Don't Look Now 1

by Paul Jennings

  A group of teachers were hurrying across the yard. But all they saw was a boy plopping out of the hole with a dog.

  Jenny took the dog from my arms and pulled my backpack off its head. The other teachers peered down the hole. There was nothing there but muddy books.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘It’s five metres deep.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘The kid’s a mountain goat.’

  ‘A monkey more like it.’

  They were all patting me on the back.

  ‘You should have waited,’ said Jenny. ‘It was dangerous. How did you climb out of there?’

  ‘I flew,’ I said.

  The teachers laughed.

  ‘He has a sense of humour too.’

  So I was a hero. Sort of. They called me to the stage at school assembly. I was told off for climbing down the hole because it was dangerous. And I was praised for bravery and climbing skills. Everyone was nice to me.

  But no one believed I could fly.

  ad was waiting for me after comics club at school. As I limped home I told him the whole story. The true story. Even though I knew he wouldn’t believe it.

  We sat down on a bench just over the road from the town hall. The Australian flag flew from a pole right up on the top. It was growing late and a man was pulling the flag down. He wrapped it up and went inside.

  ‘I know you don’t believe me,’ I said to Dad.

  ‘But I can fly.’

  Dad had a serious expression on his face. ‘How do you feel about that?’ he said.

  Why did Dad say that? It’s the sort of thing the school counsellor asks. Why couldn’t he just believe me? I mean, I was a hero.

  I thought for a bit. ‘It’s lonely,’ I said. ‘No one else can do it. Not one person in the whole world. There’s no one to talk to about it. No one to share the fun. Or the scary bits. No one to help or give advice. No one knows what I can do.’

  Dad nodded, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t even seem to be listening.

  But I had so many thoughts that I just kept talking.

  ‘There are lots of people in the world who know what their gift is. They play violins or lay bricks. Everyone knows what they can do. There are people who build houses or climb mountains and they can all talk to each other about it. But I am the only one who can fly. The only one. And no one believes me. Not even Mum. Or you.’

  Dad stared at the footpath. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘What?’

  He looked along the empty street. ‘Just do it. Close your eyes and count to ten.’

  I did as he said.

  ‘Up here.’ Dad’s voice sounded far away.

  I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t see him. I looked above my head. Still nothing. Then I stared at the top of the town hall.

  ‘How did you…?’

  ‘Close your eyes and count again,’ he yelled.

  I tried to keep my eyes closed, but when I got to five, they just flew open.

  Dad was still coming down, like an upright soldier being lowered with invisible hands. He was about two metres above the ground. As soon as I saw him, he fell like a garbage bag full of rocks.

  ‘Ouch,’ he screamed as he hit the footpath.

  ‘Dad,’ I shouted. ‘Sorry, I looked too soon.’

  He stood up and dusted himself down. There was a moment of silence. Then he smiled at me.

  ‘Just make sure you never let anyone see you with your feet off the ground,’ he said.

  I grinned and we both laughed.

  ‘Life is good,’ I said to Dad. ‘It’s fantastic being able to fly, but I want people to see me doing it. I wish they could. I really do.’

  I let my mind wander. If the kids at school could see me flying I would be a superhero. Just thinking about it made me happy.

  One day my dreams would come true. I just knew it.

  ‘Make another wish,’ said Dad.

  I did.

  And Mum made it happen.

  wish it was still alive,’ said Mum with a sigh.

  I stared at the picture on the wall. A picture of something special. Something that once belonged to Grandad.

  I shook my head sadly. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Then we would be rich.’

  ‘Don’t think like that,’ said Mum. ‘Money isn’t everything. He was a good father to me. That’s the main thing.’

  Grandad had promised to leave Mum a gift that was worth a lot of money. His rare black-petal poppy plant. It was the only one in the world. Grandad had spent years developing it.

  The poppy was worth a fortune. He wished he had more, but he only had one. He dreamed of growing hundreds of the plants and making a lot of money. So he could leave it to Mum. For her to buy microwaves when they busted. And maybe a swimming pool. And an electric guitar. Mum’s eyes started to water.

  She wiped away a tear. ‘I can’t bear to think about what happened,’ she said. ‘Grandad made a mistake. He left the pot plant out in the backyard. The only black-petal poppy in the world.’

  I shook my head. I knew the rest of the story. The rabbits ate every bit of the poppy – the flowers, the leaves, the stem, the seed pods. Everything.

  ‘Why don’t you grow some more?’ I said.

  Mum sighed. ‘I’ve told you before. We don’t know how. The secret died with Grandad.’

  Grandad was weird. But I couldn’t say that to Mum. Not now he was dead. He had a plan, but a rabbit ruined it. He was just a dreamer. Like me.

  Grandad’s toenail pictures weren’t worth anything. Dad said they were revolting rubbish.

