Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy

by Lara Williamson

  Thinking about it, Tiny Eric’s right. It is genius. Why didn’t I think of it? I’m the genius around here. Tiny Eric tells me to sit down on the playground wall and then close my eyes and describe what I feel about my real mother. When I shut my eyes at first I can’t see anything but darkness and I tell him I can’t do it. “There’s nothing,” I mumble. Tiny Eric urges me on, saying I don’t have to see her in my head, just imagine her warmth and then describe how I feel.

  “Do it from the heart,” explains Tiny Eric.

  Slowly a picture begins to form inside my head. “She’s nice,” I whisper. “And she’s got this smile that lights up her whole face and makes her eyes sparkle. There are a few crinkles at the sides that make me think of crinkle-cut chips. She’s got dimples on her cheeks. One, two.” I grin and my closed eyelids flutter. “And her nose turns up like a funny ski jump.” After a few moments of describing how my real mother looks, Tiny Eric tells me to open my eyes.

  “It’s incredible,” I say, staring at the drawing. “I’d love a real mother like her. She looks warm and kind and smiley.”

  “She does,” says Tiny Eric, holding up the finished poster. “Shall we put it in Sharkey’s window after school? If it works for missing cats, it’s going to work for you.”

  I’m so excited I can hardly think straight.

  At three thirty I’m vaulting the tables and dragging Tiny Eric with me, which isn’t easy since it’s like dragging a double-decker bus along with your teeth. We rush straight out of the school gate and down Agamemnon Road and then we pass Good Buy, Mr Chips and we’re at Sharkey’s. There’s a tiny pip as we swing open the door and we walk straight to the counter and Sharkey gives us a smile.

  “We’d like to put an ad in the window,” says Tiny Eric, passing his poster over. Sharkey rubs his chin and says we have to pay. I nudge Tiny Eric because I’ve got no money. Sharkey says it’ll be fifty pence and Tiny Eric begins scrabbling about in his pocket, bringing out an HB pencil, a photo of a building with the word szkoła on it, a marble, a half-chewed sweet and a photo of him with his mum and dad. The family photo is torn and I’m about to say he needs to stick it back together when he brings out fifty pence and puts it on the counter.

  Sharkey takes the money and looks at the poster and says it’s a good drawing but not that good really. I swear he mutters, “Nothing like,” but then he shrugs and says, “It’ll be in the window for a week.” As we leave the shop, I spot Minnie and her friend Sienna outside Good Buy, Mr Chips. Minnie has her nose in a carton of chips and a battered sausage.

  “Don’t tell Mum I’ve been eating junk,” says Minnie when I reach her. I shrug and I’m about to say something, but Minnie carries on telling Sienna about how she’s dating Callum now because they couldn’t deny their onstage chemistry. “It was serendipity that we were thrown together in the Scottish play.” Minnie bites down on the battered sausage and chews for a while before saying. “You’re good as a witch too.”

  Sienna stops eating, a chip dangling from her lip.

  Minnie continues, “Yes, I was just saying to Callum that you’re so realistic. You don’t even need any different make-up, just that black eyeliner you always wear. And I swear that Mr Bravo was impressed at how witchlike you were.”

  Sienna doesn’t appear to have an answer to this. And as it’s all about as riveting as watching an invisible dog scratching his invisible fleas, Tiny Eric and I begin to mooch away. As we go I hear Minnie saying she needs to go into Sharkey’s and get some chewing gum because Mum will smell grease on her breath if she doesn’t.

  Tiny Eric says he’s confident that the poster will work and he reminds me to keep believing and keep staring at the four-leaf clover.

  “I’ve been staring at it so much recently it feels like it’s welded to my eyeballs.” I laugh as we turn the corner and saunter down the road. When Tiny Eric takes the next turning with a wave, I continue on my own. That’s when I hear someone grunting behind me and the click-clack of heels.

  “You’ve changed, Adam Butters,” says Minnie, catching up with me. I smell a puff of mint from her breath.

  “Huh?” Sometimes Minnie is so random I’ve got no idea what she’s on about. “I haven’t,” I reply, looking at her. “I look exactly the same as I’ve always done.” We walk together towards Pegasus Park Towers.

