WHAT?
The animal shelter??!! Go to a new home and be someone else’s dog?! No, no, no, no, please, God, no.
I hate that evil, scheming witch, Wendy.
4 p.m.
Amber’s here. I’ve been crying all day and seem to have turned into a human snot machine. I tell her everything. She puts her arm around me and says, “Man, this is so bad.”
8 p.m.
Mom makes sausage sandwiches. I eat one, even though I’m not speaking to her and I’m a vegetarian. This shows how distraught I am.
Tuesday
Am fretting so much over Simon my stomach doesn’t even cartwheel when I see Treasure and Damian walking to school holding hands.
Amber says she’s been thinking and that I should calm down. She reckons my mom and dad will come around if I just make Simon behave for a while and there are no more disasters. Yes, I’ll devise an SOS (Save Our Simon) plan. I’ll make him into the best-behaved dog in the world. Feel a bit better.
5 p.m.
Mom tells me that Dad’s phoned the animal shelter. He’s going to see them tomorrow. Rick is disgusted with the FONs and says he’ll disown them if they get rid of Simon. “This baby is a pain in the butt!” he says, and goes out, slamming the door and without even eating his tea.
“Yes, and if you send Simon away I swear I’ll leave home and then you won’t have to worry about not having enough bedrooms,” I say.
The FONs don’t seem to be taking this threat very seriously.
I now know how fond Rick is of Simon. He didn’t even tell Mom when Simon made tiny teeth holes in his Kings of Leon CD.
8 p.m.
Simon has a death wish. He has stolen and eaten a full box of Celebrations chocolates, which he took from the cupboard by opening it with his greedy fat nose. With the wrappers on. Plus the cardboard box. Now he has been sick all over the living room carpet, which is vomity enough at the best of times.
Dad says, “The sooner that dog is rehoused, the better.”
I honestly don’t feel like I’ll ever be happy again.
Wednesday
Can’t concentrate all day at school. Wonder what the people at the animal shelter are saying to Dad? Oh no—maybe they’ve already taken Simon without me knowing. Maybe it was a trick.
3:15 p.m.
Run home so fast that I fall and take the skin off both my knees. Open the gate. Simon is still here! Though he is sitting miserably in his kennel. I fling myself on him and kiss him. He licks the blood off my knees. Am crying with relief and knee-pain as I stagger through the kitchen door. Witch Wendy is here again. Phoebe is sitting on her KNEE—the little traitor.
“Mom told me about the dog attacking a child,” she says, wagging a finger. “That dog is a menace.”
I’d tell her what a vicious fat hag she is but I can’t because there’s a lump the size of a cow in my throat.
“Pooh,” says Phoebe, looking up at Wendy. “Your breath smells.”
Good old Phoebe.
The good news is that the animal shelter is totally full. The bad news is that Dad’s going to get in touch with another one 30 miles away.
Friday
Dad has gone to hospital with Mom for another scan on her bump (actually it’s more of a hillock now. I don’t think she’ll be losing this baby weight in a hurry—she’s like a Highland cow). They return with another photograph of the baby, which now looks like a porpoise with fingers. Mom is all emotional (again) and says that I looked like that once. No, I did not. I have never looked like a blob.
“Don’t pretend that you love me,” I spit at her. “You can’t love me if you’d send MY baby to a dogs” home.’
Could I really run away?
Saturday
Realize I haven’t thought about Damian once this week.
Sunday
Dad’s been in touch with a shelter in the next town. He’s going to see it tomorrow and wants me to go with him so I can “put my mind at rest.” I tell him I’d rather boil my own eyeballs.
Simon’s still sleeping in his kennel. Me, Amber and Megan pool our money and buy him a giant pork pie.
4 p.m.
Gran’s here for the Sunday roast. Realize I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.
If I lose weight, will my nose look bigger or smaller?
