When Mr. Dog Bites (24 page)

Six attempts to tie the tie. When it was all done to my liking, the tie and shades combo made the suit and me look Daddy Cool. Michelle Malloy would do a double take when she laid her sweet peepers on me. No, she wouldn’t—she’d giggle and call me a horrible name that would make a lump in my throat and I’d want to cry and punch the nearest thing, like a wall or a hedge. I listened to the taxi driver’s favorite band, who were singing all about these schools and how the teachers in these schools should bloody well leave the kids alone and not wreck with their heads. It was a humdinger of a tune. I played it over and over again until it was part of my brain.

“Is it not too late for a funeral, Dylan?” Mom said. She had good reason to ask—it was six o’clock, after all, not exactly funeral time. I hadn’t thought about this when concocting the watertight plan. Time for some sharp thinking.

“That’s what time Amir told me to come. I think that’s the normal funeral time for people from his country,” I said.

Mom didn’t say anything to that; she lay on the couch watching a reality television program about trying to make ugly people look good by chopping their hair, slapping loads of makeup on them, and buying them bright-colored threads. It never worked.

“Okay; phone me if you need a lift home and I’ll phone Tony.”

“I will.”

I was surprised that Mom didn’t ask for Amir’s number. I guess she didn’t want to be phoning Amir’s house and trying to talk to his parents, which was good for me.

“Okay, bye,” I said, and made my way to the door.

“Oh, do me a wee favor before you go, Dylan.”

“No problemo.”

“See if there’s a cucumber in the fridge.”

Going near the fridge made me go gooey woozy because of that blinkin’ doc’s letter that was on top of it. I really hoped it wasn’t for another scan experience. I made a mental note to find a better place for putting important letters that came to the house.

*

I had arranged to meet Amir near school at half six. On the way I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Everyone who passed me by was doing something I didn’t enjoy.

Staring.

Sniggering.

Pointing.

Whispering.

I really didn’t want to scream something disgusting at them. I’d left Green in my other pocket. Disaster alert. A brain-gym exercise was required. I tried to think of soccer teams in Scotland that start and end with the same letter. A serious brain-gym exercise! I put my shades on to black out the people’s faces and not clock their expressions while they were laughing at me. Usually I never wandered the streets at this time, so it was probably barmy army for people to see that mad-hatter Dylan Mint walking toward them dressed all dapper and cool-like. If only they knew what I was going through, they’d feel guilt pain in March. Ha!

“LAUGHING UGLY CUNT.” A woman giggling away on her phone, not giving a shit about Dylan Mint and his ­problems.

C
elti
c
. The easiest. One–nil Mint.

“FAT WHORES.” Two women carting their shopping bags around, laughing and squealing like wildcats. I saw a packet of biscuits popping out of one of their bags.

K
ilmarnoc
k
. Two–nil Mint.

“SHUT IT, ARSE BANDITS.” Two guys in business suits walking behind me were talking massively loud to each other. I think their job was to show people around houses and try to get them to buy them. How dull would that be?

D
undee Unite
d
. The first three were easy-peasy because they played in the top league. Three–nil Mint.

“TAKE A PICTURE, GINGER CUNT FUCKER.” A woman with red hair walked past me and stared and stared and stared. I think she liked the threads.

E
ast Fif
e
. That one was a toughie. Took a lot of thought and made me forget about many of the people walking past. Good stuff. Four–nil Mint.

“KIDDIE FUCKER.” A priest getting into his car looked at me and smiled.

I thought really, really hard about the last one. Put my head to the ground and entered the brain gym.

E
ast Stirlingshir
e
. Wow! What a legend. Five–nil Mint. This boy simply couldn’t be beaten. This boy’s brain was way too advanced for a seat in the normal school up the road.

But, phew, I was chuffed to see Amir waiting on me.

“It doesn’t look like we’re dressed up for Halloween,” Amir said.

“That’s the plan, Amir,” I said.

“It’s not really fancy dress, is it? We should have gone as Transformers or a bunch of grapes or something. I feel as if I’m going to court in this clobber.”

“Stop being Moaning Minnie, Amir. We look Cool for Cats.”

“W-w-where’s Waldo would have been a good costume too.”

“He wasn’t from Pakistan,” I said.

“Neither was Mr. Orange,” Amir said, smiling because he knew he’d done me over the backseat. He did his get-it-right-up-your-kipper face. “Anyway, I decided not to go as Mr. Orange.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s the police informer. I don’t want to be a grass.”

“So who are you now, then?”

“Mr. Blonde,” Amir said, shrugging his shoulders up as if it was, like, dead cool to be Mr. Blonde.

“But Mr. Blonde is a mentalist.”

“I don’t care if he is—he’s way cooler than Mr. Orange.”

“But he’s more mental than anyone at our school, and he dies in the end and cuts off some guy’s ear and goes to set him on fire. I mean—”

“So?” Amir said, kicking his shoes off the ground, scuffing them up and looking dead
uncool
. I think Amir was nervous.

“Are you okay, Amir?” I asked.

“I just think we lo-lo-look rubbish.”

“We look the bomb.”

“But everyone will be dressed as famous people or superheroes or sport stars. No one will know who we are.”

“Of course they will.”

“I was going to go as Sachin Tendulkar at the last minute, or Imran Khan,” Amir said.

“Who?”

“What do you mean, ‘who’? They’re world-fa-fa-famous cricketers.”

“But nobody would have a five-to-two who they are.”

“They would in Pakistan, though.”

“But we’re not in Pakistan, Amir, so I doubt the mongs at Drumhill will know who they are.”

