Twilight in the Land of Nowhen

by Nury Vittachi

  NURY VITTACHI was born on Earth and still spends most of his time there. He visits schools and tells stories to young people, sometimes in languages they understand. He has a thing about islands, and his favourites are Australia, Hong Kong, Sri Lanka, Britain and a nameless rock in the South China Sea he got stranded on once. He is known in China as Sam Jam, which means ‘Third Bus-stop’. His greatest achievement in life has been to once laugh so hard that he blew coffee three metres out of his nose.

  TWILIGHT

  IN THE LAND OF

  NOWHEN

  NURY VITTACHI

  First published in 2006

  Copyright © Nury Vittachi 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Vittachi, Nury, 1958– .

  Twilight in the land of nowhen.

  ISBN 9781741149357.

  ISBN 1 74114 935 5.

  I. Title.

  A823.4

  Cover design by Heath McCurdy

  Set in 11 on 14.5 pt Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated to anyone who suffers

  from shyness

  Don’t read this book.

  Do NOT read this book. Just shut it quietly, and put it back where you found it.

  Look, bozo, I’m not kidding. What is there about the last sentence that you don’t understand? Are you being rude or are you just really, really stupid? Can you even read?

  Let me try it one more time: Shut this book and put it back right now.

  I see we have an extremely difficult customer here. Take my advice, shut this book and put it back on the shelf. It’s for your own good. There are BAD things in this book. REALLY BAD things. Not convinced? Then I’m going to have to list some of the things in this book. Don’t blame me if it upsets you. It’s not my fault; I warned you.

  VIOLENCE. Yep. There’s blood in this book. Red stuff. Splatters of it. I’m not going to tell you who gets hurt, but someone does. It’s nasty. It’s yucky. It’s downright gory.

  SAD THINGS. I’m talking about accidents. I’m talking about people going insane. I’m talking about people DYING.

  KISSING. Yes, that’s right, kissing. And I don’t mean like how your mum kisses the top of your head when you go to school. I mean like a male and a female smooching. BLEEUUCCCHH!

  If the publisher’s lawyer knew what is in this book, she would probably add something like this on the cover:

  We take no responsibility for any deeply traumatic condition that may yuck up your life if you are stupid enough to read this book despite the loads and loads of warnings telling you not to.

  Good grief! You really are a pest aren’t you? Well, this is your final chance.

  Put the book down quietly and go away.

  Do something else.

  Go watch television.

  Go play computer games.

  Go eat junk food.

  JUST DON’T READ THIS BOOK.

  Anybody there? No?

  Good.

  Ha ha! Done it.

  They’ve gone. Every last one of them.

  Now it’s just you and me. Me and you. Simon and the Secret Sharer.

  I had to get rid of them because this book is just for me and you, Secret Sharer. Or SS, if I may call you that.

  This is probably the only book in history that has been written and published for only one reader.

  On TV, authors always boast about how many thousands of readers they have. Not me. I’m happy about how few readers I have. Just the one.

  Now that we are alone, I’d better start by telling you a little about me. And about what led me to write this down. And how I found out about you, SS.

  Before we begin, I need to tell you something. And you better set aside everything you think you know about . . . well . . . everything, really.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Author’s note

  1

  My name is—

  Wait! Before I tell you my name, I have a small request. Please promise you won’t laugh. I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but most children are horrible, vicious, nasty BRATS. Sometimes they laugh anyway, even if they’ve promised not to. Grown-ups are just as bad. Even teachers laugh. This is particularly shocking. Teachers are always going on about the Importance of Good Manners, yet they laugh like donkeys after swearing on the dictionary not to.

  But if you say you won’t laugh I’ll believe you, because you are the Secret Sharer.

  OKAY. Here goes . . .

  My name is Simon Poopoo.

  You are not laughing, I trust.

  Let me add quickly that my family name does not mean what stupid, idiotic, brain-free morons think it means. Poopoo means ‘appetiser’ in Hawaiian.

  Sometimes people ask me why my family doesn’t change its name. Well, we did change our name. (We used to be called Peel.)

  Before we moved here, my dad opened a small food factory in Hawaii to sell spicy peanut and shrimp appetisers called pupu. There was already a food factory called Master of Pupu, so Dad changed his name to Mister Poopoo.

  When we left Hawaii and moved here, he decided to keep his name. He said it was unusual and would get us noticed.

  It gets me noticed all right. People notice me with their laughter. Bullies notice me with their fists.

  But my name is not important. The most important thing about me is my remarkable degree of cleverness. I am not just the cleverest kid in the class; I am cleverer than any of the teachers. I am cleverer than the principal. I am probably cleverer than anyone alive. I may even be cleverer than God, although I am not sure about that. I haven’t seen his exam results.

  The most important week in the history of the universe (and this is not an exaggeration, as you will realise when you read on) began like any other, with a—yeuchh— Monday morning.

