Blabber Mouth Page 4

  I wish I’d never run in that dumb race.

  Because then Dad wouldn’t have noticed the photo in the local paper.

  ‘Tonto, take a squiz at this!’ he yelled, bursting into the kitchen this morning.

  When he gets excited he forgets and uses his voice.

  I nearly dropped six eggs because the sudden noise startled me. I’d been miles away trying to work out how much batter I’d need to make enough apple fritters for a class of thirty-two kids.

  OK, I know you can’t buy friendship, but when the other kids think you’re a psychopathic frog torturer, a plate of apple fritters might just help them see your good side.

  And just because one of them’s looking for a project rather than a friend, it doesn’t mean they all are.

  ‘Look,’ said Dad, sticking the paper in front of my face.

  There was half a page of photos of the sports carnival, and the one Dad was pointing to was of me and Amanda crossing the finish line.

  ‘See,’ shouted Dad, ‘I said the judges were bent. Look, this clearly shows you yards in front.’

  I put the eggs down.

  ‘It’s the angle of the camera, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘Weevil poop,’ he said. ‘You’re two or three centimetres in front here, easy.’

  It made me feel pretty good, Dad being so indignant, but I still wish he hadn’t seen the photo.

  Because then he wouldn’t have seen the public notice on the bottom half of the page.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘your school’s having a Parents and Teachers Association fund-raising barbecue on Sunday.’

  My stomach sank.

  I had a vision of Dad at the P and T barbie in his most jaw-dropping shirt, the purple and yellow one, digging people in the ribs and singing at them and sword-fighting Mr Cosgrove with a T-bone steak and undoing all the good that a plate of apple fritters could ever do, even ones that had been fried in olive oil and rolled in sugar.

  I raised my hands to tell him I didn’t want him to go, but they wouldn’t say the words. It just felt too mean, hurting him after what he’d done for me earlier this morning.

  He’d come out and found me in the orchard looking for ripe apples and, when I’d told him what I wanted them for, he’d insisted on going round every tree to find the ripest.

  I put my hands down and he looked up from the paper.

  ‘Do you think Ms Dunning’ll be there?’ he asked, flicking his fingers so I’d think it was just a casual enquiry.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘I think she said something about going mountain climbing in Venezuela on Sunday.’

  I should have thought of something a bit more believable.

  Then Dad wouldn’t have given me one of his winks and said, ‘Should be a good day, I think I’ll wash my purple and yellow shirt’.

  While he rummaged through the laundry basket, I thought frantically.

  If I blew up the school, they’d have to cancel the barbie.

  I told myself to stop being dumb. When you’ve injured people with falling masonry they very rarely become your friends. Plus it’s really hard to form satisfying relationships in jail because everyone’s depressed and tired from tunnelling.

  Then I saw it.

  An ad on the opposite page for a golf tournament. FEATURING INTERSTATE PROS it said in big letters.

  I went over and pulled Dad’s head out of the laundry basket.

  ‘There’s a really good golf tournament on Sunday,’ I told him.

  He stared at me.

  ‘It’s only two hours drive away and it’ll be really good fun to watch.’

  He continued to stare at me.

  ‘There’ll be interstate pros,’ I said, trying to sound as if I knew what they were.

  ‘I hate golf,’ said Dad.

  ‘I want to go,’ I said.

  ‘You hate golf,’ said Dad.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I like the coloured umbrellas.’

  OK, it was a pathetic attempt, I know, but you do things like that when you’re desperate.

  Dad frowned, which he does when he’s thinking, then his eyes lit up and he made the sign for a lightbulb going on.

  ‘Tonto,’ he said, and put his hand on his chest, ‘cross my heart and hope to lose my singing voice, I promise not to start a ruckus with cheese-brain Cosgrove on Sunday arvo. OK? Now, let’s get these fritters done.’

  I felt pretty relieved, I can tell you.

  Well, fairly relieved.

