Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy

by Lara Williamson

  Tiny Eric tells me my minute is up. That’s sixty seconds of my life I’ll never get back, I think. Then he proceeds to tell me all about lucky charms in Poland and how his grandmother (he calls her his babcia) wears red to protect her from evil, and how if they see a chimney sweep they grab one of their buttons and that brings them luck. When I ask Tiny Eric what happens if they don’t have any buttons he tells me he hasn’t a clue. I’m about to open my mouth to say he’s hardly an authority on good luck charms then when he tells me to “button it” and I fall about laughing. Tiny Eric, who doesn’t seem to think he made a joke, looks at me as if I’m crazy and then continues, “When you’ve got your good luck you can pass some on to the next person.”

  “Do they do that in Poland?”

  “I don’t know,” replies Tiny Eric, leaning down and pressing the button on the drinking fountain so an arc of water rises up. “That bit about passing it on was just my idea.” Tiny Eric leans down and takes a drink and then the arc splutters to a stop.

  “But I can’t draw four-leaf clovers to pass it on.”

  “Nah, you don’t have to. You can draw something special to you and pass that on. It works, honest.” Tiny Eric wipes small rivers from his chin.

  Seriously, I think Tiny Eric might have lost his even tinier mind. Although, I have to say his drawing of the four-leaf clover is so good you could almost pluck it from the page. After looking at the four joined hearts again I ask Tiny Eric where all my good luck is since I’ve done my one minute of staring. Tiny Eric says I’ve probably done enough for now. Holy guacamole, am I going to have to do this again? Apparently, yes. According to Tiny Eric, I should start regularly staring at it for one minute and build up. Good luck is like a snowball that builds and builds, he tells me. I’m tempted to say then you find yourself in an avalanche, but I don’t.

  “Could you draw something else for me?” I say instead, putting the four-leaf clover drawing in my pocket. “I mean, if staring at the clover was lucky, could you do a drawing of who I want to be?” I’ve just had a clever idea. All I need is to get Tiny Eric to draw me as a superhero, stare at it every day, believe, get lucky, and then – KAPOW! – turn into a superhero.

  Tiny Eric looks confused and I know this because his eyebrows are going up and down like they’re on a spacehopper. “Do a drawing of who you want to be? What do you mean?” He pulls a piece of paper and a pencil from his blazer pocket as I tell him I’d like him to draw me as a superhero. “You what? Are you having a laugh?”

  “Do I look like I’m having a laugh?” I reply matter-of-factly. “A superhero. I want a drawing of who I could be if I was grrrreat.” I roll my rs to emphasize how great I could be. Tiny Eric shrugs and says okay, he’ll draw what I’d look like if I was grrrreat. “Don’t forget to make me look strong,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “And I need a serious outfit and maybe a cape fluttering behind me, and make it look as though I’m in Gotham City not a school playground. Oh, and I’d like a helicopter hovering above me.” I pose, my nose in the air as I look towards the horizon (which is really the assembly hall and quite disappointing, unless you count the place where someone has scribbled in gold marker: What food is okay in Mr McGammon’s maths class? Pi!).

  There’s a crowd building around us, kids craning to see what Tiny Eric is drawing and why I’ve got my arm in the air and am shouting “Kazoo!” at the top of my lungs (since that’s my new motto). This is it, I tell myself. This is what it will feel like when I’m a superhero for real. People will surround me and go “Ooh” and “Ahh” and say I’m amazing.

  “And don’t forget lightning,” I continue. “Make me look like a true superhero. I want to be the sort of person who is kind and caring and helps others. That’s the sort of person who is loved and makes everyone happy.”

  One girl with a fringe is pointing at the drawing and saying Tiny Eric has got it just right, and I feel a swell of excitement build up in my chest and I say “Kazoo!” again to make sure I’m totally channelling the superhero inside me. The Beast, who’s almost as tall as Tiny Eric and from the other Year Six group, barges to the front of the circle and stares at the drawing, then says it looks like I’ve got a woolly mammoth on my head.