Poor Simon can’t work out why he’s been banished to a kennel. How will he cope when he realizes we’ve abandoned him? New owners won’t know exactly where he likes being tickled on his tummy or that he’s scared of pants flapping on washing lines or that he’s in love with a pair of Ugg boots. I sit in the yard with him and cry and cry and cry. Mom’s looking out of the window. At least she has the decency to look guilt-stricken. Good.
After 30 minutes I wipe my eyes and go inside. Gran, with great sensitivity, asks if we’re still “getting rid of the dog.” I tell her she’s the world’s most irritating septuagenarian and isn’t it time she went in a home?
Gran ignores me and says we should all be “savoring the peace and quiet before the new baby comes along.”
I shout that there is no peace and quiet around here because she never ever STOPS TALKING! Dad tells me not to be cheeky, but I can tell he agrees. Not that I’m speaking to him.
Monday
8:30 a.m.
Amber says we have to think of a plan to save Simon. Tell her my plan to run away. “Don’t be stupid, Danni,” she says. “Who do you think you are—George out of the Famous Five?”
No, I bloody well don’t. She had horrible short curly hair and terrible taste in clothes.
5 p.m.
Disaster, catastrophe and misery. The dog shelter says it can take Simon. I’m feel as if I’m going to be sick, but first I stare long and hard at Mom and Dad and say, “I detest the pair of you and I always will.”
“But, Danni, he’s bitten two children now,” says Mom. I think she’s about to cry.
“Shut your horrible face!” I scream, and run upstairs to the bathroom and slam the door.
I can hear Rick telling them that they’re disgusting.
I feel dizzy and panic-stricken. Dad’s taking him tomorrow night—24 hours away.
Mom comes up the stairs and talks to me through the bathroom door. “Maybe in a couple of years when the baby’s older you can get another dog,” she says.
“I don’t WANT another dog. I want Simon,” I wail. Then I open the door, look her straight in the eye and say slowly and deliberately, “But do you know what I’d really like? Another mother.”
Burst out of the bathroom and run downstairs to Simon’s kennel. It’s raining. Dad is collecting up all his toys and putting them in a bag, even the Ugg boots.
“Simon’s going on his holidays!” says Phoebe. This is what they’ve told her. They truly are evil.
I grab the dog lead and run with Simon down the street. Mom is in the doorway crying and shouting, “Where are you going?”
“Away from you,” I scream.
Where do I go now? I’ve no money, no coat and it’s raining.
Amber’s.
We don’t stop running until we get there. Amber sees us through the living room window looking like two drowned gerbils and ushers us up to her bedroom without her dad seeing.
Tell her through about a million sobs what’s happened. “Tomorrow, Amb,” I wail. “They’re taking him away from me TOMORROW.”
Amber hugs me. She’s gone quiet, which I know means she’s thinking. “Wait here,” she says. “I’m going to make some phone calls.”
Ten minutes later she’s back. “Right, sorted,” she says.
“Wha?” I blub.
“Sean’s going to hide him,” says Amber.
My best friend is a genius.
She phoned Neil, who came up with an idea and phoned Sean. Sean agreed. He has told his dad that my mom’s pregnant and can’t cope with the dog at the moment so could they help out by having Simon for a while. His dad’s fine with it so long as Simon sleeps with Mitzy in the
ir utility room. I can see him whenever I want.
“At least it gives us some time to think of a plan,” says Amber.
I start crying again, but this time with relief. I love Amber.
So Operation Simon is as follows:
I go home tonight so as not to arouse suspicion. Tomorrow morning I get up at 5 a.m. and sneak over to Sean’s with Simon. I leave him there, then run home and get back into bed. When I “wake up” I pretend that Simon’s escaped.
Go home, feeling jubilant. Settle Simon in his kennel. Mom and Dad come rushing out. “Oh, thank God—we were just about to phone the police,” says Mom.
I ignore both of them and stalk off to bed.
Tuesday
3 a.m.
