My Life and Other Failed Experiments Page 5

  ‘Yes …’ says the ice-cream man.

  This is a nightmare. We’ll probably have to give the money back. I should have saved the last ice-cream for Hategarden, although bribing a police officer probably wouldn’t help our case.

  ‘The problem …’ says the ice-cream man. His face has faded from a violent crimson to a quieter sort of piglet pink. ‘… has been fixed.’

  Huh?

  Hategarden looks at me, then up at the ice-cream man. Ice-cream man winks at me. Hategarden looks relieved. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Well, I might have an ice-cream.’ He takes out his wallet. ‘I like the look of the strawberry whipple, the Lemony Snicket and the peppermint crunch. Which do you recommend?’

  I grin. The ice-cream man and I share a look. I wait for him to say, I honestly don’t care which flavour you choose. But, instead, he says, ‘My customers seem to like the Lemony Snicket.’ He starts scooping.

  Hategarden gets out a $20 note but the ice-cream man says, ‘It’s on the house, officer. And how about a free ice-cream for the young man here?’

  I grin and nod.

  ‘Might even have another one myself,’ he says then laughs – a proper, hearty ice-cream man laugh. ‘There we go. Lemony Snicket. And what about you? Strawberry whipple?’

  So I eat my first gluten-free, organic ice-cream. It’s pretty good, in spite of its health-food properties – a bit of a cross between cardboard and glue, but remarkably refreshing. From that day on, the ice-cream man switches back to the old ice-cream, and he only ever charges kids two dollars a cone.

  Except for me and Jack.

  For us, it’s free.

  I have a problem with my bum.

  And my mum.

  A massive one. (The problem is massive, not my mum or my bum.)

  Mum wants to take my bum to the doctor. She says it makes ‘unpleasant odours on a far too regular basis’.

  But I disagree. I think its odours are quite pleasant. If there was a perfect volume of stink to be discharged from a kid’s bottom in a day, mine would come pretty close to that number. The bum is the most under-appreciated part of the human body. Our bums are always there, supporting us, and we should be kinder to them.

  They’re comfy to sit on, they keep our pants up and always have our backs. Last weekend, mine won me a farting competition against Jack. I was the underdog going in, but my butt really pulled through for me. Extraordinary muscle control, perfect pitch, not a drop spilt.

  When I was seven years old Mum hit me on the bum with an old wooden spoon and it broke in half. (The spoon, not my bum. My bum is already in half.) My butt is a total ninja. It could crack 30 walnuts in 30 seconds. (If I ever need a bunch of walnuts in a hurry.)

  Anyway, Mum thinks my bum stinks and she’s hidden the tins of baked beans and sauerkraut.

  And the sultanas, figs and dried apples.

  I have nothing to put on my cereal.

  All because of my bum.

  Stupid bum.

  I’d donate it to science if I didn’t think science would donate it back.

  Maybe I do need to take it to a doctor. If I didn’t like sitting down so much I might have it removed.

  The doctor will say, ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Take it all off,’ I’ll tell him.

  ‘All what?’

  ‘My butt, bozo. And make it snappy’.

  ‘But I am not experienced in buttock removal procedures,’ the doctor will reply.

  ‘Listen, I didn’t come all the way across town to be told that my bottom can’t be removed. It’s been nothing but trouble since the day I was born – stinkin’ up the nappy, making Mum unhappy. It didn’t even photograph well in her bathtub pics. Either you take it off or I take my business elsewhere.’

  If that doesn’t work out I wonder if I can find a way to freshen things up down there without having my bum lopped off. Maybe I’ll invent a personal air-freshening device to hang behind the offending orifice. When the foul air is released it will immediately be cleansed and made to smell like daffodils or petunias or something.

  Unpleasant odours? Ghastly scents? Stubborn smells that just won’t budge? Try the ButtFresh. Freshens trouser coughs in an instant!

  I’ll sell millions of them to mothers who have issues with their kids’ backsides. And they’ll be the world’s most popular Father’s Day gift – Dads always burp out the wrong end when they’re asleep in front of thetelly. They’ll hand them to girls before their interviews for posh private schools. Orchestra conductors and musicians will wear the ButtFresh under their tuxedoes to avoid those unexpected bum notes. They’ll be required wearing in all elevators.

