Just Tricking! Read online

  I’ve been sucked in.

  Sucked in, chewed up and spat out.

  But then, maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.

  Never mind that I’m wet and cold.

  Never mind that I’m covered in mud.

  Never mind that I’m the victim of a heartless practical joke that had me thinking I had killed my father and driven my mother insane.

  No, never mind all this.

  At least I got the day off school.

  ou know, there’s a world of opportunity out there,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘A world full of opportunities, just waiting for a young man like you. Yes, a world of opportunities!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I feel like taking the opportunity to tell him to shut up, but I’m much too polite for that. Besides, Mr Bainbridge is Dad’s boss.

  I’m under strict instructions tonight to just sit quietly, behave myself and not muck up in any way. The worst thing is, Dad has made me promise not to play any practical jokes.

  No squirting flowers. No exploding cans of peanuts. No rubber vomit.

  Dad said that if I tried any funny stuff at the dinner table, my pocket-money would be stopped for a month.

  I made the promise, but I don’t think Dad realises how hard it is for me. See, the thing is, I’m a practical-joke-a-holic. I need to play practical jokes like other people need to breathe air and drink water.

  I don’t really see what’s wrong with a few harmless practical jokes anyway. They help to break the ice. It’s not like I’ve got a lot to say to Mr and Mrs Bainbridge.

  I mean, how do you talk to people who think Ice T is a drink? Or, that doing your homework is more important than figuring out how to defeat Sektor in Mortal Kombat 3?

  And, as if that’s not bad enough, what can you talk about with people whose eyes go all glassy when you try to explain these things to them?

  What a snore-fest.

  ‘Too many kids these days,’ says Mr Bainbridge, ‘expect opportunity to come to them. But it doesn’t work that way. Oh no.

  You’ve got to go out and grab it by the neck. When I was a young man –’

  ‘Dinner is served!’ says Mrs Bainbridge, coming into the room with an enormous bowl of salad.

  Thank God!’ I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Mr Bainbridge.

  ‘Urn, I just meant, urn, let us be thankful to God for such a beautiful spread,’ I say quickly.

  Mum and Dad are glaring at me.

  ‘Oh,’ says Mr Bainbridge, ‘that’s all right then. For a moment there I thought you were taking the Lord’s name in vain. That’s the other trouble with young people today. They have no –’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to say grace, Andy?’ says Mrs Bainbridge. The lasagne is getting cold.’

  ‘Oh, ah, yes,’ I say.

  It’s been so long since I said grace, I can barely remember the words.

  Everybody closes their eyes.

  For a moment I’m tempted to say, ‘Two, four, six, eight – bog in, don’t wait!’ but then I remember Dad’s warning.

  ‘For what we are about to receive . . .’

  I know I should have my eyes shut too, but somebody’s got to keep theirs open to make sure that everyone else’s stay closed. And, as I’m the one saying grace, it might as well be me.

  But, as I’m trying to think of the next line, I see something in the salad bowl. Something oval. Something dark brown. Something that looks a lot like a dead cockroach.

  At least, I think it’s dead. It’s sort of hard to tell. All I know is, there’s a cockroach in the salad, and it probably wasn’t put there on purpose. Unless Mr and Mrs Bainbridge eat cockroaches – which seems unlikely. I mean, Mr Bainbridge must get paid more than Dad, and we don’t have to eat cockroaches.

  ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful . . .’

  Truly thankful for a cockroach?

  This would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.

  I can’t just put up my hand and say, ‘Excuse me, but there’s a dead cockroach in the salad.’ It would make it look like the Bainbridges have a really dirty kitchen. They’d get really embarrassed because they’d think that we think that cockroaches fall into their food all the time.

  But even worse still, Dad might think that I put it there for a joke. And that would mean trouble.

  I have to get it out before anybody notices. For everybody’s sake.

  I grab my spoon to scoop the roach off the salad leaf . . .

  ‘Amen,’ says Mr Bainbridge, finishing grace for me as he opens his eyes.

  He picks up the salad bowl.

  ‘Salad, Andy?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I say. Luck is running my way.

  Mr Bainbridge passes me the bowl. I scoop a large portion of salad onto my plate, including the top two pieces of lettuce with the dead roach in between.

  So far so good.

  Mrs Bainbridge places a large slab of lasagne on the other side of my plate. Normally my mouth would be watering, but the cockroach has kind of taken the edge off my appetite.

  ‘Would you care for some potatoes, Andy?’

  Mrs Bainbridge passes me a bowl full of steaming spuds. I pick out one and pass the bowl to Mr Bainbridge.

  Now that the roach is on my plate, all I have to do is get it into my pocket before anybody notices.

  But first I have to distract them.

  ‘What a beautiful landscape!’ I point to a painting on the wall above Mum’s head.

  Everybody turns to look.

  I lift up the piece of lettuce. But the cockroach has other ideas.

  It’s not dead.

  It jumps off the lettuce leaf onto the table and starts running.

  Straight towards me.

  The roach reaches the edge of the table and tumbles onto my lap. I try to brush it onto the floor, but it disappears underneath my napkin.

