‘I think he’s running a temperature,’ I explain. ‘I don’t want to miss out on the school sports carnival, but I really think I should stay home and look after him.’
‘What about his parents?’ says Mum.
‘They’ve gone on an overseas holiday.’
‘And left him all alone?’
‘They didn’t want him to miss out on any school.’
‘I could look after him,’ says Mum.
‘Don’t be silly, Mum—you’ve got plenty to do without having to look after Fred as well.’
‘No, it would be a pleasure,’ says Mum. ‘Your friends are very important to me.’
‘Fred is very important to me, too,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t feel right leaving him.’
‘But I know how much the sports carnival means to you,’ says Mum.
‘Yes, but I couldn’t enjoy the carnival knowing Fred is home sick. If he gets any worse overnight, I’ll have to stay home.’
‘I really don’t think that will be necessary,’ says Mum. ‘I am a trained nurse. I think the best thing you could do for Fred would be to go out there tomorrow and just do your best. Make him proud of you.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘assuming that he lives long enough to hear the results.’
‘Dinner’s ready,’ calls Mum.
I walk into the kitchen.
Mum has set three places. But there’s only two of us. Jen is away on a school camp and Dad is on a work trip.
‘Who’s coming to dinner, Mum?’
She gives me a strange look.
‘Why, Fred of course.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
‘Well,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t just make him stand there. Invite him to sit down.’
‘Have a seat, Fred,’ I say.
Mum motions to me to pull the chair out for him.
We both know this is completely stupid, but to not do it would be to admit that Fred is not real. And that means the sports carnival for sure.
I walk around to the chair against the wall. I pull it out and bow low.
‘Your chair, Monsieur Fred,’ I say.
I give him time to sit down and then I push his chair in.
Mum places a heaped plate of steaming casserole in front of Fred.
‘There you are,’ she says. ‘I know you’re probably not hungry, but try to eat as much as you can. You need to keep your strength up when you’re as sick as you are.’
My mouth is watering. I’m so hungry.
Mum places a plate in front of me. But it’s not as generous as Fred’s serve. In fact it’s hardly enough for a mouse.
‘Is there a food shortage?’ I say.
‘There is tonight,’ she says. ‘I didn’t plan for an extra guest. You’ll have to share your dinner with Fred.’
‘But he’s getting more than me.’
‘He’s sick! Don’t you want him to get better?’
‘Well of course I do, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘It’s no use him getting better if I starve to death.’
‘Andy,’ says Mum, ‘I must say I’m a little shocked at your selfishness. Fred is a very sick boy. We have to do everything we can to help him.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
I eat my dinner in about three seconds flat.
Fred, of course, doesn’t touch his.
At the end of the meal Mum starts collecting the plates.
‘What’s going to happen to Fred’s dinner?’ I say.
‘I’ll put it in the fridge. He might want it tomorrow.’
‘And if he doesn’t want it can I have it?’
‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ says Mum. ‘He’s probably put his germs all over it. I don’t want you getting sick as well.’
Mum picks up his plate and stretches a sheet of Glad Wrap across it.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘what are you waiting for? Go and set up the camp bed for Fred. I expect he’ll be wanting an early night, poor thing.’
‘Can’t he sleep in Jen’s room?’
‘But he’s your friend. Besides, I think someone should be with him. In case he gets sick during the night.’
I go to the hall cupboard to get the bed. I have to unpack about a billion other pieces of junk to get to it. Old surfboards, Dad’s golf buggy, a totem tennis set, boxes of Christmas decorations and a huge red esky have to be removed before I can reach the bed.
I drag it out. Looks like it was the original camp bed made before they’d worked out how to make them properly. It weighs about seventeen tonnes. Its springs are all sticking out at crazy angles. I lug the beast down the hallway. One of the springs catches on my windcheater. I start to unpick it. A daddy longlegs appears from the top of the mattress. It’s right in front of my eyes. I get such a fright that I drop the bed. It falls onto my foot. A perfect five-toe crush.
‘FRUIT TINGLES!’ I scream.
‘Andy!’ says Mum from the living room. ‘Language! We have a guest, remember?’
How could I forget? I’ve got five toes’ worth of throbbing pain to remind me.
I drag the camp bed the rest of the way up the hall and into my bedroom. I wrestle with the catch. The bed springs open with lethal force.
I go to the linen cupboard and get sheets, blankets and a pillow.
I bring them back and start making the bed. If there’s one thing I hate it’s making beds. I can never get them smooth. There’s always this stupid ripple running from one corner to the other. Someone should invent spray-on sheets. They would make a fortune.
After about five hours I finish the bed. I come back to the loungeroom.
Tonight it’s The Simpsons. I’ve been looking forward to watching it all day. But Mum is watching some stupid documentary about the economy.
‘Mum, can we watch The Simpsons?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ she says, ‘but Fred said he prefers documentaries . . . he’s very intellectual, you know.’
Very funny, Mum,’ I say. This has gone far enough. I don’t care about the sports carnival any more. I just want to watch The Simpsons.
