Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy

by Lara Williamson

  Mrs Chatterjee, assisted by Mrs Finch from the school office, herds us out of the school grounds and cautiously steps out into the road, halting all the traffic so that we can mooch across. Then she carefully follows us, nodding to all the motorists, who are bleeping and waving her off the road because she’s so slow. One bloke leans out of his car and shouts that he wasn’t expecting a herd of snails travelling through peanut butter, and then he zooms off before Mrs Chatterjee can give him a piece of her mind. He’s lucky, because when we get a piece of Mrs Chatterjee’s mind, it takes for ever.

  The library is a fifteen-minute walk from the school and it’s in a large brick building with five storeys. Inside there are lots of books, bunting, posters and comfy armchairs. Nish runs over to one and flops down into it and the leather makes a funny squeaking sound like new shoes. “Pardon me,” he laughs.

  “Get over here,” says Mrs Chatterjee sharply and she puffs out her chest until the buttons on her floral blouse strain. “We’re in a room on the right.”

  The room we’re directed to by Mrs Finch is full of documents and shelves spilling over with newspapers and desks with banks of computers. There are lots of hard plastic chairs that give you pins and needles in your bum. Mrs Chatterjee tells us to be seated and Tiny Eric sits down, rolling his tie up and then letting go of it like it’s a yo-yo.

  After Mrs Chatterjee explains how to begin our research, she tells us to get digging. Nish’s eyes light up and Mrs Chatterjee says it’s not actual digging. Nish’s eyes dull down and he clicks on his computer mouse. Mrs Chatterjee gives us details of a newspaper archive we can access. The first thing I do is go to the Pegasus Park Packet site and type in ROSE WALKER, hoping I’ll find more about her. Like Mrs Chatterjee said, perhaps there will be a story since she was a local resident. My body is tenser than the time I had to play the recorder at prize-giving. Nothing comes up and I sip in tiny breaths. Perhaps it was stupid to think I’d find out something so easily.

  Mrs Chatterjee bellows, “I expect at least one tag to be filled by the time you finish here. At least one. If at first you don’t succeed…”

  “Give up?” whispers Nish, and Mrs Chatterjee rushes towards him with a face like thunder. I bet he’s about to get a piece of her mind.

  Next I type in ADAM BUTTERS. There’s a small pause, which I know means there is some information coming, and I straighten up, my eyes glued to the screen. Keywords flash up: Adam Swimming Pool Water Baby Sinéad Butters. At first I’m confused why my name and Mum’s name have come up along with the swimming pool. This isn’t what I’m looking for. But I click on the article anyway and hold my breath as the screen flickers. Then the world shifts around me and it’s as if I’m standing still in the middle of it. No one notices that I’m frozen because they’re all moving as if nothing’s happening. But it is. It’s happening inside me. I stare at the words on the screen:

  THE PEGASUS PARK WATER BABY

  Sinéad Butters, 29, found her very own water baby yesterday on the way to an evening swimming lesson at Pegasus Park Pool.

  Last night, Sinéad Butters of 53 Pegasus Park Towers, heard a baby crying as she neared the pool. According to Sinéad, the crying came from a dark area with no street lamps near the rubbish bins. “I could have easily passed by or stood on the baby if I hadn’t heard it crying.” Sinéad went on to say, “It was as if I was supposed to find the baby and I’m so glad I did. It was a cold night.”

  Sinéad accompanied the baby to Pegasus Park Hospital, where it was checked over by doctors. The baby, a boy, was in good health and showed no signs of hypothermia. He was wrapped in a pale blue blanket and beside him was a plastic bag containing clothing.

  The police have located the baby’s mother and are discussing options with her regarding the baby’s future. When asked by our reporter why the baby was left there, the police said they weren’t at liberty to discuss the exact details and that social services would be dealing with the case. The baby, who has been named Adam by the nurses at Pegasus Park Hospital, is being cared for.

  “He was the sweetest boy,” said Sinéad Butters, on finding Adam. “I’m so glad I found him. I reached out and he gripped my hand, but really he captured my heart.”