  In fact, the ButtFresh could save the world from imminent destruction, depending on how fast it can be adapted for cows. If the BF could convert all that dangerous methane released from cows’ bottoms into wonderful, life-giving oxygen, we could reverse global warming.

  And then my mum will truly appreciate my talents.

  She will think I am a genius.

  They will call me ButtMan and put my face on the product’s packaging.

  I will win the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for solving one of the world’s most pant-pressing problems. And when I accept the prize I will thank my mum.

  And my bum.

  Having a smelly bottom could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I am ButtMan, and I’m here to save the world.

  1. Next time you get double-bounced off the trampoline and break your arm, your dad might come and help you before he posts the video on Facebook.

  2. Everybody you know has seen a picture of you doing your first poo on the potty when you were a baby, and it could be why your mum’s friends look at you funny. That … and all the pics of your adorable little tushy.

  3. You’ll be able to eat your dinner as soon as you sit down, rather than wait ten minutes till your mum has photographed her masterpiece and it’s gone cold.

  4. Your dad’ll stop posting embarrassing selfies with your teacher in front of your macaroni sculpture at parent–teacher night.

  5. Your mum is ‘friends’ with the mother of your school crush, and she just posted a ‘Throwback Thursday’ pic of you when you were five, playing UNO in Bob the Builder underpants.

  6. Your mum stays up late social media-ing, which makes her tired, which is why her eyeballs just melted.

  7. You know that time your sister dressed you up in a feather boa, high heels and lipstick when you were six? Yeah, your boss will find that when you apply for your first job.

  8. Your dad might stop trying to go viral with the video of his Man Bra invention.

  ‘Bye-bye, Mummy. Bye, Daddy. Barney wubs you!’

  Jack’s mum gives Barney, Jack’s four-year-old brother, a big hug.

  ‘And Mummy wubs you!’

  They rub noses and Barney giggles. ‘You’re funny, Mummy.’

  I’m glad he’s happy. It’s Jack’s parents’ anniversary, so Jack and I are babysitting him and he can be a bit of a handful. We’re gathered at the front door of the house. Mr Danalis grabs his jacket. Mrs Danalis glares at me and Jack.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’

  ‘We’re sure,’ Jack says.

  ‘You won’t be mean to him?’

  ‘We won’t be mean to him.’

  ‘You’ll play games with him?’

  ‘We’ll play games with him.’

  ‘You won’t wrestle him?’

  ‘We won’t wrestle him.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened last time you were trusted with babysitting beautiful Barney?’

  ‘He’s not beautiful,’ Jack says. ‘And, yes, Mum. I rememb–’

  ‘You terrified the poor child and were kicked out of KidsWorld. You and Tom are the only people to have ever been given a lifetime ban.’

  ‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Jack says, grinning.

  ‘No, it’s not cool.’

  ‘I think you might be forgetting the fact that he vomited on me,’ Jack say
s, ‘and then he had an army of toddlers throw poopy nappies at us.’

  ‘Please don’t go into that again, Jack. If you can be beaten up by a gang of babies then perhaps you need to go to the gym and forget about the twenty dollar babysitting fee.’

  Jack clenches his jaw. We’ve already planned what we’re spending every cent of that twenty dollars on: Mars bars.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Jack says. ‘It’s two hours and we’re at home in the middle of a rainy day. What could possibly go wrong?’

  Mrs D sneers at me and Jack. ‘Okay. Well … you’ve got my number –’

  ‘Nothing will go wrong.’

  ‘Have fun,’ Mr D says in a menacing way, as though he might remove parts of our bodies if we mess this up. Mr D suffers from CDS, Cranky Dad Syndrome. Even when he’s being nice he’s the scariest person I’ve ever met.

  ‘But not too much fun,’ says Mrs D.

  ‘Enjoy your lunch,’ Jack says, pushing them out the front door.

  Mrs D puts up an umbrella and they scurry down the puddly path to Mr D’s ute. Jack, Barney and I watch from the window, our breath fogging up the glass. Barney waves. Mrs D blows him a kiss as the ute reverses down the driveway and heads off up the street.

