by Nigel Smith
“Oi, Buttface, awesome hair,” said Darius from the hallway. He was wrestling something fierce in a sack. Nat grew an inch with pride. She stopped trying to unstick the crisp packet.
As long as I don’t turn my back on him … she thought. Which is just as well when it comes to Darius Bagley anyway, to be honest.
The man at the door – who presumably was Porter Ogden – eventually let Nat and Dad inside.
The place was chaos, a total mess. Nat had never seen anything like it. Every room in the big, dingy, smelly old house was taken up with cages and tanks and boxes of animals. And not just ANY animals.
There were creatures of all types and all sizes, with only one thing in common: they were all incredibly ugly.
There were three-legged cats and birds with squashed beaks. There were terrible toads, nasty-looking newts and hideous humpbacked snakes. There were dogs with drooling faces so unpleasant, Nat thought they’d have put even Bad News Nan off her Hobnobs.
Even the goldfish were vile enough to give a shark nightmares.
And the animals were EVERYWHERE – some running wild, others pacing or flapping or slithering about in their cages and tanks.
The place ponged.
“I can’t open a window since the last great escape,” explained Mr Ogden. “I’m used to the smell, but visitors might find it’s a bit rich.”
Nat’s eyes were watering. “Can we go into the garden?” she gasped.
“Good idea,” said Mr Ogden. “Bagley, stop playing with Simba and open the back door. I hope no one’s scared of emus, wolves, llamas, pigs or howler monkeys?”
Darius shoved the sack in a cage and ran through the filthy, cluttered kitchen to open the back door.
They all tumbled out into the sunlight and the slightly fresher air. The garden was half overgrown like a jungle, half dug up and muddy, and contained various huts and pens.
“It’s great, innit?” said Darius, eyes shining.
“Darius, it looks like a First World War battlefield plonked down in the middle of a mad garden centre taken over by zombie animals,” said Nat.
“I know – how cool is that?” said Darius. An astonishingly ugly monkey leapt from a bush on to Darius’s shoulder and stuck a banana in his ear.
“I didn’t know you had another brother,” said Nat.
“Good one. I might have a banana in my ear, but you’ve got a plastic bottle in your hair,” said Darius. Nat realised it was true.
She yanked out the bottle and threw it at Darius’s head. He ran off and hid in some bushes. Nat was about to follow him when something from inside the bush howled, so instead she went back to Dad and the elderly man.
“Hope it eats you,” she shouted into the bush.
“I take care of all the pets no one wants, not even the rescue homes,” Porter Ogden told them. “The ugliest and the naughtiest.”
“No wonder Darius likes it here,” said Nat. “He’ll fit right in.”
A llama with a warty face ambled up to Nat and began nibbling the leaves that had got stuck in her hair. “Gerroff!” she said. The llama licked her cheek and she couldn’t help giggling.
“It’s a nice thing to do,” said Dad, who was trying to ignore what a drooling bald poodle was doing up against his leg.
“Tell that to the council,” said Mr Ogden and sat down miserably on a rock, which promptly moved: it was a giant one-eyed tortoise with a limp. “Sorry, Desmond,” the man said, getting up and taking a crumpled letter out of his back pocket. He showed it to Dad. It read:
ONE-MONTH EVICTION NOTICE.
“What does that mean?” asked Dad. Porter Ogden looked at him as if he was an idiot. “It means the council wants to sell my house and my garden from under me to some developers to build a carpark,” he said.
“On the bright side, we could do with some better parking round here,” said Dad.
“What’ll happen to the animals?” asked Nat, with her arm around the warty llama.
“Dunno,” said the old man. Nat thought he looked totally done in. “Darius says I should open the cages and let them sort it out among themselves. See who’s left at the end. He says it’s nature’s way.”
“That’s horrible,” said Nat.
“I’m not going to do that,” said Mr Ogden with a smile. Underneath the grime Nat saw he had a kind face. “But I’m the last hope for this lot.”
“That’s how I feel about Darius,” said Nat.
“If it’s not rude of me to ask,” said Porter Ogden, “why have you got bushes growing in your hair?”