  I feel tiny spots of sweat building on my forehead and my brain is so muddled up I can’t think straight. My head turns, and it feels like it’s in slow motion. Tiny Eric is frowning and drawing in his notebook and Nish’s hand is up and I can see Mrs Chatterjee walking towards him, but my bum cheeks are stuck to my seat. My eyes swivel back to the screen.

  I was dumped by the bins, I tell myself over and over again. This is epic, but not the type of epic I’d hoped for. Slowly I read the article once more and words jump out at me, particularly the ones about how the police were discussing options. “Why didn’t you take me back?” I whisper dully.

  “Huh?” Tiny Eric looks over at me and then twirls his pencil around his fingers as though it’s a baton.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, looking back at the screen. “I was talking to myself.” Tiny Eric says he does that sometimes too. As I stare at the article, I try to squeeze down a million feelings, but they keep popping back up. With shaking hands, I pull the tag towards me and write, Why didn’t you take me back? in sharp black letters.

  The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I just can’t stop thinking that I was left at the pool by my real mother. And that it was Mum who found me.

  In the afternoon, when we’re back in class, Mrs Chatterjee says she hopes we all had a productive morning at the library. “Raise your hands if you discovered something that surprised you.” No one does, but inside I’m thinking, Is discovering you’ve been left by the bins at the pool surprising enough? It certainly surprised me.

  Teacher alert! Mrs Chatterjee is zeroing in on me. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention like miniature soldiers. My eyes swiftly drop to the floor, but looking away doesn’t stop a teacher when her mind is made up. “Adam, what did you discover?” I can feel my head shake and twenty-eight pairs of eyeballs latch onto me like zombies at feeding time. Mrs Chatterjee continues, “Well, if you didn’t find out anything in particular about an ancestor, why don’t you tell us about one of your family? Your mum, for example. I was impressed by the list you wrote about her previously. Elaborate on that.”

  It feels like my brain is torn in half. One half is trying to think of Rose, my real mother, but the other half keeps pulling me back to Mum. And when I think of Mum, I think of the fun days when she was all sunshine and happiness. “My mum…” I say, rising from my seat. The classroom is mine but the words won’t come. My throat dries and I struggle as my mind goes to Rose and the swimming pool. Stumbling over the words, I manage to remember the list I made before about what I thought my mother would be like. I say, “She’ll be loving – she’s going to love me and her hugs will be so incredible that it’ll be like getting lost in a giant duvet and never wanting to come out… She’ll be thoughtful.” My eyes stray towards the window and out to the horizon. I continue haltingly, “She’ll remember every birthday and she’ll bake me a cake and it won’t matter how busy she is, she’ll be there celebrating it with me… She’ll be kind and take care of me and she’ll make me laugh, even if she doesn’t like comics.” Mrs Chatterjee doesn’t say a word but I can sense she’s nodding. “And she’ll be there for me. When it’s dark she won’t leave me and it’ll be okay. She’ll give me a home where I’m safe.” I sit down to silence.

  There’s a slow clap from Mrs Chatterjee and it builds until everyone else in the classroom is clapping too. “I’m so impressed by the relationship between you and your mother,” says Mrs Chatterjee. “From what you’ve just told us she sounds like the perfect parent, and I’m sure she would love to hear what you think of her.” Mrs Chatterjee says I deserve a gold star and she takes one from her drawer and puts it on the board next to my name. “One little thing,” adds Mrs Chatterjee. “Remember your tenses. You meant to say your mother is loving, s
he is thoughtful, she is funny and she is there for me. Not that she will be – that suggests you haven’t met her yet.”

  I didn’t get the tenses wrong at all. I think again about how my real mother left me by the bins and my stomach does a somersault. I’m nervous about looking for Rose now, but Mum and Dad need to make sacrifices, they said so. It was Mum who found me and I feel like I owe her. She did something amazing for me eleven years ago and now it’s my turn to return the favour. It has to be me who goes.