  But the poppy wasn’t rubbish. If Mum had that she could have been rich. But now she was poor. If only I could help. If I could grow a black-petal poppy we would make a mint. But I couldn’t. There was only one thing I was good at.

  Flying.

  That was it.

  I could make a lot of money by flying around. People would pay good money to see a flying boy.

  I went into the lounge. Dad was asleep in front of the TV. I woke him up.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I know you don’t want me to, but I need to fly. And I need people to see me.’

  Dad frowned. He was cross with me. He looked upwards and then checked to see that Mum was busy.

  ‘The roof,’ he said. ‘Right now. I’ll join you when the coast is clear.’

  ad and I sat on the edge of the roof.

  We lived in a two-storey house and it was a long way down to the ground. We must have looked like Santa Claus and his helper perched up there in the middle of the night. And like Santa, no one was allowed to see us.

  ‘Don’t even think of it,’ said Dad. ‘If anyone sees you flying, you will drop like a stone. And once you start to fall nothing can save you. Even if the person stops looking.’

  ‘Dogs too,’ I said. ‘That dog I was telling you about stared at me when I was flying out of the well. And then…whoo.’

  ‘And cats,’ said Dad thoughtfully. He seemed to be remembering something he would rather forget.

  ‘What about rabbits?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure about rabbits,’ Dad said. ‘They don’t look up much.’

  ‘Cows?’

  ‘Cows are really bad. You could be flying high across a paddock and a heap of cows look up.’

  ‘Rats?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad.

  ‘Mice?’

  ‘Nah, they nick off at the first sign of a shadow. They think you might be a hawk or some other bird of prey.’

  ‘Birds?’

  ‘Birds are really dangerous.’

  ‘Worms?’

  We both laughed. ‘Worms don’t have eyes,’ said Dad.

  ‘Are there any other animals we need to be careful around?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘One is especially dangerous. The most dangerous animal on earth.’

  ‘Humans?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘They are curious. And they have binoculars
. And they fly in aeroplanes. And remember, all it takes is one glimpse and down you will go. All the way to the ground.’

  He looked at me seriously. ‘That’s why I’ve brought you up here. No one must ever see you fly. A boy flying is something weird. If you are seen once, everyone will be looking for you. They will try to find the Flying Boy. Or should I say, Falling Boy.

  ‘And you must promise me that you won’t fly more than a few centimetres above the ground. No high flying.’

  Dad went silent, waiting for me to promise. Instead I asked a question.

  ‘If no one can see you…’ I said slowly. ‘If no one knows…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s the point of it? There’s no glory. No show. I mean, you and me are the only people in the world who can fly. But what’s the use of it if everyone thinks we are just ordinary?’

  ‘Ordinary is okay,’ said Dad.

  ‘Not for me it isn’t,’ I said. ‘I want to be…

  Dad frowned at me.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

  Dad paused again. ‘At your age,’ he said, ‘nothing. But I can tell you from experience that you don’t need fame to be happy. Now promise me that you won’t fly more than a couple of centimetres off the ground.’

  ‘Let’s go down,’ I said.

  Dad sighed, then smiled. He checked to see if the coast was clear. The backyard and the street were bathed in moonlight.

  We waited until a cloud drifted in front of the moon.

  ‘Now,’ said Dad. ‘Go, go, go.’

  He shut his eyes so that he couldn’t see me. I concentrated.

  After I landed I stared up at Dad and then closed my eyes. ‘Your turn,’ I yelled.

  ‘Dad flying,’ he yelled.

  ‘Dad flying,’ I replied as I shut my eyes.

  There was a soft thud on the ground next to me as Dad landed.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I said.

  Dad nodded. ‘Flying is hard work. Keeping your body off the ground uses up energy. Even your clothes are heavy. So don’t go trying to lift things when you fly.’

  I didn’t get to practise flying much the next day because something else was going on.

  Mum was sad. Because of Grandad. He was gone now. He died of a heart attack from laughing at one of his own jokes.

  But today Mum wasn’t laughing. It was two years since Grandad died. A tear ran down her face as she stared at the only thing she had to remember him by.

  A present he gave her just before he cracked his final joke.

  A key ring made of kangaroo poo.

  Every time he saw the key ring, Dad rolled his eyes and snorted. But Mum loved it. She kept it in a glass case which I wasn’t allowed to touch. Even though the kangapoo key ring wasn’t worth anything, Mum loved it.

  Mum pointed to the glass case. ‘Grandad was always playing jokes,’ she said. ‘Who else would make a key ring with a piece of kangaroo poo glued on the end of it? The kangapoo key ring is all we have to remind us of him.’

  ‘Don’t forget the toenail art,’ I said.

  Dad snorted. But Mum didn’t seem to hear.

  That night I lay in bed thinking. I bet that key opened something special.

  If I could find it, I would make Mum the happiest person in the world. It would make up for the money she didn’t get because the rabbits ate the poppy.