“Whatever. Come on, let’s go.”

“After you, DICKHEAD .
.
. Shite, I didn’t mean that, Amir.”

“
’S okay. Sometimes I ca-ca-can be.”

“You’re not.”

“Are you going to try to pork Michelle Malloy again?” Amir asked.

“She won’t be there.”

“You think?”

“She’s too good for Halloween discos at Drumhill.”

“Is she now?”

“She says they’re for major losers.”

“Well, I’d say anyone who’s on their sofa watching
Come Dine with Me
and not at the Halloween disco is the real major loser, if you ask me.”

“How do you know she’s watching
Come Dine with Me
?”

“I have a good brain for these things, Dylan. Trust me, amigo, she’ll be glued to
Co-Co-Come Di-Dine with Me
.”

“If you say so, bud.”

“Who’s the major loser now?”

“Well .
.
.”

“And who won’t be getting the dagger tonight?” Amir said, slapping me a cracker on the back. “My main man, Dylan Mint, that’s who.” An ouch moment.

“Let’s get a move on.”

There was tons of activity in the playground. Two nurses were chatting to a scarecrow and a zombie. A cowboy and Bob the Builder were having a laugh with a hip-hopper—or it could have been a rapper; I don’t really know the difference—and a big giant iPod. A fireman was chasing an alien around with his pretend hose, using it as a big whopping willy. And a nun was trying to fix an oversize baby’s nappy on her friend. It was bloody brilliant and bizarre. A bit like a Glasgow version of the bar scene from
Star Wars.

An Amy Winehouse song was playing; we could hear it in the playground. It was the one about people trying to tell her to cut out all the drugs and demon booze in her life and get herself down to the clinic quick style so she could clean herself up from the mess she was in. Mom liked singing it when it was on the radio. I think Amy should have listened to all those people. I bet the poor girl just didn’t have the time to make three parting wishes to herself. Shame! It wasn’t a dance number, though. Mr. Comeford was probably trying to be all hip and with it.

Miss Flynn was semidancing at the door. She was obviously on door and make-sure-the-nutters-don’t-do-mad-things-in-the-playground duty. Her feet were stuck to the ground, but her hips jiggled a bit. She had her blouse on. The one that you could see some of her bra through. Black. I bet she bought it in M&S
or H&M or T.J. Maxx. I sometimes squinted my eyes to check out the lady section when I went to these shops with Mom. These shops sell all the silk and lacy stuff that make a woman feel sexy and important. We could smell her perfume when we got closer.

“Hi, guys. Let me guess,” Miss Flynn said, looking the two of us up and down.

“I bet you’ll never get it, miss,” I said.

“No one will,” Amir said to me, not with a smiley face.

Miss Flynn was playing the game of fake-thinking, as if she gave a flying fudball what we were dressed like.

“I think I’ve got it, lads,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“The Blues Brothers,” she said.

“Who?” I said.

“Who?” Amir said.

“Never mind,” she said, and then did her fake-thinking game again. “Are you a couple of bouncers or minders?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Oh,” Miss Flynn said, with a wee bit of disappointment in her voice.

“Sorry, miss,” I said.

“These costumes are rank,” Amir whispered to me through his I’m-being-a-miserable-bastard-tonight teeth.

“One more guess, miss, and then we’ll tell you.”

“Okay, one final one,” Miss Flynn said. She pretended to be putting an invisible hat on her head and said, “I’ll need to put my thinking hat on for this one, though,” as if she was talking to a couple of four-year-olds or a pair of Drumhill’s chief window-lickers. She made her eyes into two wee slits to show us that she was thinking like a woman possessed. “I think I have it now,” she said.

“Who?” I said.

“Who?” Amir said.

“Are .
.
. you,” she started saying, but there was a dead long pause between the “
Are”
and the “
you
.” Then she repeated the words. “Are .
.
. you .
.
. characters .
.
. from .
.
. a .
.
. famous .
.
. film?”

“Yes, w-w-we are, miss,” Amir said, all excited.

I stood behind Amir and looked at Miss Flynn straight in the eye. Wowzers! I did some silent barking. Not Mr. Dog barking; this was just me trying to give Miss Flynn a clue as to who we were. I really hoped that she had seen the film. Then I pretended to drink some water and did some more pretend barking. It was turning out to be, like, the worst game of charades ever. Miss Flynn looked confused.

“Who, miss? Who?” Amir said, as if he were about to pounce on Miss Flynn’s see-through blouse with the excitement.

I pulled my ear out as wide as possible with one hand and with the other I pretended to slice the bugger off. Amir clocked me but he thought I was just doing my ear thing and luckily didn’t say anything.

“Aw, lads, I knew right from the start. I was just pulling your legs,” Miss Flynn said.

“Who then, miss?”Amir said.

“Well, I’m not sure exactly which color each of you are, but you’re both definitely from the film
Reservoir Dogs
.”

“Brilliant, miss,” Amir said. “I thought nobody would have a five-to-two who we were.”

“A what?”

“A clue; it’s cockney rhyming slang, miss.”

“Well, Amir, everyone will know who you are, I’m sure.”

When we walked past Miss Flynn, the smell from her makeup/perfume blend made my nose wiggle. We gave each other one of those I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know looks. My favorites. I wanted to thank her. When we were well past her, me and Amir gave each other another one of those I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know looks. Then we put our shades on, ready for some serious disco action.

“It’s hard to see with these shades on,” Amir said.

“So take them off.”

“Then I won’t look so cool.”

We both took our shades off.