Hush. Dead time. That’s when my mind went into a tailspin.
“TAXI BASTARD TAXI BASTARD.”
The door slammed shut.
Bang!
“Get up those stairs,” Mom shouted.
“Why are you friends with that man?” I asked.
“It’s none of your business who I choose to be friends with.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Dylan. Get up those stairs. I won’t tell you again.”
“Why?”
“Why? For skipping school, that’s why. I’m fed up to the back teeth with all this.” She pointed to the stairs.
“Sorry for skipping school, Mom,” I said as I made my way toward the bottom step. “I was having a nightmare of a morning.”
“Some of us have nightmares every morning, Dylan, but we don’t run away.” Tears were in her eyes.
“Sorry for being rude to the taxi man.”
“His name’s Tony, and it’s too late for sorrys, isn’t it?”
When I was at the top of the stairs, Mom shouted up to me.
“I’m thinking of going and having a word with your school, so you’d better watch your step from now on, Buster.” She only calls me Buster when she’s mega angry, which meant that I was pressing all her wrong buttons.
“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered to myself.
I lay on my bed, held on to Green tighter than ever, and rocked myself exactly fifteen hundred times from side to side. Exactly fifteen hundred times. A record. I was rocking in time to songs by Sigur Rós, because those guys knew how to churn out chilled peaceful music. I couldn’t work out why Mom wasn’t worried about me anymore or why she was treating me like a Goddamn leper child, given the race against time she had with me. Most moms in her position would have been carting their sick children off to a stunning sandy beach somewhere or to an amusement park that had a mandatory helmet-wearing policy or one of those safari parks you drove through to see all the wild animals roaming around. Although Mom didn’t have a car and she usually relied on taxis, I couldn’t make out why some taxi driver was in my house drinking out of our mugs and parking his jalopy in Dad’s space. I couldn’t make out why, when the taxi man left, Mom seemed to be angry or sad or disappointed. I was terribly confused, so I was.
It would have been incredible if Mom had come into my room, lain down beside me, stroked my head, and said everything was going to be all right on the night. I would have given my right arm to be called “ sweetheart” or “ cuddly bum” or “ Dylsy pops” again, or for Mom to attack me in one of her giggle fits before licking my face and for me to go: “Yuuuuuccccckkk, Moooooommmmmm, that’s Disgusting with a capital D ” and for her to say, “Love ya, snookins.” Or was it “s nookims” ? When I was rocking, counting, slapping, or whatever it was I was doing, Mom was always there to rub my back, run me a bath, and tell me everything was going to be “hunky-dory” and that she was sorry if she’d upset me. But not this time.
I lay there trying to think about anything other than the thing I was really thinking about. But as hard as I tried to imagine what Michelle Malloy looked like in her knick-knacks, all I could think about was the big D word. WHAT WAS IT LIKE AND HOW WOULD IT HAPPEN? Would I just lie down on a really soft duvet, close my eyes, and let my body sink into it? A bit like going into a big scanner, except more fluffy, more comfortable, and more exciting? I hoped Mom would buy a new one for me; I didn’t want to bow out in the old scabby one I used ’cause it was like having Ten Ton Tessie on top of your body. Would it happen while I was asleep? Then my life (or death) could become, like, this amazing dream that never, ever ends. All I’d be doing is floating from one groovy place to another. That would be Utterly Butterly A-mayonnaise-ing if that were to happen. I did an upside-down capital C grin while my eyes were closed as if I were actually in that dreamland.
Then my grin
“TAXI BASTARD TAXI BASTARD.”
The door slammed shut.
Bang!
“Get up those stairs,” Mom shouted.
“Why are you friends with that man?” I asked.
“It’s none of your business who I choose to be friends with.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Dylan. Get up those stairs. I won’t tell you again.”
“Why?”
“Why? For skipping school, that’s why. I’m fed up to the back teeth with all this.” She pointed to the stairs.
“Sorry for skipping school, Mom,” I said as I made my way toward the bottom step. “I was having a nightmare of a morning.”
“Some of us have nightmares every morning, Dylan, but we don’t run away.” Tears were in her eyes.
“Sorry for being rude to the taxi man.”
“His name’s Tony, and it’s too late for sorrys, isn’t it?”
When I was at the top of the stairs, Mom shouted up to me.
“I’m thinking of going and having a word with your school, so you’d better watch your step from now on, Buster.” She only calls me Buster when she’s mega angry, which meant that I was pressing all her wrong buttons.
“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered to myself.
I lay on my bed, held on to Green tighter than ever, and rocked myself exactly fifteen hundred times from side to side. Exactly fifteen hundred times. A record. I was rocking in time to songs by Sigur Rós, because those guys knew how to churn out chilled peaceful music. I couldn’t work out why Mom wasn’t worried about me anymore or why she was treating me like a Goddamn leper child, given the race against time she had with me. Most moms in her position would have been carting their sick children off to a stunning sandy beach somewhere or to an amusement park that had a mandatory helmet-wearing policy or one of those safari parks you drove through to see all the wild animals roaming around. Although Mom didn’t have a car and she usually relied on taxis, I couldn’t make out why some taxi driver was in my house drinking out of our mugs and parking his jalopy in Dad’s space. I couldn’t make out why, when the taxi man left, Mom seemed to be angry or sad or disappointed. I was terribly confused, so I was.
It would have been incredible if Mom had come into my room, lain down beside me, stroked my head, and said everything was going to be all right on the night. I would have given my right arm to be called “ sweetheart” or “ cuddly bum” or “ Dylsy pops” again, or for Mom to attack me in one of her giggle fits before licking my face and for me to go: “Yuuuuuccccckkk, Moooooommmmmm, that’s Disgusting with a capital D ” and for her to say, “Love ya, snookins.” Or was it “s nookims” ? When I was rocking, counting, slapping, or whatever it was I was doing, Mom was always there to rub my back, run me a bath, and tell me everything was going to be “hunky-dory” and that she was sorry if she’d upset me. But not this time.
I lay there trying to think about anything other than the thing I was really thinking about. But as hard as I tried to imagine what Michelle Malloy looked like in her knick-knacks, all I could think about was the big D word. WHAT WAS IT LIKE AND HOW WOULD IT HAPPEN? Would I just lie down on a really soft duvet, close my eyes, and let my body sink into it? A bit like going into a big scanner, except more fluffy, more comfortable, and more exciting? I hoped Mom would buy a new one for me; I didn’t want to bow out in the old scabby one I used ’cause it was like having Ten Ton Tessie on top of your body. Would it happen while I was asleep? Then my life (or death) could become, like, this amazing dream that never, ever ends. All I’d be doing is floating from one groovy place to another. That would be Utterly Butterly A-mayonnaise-ing if that were to happen. I did an upside-down capital C grin while my eyes were closed as if I were actually in that dreamland.
Then my grin
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