  Well, I did when he said it.

  We’ve just passed Mr Cosgrove’s shop on the way to school and Dad’s stuck his head out the truck and blown a big raspberry at the window display and suddenly I don’t feel very relieved at all.

  I made myself stop thinking about Dad as I walked into school this morning with the plate of apple fritters because I wanted to look as relaxed and friendly and approachable as possible.

  All the kids rushed over, excited and curious to see what was on the plate, and I gave them a fritter each, and they gobbled them up, and they all said how yummy they were, and about six kids begged me to teach them the recipe, either at their places after school or on holiday with their families in luxury hotel suites with private kitchens at Disneyland.

  That’s what happened in my head.

  What actually happened was that all the kids ignored me except Megan O’Donnell, who sits next to me in class.

  Megan came over chewing her hair and peered at the plate. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  I showed her. I’d known someone would ask, so I’d written what they were on the plate.

  Megan stared at the words for ages, her lips moving silently.

  Then she looked up at me.

  ‘Apple fritters,’ she said.

  I smiled and nodded and wished Megan spoke sign language so I could help her improve her reading. It must be really tough being a slow reader. Plus, I admit, I had a quick vision of Megan winning the Nobel Prize for Reading and being my devoted friend for ever.

  ‘I hate apple fritters,’ said Megan. ‘I don’t like anything with apples in. My dad works at the abattoir and he reckons apples give you cancer. He’s seen it in pigs.’

  I decided it probably wasn’t a good idea having a best friend who would get Dad overexcited, and that Ms Dunning probably had Megan’s reading under control with the extra lessons each after-noon.

  I smiled at Megan and turned to look for someone else with a better appreciation of apples, and nearly bumped into someone standing right behind me.

  Darryn Peck.

  ‘Frog fritters!’ he yelled. ‘Batts has got frog fritters!’

  He started dancing round me, his mouth bigger and redder than an elephant’s bum on a cold day.

  ‘Frog fritters! Frog fritters! Frog fritters!’ he chanted.

  I tried to look bored, and waited for the more sensible kids to shut him up.

  They must all have been away sick because the other kids in the playground started chanting too.

  ‘Frog fritters! Frog fritters! Frog fritters!’

  The only one who didn’t chant was Amanda Cosgrove.

  She stood over to one side, watching with a sad expression on her face, looking as if she wanted to carry me off to an international community service conference so that the major industrialised nations could rally round and help me.

  I stood there, determined not to cry.

  I didn’t want to give Darryn Peck the satisfaction, and I didn’t want to give Amanda Cosgrove the excuse.

  I couldn’t understand why a teacher hadn’t come over to break it up.

  Then I saw why. The teachers were all over on the oval helping a man unload the marquee for the parent and teacher barbie off the back of a truck.

  The chanting continued.

  Darryn Peck and three of his mates clomped around pretending to be sick.

  I felt volcanoes building up between my ears and suddenly I had a strong urge to remove Darryn Peck’s head with a pair of long-handled pru
ning shears and carry it into class on the plate and feed it to the frogs.

  And I didn’t care what the others thought, because I didn’t want them as friends.

  I didn’t need them.

  I could survive by myself.

  That’s when I decided that instead of killing Darryn Peck, I’d become a nun.

  I’d take a vow of silence, which would be a walkover for me, and a vow of solitude, which wouldn’t be much different from how things were now, and I’d spend the rest of my life watching telly.

  I was just about to walk out of the school gates to make a start, when Amanda Cosgrove did something amazing.

  She walked through the chanting kids and came up to me and pulled the Gladwrap off the plate and picked up a fritter and ate it.

  She looked at the other kids and chewed it with big chews so everyone could see what she was doing.

  The kids stopped chanting.

  Darryn Peck screwed up his face.

  ‘Yuk,’ he yelled, ‘Amanda Cosgrove’s eating a frog fritter!’

  Amanda ignored him.