“Oh, what?” asked Nat, reaching up. Instead of hair, all she could touch were leaves and twigs, blown by the brisk wind, and all stuck fast with Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold.
“Just once, Dad, I’d like you to do something for me that doesn’t end horribly,” Nat wailed. “I look like a tree! I won’t be in a fashion magazine, I’ll be in a garden centre catalogue.”
Dad whipped out his phone and pointed it at her.
“I’ll take some photos before it gets any worse,” said Dad. “You never know, this might be the next hit hairstyle.”
Nat threw her hands up in horror. “You’re not taking pictures of me like this!” she yelled. “I’ll be an even bigger joke than I am now!”
She was about to throw some llama dung at him when Mr Ogden said, in a fierce whisper that sounded genuinely frightened: “Keep completely still, both of you. Simba is on the loose again.”
ND THERE, SNARLING BY THE BACK DOOR, STOOD the most horrible, the most ugly, the most downright evil-looking creature Nat had ever seen.
“What is THAT?” croaked Nat.
“We don’t really know what she IS, but she’s quite grumpy,” said Darius, who had appeared like a scruffy ninja next to Nat. He still had the monkey on his shoulder.
The creature was a ‘sort of’ cat. In the way the Hound of the Baskervilles is a ‘sort of’ toy poodle.
“Stand completely still,” said Mr Ogden. “One false move and she’ll tear your face off.”
“Right,” said Dad, “what moves are not false? Can I, for instance, leg it back into the house and into the van?”
“That’s the most false move you can make,” said Mr Ogden. “Best not to move at all.”
“Until WHEN, exactly?” said Dad. “I have things to do.”
“No, you don’t, Dad,” said Nat. “You never have anything to do.”
“Don’t move until she sees something other than us,” said Mr Ogden. “Like that little bird there, by the pigsty.”
On the wooden fence of the sty sat a blue and white bird, preening her pretty feathers. Simba bared her sharp fangs, ready to pounce.
“That poor bird,” said Nat. “It doesn’t stand a chance.”
The cat stalked steadily towards her prey, tail stiff behind her like a javelin. Nat, who hated to see animals suffer and certainly didn’t want to see them munched, shouted:
“Fly, little bird, fly!” at the top of her voice.
The bird took off just as Simba leapt. She missed by inches, sharp claws grabbing thin air.
“That’ll teach you, bad kitty,” scolded Nat.
Simba landed on a patch of mud, looking for the bird. Which flew straight into – Nat’s leafy hair. And stuck fast.
“AAAAAGH!” screamed Nat, running around in circles as the bird flapped and struggled and got more and more stuck. “Get it out, get it out!”
“Simba’s coming for you,” said Mr Ogden. “Run!”
“Dad, this is all your fault!” shrieked Nat as Simba chased her around the garden.
“We don’t have much luck with birds,” admitted Dad, making a grab for it but missing.
He started to tell Ogden the story about them both getting chased up a tree by a furious goose, then Darius butted in, trying to tell the story of Dad and some very unfortunate French ducks.
“Stop telling bird stories and stop it pecking my head,” shouted Nat, who was being attacked from above and behind
. Hot on her heels, Simba hissed and spat at her, leaping to get at the bird.
“DO SOMETHING, Dad!” yelled Nat, disappearing behind a hedge.
“I’ll fetch the sack,” said Dad, chucking his phone to Darius and springing into action. “What does it like to eat?”
“My face,” said Mr Ogden bitterly.
Dad chased after the cat. “Nat, stand still so I can grab it,” he said.
“Not likely!” shouted Nat. “It’ll have all the skin off the back of my legs.”
“That was a close one,” said Porter Ogden. “Keep your knees up!”
“This is not what celebrities do on the weekend!” yelled Nat.
The monkey on Darius’s shoulder chattered happily at the chaos.
Finally, with Darius and Mr Ogden chasing too, Dad was near enough to risk a leap. Holding the sack in front of him, he launched himself at the horrible beast. Dad landed face-down with a splat in something he hoped was mud but suspected wasn’t.
But the sack at least landed squarely on Simba. Dad scooped the creature up just as the bird finally tore free of its sticky nest on Nat’s head, taking a large amount of hair with it.
