sandra.”
“Drumhill is a sanctuary for students like Dylan.”
“My nerves are shattered with the thought of him all alone . . .”
“Exactly.”
“People laughing at him and teasing him . . .”
“Yes.”
“No, you mark my words, Sandra. He’ll be here every day from now on.”
“That’s all we ask, Moira.”
“And if there is anything—anything so much as a sniff of something—you’ll let me know straightaway?”
“Of course I will.”
“FULHAM, FULHAM, FULHAM,” I screamed, semi-bouncing off the comfy leather chair.
“What’s the big fascination with Fulham, Dylan?” Mom asked. This wasn’t one of those rhetorical questions.
“Fulham is the only team with no letter S or O or C or E or R in its name.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful, Dylan,” Miss Flynn said.
“No, you don’t get it. Fulham is the ONLY team in the Scottish, English, Irish, or Welsh leagues with no letter S or O or C or E or R in its name. The ONLY team, and I got it all on my own. Amazing.”
“Really?” Mom said in her I-couldn’t-give-a-flying-fahoola voice.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course we believe you, Dylan,” Miss Flynn said in her you-are-wired-to-the-moon-young-man voice.
I’d heard both these voices many times before.
“That’s what I call major brain gym, miss.”
“It certainly is, Dylan, it certainly is.” Miss Flynn seemed impressed with my brain-gym exercise. She would have felt pleased, as brain gym was her gift to me.
“You should try it, Mom.”
“Maybe on Sunday when the papers arrive I will,” Mom said.
“But that’s Ronan Keating. That’s not fair.”
“It’s perfectly fair,” Mom said.
At that moment I wished I could press the massive Family Feud buzzer. The one that makes the you’re so wrong that you’re a pure redneck sound.
“That wouldn’t be a proper brain-gym exercise.”
“Nonsense.”
“It would be Ronan Keating,” I said.
“It would not be Ronan Keating, Dylan,” Mom said.
“Okay, I’m confused now. What’s Ronan Keating got to do with anything?” Miss Flynn asked.
“Oh, it’s the rhyming slang Dylan likes to use. ‘Ronan Keating’ means ‘cheating,’” Mom said.
“Oh, I get it.”
“It’s like our own language, miss,” I said.
“That’s fabulous. Do you know any more?” Miss Flynn asked.
“Cristiano Ronaldo.”
“Which is?”
“That’s a killer to get. It means ‘hot,’ because ‘caldo’ means ‘hot’ in Italian, which rhymes with ‘Ronaldo.’ So that’s like a Portuguese/Italian/English one, which is for advanced rhymers.”
“Oh, very clever.” Miss Flynn s
eemed thrilled.
“Then there’s Richard Gere.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Beer.”
“Well, you’re a man with a bag of tricks, aren’t you, Dylan?” And she widened her eyes toward Mom, like what adults do when ten-year-olds ask them what the meaning of “fanny” is.
“Then if I go to the dentist, I’m going for a Bob Dylan.”
“Oh, I like that one.” Miss Flynn was flying with enthusiasm.
“But I never go to the dentist.”
“Aw, well, but it’s still a good one. Maybe I can use it.”
“If you want.”
“Know any more?” Miss Flynn asked.
“If a man and woman are guzzling glasses and glasses of wine, then afterward they might want to have a Billy Bragg—”
“Enough, Dylan!” Mom jumped in. “His mind is in overdrive sometimes.”
“Aren’t they all at that age?”
“That’s his father’s influence right there.”
“Right. So, I think we’ll wrap it up, Moira.”
“Okay, right you are.”
They both got up from their seats. That was my cue to get up also.
“And is everything okay with you, apart from . . . ?”
“Yes; why wouldn’t it be?” Mom seemed annoyed at this question, and she was short with Miss Flynn.
“Oh, no reason. Just thought I’d check, Moira, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m fine.”