  The rest of the afternoon I stare out the window, and the time passes so slowly I swear I’ve aged about one hundred years by the time the school bell rings. On the way home I’m dragging my feet like a clown in big shoes wading through jelly. Being a superhero hasn’t been as much fun as I thought it would be. Perhaps I was stupid to think I could make everyone happy and the world would be perfect just because I saved one person’s life. I can’t even make myself happy and the world is definitely not perfect at the moment. Even the gold star I was given for talking about my mother hasn’t made things better. But at least things can’t get any worse.

  Wrong. They can and they do thanks to Mum. She’s dashing out the door with Velvet when I get home from school. She says she’s got to get to the shops for some gluten-free bread, but she’ll need a lottery win soon, considering how much this healthy food is costing her. I think that I could ask the four-leaf clover for a windfall of cash later on if that would help. “Where’s Minnie?” I mutter and Mum says she’s at rehearsals. Apparently the Scottish play is on Tuesday in two weeks’ time.

  “Tuesday the 29th?”

  “Yes,” confirms Mum, looking into her purse and appearing to reel back as if moths have just flown out. “We’re all going to support Minnie. You’re free, aren’t you?” The way Mum says it, she’s not asking a question, she’s saying I’m bound to be free.

  I think of the Forest For Ever exhibition clashing with Macbeth and I nod but I don’t say a thing. Instead I watch as Mum bustles Velvet out the door, but then she turns back to me and says, “I think you accidentally left your teddy bear on our bed so I’ve put him back on yours. But it was nice to see him.” Mum continues, “I noticed the walls in your bedroom. What happened?”

  I mumble something about her wanting to decorate.

  “Right,” replies Mum, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I was thinking more about stripping them properly and getting a decorator in, but I can’t be annoyed at you wanting to help.”

  “I’m a big help,” I mutter despondently.

  When the front door closes and Mum and Velvet have gone, taking a barking Sausage Roll with them, I throw myself on the sofa. Tiny bubbles of hurt and confusion burst inside me when I think of how Mum found me at the swimming pool. Truth is, I’m so grateful she did, but why didn’t Mum tell me anything about it? There’s so much I don’t know about myself and the person I came from.

  Eventually I rise from the sofa and wander into the bathroom and pull off my bobble hat and stare at my face, copper hair spilling forward. There’s a crease of worry on my forehead and I rub my eye before leaning in to the mirror. My eyes are brown like conkers. Does my real mother have conker eyes too?

  That’s how it feels to be adopted. Your face doesn’t look like anyone else’s you know. You search it over and over, but you never get answers. So you imagine answers and you imagine your mother and sometimes it helps but not always.

  Brrring-brrring-brrring. The phone chirrups cheerfully from the hallway so I pull my bobble hat back on and hurry towards it. When I pick up the handset there’s so much crackling it sounds like popping candy on your tongue. But I do make out the words “Pegasus Park Adoption and Rehoming Centre”.

  “Hello,” I mumble cautiously.

  “Yes, you phoned and talked to us about adoption and rehoming. We’re more than happy to help you.”

  Now there’s more crackling on the line than popping candy on a pork chop with crackling.

  “Oh, right. Mum’s not here.”

  “Ah, sorry about that. I can call back another time.”

  The line fizzles and the woman thanks me for my time and says goodbye and I say goodbye. I only managed seven words in the whole conversation and those seven words nearly choked me. I stumble back to my bedroom and find my notebook in my school bag and I write:

  IMPORTANT INFORMATION RECEIVED:

  The rehoming is happening because the phone call proves it.

  MUM: She’s still in an odd mood.

  DAD: He’s being extra-nice to Mum and I think that happens when you’re having a baby. They said so on the TV programme that Mum loves about babies. Yesterday I saw him rub Mum’s back to cheer her up but she said he had fingers like a bunch of bananas. Dad said he was sorry his massage didn’t appeal. Then he laughed but Mum had no idea why until he said “Peel” and “Get it?”. (It doesn’t work if you have to explain a joke.)

  NEW THOUGHTS: There has to be an explanation as to why I was left at a swimming pool.

  There’s a sudden pang in my stomach when I think that I could go to the swimming pool, right this minute. The house is empty and it wouldn’t take me long to run there and back before Mum returns with a gluten-free loaf. No one is around to ask where I’m going.

