Just Annoying! (9 page)

‘Andy,' says Mum, ‘would you mind sleeping in the camp bed tonight? Fred's had such a big day at the zoo. I think he needs the comfort of a proper bed. Would you mind? Please? He is our guest.'

‘Yeah right, Mum,' I say. ‘And would you like me to sit by his bed and hold a bucket for him to sick up all his fairy floss into as well?'

Mum looks shocked.

‘There's no need to talk like that, Andy.'

‘Get it into your head, Mum—there is no Fred!'

I'm sorry, Andy,' says Mum, ‘but this is no way to treat a guest. Please go to your room right now, and don't come out until you can be civil.'

I go to my room. I would stomp except my legs are aching and my crushed toes are still hurting. I have to do a sort of angry limp instead.

I wish I'd never invented Fred. He's stolen my dinner, my television show, my trip to the zoo—even my mother. And now he wants my bed. Well, forget it. Fred has to go. There's not enough room in the house for both of us.

But how do you get rid of someone who doesn't exist in the first place?

I've got it. You invent somebody else who doesn't exist to get rid of them for you.

I need an imaginary friend who's not going to turn out to be a mummy's boy like Fred. He's got to be bad. Superbad. His name is going to be Damien. He doesn't wash his hands after going to the toilet. He doesn't say please and he doesn't say thank you. He wears his baseball cap backwards and goes swimming in heavy surf less than half an hour after big meals. He sticks forks in toasters—just for the fun of it. He doesn't talk about his problems—he solves them with violence, and plenty of it. He hates vegetables. He hates girls. And, most of all, he hates goody-goodies. And tomorrow I will introduce him to Fred.

I'm woken by the sound of Mum's laughter.

I put my dressing gown over my pyjamas and go to the door of the kitchen.

Mum is fussing around Fred's chair.

She sees me standing at the door.

‘Good morning Andy,' she says. ‘Come in and join us.'

‘Mum,' I say, ‘I'd like you to meet another friend of mine. His name is Damien. His parents are overseas.'

Mum doesn't miss a beat. She comes across to me and mimes a handshake with Damien.

‘Pleased to meet you, Damien,' she says. ‘Would you like some breakfast?'

‘Is that alright, Mum?' I ask. ‘I know it's kind of short notice, but . . .'

‘Shush, Andy,' says Mum. ‘Damien's talking.'

‘Sorry,' I say.

Mum stands listening to Damien. She laughs.

‘Have a seat,' says Mum, pulling out a chair for Damien. ‘Would you like some porridge?'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘I'm starving.'

Mum glares at me.

‘I was talking to Damien.'

She takes his order.

‘What a lovely boy,' she says to me as she crosses to the stove. ‘And so polite.'

Damien? Polite? But he's not supposed to say please or thank you. And he's supposed to hate girls. That includes mothers. What's wrong with me? Am I losing my touch? Am I going soft? Is it really so hard to invent an imaginary friend that my mother won't fall in love with?

‘Mum, what about me?' I say. ‘Can I have some porridge?'

‘There's not much porridge left,' she says. ‘But there's a little bit of toast . . . if you don't mind the crusts, that is. Fred doesn't like the crusts so I gave him the rest of the loaf. I hope you don't mind.'

I look at Fred's plate piled high with freshly buttered toast. There's at least ten pieces there.

Mum places two blackened, shrivelled crusts in front of me.

‘They got a bit burnt,' she says. ‘And I'm afraid there's no butter left, either.'

‘Don't tell me,' I say. ‘You used it all on Fred's toast.'

‘That's right,' says Mum. ‘How did you know?'

‘Just a hunch,' I say.

The telephone rings. Mum goes into the living room to answer it. Now is my chance.

I sit down in Fred's chair and help myself to his toast.

Mum comes in. She flips.

‘Andy! What are you doing? That's Fred's breakfast.'

‘He had to go,' I say. ‘Damien too.'

Mum looks at Damien's chair and then back to mine.

‘But I didn't get to say goodbye.'

‘I know,' I say. ‘They slipped out while you were on the phone.'

‘But why?'

I have to think fast.

‘Their parents came home early. They said to say thanks and all that. They would have said goodbye themselves but they didn't want to disturb you.'

Mum sits down, shaking her head.

‘But I was going to cook Fred's favourite dinner tonight. Cauliflower surprise. He told me he'd be here.'

‘Oh well,' I say, ‘Fred's a bit like that. Damien too. Nice boys, but very unreliable. When it comes down to it they're both just out for themselves.'