  Luckily, the others are all still studying the painting. Nobody else has seen the roach’s 30-centimetre sprint. I discreetly lift the corner of my napkin to see where the roach has got to, but it’s not there. I feel a gentle pricking on my stomach. It’s underneath my shirt!

  I freeze. The roach crawls around my side and onto my back.

  I guess I could crush it by throwing myself back hard against the chair. It would probably work, but it might take more than one go to actually kill it and this could give Mr and Mrs Bainbridge the wrong impression. I don’t want them thinking I’ve lost my mind.

  ‘Are you keen on painting, Andy?’ asks Mrs Bainbridge.

  ‘I like it,’ I say, ‘but I’m not very good at it.’ I’m trying hard not to panic.

  ‘Ah!’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘But practice makes perfect! If a fellow really wants to do something badly enough and he’s prepared to apply himself for long enough, then . . .’

  ‘Yes dear,’ says Mrs Bainbridge. ‘That’s all very well, but perhaps Andy doesn’t want to be a painter. What are your favourite subjects, Andy?’

  I’m trying hard to concentrate on the conversation, but it’s not easy. The roach has relocated itself underneath my left arm. I can hardly breathe. It feels like it’s burrowing into my armpit.

  ‘I guess I like English the best. Not too crazy about maths or science.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘You don’t want to neglect your maths and science. Keep your options open, that’s what I say. Science and technology – that’s where the opportunities are.’

  Mrs Bainbridge rolls her eyes.

  I’d feel sorry for her if I wasn’t feeling so sorry for myself. I only have to put up with his bull for one night. She has to live with it.

  The roach has finished playing in my armpit and now I can feel it crawling down my chest. I can’t stand it any more.

  That damn roach could be laying eggs in my belly button for all I know. They’re probably incubating in my stomach right now. They’ll hatch inside me and burst out of my chest, like the face-hugger in ‘Alien.’


  I ask for directions to the toilet and excuse myself from the table.

  It’s roach-killing time.

  The bathroom is upstairs. I snib the door behind me and yank off my T-shirt. It flies across the room, skims the top of the toilet bowl, and lands in a heap beside it. But the roach is not on my chest.

  Or my back.

  Uh-oh – not a moment to lose!

  I kick my shoes off, and peel off my trousers and jocks in one swift movement.

  I’m completely naked – except for my socks – but I still can’t find the roach.

  There are only two places it can be – one of which is too horrible to even think about.

  I study the pile of clothes carefully. The roach emerges from the bottom of my jeans. It’s creeping up the left leg. I pick up one of my shoes. Very slowly – so that the roach doesn’t notice – and raise it high above my head.

  The roach reaches the bottom button of my fly.

  I take a deep breath.

  But something holds me back. If I smash it right there, I’m going to end up with its pasty white guts splattered all over the front of my jeans.

  Not cool.

  Might look like I’ve had an embarrassing accident. I put my shoe down slowly. The roach crawls back inside my jeans.

  There’s got to be a better way than splattering.

  I look around for inspiration.

  There’s a window above the toilet. It’s high and very small, but it might do. I could climb up there, hold the jeans outside the window and shake the cockroach off.

  No sweat. No splatter. No roach.

  I pick up the jeans, taking care to hold the waist and the trouser legs closed so that the roach can’t escape. I shut the lid of the toilet and use it to step up onto the cistern. The window is now level with my head.

  I lean against the wall for balance and slide the window open as far as it will go. I push the jeans out of the window and shake them as hard as I can.

  Suddenly, the roach is on my hand. I get such a fright, I drop the jeans, lose my footing and crash down into the bath.

  I feel like lying here, closing my eyes, and pretending it’s all just a bad dream – but I have to find the roach before it disappears again. I get out of the bath and study myself in the mirror.

  The roach is sitting on top of my head.

  This time I know exactly what to do. It’s not going to be pleasant, but it’s the only way. This is one tricky cockroach and I can’t afford to take any chances.

  I go back to the toilet and get down onto my knees. I lift the lid and bend lower and lower until my head is right inside the bowl. Then I take a deep breath, reach up and push the flush button.

  It’s horrible.

  Toilet water up my nose.

  Toilet water in my ears.

  Toilet water in my mouth.

  Finally, the flushing stops. I sit back up.

  It’s gone.

  But so are my jeans.

  I can’t go back to the table without them. What would I say? I can just imagine the conversation:

  MRS BAINBRIDGE: Where are your pants, Andy?

  ME: Oh, I accidentally dropped them out of the bathroom window, Mrs Bainbridge.

  MR BAINBRIDGE: Isn’t that annoying! It happens to me all the time. Why don’t you have a look in my wardrobe and see if there’s anything there that fits you?

  Yeah, right. Dream on. Meanwhile, back in the real world, I’m naked from the waist down.

  There’s no choice, really, but to climb out the window and fetch my jeans. I don’t fancy a month without pocket-money.

  I climb back on top of the cistern and lean across to the tiny window. It’s going to be a tight squeeze, but since I haven’t eaten any dinner yet, I reckon I’ll make it.