  “That’s me as a superhero,” I snipe back. I’ve never talked to The Beast before, even though we’ve glanced at each other a few times in the playground. The Beast has milky-hot-chocolate-coloured hair and no friends and that’s because there was once a rumour that The Beast pushed a girl into a bush in the playground. The legend goes it was a holly bush. To be fair, it was years ago and no one even knows if it was true but everyone still avoids The Beast.

  Swallowing back laughter, The Beast then turns to Tiny Eric and says, “I like the huge nose you’ve drawn.” Fringe Girl says there is no huge nose on the drawing and The Beast says, “Oh, I was looking at that big bobble on the hat by mistake.” Excuse me while I split my sides laughing.

  Tiny Eric ignores The Beast and keeps drawing, the pencil moving this way and that. When the bell rings, the crowd around us dissolves like candyfloss. “Hurry up, Tiny Eric. I don’t think I can shout ‘Kazoo’ again and my arm is aching from holding it up.”

  “I bet no one said that to Michelangelo when he was painting the Sistine Chapel,” mutters Tiny Eric, putting his pencil back in his pocket.

  “How long did that take?” My arm flops to my side.

  “About four years,” explains Tiny Eric, who knows everything about art.

  “I’m not surprised,” I reply. “It was probably the claws that slowed him right down. I mean, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles aren’t good with paintbrushes.”

  What the blinking flip is this? Tiny Eric has just handed me the drawing as we troop back into class. Where is the cape? Where is the helicopter and Gotham City behind me? And he’s forgotten the lightning bolts too. All he’s done is a simple drawing of me. I can’t look at this picture and believe this is a superhero of the future. It’s another load of rubbish to throw on the rubbish I was already feeling this morning. Oh, and hang on… Now there is a whole truckload of rubbish coming, because Mrs Chatterjee is saying that she’d like us to get out our notebooks so we can talk about all the work we did over half-term.

  “We discussed the family tree project just before we broke up,” says Mrs Chatterjee, her chandelier earrings swinging around. “I told you this was a chance to explore your family history. Now, I want to elaborate a little on what you’ll be doing. We’re going to do lots of research, before making our tree out of cardboard and then hanging tags on the branches. Each tag will represent something you’ve discovered about a family member you’ve been researching. I expect lots of tags.”

  I look at my notebook, knowing I’m not going to have lots of tags. I’ve found out three things in the half-term break: my birth name, my real mother’s name and where I was born. Yes, I was excited about those at the beginning because they were three things I didn’t know before. But thinking about it now, it’s still going to be a pretty empty tree. I wish I had a bit more information.

  Mrs Chatterjee explains that she understands if we don’t have many tags to start with, but as we continue she will expect the tree to grow. I blow out a bubble of relief. She is calling this project the Forest For Ever project.

  Nish in the front row hoists up his hand. “Will we go to a forest to study trees first, miss?”

  “No, we will be staying in the classroom but it will be just as exciting.”

  Honestly, I am not sure how staying in this classroom could be as exciting as running around a forest, but then teachers say all sorts of strange things, like “You’ll love this maths test” or “You’ll really enjoy learning about amoebas”. The upshot of this is you cannot trust everything a teacher tells you.

  According to Mrs Chatterjee, this project is about researching information and going “from tree to me”. Nish puts his hand up again and asks Mrs Chatterjee why our family trees are connected to her. There is a moment of confusion un
til Mrs Chatterjee says it’s not from tree to her. “It’s tree to me, meaning you.” She points at us. Nish puts his hand up again and begins muttering, and Mrs Chatterjee says no one should be moving their lips when her lips are moving.

  “Unless you’re a ventriloquist,” says Nish, slumping down in his chair.

  After Mrs Chatterjee gives Nish the “hard stare”, she tells us this is a great opportunity to find out about the past and the present and prepare for the future. It’s about each one of us at the top of the tree. “We will have an exhibition of the trees in the assembly hall and this time we’re doing something different. It’s not simply a class project. We’re going to share it with everyone.” Mrs Chatterjee pauses, her eyes resting on every pupil at once.

  “It’s like she’s the Mona Lisa,” Tiny Eric once said, and when I asked why, he said because Mrs Chatterjee’s eyes follow you no matter where you are in the classroom.