Mum looks like she's about to cry. This is going too far. Dad and Jen have obviously been away too long. I have to snap her out of it. Tell her the truth.

‘Listen, Mum,' I say. ‘There's something you have to understand. Fred and Damien were not real. I made them up.'

‘You did?'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘But I never counted on you getting so attached to them.'

Mum doesn't say anything.

She stares at the table.

I feel like I've just committed a double homicide.

But I think I've finally got through. Sometimes the truth hurts.

I get up and pull out a chair next to hers.

‘It's okay, Mum,' I say. ‘You've still got me.
I'm
real.' I go to sit down.

Mum screams.

‘You can't sit there,' she says. ‘It's taken.'

I sigh.

‘Mum, I thought we'd got this straight. There is no Fred. There is no Damien. There's just you and me.'

‘And Frieda,' says Mum, nodding towards the empty chair.

‘Frieda?'

‘Yes,' says Mum. ‘She'll be staying with us for a few weeks. See, her parents have gone overseas and . . .'

‘Don't tell me, Mum,' I say. ‘She hates crusts.'

‘That's right,' says Mum.

‘And her favourite meal is cauliflower surprise?'

‘Right again,' says Mum, beaming. ‘How did you know?'

‘Just a hunch,' I say.

'm in the shower. Singing. And not just because the echo makes my voice sound so cool either. I'm singing because I'm so happy.

Ever since I've been old enough to have showers I've been trying to find a way to fill a shower cubicle up with water. If I put a face-washer over the plughole I can get the water as far up as my ankles, but it always ends up leaking out through the gaps in the door.

But I think I've finally found the answer—Dad's silicone gun.

I've plugged up the plughole.

I've sealed up the shower-screen doors.

I've even filled in all the cracks in the tiles.

 

The cubicle is completely watertight and the water is already up to my knees.

And the best thing is that I've got all night to enjoy it.

Mum and Dad have got Mr and Mrs Bainbridge over for dinner. They'll be too busy listening to Mr Bainbridge talking about himself to have time to worry about what I'm doing.

I hear banging on the door.

‘Have you almost finished, Andy?'

It's Jen!

‘No,' I say. ‘I think I'm going to be in here a while yet.'

‘Can you hurry up?' yells Jen.

‘But you already had your shower this morning,' I yell.

‘I'm going out,' she says. ‘I need the bathroom!'

‘Okay. I'll be out in a minute,' I call. I always say that. It's the truth. Sort of. I will be out in a minute—I'm just not saying which minute it will be.

The cubicle is filling with thick white steam. Just the way I like it. Dad's always telling us how important it is to turn the fan on when we're having a shower, but I can't see the point. A shower without steam doesn't make sense. You might as well go and stand outside in the rain.

My rubber duck bumps against my legs. I pick it up.

‘This is it,' I say. ‘Just you and me . . . going where no boy—or rubber duck—has ever gone before.'

It has its bill raised in a sort of a smile. It must be as excited as I am. Let's face it, there can't be that much excitement in the life of a rubber duck. Except that you'd get to see everybody without their clothes on.

Jen bangs on the door again.

‘Andy! Pleeeeease!'

‘Okay,' I call. ‘I'll be out in a minute.'

‘You said that a minute ago.'

‘I'm washing my hair.'

‘But you've been in there for at least half an hour. You don't have
that
much hair.'

‘I'm using a new sort of shampoo—I have to do it strand by strand.'

‘Andy!'

The water is almost up to my belly-button.

There's only one thing missing. Bubbles!

I pick up the bubblebath and measure out a capful. I tip it into the water. A few bubbles, but not enough. I add another cap. And another. And another. One more for good measure. Another for good luck.

I keep adding bubblebath until the bottle is empty. The bubbles rise over my head. Cool. It's like I'm being eaten by this enormous white fungus. Well, not that being eaten by an enormous white fungus would be cool—it would probably be quite uncool, actually—but you know what I mean.

Jen is yelling.

‘Andy, if you don't get out right this minute, you're going to be sorry.'

Jen is persistent, I'll give her that. But I'll fix her. I'll use my old ‘what did you say?' routine.

‘Pardon?' I yell. ‘What did you say?'

‘I said you're going to be sorry!'

‘What? I can't hear you!'

‘I said get out of the shower!'

‘Pardon?'

No reply. I win.

Aaaagghhh!

The water's gone hot! Boiling hot!

Jen must have flushed the toilet. That's bad news.

I lose.

I jump back against the shower wall.

Hot water splatters onto my face. My chest. My arms.