  “I’m surprised your nose hasn’t grown to twice its length, Pinocchio.” When I pull a face, Minnie adds, “Because you’re telling lies. You didn’t use to tell lies the way you do now.” Minnie’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know who you are any more.”

  “Neither do I,” I spit as I follow Minnie up the stone steps leading to our flat. “That’s the problem.” After that Minnie shuts right up. I think I might have won this argument. But she hasn’t finished with me yet.

  Looking at me straight on, Minnie says, “Oh, you’re so clever.”

  “Yup,” I reply smugly.

  Fire sparking in her eyes, Minnie blusters, “But you’re not as clever as me.” I’m about to say that I am when Minnie goes, “Nice sketch, by the way.” Seriously, I have no idea what she’s on about now, although that’s nothing new.

  “The drawing of Mum, stupid.”

  “Oh, right,” I mutter, but I don’t have a clue what planet Minnie is on. I did draw an alien last night, but that was nothing like Mum, unless Minnie thinks Mum has one eye in the middle of her head and goes by the name of Cyclops Galactica. Anyway, I tore it up straight afterwards. I bet Minnie has been snooping in my bedroom on the quiet. When I get in, I’m going to booby-trap it with bits of Lego on the floor. If you stamp on Lego you always scream out.

  Minnie tosses her hair over her shoulder and nearly blinds me as it whips my eye. Then she turns the key in the lock and opens the door to the flat. And as I’m walking in behind her, she shuts the door in my face.

  I might be wrong, but I think Minnie won that argument.

  The next couple of days pass and there’s no response to the poster in Sharkey’s window, and I’ve got so tired of staring at the four-leaf clover that I’ve had to take a break from it before my eyeballs begin bulging like they’re bursting out of a squishy mesh ball. Minnie has stopped speaking to me completely, which is a bonus. We only communicate by angry looks. And Velvet has offered me Sausage Roll twice in twenty-four hours. I haven’t heard Mum crying again but I did see her with misty eyes, and when I opened my mouth to speak Mum hushed me, nodded, and said yes, conjunctivitis.

  It’s Saturday evening when my world turns upside down. Minnie’s rehearsing at Callum’s house and Mum’s bathing Velvet. Dad tells me to come and look at the latest copy of the Zorbitans comic. I’m leaning over the pages when I feel my bum vibrate. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. There’s a message from a number I don’t recognize.

  Beside me Dad laughs and says that the Zorbitans are trying their most hare-brained scheme ever in this strip. I swallow and feel my eyes begin to sting like a jellyfish as I stare at the text:

  I saw the poster. I’m Rose Walker. I’m sorry but I do not live in Pegasus Park any more. I was just visiting. I’ve left now and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Take the poster down and stop looking. Stay with your family and be happy. Don’t text me back. Goodbye.

  It’s as if I’m in quicksand and it’s caving in and I’m falling and the sand around me is slipping and Dad’s not aware so he doesn’t reach out to help me. Instead he’s going on about how the Zorbitans will try everything. My real mother can’t be saying goodbye when I’ve only just found her. It’s like maths – it doesn’t make sense to me.

  I tell Dad I’ve got homework to do and turn and walk towards my bedroom. He says, “On a Saturday night? Are you feeling well?” I don’t answer. To be honest, I can’t. I don’t have any words. My last hope has melted away like a Malteser on a tongue.

  It is dark inside

  my bobble hat.

  I don’t want to come out.

  I’ll stay here while the world is
<
br />   falling

  down

  around

  me.

  And even though

  I have Mum and Dad

  I can’t tell them how confused I am

  because I love them

  and I don’t want to hurt them

  even though I’m hurting.

  And I can’t look to my real mother

  because I don’t know her

  and she doesn’t know me

  and she doesn’t want to get to know me either.

  Where do I go now? Where can I call home?

  I’m afraid of not having a family and a home.

  I’m afraid of it because of what happened to me when I was a baby.

  And I’m afraid that I’ll

  never find the missing part of me.