  I grip the narrow ledge and pull myself up and halfway out.

  It’s a long way to the ground. I didn’t realise I was so high up.

  But I’m in no danger of falling.

  I’m stuck.

  I can’t go forward and I can’t go back.

  And to make matters worse, there’s someone banging on the door.

  ‘It’s taken!’ I yell.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ calls Mum. ‘You’ve been in there an awfully long time!’

  ‘Yes,’ I call. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’

  ‘He’s not answering!’ says Mum. ‘I think there’s something wrong!’

  She can’t hear me because my head is outside the house.

  Then I hear Mr Bainbridge’s voice.

  ‘Stand back, everyone. I’m going to break the door down.’

  Oh great. My hero.

  I hear a huge crash.

  Mr Bainbridge is no muscle man, but the flimsy lock snaps like it’s Arnie Schwarzenegger himself out there.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Mr Bainbridge.

  For probably the first time in his life, Mr Bainbridge has taken the Lord’s name in vain, but I guess the last thing he expected to see was my bare bum staring at him from his bathroom window.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Mrs Bainbridge.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Dad.

  ‘I know this seems a little unusual,’ I yell, ‘but there’s a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation! See, while I was saying grace, I saw this cockroach in the salad bowl, only I didn’t want to say anything because . . .’

  But I might as well be telling it to the man in the moon.

  Mum and Dad and the Bainbridges are too busy gabbling on about ladders and fire brigades and irresponsible young idiots who can’t even be trusted to sit the right way on a toilet seat.

  I close my eyes and wonder if I’ll be able to interest anybody in bidding for the TV, newspaper, magazine, film and book rights to my story, and whether the proceeds will make up for the pocket-money I’m about to lose.

  One door closes, another opens.

  Like Mr Bainbridge says, there’s a world of opportunities out there.

  have long, shiny black hair and big grey feet with black toe-nails. I have enormous hands with big stubby fingers. I have a spiky black mohawk, a big flat nose and a mouth that moves.

  Normally, you would find a creature like me in the jungle or in a zoo, but tonight I am loose on Lygon Street.

  I am headed for a restaurant called La Trattoria, where Jen, my sister, is having her sixteenth birthday party.

  If you didn’t know I was wearing a gorilla suit you would swear that I was a real gorilla. That is, until I start dancing and singing ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Real gorillas don’t sing ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Real gorillas don’t sing much at all.

  Not the ones I’ve seen in the zoo, anyway. I guess there’s not much to sing about when you’re stuck in the same enclosure day after day with all these human beings sticking their noses into your business.

  There’s not that much to sing about when you’re stuck in a gorilla suit, either.

  It’s a pretty weird experience. You feel sort of cut off from the world. It’s like you’re there but not there at the same time.

  And to make things worse, the suit is about ten sizes too big.

  I’ve only had it on for ten minutes and already I’m boiling hot. I can’t see properly because the mask keeps falling forward over my eyes. I have to keep pulling it back against my face, which is a pain, because the inside is already slimy with sweat and stinks of rubber.

  Everybody I pass either stares or waves at me. They’re all trying to figure out what a gorilla is doing on Lygon Street. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to wonder myself.

  At last I come to the restaurant, but I can’t open the door. My hands are swimming in these big rubber gorilla gloves.

  Luckily, one of the waitresses opens it for me. I feel like I should say thank you, but I can’t, because real gorillas don’t speak English.

  The restaurant is full of people. They all turn to look at me.

  Jen’s party is on the
second floor. I pull my mask back tight across my face for the five thousandth time and hunch over to the spiral staircase in the middle of the room. I pass a woman in a purple dress who says to her friends in a know-it-all voice, ‘It’s just a gorillagram.’

  Talk about a party-pooper.

  The staircase is difficult to climb because my feet are so large and the steps are so small. When I get to the top, I look across the restaurant at Jen’s table. She’s sitting with her back to me.

  I creep up behind her and put my paws over her eyes.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, trying to pull my hands away. ‘I give up.’

  I crouch down, put my head close to hers and take my hands away.

  She screams.

  I jump up and start dancing around the table. I can’t see properly. The inside of the mask is dripping with perspiration.

  All I can taste is rubber.

  I knock my knee on a corner of the table. It hurts like hell but I don’t stop dancing.

  I start singing a version of ‘Happy Birthday’ without words – just grunts.

  Everybody is laughing. Jen’s friends, Mum and Dad, the people at the surrounding tables – everybody, that is, except Jen.

  ‘I know it’s you, Andy,’ she says. ‘You’re an idiot! Go away!’

  When I finish singing, I go up and put my arm around her. I growl really loudly and give her a big sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Get lost!’ she says. ‘I mean it!’

  But I’m just starting to enjoy myself. I put my hand into her plate of spaghetti and pretend to scoop it into my mouth, but I deliberately miss and smear it all over my face. Jen is not impressed.

  ‘Get out of my dinner!’ she says. ‘I can’t eat that now. Why do you have to wreck everything?’

  She picks up the whole bowl and tips it over my head. Strands of spaghetti and pesto sauce slide down in front of my eyeholes.