Just Tricking! (15 page)

‘Speaking.'

‘Hi, Andy. Chris Robbins from Triple B FM here.'

My stomach drops. He must have found out I've been impersonating him! Marvin Bonwick must have rung him back to check if the call was legit! When he found out it was a trick he would have guessed it was me.

‘Who is it?' says Danny.

I put my hand over the receiver. ‘It's Chris Robbins! He must know! What do I do?'

‘Talk to him,' says Danny. ‘He can't prove anything.'

‘Andy?' says Chris. ‘Are you still there?'

Yes,' I say. ‘I'm here.'

‘Thought we'd lost you for a minute.'

‘Just a bit surprised,' I say. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Well,' says Chris, ‘I've just pulled your name out of the barrel to play Beat the Bomb – but if you'd rather not . . .'

‘Are you kidding?' I shout. ‘Of course I want to!'

It's like a dream. What are the odds of something like this happening? A million to one? Nah – more like a squillion to one.

‘Well, stand by,' says Chris. ‘We're about to go to air. I'll just play a couple of ads and a station ID and then you're on. Oh, and by the way, Andy?'

‘Yes?'

‘Turn your radio off. We will be transmitting on a ten-second delay and it can get a little confusing.'

Through the earpiece of the telephone I hear a jingle for Cheapies carpet-cleaning service. Talk about deja vu. If Danny wasn't right next to me I'd swear it was him playing another prank.

Then the Triple B station ID starts. Comets and meteorites again. ‘Triple B – taking you back to the sixties and seventies . . .'

Then Chris starts speaking.

‘Good afternoon. Chris Robbins with you on Triple B, and to play Beat the Bomb this hour we have Andy Griffiths on the line. How are you doin', Andy?'

‘Pretty good.'

‘Great! What are you up to this afternoon?'

I wonder what he would say if I told him I was impersonating him and making prank Beat the Bomb phone calls. But I decide against it. I need the cash.

‘Nothing much, you know.'

‘Fantastic! Ready to play Beat the Bomb?'

‘I sure am.'

‘All right – now, you know the rules, Andy?'

‘Yes,' I say, but he explains them anyway.

‘Okay. Clock's ticking,' says Chris.

‘Twenty dollars,' says the voice from outer space.

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

I'd be happy with twenty. Maybe I should stop it right now. Those bombs can go off pretty fast sometimes.

‘Twenty-five dollars.'

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

‘One hundred and forty-eight dollars.'

I want to stop, but I can't. It's like I'm frozen. If I can just keep my nerve . . .

‘Two hundred and ninety dollars.'

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

‘Four hundred and sixty-six dollars.'

The ticking is deafening. Any minute now the bomb is going to explode and I'll be splattered all over the room. But still I can't speak.

‘Five hundred and two dollars.'

I can't stand it anymore.

‘Stop!' I yell.

‘Andy?'

‘Yes?'

‘Do you know what you've just done?'

‘Yes,' I say in a dream.

‘You have just won five hundred and two dollars! What do you think about that?'

I can't speak.

Danny's jumping up and down.

‘How much?' he's saying. ‘How much?!'

‘Five hundred and two,' I say.

Danny hoots.

‘Hey, Andy,' says Chris. ‘What are you going to do with all that money?'

A vision of a pile of Mars bars as high as Mount Kosciusko fills my head. It merges into a tower of CDs and a stereo system loud enough to blow my ears off. And then it dissolves into a blinding vision of flashing lights and beeps and explosions as I imagine spending an entire weekend in Timezone. But then I think of Marvin. And his mum.

‘I'm not sure,' I say. ‘Maybe I'll give it to a friend.'

Danny raises his eyebrows.

‘Well, good on ya, Andy,' says Chris. ‘Now, if you can stay on the line while we confirm your details, we've got something special coming up. Do you like John Farnham, Andy?'

I can't stand him, but I'll say anything for five hundred and two bucks.

‘Like
him? I
love
him!' I lie.

‘Well, this is for you mate,' he says over the start of ‘You're the Voice'. ‘This is Triple B FM where – like Andy Griffiths – we make your dreams, and your friends' dreams, come true. Good on ya, Andy!'

‘Thanks, mate,' I say.

My head is spinning. I'm trying to work out if I'm the most fantastically lucky person or the biggest loser in the world. I mean, having to pretend I like John Farnham is bad enough, but having one of his songs dedicated to me is much, much worse.

‘Are you going to give that money to me?' says Danny. He's practically drooling all over the carpet.

‘No,' I say. ‘What makes you think that?'

‘You said you were going to give it to a friend.'

‘Yes, but not you,' I say.

‘Then who?'

‘Marvin.'

His jaw drops.

You're kidding!'

‘No,' I say.

‘All of it?'

‘No, not all of it. After I pay Marvin what we owe him there will be two dollars left over. We can go halves in that if you like.'