  The second they disappear from view, Barney turns to me and Jack and wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Barney wants to wrestle.’

  Barney always wants to wrestle. It’s his favourite thing in the world. Apart from Milo and cheese sandwiches, slapping people on the back of the neck and picking his nose.

  ‘No, Barney. We can’t. We promised Mum,’ Jack says. ‘Let’s play UNO.’

  ‘UNO’s poo-poo,’ Barney says.

  ‘UNO’s not “poo-poo”, Barney,’ Jack tells him.

  ‘Monopoly?’ I suggest.

  ‘Monopoly’s bum-bum,’ Barney says. ‘Barney wanna wrestle.’

  ‘Don’t say “bum-bum”, Barney,’ Jack say.

  ‘You just said it!’ Barney laughs, pointing right in Jack’s face. Then he chants, ‘Bum-bum Bar-ney. Bum-bum Bar-ney!’

  ‘We can’t wrestle today,’ Jack says. ‘You got a concussion last time.’

  ‘I promise not to get percussion again,’ he says. ‘Pleeeeeease.’

  The thing is, when Barney gets the idea of wrestling in his head it’s almost impossible to talk him out of it.

  ‘If you get hurt or something gets broken, we miss out on twenty bucks.’

  ‘I’ll give you twenny bucks!’ Barney says, and he races off down the hall.

  He’s back a moment later with a twenty cent coin. He hands it to Jack with a big gaptoothed grin.

  Jack rolls his eyes. He can’t even be bothered explaining.

  ‘Pleeeeeease,’ Barney says. ‘If you do, you’ll be the bestest big brother in the whole wide world ever.’

  Jack likes the sound of this. I don’t think he’s ever been bestest at anything in his whole life. He looks at me. I shrug, even though alarm bells are ringing like crazy in my head.

  ‘Alright,’ Jack says. ‘But only for ten minutes.’

  ‘YES!’ Barney cheers and races off down the hall again.

  ‘But if you get hurt and we get in trouble, I’m gonna give you an atomic wedgie so big they’ll have to operate to remove it,’ Jack calls.

  ‘Deal!’ Barney shouts from his room. ‘I love eating wedgies. And chippies!’

  Moments later he races back towards us wearing a fake black beard, a Batman mask and a tracksuit with a pair of bright red undies over the top. ‘Bonesaw’s readyyyyyy!’ he calls.

  That’s his wrestling name: Bonesaw. He stole it from one of the Spider-Man movies. He jumps up on the couch, flexes his muscles and kisses each skinny little bicep.

  ‘First,’ Jack says, ‘we have to move the coffee table and lay down a few rule–’

  Barney launches himself off the couch and lands a sharp elbow on Jack’s nose.

  ‘Boom!’ Barney screams. ‘Bonesaw smash!’

  Jack clutches his nose and blood drips from his left nostril. He shoves Barney back onto the couch.

  ‘Ow! We haven’t even started yet!’ Jack yells.

  Barney stands and blows kisses to an imaginary crowd. ‘In the blue corner, it’s –’

  Jack sweeps Barney’s legs out from under him and Barney collapses onto the couch, laughing, then he leaps to his feet and runs across the room. He acts like he’s springing off the ropes on the far side of a wrestling ring. He runs right at me, screaming, ‘Chaaaaaarge!’

  I turn to Jack, laughing at what a crazy brother he has, and Barney headbutts me hard, right in the place that boys do not want to be headbutted. I howl, double over in pain and drop to my knees.

  ‘Barney!’ Jack says. ‘What’ve I told you? That area is strictly off limits.’

  This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. Worse than when my sister pushed me off the trampoline when I was four and my arm broke in five places. I look up and either I’m seeing double or Barney has spawned a twin.

  Barney jumps up on the couch and screams, ‘Bonesaw crunch!’

  Without thinking, Jack shoves Barney off the couch.

  Barney flies face-first through the air towards the large, square sheet of glass that is the Danalis’s new coffee table. He travels in slo-mo. Actual slo-mo. I don’t think it’s just happening in my mind. Barney’s eyes and mouth are as round as frisbees. Jack reaches out to catch him but his fingertips only just brush Barney’s leg. The slo-mo ends and Barney hits the coffee table hard – very hard. He shatters it into thousands of tiny, shiny cubes and falls through the frame onto the floor with a sickening thump and a crunch of glass.