I was getting a wee bit red and sweaty with wanting to say, “Shut up, Mom.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Thanks for seeing us, Miss Flynn,” Mom said, and put out her hand.
What happened to Sandra? Adults are weird sometimes.
“Thanks for coming in.” Miss Flynn shook Mom’s hand.
“Not at all. And remember: if he steps out of line, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t hesitate.”
“Well, thanks again for seeing us, Miss Flynn.”
“You can probably run back to class now, Dylan.”
“Can I not go home with Mom?”
“Do what Miss Flynn is telling you to do,” Mom snarled.
“But it’s only verbs we’re doing.”
“Exactly, and how important are they?” Miss Flynn said.
“But I know them all.”
“Even phrasal verbs?” Miss Flynn said. She was a crafty little devil.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Mom said. “Now, do what Miss Flynn is telling you, or I’ll take you there myself.” Holy Moly, that would be the biggest redneck ever!
“No, I’m going.” And I was out of there Speedy-Gonzales-on-Speed super fast.
Whhhhhhoooooosssssshhhhhh!
The past participle of the verb “to eat” is “eaten.”
Some verbs are awesome, which is a word used by excited, daft Americans. I discovered that you could use verbs that made you sound like you were speaking Chinese when you said them dead fast, like “sing,” “sang,” “sung.” Awesome.
19
Rap
77 Blair Road
ML5 1QE
October 29
Dear Dad,
What’s up, dogg? That’s what some rappers say when they bump into each other in the street or at an awards ceremony. It means “How are you doing, friend?” Sometimes they say “Word up?” or just “Word.” But my favorite is “What’s up, dogg?” although I do quite like “Word up, dogg?” as well. But if you say any of these in a Scottish accent, people will think you have just come out of the loony bin, or you are soon to be carted off to the nearest loony bin. LOL.This means Laugh Out Loud. Get it? It’s an acronym. Mrs. Seed taught us that the other week in English class. You can say lots of cool stuff in acronym speak. For example, LMAO means Laughing My Arse Off, and ADIDAS means All Dames In Denmark Are Sexy. You can make your own up if you want. It’s dead easy.
School is crazy these days. Caa-razy with a crazy capital C. We were stuffed at soccer by Shawhead, and you know how rubbish they are, right? Then I got into a fight. Well, not a fight exactly—more like a scuffle with this big guy from our school. But only because he was going to batter Amir, and Amir is my best bud, and I remember you always advised that I should lamp anyone who was threatening me. Give them the old knuckle sandwich, you said. This guy wasn’t threatening me directly, but he was going to take a penalty into Amir’s head. So he was kind of threatening me, because if any fella says something evil to Amir, even though he is the worst goalie on earth, they may as well be saying something evil to me too, and that’s why I jumped on this big guy’s back and held on to him like a man possessed by a rabid dingo dog. Then all hell broke loose, and the next thing I knew I had my face against the wall waiting for Mr. McGrain to come and give me a good old-fashioned talking-to. They said I tried to bite him on the back of the head, which is a load of old crap. But I’ve promised to be good from now on in.
I did a really bonkers thing, though . . . I bet you’re wondering what it is. I asked this lassie to go to the Halloween disco with me. Like, on a date. It was terrible, because I was shaking like the guy who sells The Big Issue outside the supermarket when I asked her. I only did it because it was on my list of things to do before I . . . But I haven’t told you about my list yet. I thought with you being over there stuck in a war zone it would be bad enough without me ranting about my own problems. Anyway the girl said NO, which sort of puts a damper on school at the moment. It’s a chief pain because she’s really nice-looking too. Maybe I’m just not her type.
Not much else has been happening except that Mom has taken to putting food in her eyes, which is the weirdest thing she’s done since making us a mixture of beans, tuna, and sweet-corn mush for our dinner. Remember that?
DIS-
Gusting!
So
DIS-
Gusting
that you threw yours against the wall.
That was a LOL moment if ever there was one.