Have set the alarm on my cell phone, but what if it doesn’t go off? Decide to remain awake until the Rescue Mission kicks off at 5 a.m.
4:45 a.m.
Get up and dressed in five seconds. Tiptoe downstairs. One of the stairs creaks and Phoebe stirs in her sleep. Oh no. She could ruin everything. Hold my breath until she’s gone back to sleep. It’s dark and freezing cold, and Simon is sitting shivering miserably on his blanket. Poor little thing. “It’s OK, Si,” I whisper. “You’re going to see Mitzy.” I open the gate and we run and run and run.
It’s a mile to Sean’s house. I’m wheezing like a 50-a-day smoker by the time we get there. Sean’s waiting, bless him, on the garden wall with Mitzy. The dogs go mad with joy at seeing each other again, sniffing each other’s bottoms in a never-ending circle. “Thank you, thank you,” I say about 20 times.
“S’all right,” says Sean, doing his weird not-looking-you-in-the-eye thing. He shows me where Simon will sleep—a nice warm utility room with blankets on the floor. Feel weepy as I kiss Simon and turn to go. “Oh, one more thing,” I say—and hand Sean the Ugg boots. Then I run and run back home again, feeling weirdly excited.
6 a.m.
Am lying in bed back in pajamas, waiting for Dad to get up. His alarm goes off at 6:15 and I know he’ll get up, have a noisy wee, go downstairs and open the door to let Simon in. I count backward in my head—five, four, three, two, one …
“Julie. JULIE!” he’s shouting up the stairs. “The dog’s gone!”
Suddenly Mom’s up and in my room, demanding to know if Simon’s in bed with me.
I do a pretty good job of pretending that I’ve just woken and am panic-stricken that Simon’s gone. “He must have run away,” I shriek. “It’s all your fault …”
Mom and Dad are mortified. This is brilliant! Dad says he’ll go and look for him. Ha! Loser.
“He’ll be back when he’s hungry,” says Mom.
Don’t bank on it, Mother.
8:30 a.m.
Meet Amber at the bus stop. Tell her everything went to plan. Her eyes are shining. “Mission accomplished,” she says.
Sean winks at me conspiratorially during math. We’ve decided that only the four of us—me, Amber, Sean and Neil—must know our secret. Damian sees him wink and stares at me. Is he jealous?
Ooooh, I think he’s jealous. My heart does a flip. Maybe he’s going off Treasure!
3:45 p.m.
Damian and Sean are at the bus stop. I think Damian is asking Sean what’s going on. Yes, Sean is trying to shrug and look innocent but is a rubbish actor—he just looks guilty. I AM FINALLY GETTING UNDER DAMIAN’S SKIN.
5 p.m.
Mom is gray-faced as she tells me Simon hasn’t returned. “I’m sorry, love,” she says.
I try to look furious, which is hard because my heart is singing. Damian might fancy me. He might fancy ME, not the walking Bratz doll!
Mom tells Phoebe that Simon’s already gone “on his holidays.”
“But I wanted to pack his case and give him my bucket and spaaaaade,” whines Phoebe.
Mom starts crying again. Does this woman ever stop?
6 p.m.
Eat my tea alone in my room, mainly because I’m texting Sean and reliving The Stare moment over and over again.
Sean is in the park with the dogs. “Simon’s having a grrrrrr8time,” he texts.
That’s a very lame pun. I wish he wouldn’t do that. And I hope he’s not having too great a time. He is still MY dog.
Lie on my bed and think about The Stare again.
Wednesday
8 a.m.
Dad says we’d better tell the police that Simon’s missing in case he gets picked up. “I’ll do it!” I lie. “He’s my dog. I’ll go to the station with Amber after school.”
“I must say you’re dealing with this very well,” says Dad suspiciously. “Is there anything you’re not telling us?” Sad that my father has such a distrustful nature.
10:15 a.m.
