Just Annoying! Read online

  ‘I’m using a new sort of shampoo—I have to do it strand by strand.’

  ‘Andy!’

  The water is almost up to my belly-button.

  There’s only one thing missing. Bubbles!

  I pick up the bubblebath and measure out a capful. I tip it into the water. A few bubbles, but not enough. I add another cap. And another. And another. One more for good measure. Another for good luck.

  I keep adding bubblebath until the bottle is empty. The bubbles rise over my head. Cool. It’s like I’m being eaten by this enormous white fungus. Well, not that being eaten by an enormous white fungus would be cool—it would probably be quite uncool, actually—but you know what I mean.

  Jen is yelling.

  ‘Andy, if you don’t get out right this minute, you’re going to be sorry.’

  Jen is persistent, I’ll give her that. But I’ll fix her. I’ll use my old ‘what did you say?’ routine.

  ‘Pardon?’ I yell. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you’re going to be sorry!’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you!’

  ‘I said get out of the shower!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  No reply. I win.

  Aaaagghhh!

  The water’s gone hot! Boiling hot!

  Jen must have flushed the toilet. That’s bad news.

  I lose.

  I jump back against the shower wall.

  Hot water splatters onto my face. My chest. My arms.

  I grab the cold tap and turn it on full.

  The hot water disappears. Now it’s freezing.

  I’m going to have to turn both taps off and start all over again. I hate that. Being a pioneer is not easy.

  I turn the hot tap off. But the cold won’t budge.

  I grab the tap with both hands. I try to twist it clockwise but it’s stuck. Not even my super-strength can move it.

  The silicone gun is hanging off the shower pipe. I pick it up and start bashing the tap with it. That should loosen it.

  But the handgrip shatters.

  The pieces disappear into the soapy water. I’m staring at a thin metal rod coming out of the wall. And the water is still flowing full blast.

  I kneel down and clamp my teeth over the tap rod.

  No good. The tap feels like it’s rusted into place. My teeth will crack before it moves.

  There’s no steam left. The bubbles have been flattened. The freezing water is almost up to my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  Time to bail out.

  I take a deep breath and dive to the bottom of the shower. I’m trying to find the plughole. I’ve got to get the silicone out before the shower fills up completely.

  But I can’t do it. I did the job too well. There’s nothing but a hard rubbery slab of silicone where the plug used to be. I can’t poke through it. I can’t get a fingernail underneath to lift it up. It’s times like this I wish I didn’t bite my nails. But then it’s times like this that cause me to bite my nails in the first place.

  I stand up, gasping for air. The water is up to my neck. I grab hold of the doorhandle and try to wrench it open but I laid the silicone even thicker on the doors than the plughole. If you ever want anything sealed tight I can recommend Dad’s silicone gun. This stuff stays stuck forever.

  I’m going to have to break the door down.

  I’ll use the gun. It made short work of the tap so the door shouldn’t be a problem.

  I bash the glass with the gun handle. It bounces off. I bash it again, harder this time. The gun snaps in two. Just my luck. Reinforced shower screen glass. Unbreakable.

  I’m shivering. And not just from the cold. I’m scared.

  I start bashing the door with the duck.

  ‘HELP! I’M DROWNING! HELP!’

  ‘I’m not surprised!’ Jen yells back. ‘You’ve been in there long enough.’

  ‘Jen, I’m not kidding. Help me!’

  ‘What did you say?’ she says. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Be serious,’ I yell. ‘I’ve siliconed myself in here.’

  ‘What?’

  She wins again.

  I’m treading water. My head is very close to the top of the shower.

  The only way I can save myself is to get rid of the water.

  I’m going to have to drink it.

  Dirty soapy shower water.

  I’d rather die.

  The water nudges the tip of my nose.

  Actually, on second thoughts I’d rather drink the water.

  I start swallowing.