‘Thanks, mate,' says Danny, staring at the carpet. You're a real pal.'

‘Don't mention it,' I say. ‘What are friends for?'

ell, I finally did it.

I've been thinking about it for ages and I kept putting it off, but this morning I finally did it.

I got a tattoo.

It's a skull with two eagle wings curving up over the top. The skull has these evil green eyes and a sort of long, thin red moustache that arcs upwards next to the wings. And running across the bottom of the skull is a small ribbon-shaped banner. And inside the banner are the words BORN TO DIE.

Didn't cost much either. Normally, it would have cost $2.95, but I got it on special at
Target for ninety-five cents.

And the best thing about it is that it didn't even hurt.

I just removed the protective sheet and pressed the sticky side firmly onto my skin. Then I wet the top of it with a sponge, waited for thirty seconds and peeled off the backing.

Yeah, so it's not real – but it's so realistic you'd never know the difference. And the amazing thing is, it makes me feel different. Bigger. Tougher. Bolder. Nobody's going to want to kick sand in my face and steal my girlfriend when they see I've got such a wicked-looking tat. Not that I have a girlfriend right at the moment, but as soon as they see my tattoo I bet every girl in school will want to go out with me – even the teachers.

The packet says it will last for days – almost forever. It also says I'll be able to shock my friends and family. But it's not my friends and family I'm interested in shocking. It's my enemies: Steve Lik and Robert Leech.

Steve Lik lives at the bottom of the hill. He's a few years older than me, but we used to muck around a bit together on the weekends. Until he started hanging around with Robert Leech.

Robert Leech is a wiry-haired geek who lives over on the other side of the hill.

He's got a face like a rat, with a really thin pointy nose and beady brown eyes. He thinks he's really good because he rides a fifteen-speed racer and smokes rallies. He doesn't like me much. Well, to be truthful, he hates my guts. I don't know what I did to make him hate me so much. Being born I suppose. Robert Leech is just that sort of guy.

Lately, him and Lik have taken to waiting for me at the bottom of the hill outside Lik's place and they won't let me pass until I tell them the password. Today is no exception. I turn the corner into my street and they're both there, like they've been waiting for me. Leech is sitting in the middle of the footpath. He's got his jaws rigid and his lips tight as he blows a series of smoke rings. Lik is leaning against his letterbox with a yellow bucket in his hand. I could try crossing the road, but I know they'd just come after me. I pretend to ignore them.

‘Well, well, well,' says Leech, in between smoke rings. ‘If it isn't our old mate Andy.'

Lik smirks.

‘Do you mind if I just go past?' I say, moving to step around him. But Leech's hand shoots out and grabs my ankle.

‘Not so fast,' he says. ‘Say please.'

‘Please,' I say, looking straight ahead.

‘Say “pretty please”,' he says. ‘“With sugar on top”.'

‘Pretty please with sugar on top,' I say.

‘Say “pretty please with sugar on top, Sir!”'

I know from experience that this can go on for a long time. But today I don't have to put up with this crap, because I've got a tattoo. I casually roll up the sleeves of my windcheater. The tattoo is still there on my right forearm. The skull's eyes seem to be flashing.

‘Look, I don't want any trouble,' I say. ‘Just let me past . . . or else.'

Leech laughs. ‘Or else what?' He is too busy blowing smoke rings to notice my tattoo. But I can see that Lik has seen it. He's already backing off.

‘Come on, Leechy. That'll do.'

Leech stops laughing. ‘Huh?'

Lik steps across to him and whispers in his ear.

Leech jumps up from the footpath, his eyes fixed on my forearm. He takes a couple of steps backwards.

‘Can I pass now?' I ask.

‘Yeah, of c-course,' says Leech. ‘We were just kidding around. Just a bit of fun, you know.'

‘Fun? That's what you call fun?'

Leech and Lik are standing there frozen, like a couple of stunned rabbits. I'm not sure whether they're scared of the tattoo or just the way it makes me act, but I don't really care. I flex the muscles in my forearm – which is a hard thing to do really, because I don't have that many. But my skull doesn't mind. It ripples and seems to grin in response, like it's enjoying it. I guess I should be scared, but I feel strangely calm. Like I can do whatever the hell I want. Why not pull out all the stops and teach them a lesson they'll never forget?

Lik is still holding the yellow bucket.

‘What's in the bucket?' I say.

‘Slugs,' says Lik.

‘How come?' I ask, knowing full well that they get their jollies out of inventing new and horrible ways for slugs to die.

‘Um, er, well, my dad asked me to. They've been eating his rose bushes.'

‘Don't give me that crap,' I say. ‘Let 'em go.'

Lik looks at Leech. Leech nods. Lik tips the bucket, and about twenty fat grey slugs fall into the shrubbery.