  Nish’s hand shoots up. “You mean family can come to this one?”

  “Yes,” says Mrs Chatterjee, perching on her desk. The chandelier earrings dance around. “Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and fathers – all relatives are welcome at Pegasus Park Junior for the Forest For Ever display. I will print out invitations and you can give them to your family.”

  Tiny Eric sighs and when I turn to look at him a bubble of saliva forms on his lips and then bursts.

  “I expect you’ve already made a great start over half-term,” she goes on, tapping her red nails on the desk. “You were supposed to ask questions and get information from the family around you. Well, now I’d like you to choose one person you researched over the half-term break and write down five things you love about them. This can be your first tag. You’ve got twenty minutes. Go!” Anyone would think we were poised at a starting line.

  Mrs Chatterjee wanders down the aisles, giving us large luggage tags with white string on the ends. I’m not feeling particularly “Go!” so I look at mine and flatten it with my finger. That takes a few seconds. It’s obvious everyone else has already taken off as they are chattering and writing. Then I sharpen my pencil – another few seconds. I still haven’t managed to move from the starting line. After that I check the clock and it is one minute and three seconds since I last checked it.

  The trouble is I don’t know what I love about my real mother, because I don’t know her. The only information I’ve got is her name and that’s not enough to write five points on. Blowing out air, I rest my head on my hands. And then slowly I start to think about all the things my own mum is now and that I hope my real mother could be, and suddenly I feel a burst of energy and I’m off.

  Loving

  Kind

  Thoughtful

  Funny

  There for me

  Mrs Chatterjee wanders towards me and leans down, her face level with mine. I can smell coffee and digestives on her breath. “Adam,” she whispers, her dark eyes like two chocolate buttons staring into mine, “are you happy doing this project? I wanted to make sure you were.”

  I nod, telling Mrs Chatterjee I’m happy about the project because it has made me think and it’s given me the opportunity to explore my tree. “I’ve already discovered a few things I didn’t know before,” I add and a grin spreads over my face.

  Mrs Chatterjee goes on to say that I can write about my mum and dad or Velvet (who’s in the infant part of the school). Then she mentions Minnie and says she enjoyed teaching her a few years ago and I could put her on the tree too. Mrs Chatterjee looks down at my tag and says I’ve written a lovely list.

  “They’re about my mother,” I reply.

  Mrs Chatterjee trills, “Wonderful start, Adam.” I get a closer look at the chandeliers on her ears. They look like dozens of little teardrops and each time Mrs Chatterjee speaks, they whoosh around like they’re on the swings in a play park. Mrs Chatterjee points to my tag. “Loving, kind and always there for you – your mum is certainly very special, isn’t she? I’ve always enjoyed meeting her at school events.”

  As Mrs Chatterjee straightens and walks towards Nish’s desk, I think to myself, My mum is special, but I already know that. For this project I’m writing about my real mother, because I reckon she must be special too. And I feel a tiny smile spread across my lips.

  A few seconds later, I look over at Tiny Eric’s tag to see what he’s doing and he’s not writing anything at all. Instead he’s drawn a picture. Although Mrs Chatterjee loves drawing, she says we’re only allowed to do it when it’s art class. What she doesn’t like is everyone drawing when they’re meant to be writing. Once, when we were doing maths, Mrs Chatterjee looked at Tiny Eric’s maths work and asked why on earth he was drawing unusual plants. Tiny Eric said it was exactly what Mrs Chatterjee had asked for – a square root. Laughter exploded in the classroom and Mrs Chatterjee couldn’t stop us, and after that she put up a large sign above the whiteboard saying: Is it a doodle? Use your noodle. Before you start, are you in art?

  Well, we’re not in art at the moment and Tiny Eric is supposed to be writing about his family. From what I can see he’s drawing a monster with mean eyes and there are lots of angry dark scribbles around it. “Oi,” I hiss, leaning towards him. “You’re supposed to be writing five things about someone you love in your family. What’s that?”

  Tiny Eric explains, “It’s Tata.”

  “Tata?” I blink. “What’s that got to do with your family?”

  Tiny Eric says it has everything to do with his family.

