My Family and Other Freaks (11 page)

No one in our year has handed in homework for biology, history, geography, math or French. The looks on the teachers' faces are hilarious! I hope we don't resolve this crisis too soon. The teachers hold an emergency meeting.

We are all given letters to take home to our parents warning that we must do our homework. I throw mine in the bin.

Thank God for pregnancy hormones. Mom seems to have forgotten all about putting Deirdre in the shed, especially now that I've hidden her cage behind my bin.

Mom's bump seems even bigger. I suppose I should start getting used to the idea. Hope it's a boy. And Phoebe's getting a bit big to ride on Simon's back. Yes, I should be grown-up and
welcome this new addition to the family even if it makes my parents FONs—Freaks of Nature

The homework boycott is in the local paper!

“Pupils in homework strike,” says the headline. “Kids rap Sir for punishing ‘innocent' classmates.” Mr. Cook asked the photographer not to take pictures of the school, but he did it anyway, and they took quotes from the Facebook site and the letters to our parents. Amber and Neil are described as “Eco-conscious campaigners.” Sean is “loyal.” Zilch mention of me. Thanks a lot. I AM one of the organizers, you know. Why can't the Press get anything right?

The teachers are so worried they hold an emergency assembly. They don't want any more bad publicity. Mr. Cook says he is “very impressed by our sense of fairness and social responsibility” (he's changed his tune) and that if we all hand in our math and English he'll overlook the rest of it.

“What about Sean and Neil's detention?” asks Amber, putting her hand up.

Mr. Cook looks rattled. “After reconsidering the matter and speaking to all three parties again, I have decided that the punishment may have been unduly harsh and will repeal it. But only if all outstanding homework is in by the end of the week.”

Everybody is cheering. Even Thick Mick, who still has to do his detentions. Can someone explain to him that he is the villain of this story?

Well, if Damian doesn't fancy me now, he never will.

Wendy the Witch comes around again to check on Mom and ask her lots more patronizing questions such as, “You haven't been eating any unpasteurized cheese or uncooked meat, have you?” Oh yeah, Wend, we feast on raw liver here most days.

Rick offers to take Simon for a walk “to get him
out the way of the wicked hag.” I'm liking Rick more these days.

Wendy tells Mom a story about a pet Jack Russell which tried to pull a newborn baby out of its cot and eat it. I think this woman needs help.

Amber's mom and dad are letting her have a little party at her house to celebrate the JSN victory. And Damian's coming! Unfortunately, so is Treasure.

Wear my denim miniskirt and red Converse even though they're a bit tight on me. Also my Scarlet Lady nail polish. Amber is a bit giggly as me and Megan help her put the Quavers and Discos into bowls. She's wearing a T-shirt with
a picture of a polar bear on it and some strange orange pants. I say nothing. It's best that way.

The doorbell rings. Amber's mom answers and I hear her saying, “Ah, so this is the famous Neil and Sean. Hello—and hello, Damian, and, oh, Treasure? What an unusual name.”

There are about ten other people from our year but I don't notice them because my legs are Bendaroos again. Damian looks GORGEOUS, the best I've ever seen him. He's got a denim jacket on that makes his eyes look really blue. Amber nudges me. “Shut your mouth,” she hisses. “You're catching wasps.”

So, we're all drinking Cokes and chilling and having a laugh while Neil tells us about how Thicky actually came and apologized to him, when Treasure, who hates not being the center of attention, butts in with a glint in her eye.

“So, Danni, my mom saw your mom in Tesco,” she says in her bitchy, sing-song voice. “You never said she was PREGNANT. That's so FUNNY. She's ancient!”

“She is not ancient for your information, Treasure,” I say, my voice wobbling a bit like it always does when she attacks my family. “Plenty of women have babies in their forties. Look at, erm, Madonna.”

“Ah, yes—Madonna and Mrs. Dench—they've got sooooo much in common. Is there actually any more room in your house for anyone else? Or will Baby Clampett be sleeping in the dog basket?”

