When Mr. Dog Bites (2 page)

Mom helped me put the bag on my back.

“Have you written to Dad lately?” I said.

Mom said nada.

“Mom?”

“I heard you, Dylan.”

“Dad needs his letters, you know.”

“I’ll do it tonight.”

“Maybe we can do one together?”

“We’ll see,” Mom said, which I knew meant
No bleedin’ chance
. “Right, young man. You’re going to be late.”

“I’m not.”

“Try to be good, okay, Dylan?”

“
Sì, signora.
” That’s Italian. Mom likes hearing me speak new languages.

“Right, come here.” She reached out her arms, a move I’d seen tons of times before. I knew what was coming. I was used to it. “Look at you—you’re so handsome.” Mom’s “so” sounded more like “s
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o.”

SMACK-A-ROONY!

Flush on the face. Hitting lips, nose, and chin at the same time. Dis-gust-ing or what?

Salt.

Salt.

Salt.

I can’t wait until I’m too old for Mom’s slobbers. But thinking things like that made me sad in the dumps, and I’m not allowed to be sad in the dumps. So I didn’t think about it. Dad had told me that I was the man of the house now, and in my mind men of the house aren’t supposed to be sad; they’re meant to be like Hercules or Samson
(
before
he got his hair chopped).

“Try to be good, Dylan,” Mom said again.

“I always do.”

“Love you,” Mom shouted after me.

I tucked my ear into my head and went
M­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m
in my mind, pretending not to hear her. Then the door shut and I knew that in two minutes she’d be Bambi blubbering. But I tried not to think of that, which is Hard Rock Cafe, so I tried to see if I could get
all
my fingers to touch Green at the same time without touching each other. That took my mind off it and made me think of sugar and spice and all things nice.

I couldn’t fit all my fingers on Green, though.

Bloody pinkie fingers!

Why do we need them?

3

Letter

Dec

 

Hi Champ

Youll probibly wake up and wondur were Ive gone two. Thats the thing about being in the army, you have to be ready to go at the drop of a hat and as my troop are part of a secret mishon this time we couldnt tell a sinnir when and were we were going. I hope you undurstand this kiddo. I cant say two much about our mishon or the opirations were going to do as it is far two dangerus. Not for me but for YOU!!! But the crappy thing is that they wont tell us wen were two get home. Im hoping in the nixt year. Supose it depends on how many arabs and suicide bommers we get. So your the man of the house now wich means youv got to keep it safe and look after your mom, dont let her burst your arse two much. Keep working hard at that school of yours and dont let anyone take the piss. Remember what I told you, always look out for number one. Mom said shed send letturs on to me if you want to write. So if you do, give the letturs to Mom ‚cause she‚s the only one who knows the address here at base camp, this is for securety reesons.

See you soon.

Love Dad

4

Babe

Would you Adam and Eve it?

That’s cockney rhyming slang, which is strange coming from me, as I’m not cockney. It didn’t actually leave my mouth in words; I just thought it. But I thought it in cockney because we don’t really have Glaswegian rhyming slang for the word
“believe
.” I don’t think many people at my school know anything about cockney rhyming slang. If they did, they’d be using it constantly, which they don’t, and all the thick kids would be saying the word “
cockney”
all the time and laughing their tits off because it has the word “
cock”
in it. It’s my slang and no one else’s.

Would you Adam and Eve it? On the way to school I eyeballed Doughnut with some of his cronies. It was the first time I’d seen him since the end of last year. I didn’t miss him. His belly jelly wobbled; he had extra blubber on him. Maybe Mom was right. He’d probably been inhaling ice cream and lard over the summer. She’s some super-sleuth cookie, my mom. He didn’t clock me. I kept a safe distance, all ninja-like. I tailed him, eyeballing his every move. Eavesdropping on his every laugh, his nasty comments about anyone and everyone. About my best bud, Amir. Amir says that Doughnut is just like a hole that’s looking for a doughnut. Amir should be on the stage.

Doughnut’s comments about Amir started the rumblings.

SMALL VOLCANO ALERT!

It starts with Mr. Right Eye and quickly moves to Mr. Jaw, then the red-hot lava flows and Mr. Head shakes at super-rapid speed.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Mr. Head is dizzy Miss Lizzy. That’s the worst bit.

Mr. Sweaty arrives with Mr. Pong and Mr. Panic.

Mr. and Mrs. Eyes start to pee themselves.

Mr. Throat doesn’t miss the boat.

Here he comes: Mr. Bloody Twitch.

This is how life’s a bitch for Dylan Mint.

Not far behind is Mr. Tic. Can’t stand that prick.

It’s the docs who like to call them “tics.”

I prefer “volcanoes” myself, because they’re like mega eruptions in my head.

The main reason I’ve no street cred.

I don’t suppress it—the docs with the big brains told me not to. “Always allow it to escape, Dylan, always allow it to escape,” one bright-spark doc said.

I want to shout out.

I want to scream.

I want to bellow, holler, and yell.

Soooooo badly it hurts like hell.

Dylan,
don’t
shout out, scream, bellow, holler, or yell!

Don’t bawl, “DOUGHNUT, YOU UGLY FAT WANK-BUCKET FUCK-HEAD SOCK-FACE BELL END.”

Don’t shout that!

Whatever you do, don’t shout that.