  I look down at my school shirt, not realizing I’ve been crying for the past few minutes. There’s a damp splash on the blue. It looks like a small swimming pool.

  In the ten minutes it’s taken me to run to the pool, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my real mother. A soft drizzle begins to fall and covers me like a damp cobweb. The windows are steamy and a few people come out, their hair in wet ribbons, and they’re laughing as if they haven’t a care in the world. I bet they’ve all got a home with their real mothers. Quickly I duck into the shadows and make my way towards the back of the pool where the bins are. It’s a place I’ve never been before.

  Then I remember I have been here before.

  I was here eleven years ago.

  It makes my stomach drop.

  As I settle into the shadows, I breathe in the scent of old chicken nuggets and damp moss and I feel so alone. My body is weak as a baby kitten as I lean against the brick wall. My feet manoeuvre around discarded tissues and food cartons from Good Buy, Mr Chips. It’s a dumping ground, I tell myself. There’s a shiver travelling through me and it makes my shoulders shake.

  Slowly, I sink further down the wall until my bum hits the concrete and I pull my knees tight up to my chest. An icy breeze wraps itself around me and I hear laughter and it’s getting closer and through the drizzle I can see a rainbow umbrella. It makes me think of Mum and how she says there’s always a rainbow after rain. The umbrella comes closer and there’s more laughter and it rises slightly and I can see a couple. The man kisses the woman and they smile at each other and for a second I think I recognize the man, but I can’t place him. It bugs me for a minute, not being able to remember where I know him from, but then I realize I don’t really care and the thought disappears into the drizzle. All I care about is my real mother. A stupid part of my brain thinks that she might just walk past in a minute, but I know deep in my heart that she won’t.

  “You’re not coming,” I whisper to myself. “You’re not coming back for me. I’m here waiting for you and you’re not coming back.” Crescent moons appear on my palms as my nails dig in and I have to swallow down a sob.

  When my bum’s completely numb I awkwardly rise up the wall again and trudge back home, glad of the rain making my face wet. That way no one can tell if they’re raindrops or teardrops. Mum’s back home when I return and she’s putting the world’s most expensive bread in the bread bin, saying it costs more than gold bars. Glancing up, she asks where I’ve been. “Nowhere,” I mumble, wiping rain from my face.

  “Nowhere?” echoes Mum. “Is that in Pegasus Park?” Her eyes meet mine and I’m afraid she can see into my heart and will know how I’m feeling. At this point I want to confide in Mum but when I search her eyes I swear they
look sadder than a puppy dog waiting for a walk. I can’t do it. I can’t say where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I’m a superhero and I’m strong, I tell myself, even if I only half-believe it. My eyes are damp and I give my nose a swift wipe, and then I stare at my feet as if the world’s most interesting comic is on my toes and I’m reading it.

  “I went out for a walk. It’s raining.” The words eventually tumble out. “Does a rainbow always come after the rain?”

  Mum seems surprised by the change of subject. “A rainbow always comes after the rain, but you can’t always see it, if that makes sense.” It doesn’t. “Did you want to find one today? Is that why you went out?”

  I shrug. There was no rainbow.

  Mum tilts her head to the side and I can almost see the cogs in her brain beginning to move. “Is this about rainbows or you?”

  “Things are changing around me,” I whisper. “Every time I think I’ve got a glimmer of a rainbow, I get closer and it disappears.”

  “This is a tricky year,” says Mum. “The last year of primary school always is. You’ve got senior school in September and that’s a big step and it’s natural to feel like your world is changing, but don’t be afraid.” I want to scream that this isn’t about senior school, but I don’t. “Sometimes change is a good thing. Otherwise everything would stay the same and we wouldn’t move forward. And as we move, we learn and grow. You know, if you’ve got a problem it’s always worth sharing it.”

  Changing the subject, I ask, “Was it a hard decision to adopt me?” I look up at Mum, gazing into her eyes for the answer. It comes within a millisecond.

  “It was the easiest decision I ever made,” replies Mum, touching my shoulder. “It was also the best. Nothing would have made me let you go.”