‘I surrender,’ I say. ‘You win, okay?’
‘What do you mean?’ says Mum.
‘There’s no such person as Fred!’
‘Andy,’ says Mum. ‘You’ll hurt Fred’s feelings.’
‘But he doesn’t have any feelings. He doesn’t exist!’
‘Andy, that is a horrible thing to say. How would you like it if Fred said you didn’t exist?’
‘That would be a laugh. Somebody who doesn’t exist telling somebody who does exist that they don’t exist.’
‘That’s it. Fred and I have had enough of your rudeness. Go to your room.’
I’m home from the sports carnival. I can hardly walk. My legs are aching. And I didn’t win a single ribbon. Not that I tried, of course. I had to let the others have a go.
The house is empty. The lights are off. Mum is out.
I’m in the kitchen spooning honey over a bowl of Vita Brits when the front door opens.
I can hear Mum talking and laughing.
She comes into the kitchen. She is holding a stick of fairy floss.
‘Where have you been?’ I ask.
‘At the zoo,’ she says.
‘Why didn’t you take me?’
‘Well, I know how much the sports carnival means to you. Besides, I wanted to do something special for Fred.’
I pound my fist on the table. ‘Fred’s my imaginary friend,’ I yell, ‘not yours. You’ve got no right to take him to the zoo without me.’
‘Come now, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘Fred’s had a pretty miserable time of it. We have to make allowances.’
I look at the fresh stick of fairy floss in her hand. Pink, shiny and fluffy. Perfect.
‘Is that for me?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Mum. ‘It’s Fred’s.’
‘Can I have some?’
‘Well, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Fred.’
I feel really dumb asking an imaginary person for fairy floss, but I’m desperate. Mum never buys fairy floss for me.
‘Fred,’ I say to the blank space where Fred is supposed to be standing, ‘may I please have some of your fairy floss?’
We both look at the blank space.
I can’t hear anything, but Mum is nodding intently.
She turns to me.
‘He says he’d prefer not to share it with you, because he’s worried that you’ll get his disease.’
‘It’s not fair. Why does Fred get fairy floss and I don’t?’
‘Because it rots your teeth.’
‘What about Fred’s teeth?’ I say.
‘He’s sick. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge him this little pleasure, would you?’
I give up. I might as well try bashing down a brick wall with my head. Mum’s not going to budge.
‘Andy,’ says Mum, ‘would you mind sleeping in the camp bed tonight? Fred’s had such a big day at the zoo. I think he needs the comfort of a proper bed. Would you mind? Please? He is our guest.’
‘Yeah right, Mum,’ I say. ‘And would you like me to sit by his bed and hold a bucket for him to sick up all his fairy floss into as well?’
Mum looks shocked.
‘There’s no need to talk like that, Andy.’
‘Get it into your head, Mum—there is no Fred!’
I’m sorry, Andy,’ says Mum, ‘but this is no way to treat a guest. Please go to your room right now, and don’t come out until you can be civil.’
I go to my room. I would stomp except my legs are aching and my crushed toes are still hurting. I have to do a sort of angry limp instead.
I wish I’d never invented Fred. He’s stolen my dinner, my television show, my trip to the zoo—even my mother. And now he wants my bed. Well, forget it. Fred has to go. There’s not enough room in the house for both of us.
But how do you get rid of someone who doesn’t exist in the first place?
I’ve got it. You invent somebody else who doesn’t exist to get rid of them for you.
I need an imaginary friend who’s not going to turn out to be a mummy’s boy like Fred. He’s got to be bad. Superbad. His name is going to be Damien. He doesn’t wash his hands after going to the toilet. He doesn’t say please and he doesn’t say thank you. He wears his baseball cap backwards and goes swimming in heavy surf less than half an hour after big meals. He sticks forks in toasters—just for the fun of it. He doesn’t talk about his problems—he solves them with violence, and plenty of it. He hates vegetables. He hates girls. And, most of all, he hates goody-goodies. And tomorrow I will introduce him to Fred.
I’m woken by the sound of Mum’s laughter.
I put my dressing gown over my pyjamas and go to the door of the kitchen.
Mum is fussing around Fred’s chair.
She sees me standing at the door.
‘Good morning Andy,’ she says. ‘Come in and join us.’
‘Mum,’ I say, ‘I’d like you to meet another friend of mine. His name is Damien. His parents are overseas.’
Mum doesn’t miss a beat. She comes across to me and mimes a handshake with Damien.
‘Pleased to meet you, Damien,’ she says. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’
‘Is that alright, Mum?’ I ask. ‘I know it’s kind of short notice, but . . .’
‘Shush, Andy,’ says Mum. ‘Damien’s talking.’
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Mum stands listening to Damien. She laughs.
‘Have a seat,’ says Mum, pulling out a chair for Damien. ‘Would you like some porridge?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m starving.’
Mum glares at me.
‘I was talking to Damien.’
She takes his order.
‘What a lovely boy,’ she says to me as she crosses to the stove. ‘And so polite.’