The last thing I wanted was for Doughnut to march right over and rattle the ears off me, maybe even plonk his head on the bridge of my nose. I wanted my nose to be in one piece, so I did the opposite of what the super brains told me. I suppressed the volcano. I kept it in. Instead I brought Mr. Growl on as my substitution. Mr. Growl is not Mr. Dog’s little brother, though. He’s more like a gentle bear. Or a car engine that’s on its last wheels. I was terrified for a split second that Mr. Dog was going to be released. But he wasn’t. A phew moment.

Bloody Nora. It meant I had to walk the long way to school. Away from Doughnut and his chums. I had to find a spot on my own, rub Green like a speed polisher and get it all out. Mount Etna or even Edinburgh Castle, which is also a volcano—not many people know that fact. I guess you need to have some sort of brainpower to know stuff like that. I’d been okay that morning, and my anxiety about returning to school was getting better; I was only teensy-weensy anxious. Now I had balmy, clammy hands and I kept swallowing saliva. But it was okay. I would be okay.

Mom also said I was the man of the house while Dad was away being a hero and I had to start acting like a proper grown-up. I’d been doing some of that over the summer. Mainly in my room. It made me feel different from this time last year. More confident. Ready to take part in some of those conversations that terrified me last year. Ready to take no shit. It made me feel much better, knowing I was a man. Even though I was a sixteen-year-old man. I had biceps and triceps. I felt better, better, better. “Eye of the Tiger” better.

Would you Adam and Eve it again? Michelle Malloy was in the distance. A new bag slung over her shoulder. A Converse one. She was soooooooooooo sex on legs. It was unbelievable how sex on legs she was. She oozed sex on legs, even though one leg was longer than the other. She wore one shoe bigger than the other. I think she got them specially made by a special big-shoe-wee-shoe-maker, because I’d never seen them in the shops. I couldn’t give a Friar Tuck, as this dame was nothing but sex on wonky donkey legs.

I wanted to run up and say, “Hiya, Michelle. How was your summer, babe?” But I was afraid it might come out as: “YOU’RE A SLUT NEW-BAG WHORE PEG-LEG, MICHELLE MALLOY.” With this in mind I kept a super-secure distance for both our safety. Apart from mangled legs, Michelle Malloy had ODD, which means oppositional defiant disorder, which really meant she was a mad-hatter cheeky mare of a chick who always kicked off at the teachers or pupils and called them pure-mad sweary names. Another good reason for keeping my distance. She
was
ODD, all right. But sex on wonky donkey legs ODD.

Wowee zowee plus twelve! She had new Adidas high-tops on.
Wizard of Oz
red ones. How cool was that? Bought for the first day back, no doubt. I dug her black tights and wee black skirt combo too. Michelle Malloy knew her onions when it came to fashion. I bet she’d have given that fashion guy Gok Wan a run for his money. She looked like one of those girls off MTV.

I peered down at my new sneakers.

Half shoe, half sneaker.

Plastic numbers.

No logo.

No stripes.

No name.

Mom to blame.

No swoosh.

No class.

Pure vile.

Shite style.

Painful to the eye.

Painful to the smile.

I looked like I had a club foot with these concrete clumpers on. I’d best be careful in case someone tried to tee off with me. That was what they said about Michelle Malloy. If you called her “Pitching Wedge,” she’d boot you a cracking sore one with her big shoe.

Michelle Malloy walked dead, dead, dead slow, but I cased her until she disappeared into the school building, just under the battered sign that said
drumhill school
. I took a huge deep breath and went the same way. Check me out, saying things like “
dig”
and
“sex on legs”
and
“MTV.”
Mr. Confident. Amir would kill himself laughing when he heard me saying this stuff. He got a lift to school because his oldies believed that all those people who think Asians are in the wrong country will do something disgusting to him on the special bus the school laid on, which meant I always walked to school on my tod. I walked because there was no danger of me getting on that bus. Dad was embarrassed by the bus. I knew this because he always said I would be a
pure redneck
if I took it. The only time my neck was red was when I got burned to a cinder when we went to Torremolinos, which is in Spain, on a fun-packed family holiday.

Oh, sweet Mary Jane! If I’d reached out I could’ve stroked Michelle Malloy’s hair, I was so close to her. She’d probably have punched me full force in the throat or something if I’d dared try, but this was the first day back. A new year. What happened last
year stayed last year. We were all more adult people now, so what harm could a good old-fashioned “Hi, Chello. I’m diggin’ the new high-tops” do?

She stopped suddenly.

Schweppes!

I was beside her.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

My eyes wide like I’d seen a ghost.

Hers slitty like she wanted to eat a ghost’s spleen.

Holy squeak bum!

“Hi, Michelle. How—”

“Don’t even bother, Mint.”

“Okay. BIG SHITE SHOE.”

I bolted and went in search of Amir.

I sensed that this year at school was going to be different.

5

Buds

When I first realized I wasn’t able to talk too well, it felt as though I’d just swallowed an eight ball (not the drug), and as if my windpipe would explode if I tried to say anything.

I twiddled Green around in my hands so much that I covered it all over with snot. I didn’t snotter up Green on purpose. After all the gobbing and shouting—lots of SHOUTING—I stiffed up my top lip and thought about my best bud, Amir. I thought to myself,
What’s that nut going to do for a best bud now?
Then I had to stop thinking about that because my windpipe problems were returning.