  “It means Dad in Polish.”

  “But your dad isn’t a monster,” I reply, a smile disappearing from my lips.

  Tiny Eric shrugs.

  When I get home from school, Dad’s back from Surelock Homes already and he’s sitting in the living room among plastic bags and strips of wood. Velvet is playing with Sausage Roll. This basically means she’s sitting in the corner pretending to have a conversation with an invisible dog. Velvet’s always wanted a dog and when she didn’t get one she just made one up. When Velvet’s not around, Mum says Sausage Roll is her imaginary friend and we should embrace this for now as Sausage Roll will disappear eventually.

  Dad picks up a thin rod and sticks it to another one. When I ask him what he’s making he tells me it’s a wish, which is ridiculous because you can’t make wishes out of bits of wood. “You want to take it slowly and methodically when you’re working with your hands. It would be easy to rush, but it’s better not to. Granddad Fred taught me that. He was the creative one in our family.” Dad lets out a tiny sigh that makes a piece of paper on the table flutter like the wings of a butterfly, and then he picks up the rods and checks they’re sticking together.

  Suddenly, I have a thought. What if this is part of the surprise Mum and Dad were talking about? I haven’t given it much thought since I heard them, but what if the surprise is building a fortress for me? It would take up space, but Mum and Dad said we could make sacrifices. Superman had a fortress called the Fortress of Solitude. And Dad knows I’ve always wanted one. But either way, he’s not telling me.

  I don’t like to think Dad’s keeping secrets. Parents aren’t supposed to do that. Then Dad asks me about my day at school and I realize I’ve got a few secrets of my own. I’m not telling him I’m working on a family tree project. I’m not going to say that I’ve found out information about my real mother. And I’m not going to tell him that every birthday I feel like a little bit of me is missing so I make a wish of my own that someone could tell me who I am and where I come from. And that when Mrs Chatterjee mentioned the project before half-term, it was like giving the birthday-wish candle some oxygen and then it went whoosh and now I can’t think of much else but finding out all that information.

  That’s what I’m thinking about when Dad says, “You’ve gone quiet. Is everything okay at school?” My stomach twists like a broken Slinky and I stare at Dad’s hands as he smoothes down the rods. Screwing up all my courage, I tell myself, I’m going to ask Dad what the surprise is. I’
m going to ask him if he’s making me a fortress. I inhale, knowing this is my chance to be honest. A superhero is always honest. That’s number four on the list of a superhero’s characteristics.

  I ask Dad to stop what he’s doing because I want to talk to him. “Have you got a surprise for us?” I mumble. “Or even for me?” My mouth feels like I’m doing one of those marshmallow challenges where you stuff in a load of sweets and then try to speak but it comes out muffled.

  Dad looks at me. “What sort of surprise?”

  Dad must be having a laugh, pretending he doesn’t know.

  Only Dad isn’t having a laugh, because he looks genuinely perplexed. I’m about to say a fortress-shaped one, but Dad shakes his head and runs his fingers along the rods to check they’re smooth. Then there’s a silence and it’s obvious Dad’s not going to say anything else. After a moment of feeling more uncomfortable than when your pants go up your bum, and thinking it might not be a fortress after all, I ask Dad about superheroes instead.

  Dad grins, happy to move onto a subject he knows something about. “Yes, I love a superhero. What I don’t know about heroes you could write on the back of a key that would fit the lock in a doll’s house,” he boasts.

  “So if, for example, I saved the world or saved a life or helped someone, would I be a proper superhero like in the comics? Or are there any shortcuts you’ve read about that could make it easier? Superheroes make everyone happy, right? They’re top banana.” I chew on my lip, hoping Dad can give me tips on how to achieve superhero status quickly. Dad knows everything. If you ask him questions, like “What ended in 1066?” he’ll answer 1065 in a flash, or if you ask him “What is the highest frequency noise that a human can bear?” he’ll straight away say Mum yelling when he’s forgotten to put the bins out.

  Dad runs his hand over his bald head like he’s giving it a swift polish. “There aren’t any shortcuts, son,” he explains. “You’ve got to feel it here.” Dad thumps his chest like a gorilla.