“There you go – all better,” said Dad, after he’d locked Simba into a cage. “No harm done!”
He looked at Nat.
“NO – HARM – DONE?” she shouted. “Look at my hair!”
Her entire head was a mass of leaves and twigs and feathers and bird poo and strands of yellow matted animal hair. She looked like a scarecrow whose head had exploded.
“It might need a bit of, um …” began Dad, trying to think of the right words.
“Pruning?” said Darius helpfully, slipping Dad’s mobile into his back pocket.
Nat threw something large and sticky at his head.
AT INSISTED THEY DRIVE BACK TO THE SALON IMMEDIATELY for emergency repairs. She refused to talk to Dad on the way and, as soon as he pulled up, ran into the hairdresser’s with an old blanket covering her head.
“You look like an armed robber going into court,” said Darius, who tagged along for the ride.
Top stylist Suki Glossop threw up her arms in shock and refused to touch the tangled mass of horror. Manager Irene Hideous ripped up Nat’s modelling contract and threatened to sue Dad for making her salon look rubbish.
Nat went straight home and spent the rest of the afternoon locked in the bathroom with six bottles of untangling shampoo. By the time she emerged that night, pink-faced and hungry, her hair and her temper were both pretty much under control.
“I’ve found a way to make it up to you, love,” said Dad as he took a tray of oven chips out.
“I’ve found my own way, thanks,” said Nat. “Staying indoors until everyone forgets about me.”
“That’ll be ages,” said Darius, wandering in eating a pork pie and splattering crumbs everywhere. “Your video’s reached one million hits on YouTube today. Course, it got a boost when I linked it to the one of you and Simba.”
“Why are you here?” said Nat, wiping spitty pie off her jeans. And then:
“Wait, ME AND SIMBA? Who the flipping heck filmed me and …?” Then she realised.
“You are literally dead, Bagley.”
“It’s for your own good,” said Darius, dodging behind a cupboard. “You only get one chance at being famous and I’m gonna help you STAY famous.”
“Come out and be throttled.” She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out.
“Just look at these comments your videos got,” croaked Darius. “You’ll be pleased, honest.”
Nat stopped mid-throttle and had a look. Flipping heck, she thought, Darius is right, most of them are actually nice. She felt a tiny twinge of guilty pleasure.
Comedy Gold, wrote WheresMeJumper, put her on TV RIGHT NOW.
It’s better than the rubbish we get on the BBC, wrote JamesBondRunsMyChipShop.
Good but it would be better with vampires in it, said GothGirlUndeadRule
It’s the only thing that stops me watching Frozen, wrote LetItGo200
I Dig Mines, wrote I_Dig_Mines, but I dig the normal girl even more!
I love the Normal Girl, wrote Silver Surfer Doreen, she’s like my grand daughter in Australia. It’s so far away. I’m so sad.
“Don’t read the ones at the bottom,” said Darius. Nat couldn’t resist a peek.
“Ew,” she said, pulling a face.
“Told you,” said Darius.
“We’ve had all these great job offers for you too, so while you were in the shower, Darius and I have been brainstorming,” said Dad, pointing to a screen of emails on his laptop. “We’ve got some great fresh ideas. Darius is very good at blue-sky thinking.”
“Stop talking like that,” said Nat. “No one knows what that means.”
“You need an agent now you’re famous,” said Darius.
“That’s me,” said Dad. “And Darius is going to be my assistant.”
“I don’t WANT TO BE FAMOUS,” shouted Nat. “Look what happened today. It was a disaster!”
“A disaster today is a chance to learn,” said Dad.
“Or maybe it’s like a friend you haven’t met yet,” said Darius.
“Anyway, we’ve been reading up on the inter cyber-space web on how agents speak and it’s something like that,” said Dad.
“And I’m not going to be Darius Bagley any more,” said Darius Bagley. “It’s not a very showbiz name.”
“What name do you want, then?” asked Nat.
“Elvis Greed Bugatti,” said Darius. “Elvis to you.”