Also, some mad person has been phoning the house and refusing to talk. Whenever I pick it up they say nada on the other end. I think it’s a man because of the breathing, but I can’t be too sure. We had a talk in school about the dangers of online gangs of perverts grooming boys and girls for illegal activities, so I’m thinking he could be part of that gang. Everything’s A-okay, though; you don’t need to worry—I haven’t been on the net talking to gangs of perverts or meeting strangers in parks or outside subway stations. I have my head screwed on.
Oh, I almost forgot. I saw something totally out of left field. (That’s a baseball analogy.) Mom was out doing the shopping and was too lazy to walk home (I said that the exercise was as good as anything she’d get in boot camp, though) so she flagged a taxi. And the next thing you know, abracadabra, the taxi driver’s in our kitchen guzzling down a hot cup of tea. But don’t fret. I told him off for parking in your space. His car wasn’t as good as yours either. His was not silver with spoilers and gleaming chrome alloys that could go zero to sixty in no time. Zoom!
I loved that car. It’s a pity we’re not allowed to keep things like that when you’re away at the war. I’ve never understood that. It’s one of those bonkers questions that keep me awake at night . . . along with many others. I hope they let you have it back when you return. Any idea when that will be? I think we should take the beast for a spin up to Loch Lomond when you get home. Fingers crossed it’s before March. It has to be! We can go after all the parties and fanfare people will throw for you. I suspect you’ll want to get some well-earned shut-eye before such a long drive also.
Anyway I’d better go and let you get some Little Bo Peep. You must be cream-crackered after dismantling bombs and shooting terrorists all day long. I know I would be. I’d love to hear all about your maneuvers and secret missions, but I know the score. Mad people could intercept your letters and come after Mom and me. That would be a total nightmare situation for us all.
I have an idea—you can tell all the stories to me on our drive to Loch Lomond.
Before I go I just want to let you know that I have been listening to some of your old rap CDs, though Mom doesn’t like me listening to them so much. My faves are N.W.A. and the Beastie Boys. They kick ass, dogg!!!
Speak soon, señor. (That can be Spanish and Portuguese [I think] and it’s alliteration.)
Dylan Mint xxx
As always I put Dad’s name on the envelope, along with his rank (Sgt., which is an abbreviation of Sergeant, which is one of the top jobs in the ground force), and then gave it to Mom so she could send it off to the special military forces post office, who would then give it to the special military forces postman, who would then give it to Dad, who would then read it, smile, and have a massive lump in his throat when he folded it away and put it back in its envelope. I liked to follow the journey of the letters. Post was mind-boggling. Cool Things to Do Before I Cack It: Number three: Get Dad back from the war before . . . you-know-what . . . happens was soooooooo mind-boggling that my head was all waltzer wacky when I’d finished my letter.
20
Costume
At school everyone was yapping on about the Halloween disco so much that their chat was giving me major sore napper:
“What are you going as next week?”
“Don’t know. What are you going as?”
“I haven’t decided yet. What are you going as?”
“Not got a clue. What about you?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I was thinking of going as . . .”
BALLS, BALLS, BLAH, BLAH.
Not on your nelly did I ever want to go to the school’s Halloween disco in the first place, but as soon as Mom said, “There’s no way on this big round earth, Dylan, that you’re going to any Halloween disco after your behavior over the past few weeks. You must think I’m up a gum tree or something, young man,” I wanted to go so much that it hurt my stomach. I was desperate to go. I would have done the dishes and scrubbed the toilet bowl until March if only I could go. I didn’t know what she meant by being “up a gum tree,” but I giggled at the image of Mom sitting up a tree doing all the stuff she likes to do, drinking wine and watching Come Dine with Me, her soaps, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Then Amir kept texting, pestering my life to go. Almost every night my phone would play “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” at least five or seven times, always with some Billy Bonkers idea of what we should dress up as.
When Mr. Dog Bites Page 12