  She picked up another fritter and went over to Megan O’Donnell and held it out to her and gave her a steady look.

  I put the plate down to tell Amanda about Megan’s problem with apples, but before I could, Megan took the fritter and started eating it.

  She didn’t look as though she was enjoying it.

  That didn’t bother Amanda.

  She picked up the plate and went round to each of the kids and held it out to them.

  They each took a fritter.

  And by the time six or seven of them were chewing, and nodding, and smiling, the others crowded round and emptied the plate.

  ‘Don’t eat them,’ shouted Darryn Peck. ‘You’ll get warts on your tongue eating frog.’

  Everyone ignored him, except Amanda.

  ‘You should know, Darryn,’ she said, and even his mates couldn’t help laughing.

  Then the bell went.

  Amanda held the empty plate out to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  I decided not to be a nun after all.

  We went into class without saying anything else, but halfway through the morning, when Ms Dunning asked for volunteers to go out and help put up the marquee, I glanced over at Amanda and saw she had her hand up, so I put mine up too.

  Inside the marquee, while we struggled with the thick ropes, Amanda looked at me.

  ‘I’m sorry I took you being a community service project for granted,’ she said. ‘I promise I’ll never think of you that way again.’

  Her face looked so serious in the middle of all the curls that I could see she meant it.

  I couldn’t answer her because I was pulling on a rope, so I gave her a smile.

  She smiled back.

  But even as we grinned at each other, a tiny part of me wondered if she’d be able to keep her promise.

  I tried to squash the thought, but it wouldn’t go away.

  It didn’t stop me saying yes, though, when Amanda invited me to the milk bar for a milkshake later this arvo.

  We’re back in class now and Ms Dunning’s telling us some really interesting stuff about the early explorers.

  As they sailed new oceans and explored new continents, they had this nagging problem.

  They weren’t sure if they could trust their navigational instruments.

  I know exactly how they felt.

  There’s a Carla Tamworth song called ‘Drawers In My Heart’ about a carpenter who can make a chest of drawers with silent runners and matching knobs, but he can’t make a difficult decision.

  I know how he feels, because I’m having trouble making one too.

  Mine’s even more difficult than his.

  His is pretty hard— whether to tell his girlfriend he’s backed his truck over her miniature poodle—but at least he decides what to do eventually.

  He makes the poodle a coffin with separate drawers for its collar and lead, and leaves it where his girlfriend will find it.

  I wish I could decide what to do.

  I just want everything to work out fine like it does for the carpenter, who discovers he hasn’t backed over the dog after all, just a bath mat that’s blown off the clothesline.

  Unfortunately, life isn’t that simple.

  For example, you’d think going for a milkshake with someone after school’d be pretty straight-forward, right?

  No way.

  Amanda was a bit quiet walking into town so after we’d got the milkshakes, to make conversation, I asked her how long her parents have had the menswear shop.

  We sat on the kerb and between slurps she told me they’d had it for seventeen years, and that her dad had been president of the Progress Association for six.

  Then she started to cry.

  It was awful.

  She looked so unhappy, sitting there with big tears plopping into her chocolate malted.

  I asked her what was the matter, but she couldn’t see the question so I put my arm round her.

  She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said she was fine.

  I was just about to say she didn’t look fine when a shadow fell across us. I thought it was a cloud, but when I looked up it was Darryn Peck.

  He stood there with a smirky grin on his elephant’s bum mouth and a mate on each side of him.

  In his hand he had a bit torn out of a newspaper.

  It was a photo.

  The one of me and Amanda winning the race.

  ‘I know how you feel, Cosgrove,’ he smirked. ‘I’d be bawling if I couldn’t beat a spazzo.’

  I amazed myself.

  I just sat there without throwing a single container of milkshake in his face.

  I must be getting old.

  Instead I reached into my bag for my notepad and wrote ‘She could beat you any day, cheese-brain’. While he was reading that I wrote him another. ‘We both could.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ he said, throwing the notes down

  I nodded.