“You’re mad, both of you,” said Nat. “Totally bonkers. And there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY I am going to let either of you talk me into doing anything more. I’ve had my taste of fame and I’m not interested. OK?”
Nat had made up her mind. She was DEFINITELY not going to be famous any more, even though a teeny-tiny, tidgy bit of her was a teeny-tiny tidgy bit pleased with all the attention she was getting. And by the time Dad had fried up something brown in a pan and slopped it over the oven chips, Nat had given herself a proper telling off for liking the attention.
Stop being so vain, she scolded herself. Before you know it, you’ll be ordering fresh flowers and new kittens every day for your bedroom and demanding that the whole street gets painted pink to match your shoes.
Fame does terrible things to people, she thought.
She was ever so much not interested.
“Just in case I WAS interested – which I’m not – what sort of plans have you been thinking about?” she said.
“The first one is called a voice-over,” said Dad. “You wouldn’t even have to show your face. Or your hair.”
“What’s it for?” said Nat, who was not at all interested.
“WAKE UP!!!!” shouted Elvis Greed Bugatti in her ear.
“Eeek!” said Nat, almost falling off her chair.
Dad waved a leaflet under her nose. “It’s a new brand of fizzy drink, called ‘Wake Up!!!!’. They’re doing a radio advert and they want a fun new voice.”
Nat took the leaflet. It was printed in very bright colours.
“I don’t like fizzy pop,” she said.
“Yeah, but I do,” said Darius/Elvis. “And we get loads of bottles for free.”
“We?” said Nat.
“We’ll get paid too,” said Dad.
“We?” said Nat, again.
There was a huge roar outside as Darius’s brother Oswald pulled up on his horrid smoky black motorbike. Darius ran to the door.
“I’ll get my people to call your people,” he said, leaving. Dad gave him the thumbs up.
“Come on,” said Dad, “you go into a nice warm comfy studio next week, read a few lines and go home with pop and pocket money. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“If you and Darius Bagley have organised it, the worst that could happen could be really really bad, awful, so I’m absolutely definitely not doing it, OK?” said Nat, her resolve hardening. “And that’s fina
l.”
It wasn’t final at all.
AT SIGHED AS SHE WALKED TOWARDS THE FAMILIAR big school gates on Monday morning. She felt a bit sick, and not just because Dad had made spam fritters for breakfast.
Just for once I’d like not to be dreading school, she thought. She had no idea what the reaction was going to be to her recent video fame, but she was praying it might have all died down a bit by now. No one seemed to take any notice of her at least. A little butterfly of hope fluttered up in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, everyone’s forgotten …
But then a couple of annoying Year 7 girls pointed at her and giggled. One did the hoppity little dance of rage that Nat had become famous for. Her fragile butterfly of hope was squished under the heavy bin lorry of reality.
Already? thought Nat. And I’m not even IN school yet.
She looked for Darius for a bit of back-up for when she had to face the class, but saw he was already being dragged out of the playground by Miss Austen.
Quick work, Darius, thought Nat. Impressive …
Nat dragged her feet as she approached the classroom door. She could hear the laughing of her classmates coming from inside the room. I’ll give you something to laugh about, she thought miserably. Her hand went slowly to the doorknob. She tried to screw her face into an ‘I don’t care, la la la’ expression and pushed open the door.
“Can’t you be NORMAL?” sang her classmates, and even her form teacher, Miss Hunny, who had joined in.
“You too, Miss?” said Nat, feeling betrayed. Miss Hunny looked a bit sheepish.
“It’s all in good humour, Nathalia,” she said, smiling, but seeing Nat looking properly sorry for herself, she turned to the class and said, “No more teasing.”
“Even if you join in?” asked Marcus Milligan.
“I’m not going to join in,” said Miss Hunny, with a tight smile.
Nat scowled and sulkily sat down next to Penny.
It was clear everyone had seen the ‘Can’t you be normal?’ video (as well as the Simba one) and she lost count of the number of times that her classmates whispered the flipping catchphrase at her. The only person who hadn’t seen it was Penny, who didn’t like the Internet because she believed aliens used it to control people. It was often quite difficult for Nat to resist shouting, “Can’t you be normal?” at Penny.