Head Spinners (8 page)

I shook my head in amazement. Somehow, those pieces of fish were still alive, and had been searching for water all along. They must have jumped the sandwich into my gym bag.

I lay on my stomach and peered into the bottle. I couldn't take my eyes off those fish (well, those fish
pieces
, I guess). They were supremely brilliant. It was as though the universe was giving me a second chance, a way to make up for what I had done to Monty. Here was something amazing and alive that needed my help. If I could help these pieces of trout and keep them safe – then maybe I could forgive myself for Monty.

Water was the first thing my fish needed. A bucketful. The bottle was way too small for them.

I snuck into the laundry and filled an old green bucket with the tap on a quiet trickle. I didn't want anyone to hear me and start asking difficult questions.

The bucket was heavier than I expected and it bumped against the edge of the laundry trough as I lifted it out, sloshing cold water onto my legs and shoes. But I didn't mind. It felt good having something important to do.

I opened the laundry door and listened.

Everything was quiet. I could faintly hear my parents talking in the kitchen.

Struggling with the bucket, I started down the hall, but just as I passed Connor's bedroom, the door opened.

Typical.
I stopped, unsure what to do.

Connor leaned against the doorframe, grinning. ‘So what's the real story with the sandwich?' he whispered. Then he looked at the bucket of water and my wet shoes. ‘This one's going to be good.' He stood back so that I could walk into his room.

I glanced across at my own room, wishing I could get back there without Connor trying to follow.

‘Come on, Jamie,' Connor said impatiently. ‘I won't tell.'

I knew he wouldn't tell, but I still wasn't sure what to say. I set the bucket on the floor of his room and rubbed the palm of my hand where the handle had been digging in.

Connor shut the door. ‘So, spill the beans,' he said. ‘Why did you steal the sandwich?' He leaned against the edge of his desk.

I looked down at the bucket. ‘It's these amazing fish, see,' I sighed. The truth sounded so weird . . .

Connor frowned at the bucket. ‘It's not for some boring school project, is it?'

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, shut up, Connor.' He always teased me for trying at school. Even if I was just reading a book, Connor always said something smart about it. So I looked him straight in the eye, and lied.

‘I was going to hide the fish sandwich in Mr Murray's desk so that it stank the whole place out.'

There was a long pause as Connor looked at me – curious and impressed. He'd never looked at me that way before.

I held his gaze, almost smiling. It made me feel strong and powerful, as if I was a dark, mysterious criminal.
(See that scar on my finger? It's from wrestling a thrashing killer trout. And see that wild look in my eye? It's from seeing things that you would never believe.)

After a while, he cracked up laughing. ‘Not bad, not bad . . . I'm impressed.'

Then I thought of something. ‘Actually, I was wondering, when you sell worms up at the cafe, have you ever noticed anything . . .
strange
about the fish that get caught?'

Connor frowned. ‘Strange in what way?'

‘Nothing. I was just wondering.'

‘That guy buys heaps of worms, though. I think the fish keep stealing them from the hook.' He shrugged. ‘Lucky there are so many in our backyard. You can help me dig for worms next time if you want,' he said.

‘Thanks,' I said, and picked up the bucket.

Somehow, it didn't seem quite so heavy anymore.

Back in my own room, I put the bucket on the carpet and rubbed my aching hands again. The fish pieces were still flapping in the bottom of the bottle, right where I had left them.

Gently, I lifted the bottle just above the bucket's waterline, and tipped. Water trickled from the bottle, but nothing else did. The fish didn't fall out.

‘Come on.' I jiggled my bottle, trying to shake out the fish. Nothing moved.

I jiggled again, a bit rougher this time. With a series of sliding plops, all seven pieces slipped into the bucket and began sinking. When they were about halfway down, they shook their tail ends and began to swim. Pretty amazing.

Slowly the fish pieces swam faster and faster until they were bumping up against each other. There was so much action in the bucket that water splashed over the edge. It was hard to see what was going on. A couple of pieces jumped up and landed back in the water.

At one point the whole bucket rocked. I held onto the rim in case it tipped over. Water frothed and bubbled and spilled onto the carpet. My hands were soaking wet.

Suddenly the splashing stopped.

Biting my lip, I peered inside. A single piece of trout floated in the water. It curved itself around one side of the bucket in a crescent shape. It swished its tail end peacefully.