Sean comes over at break to whisper that Simon was whimpering a bit last night, probably missing me, so he went down and sat with the dogs in the utility room. This boy is saint material.
Damian looks across the yard at us with a weird look on his face again. I can see Treasure frowning and pulling at his arm, asking him what’s wrong.
“Careful, Treasure—frowning gives you wrinkles,” I shout sweetly across the yard.
Thursday
4:30 p.m.
Meet Sean in the park to see Simon after school. He’s SO happy to see me. Take him and Mitzy a big, juicy bone each and Sean a Plan B CD to say thanks. He goes red when I give it to him.
Simon and Mitzy are like an old married dog couple.
Friday
Number of times Damian stared at me today: three.
Why is sticking a pen in your ear so pleasurable? Once you start you can’t stop. Just say no, kids.
Saturday
Mom and Dad make me and Phoebe go with them to Tesco. I punish them by walking really slowly behind them with my hood up.
“Come on, Slack Alice,” says Dad. I know he’s feeling guilty about Simon so he is trying to make me laugh. When we are in the clothes section he creeps up behind Mom and puts a big pair of underwear on her head. Phoebe and Mom are shrieking with laughter but I tell him that he needs to grow up. Anyway, I’ve seen him do it 163 times before.
At the checkout I refuse to help take the stuff out of the shopping cart even though Mom is looking quite pale. Very pale, actually. She looks like one of those Elizabethans we learned about in history who put white lead on their faces. I so wish she wasn’t having this baby/ blob.
Suddenly she starts laughing. Dad has secretly filled the shopping cart with about 20 super-large tubes of Anusol, the stuff that people put on their bottom if they are suffering from hemorrhoids. It is a joke to embarrass my mother in front of the whole line. He has done this before too. Why am I being parented by an overgrown Horrid Henry? Mom is saying, “Oh Dave, you’re a case,” and apologizing to the people behind. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Cavendish,” she says. “How are things, love?”
And I realize to my everlasting shame that it is Treasure and her mother. Treasure smiles sneeringly as my dad gathers up Tesco’s entire stock of Anusol to put back on the shelves.
I am seriously thinking of asking to go into foster care.
Sunday
Me and Amber meet Sean, Neil and the dogs in the park. Simon shows how pleased he is to see me by gently humping my leg. We have quite a laugh, eating fries and watching the swans chase the dogs.
Would Damian be jealous if he could see me now, a laughing, carefree, independent woman?
5 p.m.
Walking home I see Rick. He’s walking the streets and whistling for Simon. Am consumed with guilt. “I can’t stand to think of him cold and hungry,” says Rick. I genuinely think he’s going to cry. Oh God.
“Can you keep a secret?” I say. “About Simon.”
“What?” says Rick, staring.
I tell him everything.
“You lying little brat! I’ve been mental with worry,” he says. Oh dear. Shouldn’t have told him.
Then he smiles. “Nice one though. It was a cool thing to do.”
Praise f
rom Rick! That’s as rare as a singing pig.
December
Monday
7 a.m.
Mom not up to make our breakfast. Again. She’s rung in sick. Again. She’s going to get fired at this rate. Then we’ll have even less food in the house.
4 p.m.
Go home. Mom looks nervous. She tells me to sit down. My heart is beating like the clappers.
Oh, and whaddayaknow? It turns out that another child in the next street has been bitten by a dog. But this time they caught the dog—it’s a big brown stray the same color as Simon. Mr. Robinson, the fat owner of the fat cat, said this was the one he saw bite Suzie. He didn’t have his glasses on and assumed it was Simon! Suzie’s dad’s been around to apologize and the police have taken the stray to a rescue shelter.
“So Simon wasn’t to blame at all,” wails Mom. She’s trying to hug me but her big belly’s getting in the way. “I’m so, so sorry. We’ve let you down. And now we’ve lost him.”
I walk upstairs, enjoying my moment.
My Family and Other Freaks Page 9