Damien? Polite? But he’s not supposed to say please or thank you. And he’s supposed to hate girls. That includes mothers. What’s wrong with me? Am I losing my touch? Am I going soft? Is it really so hard to invent an imaginary friend that my mother won’t fall in love with?
‘Mum, what about me?’ I say. ‘Can I have some porridge?’
‘There’s not much porridge left,’ she says. ‘But there’s a little bit of toast . . . if you don’t mind the crusts, that is. Fred doesn’t like the crusts so I gave him the rest of the loaf. I hope you don’t mind.’
I look at Fred’s plate piled high with freshly buttered toast. There’s at least ten pieces there.
Mum places two blackened, shrivelled crusts in front of me.
‘They got a bit burnt,’ she says. ‘And I’m afraid there’s no butter left, either.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘You used it all on Fred’s toast.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mum. ‘How did you know?’
‘Just a hunch,’ I say.
The telephone rings. Mum goes into the living room to answer it. Now is my chance.
I sit down in Fred’s chair and help myself to his toast.
Mum comes in. She flips.
‘Andy! What are you doing? That’s Fred’s breakfast.’
‘He had to go,’ I say. ‘Damien too.’
Mum looks at Damien’s chair and then back to mine.
‘But I didn’t get to say goodbye.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘They slipped out while you were on the phone.’
‘But why?’
I have to think fast.
‘Their parents came home early. They said to say thanks and all that. They would have said goodbye themselves but they didn’t want to disturb you.’
Mum sits down, shaking her head.
‘But I was going to cook Fred’s favourite dinner tonight. Cauliflower surprise. He told me he’d be here.’
‘Oh well,’ I say, ‘Fred’s a bit like that. Damien too. Nice boys, but very unreliable. When it comes down to it they’re both just out for themselves.’
Mum looks like she’s about to cry. This is going too far. Dad and Jen have obviously been away too long. I have to snap her out of it. Tell her the truth.
‘Listen, Mum,’ I say. ‘There’s something you have to understand. Fred and Damien were not real. I made them up.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I never counted on you getting so attached to them.’
Mum doesn’t say anything.
She stares at the table.
I feel like I’ve just committed a double homicide.
But I think I’ve finally got through. Sometimes the truth hurts.
I get up and pull out a chair next to hers.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say. ‘You’ve still got me. I’m real.’ I go to sit down.
Mum screams.
‘You can’t sit there,’ she says. ‘It’s taken.’
I sigh.
‘Mum, I thought we’d got this straight. There is no Fred. There is no Damien. There’s just you and me.’
‘And Frieda,’ says Mum, nodding towards the empty chair.
‘Frieda?’
‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘She’ll be staying with us for a few weeks. See, her parents have gone overseas and . . .’
‘Don’t tell me, Mum,’ I say. ‘She hates crusts.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mum.
‘And her favourite meal is cauliflower surprise?’
‘Right again,’ says Mum, beaming. ‘How did you know?’
‘Just a hunch,’ I say.
’m in the shower. Singing. And not just because the echo makes my voice sound so cool either. I’m singing because I’m so happy.
Ever since I’ve been old enough to have showers I’ve been trying to find a way to fill a shower cubicle up with water. If I put a face-washer over the plughole I can get the water as far up as my ankles, but it always ends up leaking out through the gaps in the door.
But I think I’ve finally found the answer—Dad’s silicone gun.
> I’ve plugged up the plughole.
I’ve sealed up the shower-screen doors.
I’ve even filled in all the cracks in the tiles.
The cubicle is completely watertight and the water is already up to my knees.
And the best thing is that I’ve got all night to enjoy it.
Mum and Dad have got Mr and Mrs Bainbridge over for dinner. They’ll be too busy listening to Mr Bainbridge talking about himself to have time to worry about what I’m doing.
I hear banging on the door.
‘Have you almost finished, Andy?’
It’s Jen!
‘No,’ I say. ‘I think I’m going to be in here a while yet.’
‘Can you hurry up?’ yells Jen.
‘But you already had your shower this morning,’ I yell.
‘I’m going out,’ she says. ‘I need the bathroom!’
‘Okay. I’ll be out in a minute,’ I call. I always say that. It’s the truth. Sort of. I will be out in a minute—I’m just not saying which minute it will be.
The cubicle is filling with thick white steam. Just the way I like it. Dad’s always telling us how important it is to turn the fan on when we’re having a shower, but I can’t see the point. A shower without steam doesn’t make sense. You might as well go and stand outside in the rain.
My rubber duck bumps against my legs. I pick it up.
‘This is it,’ I say. ‘Just you and me . . . going where no boy—or rubber duck—has ever gone before.’
It has its bill raised in a sort of a smile. It must be as excited as I am. Let’s face it, there can’t be that much excitement in the life of a rubber duck. Except that you’d get to see everybody without their clothes on.
Jen bangs on the door again.
‘Andy! Pleeeeease!’
‘Okay,’ I call. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘You said that a minute ago.’
‘I’m washing my hair.’
‘But you’ve been in there for at least half an hour. You don’t have that much hair.’
Just Annoying! Page 4