  It’s working. I just have to drink as fast as the shower is filling up. And if I can drink even faster then I might get out of here alive yet. Actually the water doesn’t taste that bad—it’s only been three days since my last shower.

  I keep swallowing.

  And swallowing. And swallowing. And swallowing.

  Uh-oh.

  I can’t believe this.

  I need to go to the toilet.

  But I can’t.

  I’ll drink dirty shower water but I won’t drink that.

  I’ve got to hold on.

  But I can’t do that, either.

  I’m busting.

  My head is bumping against the roof of the shower.

  It’s getting harder to breathe.

  There’s more banging on the door but it sounds like it’s coming from a long way away.

  ‘I’m going to tell Dad,’ says Jen in a distant voice. ‘Is that what you want? Is it?’

  ‘Yes Jen,’ I call. ‘Yes! Please hurry!’

  Everything becomes quiet.

  My life is flashing before my eyes.

  I see myself blowing a high-pitched whistle while Mum is trying to talk on the telephone. I see myself letting down the tyres on Dad’s car. I see myself hiding a rubber snake in Jen’s bed. Is that all I did with my life? Annoy people? Surely I did something useful . . . something good?

  Nope. I can’t think of anything. Except for solving the problem of how to fill a shower cubicle with water.

  I may be going to die, but at least it will be a hero’s death. Future generations of Australian children will thank me as they float around in their sealed-up shower cubicles.

  Ouch!

  Something is pressing into the top of my head.

  I look up.

  The fan! I forgot all about it.

  It’s not very big, but it’s better than nothing. If I can get the grille off then I can escape through the hole and up into the roof.

  I work my fingers under the edge of the grille and pull on it. It comes off easily.

  I reach into the casing and grab hold of the fan. I rock it back and forth. There is a little bit of give in it. I start giving it all I’ve got.

  Finally the bolts holding it give way. I push my arms and head into the hole, kicking like mad to get the thrust I need to make it all the way up.

  The opening is smaller than I thought. I expel every last bit of air in my lungs to make myself thin enough to fit through the hole. Not that there was much air left in them, but it seems to help.

  At last! I’m through!

  I’m lying on a yellow insulation batt in the roof of our house. The glass fibres are prickly on my skin, but I’m not complaining. It’s a lot better than where I was. I look back into the hole. It’s like one of those fishing holes that Eskimos cut in the ice. But there’s no fish. Just my rubber duck. I reach down and pick it out. We’re in this together. I can’t just leave it.

  After I get my breath back I look around.

  I know there’s a manhole in the top of the kitchen. All I have to do is to locate it, climb down into the kitchen and nick down the hallway into my room. Then I can put my pyjamas on and go to bed early. It will save a lot of boring explanation—and, if I’m really lucky, Jen will get the blame.

  I have to move fast. I start crawling towards the kitchen. I’m carrying the duck in one hand and using my other hand to feel my way along the roof beam.

&nbs
p; Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my thumb. I jerk my hand back and almost lose my balance. I fling the duck away so I can grab the beam with my other hand.

  I look at my thumb. A huge splinter is sticking out of it. I pull it out with my teeth. Ouch!

  I shake my hand a few times and look around for my duck. It has landed in the middle of a large unsupported section of insulation batts. I’m tempted to leave it there. But that wouldn’t be right. It’s been with me all the way. I can’t abandon it now.

  I reach towards it but it’s too far away. I’m going to have to crawl out there. I know you’re not supposed to climb on the unsupported parts of the roof, but I think it will be okay. I’m not that heavy. And it’s not as if I have any clothes on to weigh me down.

  I climb carefully onto the batts and start moving slowly to the centre. One more metre and I’m there.

  I pick up my duck and bring it up to my face. ‘Just you and me,’ I say.

  The duck creaks. That’s weird. I didn’t know rubber ducks could talk.

  Uh-oh. The creaking is not coming from the duck. It’s coming from underneath me. The ceiling is giving way.