  It didn’t seem like a special day. In fact, it wasn’t even a particularly nice one.

  The clouds were not white and fluffy.

  The birds were not singing.

  The sky was not blue. It was just sort of paper-white all over, like someone had forgotten to paint it in.

  The air
was clear but icy, like my heart. Gusts of freezing wind hurt my nose and ears. The birds hadn’t woken up yet. And no one was talking.

  Not that it was quiet. We live at the bottom of a hill, so every now and then the iiiiieeeeeeeerrrrrrr of a bus or car straining up the slope fills the air.

  That momentous morning I stood at the bus stop and thought about three horrible things.

  1 I was starting a new school in a new town. I had precisely zero acquaintances to help me through the week.

  2 It was the first day of a new term. There were not going to be any holidays for weeks and weeks and weeks.

  3 I had a really bad feeling that, instead of making friends, I would acquire dangerous, lifelong enemies who loathed me.

  I don’t know where that last thought came from.

  Except for the fact that I had been to six schools in my thirteen years. Every time I started a new one, I made no friends but acquired a new set of DANGEROUS, LIFELONG ENEMIES WHO LOATHED ME. Get the picture?

  So there we were, a shivering clump, standing on the windy corner and staring at the top of the hill. Everyone was focused on the point where the school bus would eventually appear. Lots of people were sniffing. Everyone seemed to have a bad cold.

  I was fingering a bruise on my forehead where I had accidentally walked into a door.

  My family was standing next to me. That means my dad. He’s the only family I have.

  A slightly older girl was standing on the other side of him. I noticed in a blurry sort of way that she was looking at me.

  Danger danger danger.

  Then she did it.

  ‘Hi. What’s your name?’ I heard her say.

  Argghhh! If there’s one thing I hate hate HATE, it’s friendly people. Why do they insist on saying hello? There is absolutely no need for that sort of behaviour. You’ll have noticed that I hadn’t done anything to her.

  I didn’t reply or look in her direction, but turned to my dad.

  He was reading an engineering magazine, as usual, and ignored my tugs at his elbow.

  ‘What’s—’ the girl started to repeat.

  ‘Simon,’ I spat, not looking at her.

  ‘—your name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I explained, starting to feel hot. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Huh?’ She probably thought she hadn’t heard me right. I could tell because she wrinkled her forehead and tilted her head to one side. That’s what people usually do when they talk to me. ‘Whose class are you in?’ she asked.

  ‘Um, ah, two weeks,’ I said, desperately.

  She looked baffled, but pressed on—the idiot. ‘Lived here long?’

  ‘Art. Art. You know, painting and stuff.’

  The girl tilted her head to the other side. I think she was trying to decide whether I was obnoxious or crazy: the usual reaction. I’m a conundrum, that’s what I am.

  ‘Oh,’ she said after a pause. Then, believe it or not, she actually tried to continue the conversation. ‘Um, what’s your favourite subject?’

  I didn’t say anything. I turned again to my Dad and gave him a sharp nudge in the side with my elbow. I needed his help. ‘Dad. Dad. Dad.’

  He looked at me in an irritated way and lowered his magazine (Atomic Automotive Monthly).

  ‘He’s no good at talking. He’s a bit shy,’ Dad said to the girl. Then he went back to reading.

  The girl gave up. There was a mixed expression on her face: half pity, half suspicion. I was used to that sort of response. She stepped back and looked for the bus. We stood in silence.

  ‘Dad,’ I said quietly. I poked him again with my elbow. ‘Dad.’

  He waited for a while before he answered. ‘Uh?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school. I really don’t want to go to school.’

  He let out a long, irritated sigh. I knew it well. It was his I’m-fed-up sigh. And I knew what was coming next: his usual speech.

  ‘Simon. Don’t be like this. We’ve been through it all before. You have to go to school. It’s against the law for dads to keep their kids out of school. I’ll be arrested and locked up. We’ve had this conversation one million times at least. I’m not having it again. That’s the end of it.’

  He went back to his magazine.

  ‘Dad. Dad.’

  His eyebrows joined together. He hates being interrupted when he’s reading.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m worried. About . . . you know.’

  He paused for a few seconds, as he always does before answering me.

  ‘What? Talking?’

  ‘Yes. Can you tell them I’m mute? Please, Dad? Please?’ ‘I’ll deal with it. I’ll talk to them. I’ve said I will and I will, and that’s that.’

  That was the only thread of hope I had. Dad had promised to explain to my teacher about the way I get mixed up when I try to talk and stuff. He had never done that at my previous schools, and I was hoping and praying that Dad’s presence would make a difference this time.

  ‘Tell them I’m mute,’ I said again. ‘Please tell them I’m mute.’