I feel my fists twitching but I can't say anything in case it comes out wobbly. Treasure is still talking. “My dad says you lot breed like rabbits.”

Amber pipes up. “Shut it, Treasure, you're being a bitch.”

Everyone stops talking and stares.

Treasure is outraged. Then she slowly looks Amber up and down. “I'd rather be a bitch than
look like I've been dragged through an Oxfam charity shop,” she says.

Before I realize it I'm lunging forward and am actually pulling Treasure's hair like a five-year-old, screeching, “Don't you DARE speak to my best friend like that!” Treasure has hold of my arms and pushes me toward the sofa and somehow we tumble on to it in a big heap, shrieking and pulling hair like in a
Tom and Jerry
cartoon.

Amber's mom comes rushing in, demanding to know what's going on. She cannot believe her eyes—says she's very disappointed in us and that the party's now over.

Damian drags Treasure away, and Sean and Neil trail behind them. Neil turns and whispers, “I don't blame you for hitting her—she's horrible.” Sean just smiles and winks. Ah, that's nice of them.

Amber is mortified. “You shouldn't have done that, Dan,” she says. “But—thanks.” And she gives me a hug.

Lying in bed wondering if I can face Treasure at school tomorrow. Feel something sharp and purple in my hair. It's one of Treasure's false nails! Ha—that's her mom's 30 quid down the drain.

Hold on—what's all that shouting and screaming outside? Is that Simon barking?

Dad comes running up the stairs wearing his serious face.

“What's the matter, Father dear? Has someone nicked our car? Hope so,” I say.

He ignores this. “Danni, get down there now,” he says.

Get dressed quickly and run downstairs two at a time. Mom is in the front garden talking to Mr. Sharples from down the road. Mr. Sharples says the police are on their way.

“Ooh, what's been stolen?” I say.

Mom turns dourly to me. “Danielle, Mr.
Sharples says Simon has bitten his little girl, Suzie. She's at the walk-in center with her mother.”

This is ridiculous. Simon likes that little kid. She's younger than Phoebe, and even when she pulls his ears he licks her.

“Rubbish,” I say.

Mr. Sharples gets quite angry. He says he didn't see it but old Mr. Robinson with the fat cat did. Apparently Simon trotted up to Suzie, who was playing in her front garden while her mom just nipped inside to get her a drink. Suzie put her hand through the gate to stroke him and he snapped. Her finger might need stitches.

I feel sick. Simon is barking in the backyard where Mom has tied him up. A police car pulls up. My head is spinning …

This is the worst day of my life. The police say they'll have to make more inquiries, but if it
turns out to be true we might have to have Simon “destroyed.” That's police-speak for put down.

No. This can't be happening to me.

Go into the yard. Simon does his doggy smile and wags his tail happily. He's got no idea of the trouble he's in. I sit on the ground and stroke his soft ears. I honestly don't think I can cope if he gets put down. I'll have to run away with him before that happens. I bury my face in his furry brown neck and cry like I did when I was four and Rick cut the tail off my favorite toy elephant. He gets that sadistic streak from Dad.

Simon is back in his kennel, howling. Mom says he's too dangerous to be in the house. I haven't slept a wink.

I go downstairs and tell Mom and Dad (the FONs) that I'm too distraught to go to school. For once they don't argue. Text Amber with the terrible news. She promises to come around after school.

The police come around again. Suzie's finger needed two stitches. They say that since Simon didn't actually attack Suzie and may have thought she was feeding him something through the gate, they can't insist we have him put down. I sit down quickly. I think it might be with relief.

Mom sees the police out and I give Simon a big kiss. The Freaks of Nature look at each other. “We've been thinking,” says Mom. “We just can't have Simon in the house when the new baby comes, not after this and what happened in Wales.”

“But Simon would NEVER hurt anyone in this family,” I splutter angrily.

Mom looks upset. “Look, Danni, it's not fair on the baby—or on us—to risk it. He might be jealous of the baby. You read terrible things in the papers. Wendy said we'd never forgive ourselves if something happened. Anyway, the house is too small as it is. Wendy thinks, and we agree, that he should go back to the animal shelter.”