  I try to grab the roof beam but I can’t reach it.

  The ceiling caves in.

  Next thing I know I’m lying, legs spread, in the middle of the dinner table—my fall broken by an insulation batt.

  As the dust from the ceiling plaster settles, I see Mr and Mrs Bainbridge and Mum and Dad staring down at me.

  Jen is standing next to Dad, her bath towel draped over her shoulder. Her back is turned towards me and she’s so busy complaining to Dad that she doesn’t seem to notice what has happened.

  ‘. . . I’ve asked him a million times but he just won’t get out . . .’ she’s saying.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, my,’ says Mrs Bainbridge.

  For once in his life Mr Bainbridge is speechless.

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Dad, shaking his head at me. ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Jen. ‘And I’ll tell you what else . . .’

  Dad nods in my direction.

  Jen stops, turns around and stares.

  I cover myself with the rubber duck, swing my legs over the edge of the table and stand up.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I say. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.’

  Nobody says anything. They are all just staring at me, their faces and clothes white from the plaster dust.

  I head towards the door as fast as I can.

  As I’m about to exit I turn towards Jen. She is still standing there, eyes wide.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I say. ‘Shower’s free!’

  f you had the choice, Dad,’ I say, ‘would you rather be eaten by ants or lions?’

  It depends,’ he says. He’s holding the sauce bottle up to his eye and peering into the neck of it like it’s a telescope.

  ‘Blast!’ he says. ‘It’s blocked again!’

  ‘Language!’ says Mum.

  ‘“Blast” is not a swear word,’ says Dad.

  ‘It’s not a nice word,’ says Mum.

  ‘Well?’ I say. ‘Ants or lions?’

  Dad puts the bottle down. He rubs his chin with his hand and frowns. ‘I can’t say I’m too keen on being eaten by either,’ he says. ‘Can I have an injection to put me to sleep beforehand?’

  ‘No. You have to be conscious.’

  ‘Hmmm. In that case, I’ll take the lions. If I have to experience pain I’d rather it be short and sharp. Ants would take too long.’

  ‘What if the lions were really old, though,’ I say. ‘And their teeth were all falling out and they just gummed you to death and it took ages and ages and ages?’

  ‘Do we have to talk about this while we’re eating?’ says Jen.

  ‘It’s important,’ I say. ‘You might be in the situation where you have to choose one day. You’ll be a lot better off if you’ve already thought about it.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Jen, rolling her eyes.

  Dad is holding the sauce bottle at a forty-five degree angle and poking into its neck with his knife.

  ‘You’ll cut yourself if you’re not careful,’ says Mum.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ says Dad.

  ‘Dad?’ I say, trying to get him back on the topic. I wish Jen and Mum wouldn’t interrupt. Dad gets distracted so easily.

  ‘Owww!’ Dad slams the bottle down and drops the knife. He’s shaking his left hand and grimacing.

  ‘What happened?’ says Mum.

  ‘The knife slipped,’ he says.

  ‘I told you to be careful. Use the barbecue sauce instead.’

  ‘I don’t want barbecue sauce,’ says Dad. ‘There’s plenty of tomato sauce—I just can’t get it out!’

  ‘Forget the sauce,’ I say. ‘Ants or lions?’

  ‘I told you,’ he says. ‘I’ll take the lions but I want good ones. Really hungry, really mean and really quick. One swipe and lights out. No gumming!’

  ‘You can’t make demands. You have to take what you get.’

  ‘Then I don’t want to sign up.’

  You’re already signed up!’ I say. ‘It’s ants or lions. If you don’t want lions then you must want ants.’

  ‘No,’ says Dad. ‘Ants are out of the question.’ He turns the sauce bottle upside down and stands it on his plate.

  ‘That will tip over,’ says Mum.

  ‘I’m watching it,’ says Dad.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ says Mum.

  ‘What’s wrong with ants?’ I say.