  I’m too old to hold hands with Dad but I sort of pressed into his side. Dad was my hope. Dad would make it okay. Dad would make it different this time.

  Two cars whizzed up the road and disappeared over the hill. And then everything was quiet. I slowly breathed out, conjuring a huge cloud in the freezing air.

  There was silence for about half a minute.

  A tinny version of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy started to play. My eyes widened in alarm. It was Dad’s phone, bleating and flashing.

  I started praying a different prayer. Please let it not be Melly. Please let it not be Melly. Please let it not be Melly.

  ‘Oh, hi Melly,’ Dad said, grinning. Melly is his girlfriend and she keeps distracting him from the really important things in life, such as me and his car.

  ‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Ooh. Ah. Oh?’ he said. (Have you noticed how grown-ups on the phone make silly noises instead of words?) ‘Ooh. Ieee. Mm-mm. Ah, but I can’t,’ he said. ‘I have to take Si—yeah, I know it’s important to you, but—oh. Yep. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Mm. Yeah. Right.’

  Danger danger danger.

  She was asking him to do something; to meet her or go somewhere. I had to step in.

  ‘Dad, you promised to come to school with me today. Dad, you promised to come to school with me today. Dad—’

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘Dad, you promised to come to school with me.’

  ‘You’re here? You mean at our place? Where exactly?’ He looked up and down the road.

  ‘Okay. Bye love,’ he said, and snapped the phone shut. ‘She’s here. Melly’s here. Somewhere.’ He glanced upwards.

  I ducked.

  A moment later, the fizzing sound of a Keeline 202 HoverSmart Shopalot (‘Takes two averagely obese adults and up to seventy kilos of shopping’) filled the air. I caught a glimpse of the latest model—metallic crystal orange with silver chrome trimming—whirring over our heads. It was out of control. Melly had to be driving.

  People in the bus queue gasped. They leaped back, or covered their heads.

  The vehicle crash-landed in a crab-apple tree about twenty metres from where we stood.

  ‘Ow!’ screeched the driver. Branches absorbed the weight of the hovercar, and it bounced up and down.

  The sound of the engine slowly died, leaving only the radiator fans humming. There was a low hiss from under the vehicle. The hot underside was frying the crab-apples that grew in the tree. I could smell apple pie.

  The driver pulled off her helmet and shook her hair like a dog after a bath. Melly’s hair cascaded down her back in seven shades of red.

  ‘Why do they make it so hard to land these things? Hi Hal. Hi Sime-Slime.’

  I looked away. I did not want to be associated with this woman.

  ‘Hey Mel,’ said Dad. His voice went all weak and breathy, like it always does when she comes to visit. ‘Nice landing. Well—not bad for a beg
inner, anyway. Ha ha.’

  (Have you ever noticed how grown-ups make fake laughing noises when they’re embarrassed, even when no one has made a joke?)

  Melly flicked hair from her heavily made-up eyes. ‘Can you give me a teeny, weeny little driving lesson this morning, Hal, darling?’ she cooed in a little-girl voice. ‘I need it—as you can see. My test is this afternoon.’

  ‘You can’t. You promised to come to—’ I said.

  ‘Sure. Ha ha,’ Dad said.

  ‘Dad, you promised you’d come to school with me today. I need you—’

  ‘Hey, it’ll be fine. Ha ha.’ He flashed me a smile as fake as the laughs he was giving Melly. ‘I’ll write a note for your teacher. It’ll be fine.’

  The sun disappeared. My world turned dark. I could feel myself sinking into a bottomless black hole.

  Dad couldn’t find a pen in his pockets. I gave him one. He couldn’t find paper, so he wrote a note in tiny writing on the back of a Mister Poopoo, King of Appetisers business card.

  He handed me the card.

  This is what he had written on it:

  Dear Teacher. Simon is very, very shy. He might not say anything today. Please DO NOT force him to say anything. If you do, he may say some strange things. Mr Harry Poopoo.

  I tugged at his jacket. ‘Please, Dad. Can’t you come and tell the teacher yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s important not to be selfish, Simon. Melly needs me. You know how it is.’

  He squeezed my shoulder then climbed over a fence to get closer to the tree in which Mel sat, gently bobbing in her hovercar.

  Yes. I knew how it was.

  2

  Half an hour later: Stress City. I was in a classroom. I knew no one. No one knew me.

  I looked around. The place was crawling with revolting, shouting, stupid brats. There were thirty-two of them. They looked exactly like all the kids in all the other schools I’d been to. Kids who didn’t become my friends. Kids who became DANGEROUS, LIFELONG ENEMIES instead. They were older than they had been at my six other schools, just as I was older. Each time they were older and bigger. Each time it was worse.

  The noise of squalling, gossiping children was deafening. The room smelt of disinfectant. The strip-lights above us flickered on and off. The paint on the walls was grey and bits of it were starting to peel.