  Jack and I are frozen in place.

  Now I know why those alarm bells were ringing. Why didn’t I listen to the bells? I knew this would turn bad. I just didn’t know it’d turn this bad this fast. I start to regain feeling below my waist.

  I can hear the whistling sound in Jack’s swollen, bleeding nose.

  Barney isn’t moving.

  ‘Barney?’ Jack says, his voice weak.

  Nothing.

  ‘Barney-Boo?’

  Jack climbs over the frame of the coffee table and kneels down in the shattered glass next to his brother. He puts his hand on Barney’s back.

  ‘Barney, wake up, little buddy.’

  I’ve never heard Jack be this nice to Barney. It worries me a bit.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ I ask.

  ‘I think so,’ Jack says. Then his face changes from concern to panic, and he sits up straight, listening intensely. ‘Oh, no …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘What?’ But I hear it, too, now – a car in the driveway.

  More specifically, a ute.

  Everything inside me turns to water.

  ‘Grab his legs, quick,’ Jack says.

  I do, and we roll Barney over. His face has been protected by his Bonesaw beard and Batman mask. I thought it’d be all cut up. Jack brushes a couple of cubes of glass out of the beard and grabs his brother under the armpits.

  A door slams. High-heeled footsteps echo along the path out front.

  We shuffle across the lounge room towards the hallway.

  We’re halfway there when we hear a key in the lock and the front door swings back.

  Jack and I stop dead.

  Mrs D takes in the scene. She’s holding an umbrella over her head inside. Not a great sign.

  Her eyes fall on Barney, unconscious, hanging between us.

  She’s been gone approximately four minutes.

  ‘Mum!’ Jack says, all chirpy. ‘Hi. What did you forget?’

  ‘What are you doing with my Barney? Why is your nose bleeding and why is Barney wearing his Bonesaw costume?’

  Uh-oh.

  At least the coffee table is blocked by the couch. I don’t think she can see it.

  ‘Well …’ Jack says.

  I try to imagine what’s going through his mind. What would be the nicest possible way of saying that we wer
e wrestling Barney, he elbowed Jack in the nose and headbutted me in a very bad place, so Jack shoved him, Barney smashed the glass coffee table with his face and now he’s unconscious, possibly dead, and we were just hiding the body?

  ‘We’re just … giving him a swing,’ Jack says. ‘You ready, Barney-Warney? Wheeeeee!’

  We swing him from side to side and watch Mrs D’s reaction. She does not share our enthusiasm.

  ‘Barney loves to swing, don’t you, Barney?’

  Barney does not respond.

  ‘Barney?’ says Mrs D, dropping her umbrella and moving in.

  Oh no. This is it. The end of our babysitting career. Possibly our lives. Nuts. I was really looking forward to those Mars bars.

  Jack and I gently lower Barney to the floor.

  ‘See, here’s the thing …’ Jack begins.

  Mrs D kneels at his side, puts her arm under his shoulders. His head lolls back. ‘Barney?’

  Nothing.

  ‘See, what we were doing …’ Jack says.

  ‘We were just …’ I add.

  ‘Barney?’ she says again, pushing his mask up, pulling his beard down and tapping him gently on the cheek.

  Barney’s eyes snap open. ‘BOO!’ he shouts. He sits up. ‘JUST TRICKING! HELLO, MUMMY!’ He gives his mum a big cuddle and she topples back onto the carpet with him. They roll around laughing.

  ‘You scared Mummy!’ she says.

  ‘Barney funny boy.’

  Jack and I watch on, open-mouthed – half-relieved, half-wanting to murder Barney now that we know he’s not dead.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ she says.

  ‘Just tricking big boys,’ Barney says. ‘They sooo stoopid.’

  ‘Don’t say “stupid”, Barney,’ she says.

  There’s an angry horn beep from out front. ‘Mummy has to go. Don’t trick the big boys again, okay?’ She stands and straightens her outfit. ‘I left my phone.’ She grabs it off the chest of drawers near the front door. ‘Bye, boys. Look after Barney. And no more wrestling.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack says.