  Not ever.

  On Monday morning I feel like I’m carrying the weight of a baby orang-utan on my shoulders. After the text on Saturday evening I went straight to my bedroom and tore up the drawing of the four-leaf clover and scattered the pieces on the floor like confetti. It hadn’t brought me any luck and I was angry that I’d wasted so much time staring at it. When I get into the playground I tell Tiny Eric that the poster worked. “It did?” he says brightly and he claps his hands together. “I knew it would.”

  “Only one problem,” I say, staring up into the sky to stop my eyes watering. “I got a text on Saturday from Rose telling me to forget about her. So that’s it.” I shrug and then look at Tiny Eric. “It’s over. She didn’t want me then and she doesn’t want me now. I tried so hard and I wanted it so much. I needed it so much.”

  Tiny Eric blinks back his confusion and says he doesn’t understand and I say I don’t either. “But you’re a superhero and you’re excellent. You’ve saved a life. And where are you going to live now?” I tell him I thought I was special but I’m not and I don’t know where I’m going.

  “Could I live with you for a bit?” I look at Tiny Eric. He coughs and says it might be tricky. He’d like to but… “I know,” I reply, shrugging. “Don’t worry. You might be moving house.”

  Tiny Eric says I am special and it’ll be okay, but my ears tune him out, like when Velvet puts on her favourite TV channel and watches the same programmes over and over again.

  I can’t concentrate when Mrs Chatterjee says our trees are almost finished and the show is coming up so we need to do the last bits. I’m not listening when she tells us to tie whatever new tags we’ve got onto the branches. Even when she talks about how the Pegasus Park Packet are thinking about encouraging other readers to look into their genealogy, I don’t care. My tree is sitting in the corner and only has a few tags on it, whereas Nish’s has loads.

  Mrs Chatterjee says she has a new surprise. “Whichever tree impresses me most is going to stay in the school reception for the rest of the year so everyone can see it. You’ll be a star in school and I imagine your parents will be very proud.”

  “Who cares?” I mumble. Being a star isn’t that great. I’ve tried. And my real mother wouldn’t be proud anyway. She wouldn’t want to know. The text proved that.

  On the way home from school, Tiny Eric says I can’t give up on my real mother and I tell him I didn’t give up on her, she gave up on me – there’s a difference. “Don’t let her,” exclaims Tiny Eric fiercely. “You’ve got to try again. Don’t ever give up. Text her back and tell her you want to see her. Texts aren’t the same as meeting someone. If she saw you in real life, she’d change her mind. Tell her how you feel. Say you’ve saved a life – that’s amazing with a capital A.”

  After some persuasion I agree to text her back and say that I’ll tell her I’ve done something special, but not exactly what it was. “She might want to know all about it.”

  Tiny Eric is right. I can’t give up.

  Hi, I’m glad you got in touch with me. I’d love you to ring me or meet me as I’ve done something incredible I think you should know about. You have my number. Please contact me again.

  I send the text and I can imagine my real mother hearing her phone bleep and seeing the message from me. She’ll understand how important it is to me that I meet her. She’ll change her mind. In fact, she might even be reading it now and wiping away her tears of joy. She’ll text me straight back and tell me she made a mistake and she’s sorry and I’ll forgive her because she’s my real mother. Plus, she’ll want to know why I’ve done something special and what it’s all about. The text will come before I get home from school.

  It doesn’t.

  It’ll come before I get into school the following day.

  It doesn’t.

  I try not to feel too miserable with a capital M, because at least she hasn’t told me to get lost again. This means there is still a tiny sliver of hope. Anyway, my real mother must be busy working. I bet she has an important job and that’s why it’s taking some time. She’ll be desperate to get back to me.

  Still no reply.

  She isn’t.

  The next day, when I’m walking home from school, I send another text. I know I told myself I wouldn’t be too pushy, but I can’t help myself, not when this means so much.

  Hello, only me. Yes, that sounds casual. I’ve sent you a couple of texts. True. I know you’re probably busy but we should meet up. Okay, meeting face-to-face is important even if you are busy. Please contact me again. I think about putting a kiss at the end of the text but then think no, no, that’s too much. So I put a smiley face instead. Then I hit send and continue walking down Agamemnon Road, whistling.