  Mum never complained about money, but we didn’t have much. We still had an old computer and the microwave was busted.

  ‘You don’t need money to be happy,’ she often said.

  All the same, she sometimes looked sad when we couldn’t afford takeaway on Friday nights.

  There were boxes of old stuff at the back of the garden shed. What if I could find a locked box that the key fitted? Something Mum and Dad had missed. I would be a hero. Especially if I found something worth a lot of money.

  But I had to be careful. If anything happened to the key ring I would be history.

  switched my phone to torch mode.

  Then I put on my tracksuit and crept downstairs. I tiptoed along the hall and into the kitchen. The glass case sparkled in the light from my phone.

  I went outside and hurried across the wet grass towards the shed. The rain was already making my shoulders wet so I broke into a run.

  Splash. Down I went.

  Rats. I staggered to my feet. I was wet and cold. My warm bed was calling to me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t I waited until Mum and Dad were out shopping? Then I could search in the daylight.

  I opened the creaking door.

  The light from my phone shone on the shed’s dusty secrets.

  At one end I saw Dad’s tools and crazy inventions. At the other end I saw cardboard boxes, cobwebs, nuts and bolts, broken furniture and useless bits and pieces.

  I was looking for something that was actually nothing.

  A hole.

  A keyhole.

  I put my hand into my tracksuit-top pocket.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing there.

  It was gone. I patted myself all over in panic. The kangapoo key ring was gone. And so was I. I was dead meat.

  Mum would never forgive me if I had lost the precious key ring. I must have dropped it when I slipped in the puddle. My heart thumped in my chest.

  The puddle was shallow. But all I could feel was grass and water. Suddenly something glinted in the light of my phone. I grabbed it. Oh, yes, yes, yes. It was the key ring. I could hardly believe my luck.

  My bad luck.

  The piece of kangaroo poo was gone. I groped around desperately in the freezing water. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then my fingers felt a piece of slimy mush. It was just a smear, a smidgen of a smudge. It was all that was left of the kangaroo poo. I rinsed my fingers in the icy puddle and made my way to the back door with the poo-less key ring.

  In the morning I would have to face Mum. She would never forgive me. Grandad’s key ring was ruined. It was just a joke key ring. But now it was a bad joke. A very bad joke. A kangapoo key ring with no poo.

  My thoughts raced. What if I could find another piece of kangaroo poo?

  The only problem was there there weren’t any kangaroos around here anymore. In the old days there were plenty. But now the bush was gone. Gobbled up by houses.

  I stood in the back garden with the rain pelting down on my head. I was soaked. I was shivering. I was desperate.

  Suddenly an idea popped into my head. Yes, yes, yes. I couldn’t get the poo back, but I could still save myself.

  But first I had to get back to my bedroom without waking Mum and Dad.

  looked up at my bedroom window.

  Then I quickly checked out the back garden. No one would see me. I concentrated. Nothing happened. My wet clothes were heavy. I tried harder.

  Slowly my feet left the ground. Up, up, up. I rose to the second storey and until I reached my bedroom window. Then I flew gently inside and plopped onto the floor.

  I shut the window and took off my wet clothes. I dried myself and put on my pyjamas. Then I turned on my bedroom light and pulled open the top drawer of my desk.

  I was looking for something that I could make into fake kangaroo poo.

  Blu Tack. Yes, yes, yes.

  I rolled a small piece of the rubbery strip into a ball and pressed it onto the end of the key ring chain. Perfect.

  Except for one thing.

  It was blue. Sky blue. Kangaroo poo was definitely not found in shades of blue.

  Then I had a brainwave. I grinned. ‘Ricky boy,’ I said to myself. ‘You are a genius.’

  I knelt down and ran my finger over the floor under my bed. Perfect. I rolled the Blu Tack in the dust. Good move. It was just the right colour – kangapoo brown.

  I tiptoed downstairs and put the key ring back in its glass case.

  I wondered if Mum would notice the fake poo. If she did I was in BIG TROUBLE. Poor Mum. Now I had two secrets to keep from her. I wished I could tell her that I could fly, but
Dad wouldn’t allow it. And now I had glued fake poo on her beloved key ring.

  I felt a bit guilty.

  The next day Mum took the key ring out of its special case.

  But she didn’t notice a thing. Another day passed. Then a week. Then a month. I had got away with it.

  Sometimes Mum would stare out into the backyard and look a little sad. I knew that she was thinking about the black-petal poppy. I knew that she would give a million key rings for the secret of that plant. She would be able to grow hundreds of them and make enough money to get the bathroom fixed up.

  She was really down in the dumps. How could I cheer her up?

  I suddenly had an amazing thought. Why didn’t I think of it before? Grandad had spent years mucking around with different poppies. He knew about DNA and grafting and cross-fertilising and all that stuff. He had probably written the secret down somewhere. On a piece of paper. And hidden it in a locked box or tin.