  Amanda read the notes and looked a bit alarmed.

  ‘OK,’ said Darryn, ‘prove it. I’ll race you both to the war memorial and back and if you lose, we get to give Curly Cosgrove a milkshake shampoo.’

  Amanda looked more alarmed.

  I stood up.

  Dad always reckons I’m a blabber mouth and he’s probably right.

  ‘A proper race,’ I wrote. ‘On the oval. A hundred metres. Me and you.’

  Darryn read the note.

  ‘You’re on,’ he said.

  I wrote some more.

  ‘The loser has to eat a frog.’

  Darryn read that note twice.

  Then he gave his biggest smirk ever.

  ‘You’re on,’ he said.

  One of his mates, who’d been reading over his shoulder, tugged his sleeve.

  ‘That big tent’s up over the running track, Darryn.’

  ‘OK,’ said Darryn, not taking his eyes off me, ‘Monday lunchtime, after they take the tent down.’

  He screwed the notes up and bounced them off my chest.

  ‘Don’t have any breakfast,’ he smirked as he swaggered off with his mates, ‘cause you’ll be having a big lunch.’

  Amanda unscrewed the note and read it and looked up at me as if I was a complete and total loony, which I probably am.

  Before she could say anything, a voice boomed out behind us.

  ‘Amanda,’ it roared, ‘get out of the gutter.’

  It was Mr Cosgrove, coming out of the menswear shop.

  Amanda jumped up and her shoulders seemed to kind of sag and instead of looking at him she looked down at the ground.

  I didn’t blame her.

  His grey-green checked jacket clashed horribly with his irritable pink face.

  ‘You’re a young lady,’ he snapped at her, ‘not a drunken derro.’

  Amanda still didn’t look up.

  Then Mr Cosgrove saw me, and an amazing thing happened.

>   In front of my eyes he changed from a bad-tempered father into a smiling president of the Progress Association.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said.

  I smiled weakly and gave him a little wave.

  ‘We’re very grateful to you,’ said Mr Cosgrove, ‘for giving up your time this evening.’

  I looked at Amanda, confused, but she was still examining the footpath between her feet.

  ‘It would have been a rum do,’ continued Mr Cosgrove, ‘if the president’s daughter had been the only one at the community service evening without a community service project.’

  I stared at him.

  I fumbled for my notepad.

  But before I could start writing, Amanda spoke.

  ‘Dad,’ she said in a tiny voice, ‘you’ve got it wrong. Ro’s not my community service project.’

  Mr Cosgrove stared at her.

  ‘But three days ago you told me she was,’ he boomed. ‘Who is?’

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ she said in an even tinier voice, still looking at the ground.

  Mr Cosgrove stood there until his face almost matched his shiny dark red shoes.

  ‘That’s just about what I would have expected from you, young lady,’ he said finally. ‘Come on, inside.’

  Amanda didn’t look at me, she just followed her father into the shop.

  As I watched her go, I knew I’d have to make a decision.

  Do I turn my back on a friend?

  Or do I allow myself to be turned into a community service project?

  A helpless case.

  A spazzo.

  Sympathetic smiles.

  Well-meaning whispers.

  For the rest of my life.

  I still haven’t decided.

  I promised myself I’d make the decision while I was walking home and I’m almost there and I still haven’t.

  I wish I was the carpenter in the song.

  Compared to this, it’d be a breeze.

  Even if I had run over the poodle.

  If you’ve got a tough decision to make, talk it over with an apple farmer, that’s my advice.

  They’re really good at getting straight to the guts of a matter and ignoring all the distracting waffle. I think it comes from working with nature and the Department of Agriculture.

  ‘It’s simple, Tonto,’ said Dad, after I’d explained it all to him. ‘If you do it, it’s good for her and bad for you. If you don’t do it, it’s bad for her and good for you. I care more about you than her, so I don’t reckon you should do it.’