  Minnie’s outside Good Buy, Mr Chips again and I’m about to walk past her with my nose in the air since we’re not talking, but then I notice she’s been crying. How do I know? Because she looks like a panda, with her cheeks totally black from runny mascara, that’s why. She’s shovelling a load of chips into her mouth between sobs. When I stop she says, “I’ve got no appetite.” I’m about to say she’s having a laugh, only it’s obvious she isn’t. “It’s Callum,” she splutters. “He’s been cheating on me and I swear it’s that witch, Sienna. Oh, he told me he isn’t, but someone’s been texting him behind my back and he won’t let me see the messages and he keeps saying he doesn’t have a clue who they’re from, but I’m sure they’re from Sienna.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Double-crossing witch,” says Minnie, wiping her cheeks. I reel back as the black smears reach her chin – it looks like she’s got a goatee. “She knew I fancied Callum and that we were meant to be together. Then she gets her claws into him when my back is turned. Pffttt.” Minnie eats another handful of chips. “I’m going to waste away,” she says, looking faint. “This is the heartbreak diet.”

  I like the sound of the heartbreak diet because it would mean I wouldn’t have to eat so many vegan stews, which are playing havoc with my insides.

  Minnie sniffs. “How am I going to play my part with Callum on the stage? I’m going to have to…” She gasps. “Act.”

  All the way home Minnie’s saying how life is so hard and why can’t everything go right for a change? “How could he reject me? I’m gorgeous,” she snivels, without so much as a smile. “My life is over. No one rejects me.” When I ask Minnie if she’d consider quitting the play, she turns to me and says, “No way. No boy is ever stopping me getting the applause I deserve. I’m not a quitter, not ever. Winners don’t quit.”

  For once I think Minnie has a point. I can’t quit on my real mother either. Superheroes are not quitters. No matter what happens. As we near the flat, Minnie turns to me and says, “It doesn’t feel good to be rejected.”

  “I know,” I reply as we wander past Mrs Karimloo’s flat and then up the stairs past Mr Hooper’s. It’s only when Minnie stops outside our door and says that she’s going to text Callum and tell him she’s not very happy that I get an idea.

  “I’ve got to be straight with him,” says Minnie. “I’m not taking this lying down.”

  “You’re standing up,” I reply shortly.

 
“I’m not taking it standing up either. I’m going to tell him I’m annoyed and then offer him another chance. He’ll have to eat humble pie.”

  “I’d love some pie,” I say.

  Later that evening I fling myself on the sofa like a lazy starfish and switch on the TV. Mum’s got a pile of books from the library on the table. There’s one on how to eat greens and feel good and one called Health Means Wealth. Picking the book up, I idly flick through it until I come to a thin slip of paper Mum’s been using as a bookmark. I feel like my insides have turned to icicles. My eyes do a double take. Because on the bookmark, in neat, precise letters, Mum has written:

  There’s a circle around the name Jack.

  This means the jelly bean is a baby boy. I snap the book shut, push it away and retreat into my bobble hat where I can hide. Somehow, knowing it’s a boy makes everything worse. I’ve been their son all this time and it hurts like a sledgehammer on a nut when I think of another boy taking my place. Jack Butters. Jack Butters. Jack Butters. Why does that sound better than Adam Butters? Why does that name sound right? Why, when I say my name, does it sound wrong?

  Who knows how long I’m under the hat. That’s the thing about the hat. Time stands still in there and nothing matters. I can feel the heat of my breath and hear my heart going ba-doing, ba-doing, ba-doing. Over and over I keep trying to tell myself that it doesn’t matter that the jelly bean is coming and it doesn’t matter that it’s a boy or that his name will be Jack, because I’m texting my real mother. I’m going to be okay, I tell myself.

  Then, from nowhere, I feel a hand on mine. There’s a light squeeze. Dad sits beside me and asks what I’m watching on TV, which is ridiculous since I’m under my bobble hat. Slowly I pull it back up.