  ‘Too slow.’

  ‘What if your body was covered in honey to attract as many ants as possible?’

  ‘Well, honey would attract sugar ants and I wouldn’t mind that so much,’ says Dad. ‘They’d just eat the honey and leave me alone.’

  ‘They’d be all over you, though.’

  ‘But they’d be after the honey—not me.’

  ‘No honey then. You’ll be covered in dog food instead,’ I say.

  ‘Charming!’ says Jen. ‘Could you pass the salt, Andy?’

  ‘Say please.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Pretty please.’

  ‘Pretty please,’ she sighs.

  Jen says it because she knows it’s quicker to say it than to argue with me about saying it.

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

  ‘Andy! Just pass the bloody salt!’

  ‘Jen!’ says Mum. ‘Language!’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t pass the bloody salt.’

  ‘There’s still no need to speak like that.’

  Jen looks at me through slitted eyes.

  I slide the salt grinder across the table.

  ‘There you are, Jen,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. You’re welcome. Any time. If there’s anything else you require please don’t hesitate to let me know.’

  ‘There is something else,’ she says.

  ‘Anything,’ I say.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Jen!’ says Mum.

  Jen pokes her tongue out at me.

  I ignore her and turn to Dad. ‘Well? How about it—would you consider the dog food?’

  ‘But I don’t want to be covered in dog food!’ says Dad. ‘If I have to die I at least want a little dignity.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to die quickly,’ I say.

  ‘I do. I’ll stick with the lions.’

  ‘What if by covering yourself in dog food I could guarantee you that the ants would finish you off ten times quicker than even the most efficient lions?’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly,’ says Dad in a loud voice. He’s getting heated up. ‘You’re making promises that you can’t keep. I’ve seen lions. I’ve seen their claws.’

  He curls up the fingers on his right hand to demonstrate a lion’s claw.

  ‘One swipe can break your neck.’

  He swipes his arm across the table so that
his ‘claw’ goes within a centimetre of my nose.

  The sauce bottle goes flying. It clatters across the kitchen floor. It comes to rest next to the fridge, spinning slowly.

  ‘I told you that would happen,’ says Mum.

  But Dad ignores her. ‘Are you trying to tell me that ants would be able to kill me faster?’

  ‘You’re assuming that the lions will have claws,’ I say.

  ‘Well what do they have? No teeth, no claws? Are they blind, deaf, dumb and paralysed as well? Why don’t I just eat myself and save them the trouble?’

  ‘Now you’re the one being silly,’ I say. ‘Eating yourself is not an option. It’s ants or lions.’

  Dad shakes his head. He gets up from the table and picks up the sauce bottle.

  Jen screws up her face.

  ‘This mashed potato tastes funny,’ she says.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ says Mum.

  ‘It’s sweet.’

  Jen picks up the salt grinder. She examines it closely.

  ‘Does this salt look right to you?’ says Jen.

  ‘Pass it over here,’ says Mum. She holds the grinder up to the light. ‘It’s sugar,’ she says.

  ‘Andy!’ says Jen.

  ‘Yes, Jen?’ I say innocently.

  ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know very well what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fill the salt grinder with sugar!’

  ‘No,’ I say. It’s not a lie, either. I only half-filled it.

  Mum sighs. ‘Go and get another serve,’ she says. ‘There’s plenty more in the pot.’

  ‘It’s not the point,’ says Jen. ‘He should be punished. Dad, Andy filled the salt grinder with sugar and now my dinner’s wrecked.’

  ‘And there’s no chance to escape?’ says Dad.

  ‘Huh?’ says Jen.

  ‘I’m talking to Andy,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s no escape. None at all.’

  I poke my tongue out at Jen. Dad is more interested in my hypothetical than in her whingeing.

  ‘Well, that’s not very sporting,’ says Dad. ‘People don’t want to go along and see helpless people being eaten by ants and lions week in, week out.’