WHAT?

The animal shelter??!! Go to a new home and be someone else's dog?! No, no, no, no, please, God, no.

I hate that evil, scheming witch, Wendy.

Amber's here. I've been crying all day and seem to have turned into a human snot machine. I tell her everything. She puts her arm around me and says, “Man, this is so bad.”

Mom makes sausage sandwiches. I eat one, even though I'm not speaking to her and I'm a vegetarian. This shows how distraught I am.

Am fretting so much over Simon my stomach doesn't even cartwheel when I see Treasure and Damian walking to school holding hands.

Amber says she's been thinking and that I should calm down. She reckons my mom and dad will come around if I just make Simon behave for a while and there are no more disasters. Yes, I'll devise an SOS (Save Our Simon) plan. I'll make him into the best-behaved dog in the world. Feel a bit better.

Mom tells me that Dad's phoned the animal
shelter. He's going to see them tomorrow. Rick is disgusted with the FONs and says he'll disown them if they get rid of Simon. “This baby is a pain in the butt!” he says, and goes out, slamming the door and without even eating his tea.

“Yes, and if you send Simon away I swear I'll leave home and then you won't have to worry about not having enough bedrooms,” I say.

The FONs don't seem to be taking this threat very seriously.

I now know how fond Rick is of Simon. He didn't even tell Mom when Simon made tiny teeth holes in his Kings of Leon CD.

Simon has a death wish. He has stolen and eaten a full box of Celebrations chocolates, which he took from the cupboard by opening it with his greedy fat nose. With the wrappers on. Plus the cardboard box. Now he has been sick all over the living room
carpet, which is vomity enough at the best of times.

Dad says, “The sooner that dog is rehoused, the better.”

I honestly don't feel like I'll ever be happy again.

Can't concentrate all day at school. Wonder what the people at the animal shelter are saying to Dad? Oh no—maybe they've already taken Simon without me knowing. Maybe it was a trick.

Run home so fast that I fall and take the skin off both my knees. Open the gate. Simon is still here! Though he is sitting miserably in his kennel. I fling myself on him and kiss him. He licks the blood off my knees. Am crying with relief and knee-pain as I stagger through the kitchen door. Witch Wendy
is here again. Phoebe is sitting on her KNEE—the little traitor.

“Mom told me about the dog attacking a child,” she says, wagging a finger. “That dog is a menace.”

I'd tell her what a vicious fat hag she is but I can't because there's a lump the size of a cow in my throat.

“Pooh,” says Phoebe, looking up at Wendy. “Your breath smells.”

Good old Phoebe.

The good news is that the animal shelter is totally full. The bad news is that Dad's going to get in touch with another one 30 miles away.

Dad has gone to hospital with Mom for another scan on her bump (actually it's more of a hillock now. I don't think she'll be losing this baby weight in a hurry—she's like a Highland cow). They return
with another photograph of the baby, which now looks like a porpoise with fingers. Mom is all emotional (again) and says that I looked like that once. No, I did not. I have never looked like a blob.

“Don't pretend that you love me,” I spit at her. “You can't love me if you'd send MY baby to a dogs” home.'

Could I really run away?

Realize I haven't thought about Damian once this week.

Dad's been in touch with a shelter in the next town. He's going to see it tomorrow and wants me to go with him so I can “put my mind at rest.” I tell him I'd rather boil my own eyeballs.

Simon's still sleeping in his kennel. Me, Amber and Megan pool our money and buy him a giant pork pie.

Gran's here for the Sunday roast. Realize I haven't eaten anything since yesterday.

If I lose weight, will my nose look bigger or smaller?

Poor Simon can't work out why he's been banished to a kennel. How will he cope when he realizes we've abandoned him? New owners won't know exactly where he likes being tickled on his tummy or that he's scared of pants flapping on washing lines or that he's in love with a pair of Ugg boots. I sit in the yard with him and cry and cry and cry. Mom's looking out of the window. At least she has the decency to look guilt-stricken. Good.