‘Oh . . . wow!' I could hardly believe it. This fish was magic. It had to be. Somehow it was able to
heal
itself  . . . it was trying to become whole again.

I leaned back against my bed with the bucket in front of me and shook my wet hands. I could see a photo of Monty on my desk. I'd left his favourite stick next to it and hung his collar on a post of my bed. In the photo, Monty was sitting with his ears pricked up. He looked really smart. Not
scraggy
at all.

‘What do you think, Monty?' I asked.

I was getting a bit teary, so I peered back in the bucket. I didn't know how it had managed to reform. But I did know one thing – this fish wanted to live.

All through dinner I stayed quiet, wondering about the trout. Would it grow eyes and a mouth? Would it need food?

Whatever happened, I would look after it. Then, once it was fully re-formed, I would take it to a river and let it go. It would have a new life, swimming free.

That night I went to bed feeling better than I had in two weeks. I snuggled under the covers, listening to the faint swishing of water in the dark.

Maybe I had messed up with Monty and let him get killed, but here was my second chance. I would do anything to help the trout live.

The next morning I woke up early and checked the fish. Had it survived the night? Was it still alright?

But I didn't need to worry. My trout was more than alright. It was awesome.

In the bucket was a normal, everyday trout. It had eyes, a mouth and a tail. A pretty pinky-orange stripe extended down its side. Its scales shimmered in the water.

‘Hello,' I said. I wasn't surprised to see that the fish had re-formed. Not after everything else that had happened. But I was a little disappointed. Now I had to set it free in the river. It was the only right thing to do.

‘Worms,' I said to myself. I'd feed it some worms. Then I'd take it to the river in the afternoon.

I was pulling on my shorts when the trout jumped into the air. With a flick of its tail it sprinkled water in an arc across the carpet. A few drops made it as far as my desk. The fish landed safely back in the bucket.

I sat on my bed and hugged my knees. W
h
at would happen next?

But the fish just swished in the bucket.

Oh well. That was still a clever thing to do. And it gave me an idea. ‘Splash! That's what I'll call you!' A pet needs a name. I scratched my head. ‘But are you a boy or a girl fish?'

Splash kept swishing.

I shrugged again. ‘Let's just say you're a girl for now.' Maybe it was because Monty had been a boy – I don't know – but I liked the idea of Splash being a girl.

She must have been happy too because she did a single jump in the air. With a clever flick of her tail, Splash sprinkled water over the top of my desk.

Monty's photo! I didn't want that getting wet. I went to move the photo out of the splash zone but my hand froze in midair.

Beside the photo, and wet from Splash's tricks, lay Monty's favourite stick. Wherever a drop of water had landed, tiny leaves had sprouted. Down one end there were even a few tiny roots.

‘Wow!' I said. ‘How did you do that?'

Splash jumped proudly and landed back in the bucket.

I picked up the stick and peered at it. Tiny, bright-green leaves had formed on the ends of the twigs.

This was amazing! Splash didn't just know how to re-form herself; she could bring other things back to life. I'd pulled the stick off an apple tree at my cousin's farm last year. It had been chewed and chucked around ever since then.

Now here it was in my hands, alive again.

Splash turned in the bucket and jumped like a dolphin, trying to see out, I guessed.

When she saw Monty's old collar hooked on the end of my bed, she stopped jumping and swished in the water again. It looked as if she was working up to something.

With another jump and a clever flick of her tail, Splash sprinkled water over the collar.

I watched with one hand over my mouth, almost too amazed to breathe.

For a moment, I thought the collar had disappeared. I peered close, trying to see what was going on.

The collar
had
disappeared. At the end of my bed stood something dark-brown and tiny. It looked up at me and said, ‘Mooooer.'

‘A cow!' I yelled. ‘A cow!'

A teensy weensy tiny little cow stood in front of me! I wanted to kiss the fish and hug the cow. It was all so amazing. Splash was bringing life to things that were already dead!

She jumped proudly and landed back in the bucket.

I knelt beside my bed and peered at the cow. ‘You're so small!' I whispered. It sniffed the quilt and tried to nibble. Then it looked up at me and blinked.

When I turned to Splash, she was low in the water, curled around the side of the bucket. She looked as if she was resting.

The cow was wandering around my bed. I didn't want it to fall off, so I arranged some pillows along the edge. Then I found my old farm set at the back of my wardrobe and set up the fence under my bed. If Connor came snooping in here, or worse, Mum . . .