When Mr. Dog Bites (17 page)

Miss Flynn’s office was super-duper cool, with enormous leather chairs that you sank into, huge plants that almost touched the ceiling, and nice pictures of beaches, rain forests, and waterfalls hanging on the walls. Sometimes she played music to calm down students who acted all loony head cases. She’d tell us to sink into the chair, sip some water, and listen to music. It worked a treat for me. That day after our soccer game when it all kicked off she played Sigur Rós especially for me. They’re a band from Iceland, and some of them have got beards and they wear winter clothes ’cause it’s totally freezing in Iceland, and when it’s not bloody brass monkeys it’s full of volcanic ash and people who are much more skint than Mom because they’ve had a whopper of a dosh crisis and everyone is now gloomy grumpy pants over there.

“Is there anything we should know about?” Miss Flynn asked.

Mom shuffled in her leather chair as if she were trying to scratch her bum without anyone detecting her. My peepers were on fire.

“Well .
.
. Erm .
.
. There’s .
.
.”

“SHUT UP. NOTHING. GGGGGGRRRRRR.”

“Dylan, don’t interrupt,” Mom said.

“Would you like some water, Dylan?” Miss Flynn asked.

I shook my head. Negative, miss.

“FUCK WATER TITS.” I
meant
to only shake my head. At that moment I wanted to sniffle because I was fed up with that voice, that animal, that other person, that rat living inside me. I was fed up not just to the back teeth but to the front, sides, and gums as well.

Then Mom said in her whisper voice, “Well, there’s the situation with his dad.”

“I understand,” Miss Flynn said in her own whisper voice, which I’d never heard before. “It must be tough for everyone concerned.”

“It is tough.”

TOUGH?

Of course it was TOUGH.

There was Dad, lying deep in enemy territory, being blasted at by rebels on a daily basis, and Miss Flynn and Mom were calling it “tough.” What a blinkin’ insult. Brave Dad was fighting against the forces of evil in order to build paths for a country’s freedom, and these two were sitting on big soft chairs drinking sweet cold water and saying how TOUGH it must be.

INCREDIBLE OR WHAT?

If “tough” was a tiny tent, then Dad was a mammoth skyscraper. In fact, I’d have gone further and said he was a supersonic space-scraper.

It would’ve been much better if I’d just stopped listening and thought about other things, like Amir stuck in English class without me. Mrs. Seed was doing mad hard past-tense verbs, and he was shock shocking at verbs. He was shock shocking at grammar in general, but that didn’t make him a bad person. He’d be rocking on his chair in agony because he didn’t know the past participle of the verb “
to eat
.” His dad would be Mr. Angry Pants because the bold Amir was never going to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. He’d make a brilliant waiter or kitchen helper, though—he loves home economics.

“This isn’t funny, Dylan. This is deadly serious,” Mom said.

“What?” I said.

“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, young man.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Take that smirk off your face this minute.” Mom said this through her gritted teeth.

“Dylan, this isn’t a time for laughter,” Miss Flynn said. “Do you understand that? Dylan?”

“But I’m—”

“We want to help you,” Miss Flynn said.

Why weren’t they listening to me? Who were these heartless people?

“Look at him, Miss Flynn, sitting there sniggering away. He’s got no respect for anyone anymore. He’s a cheeky little runt . . . You’re a cheeky little runt.”

“I’M NOT FUCKING LAUGHING.” This wasn’t in the other guy’s voice, and certainly not in the dog’s either; it was all mine. When the stares and silence came, I sank deep into the comfy leather chair, folded my arms, breathed through my nose, and thought of all the soccer teams in the Scottish, English, Irish, and Welsh leagues that didn’t have any of the letters
S
,
O
,
C
,
E
, or
R
in their names.

Now this was TOUGH too.

“See what I have to put up with, Miss Flynn?”

“Call me Sandra.”

“He hasn’t really had a father figure in his life,” Mom said in her whispering voice.

“Is that situation likely to be resolved anytime soon?”

“God only knows, Sandra. We’re still waiting on word.”

“And that could be a while, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Shame.”

“These things seem to go on for an eternity.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s just one thing after another.”

“And he still doesn’t .
.
.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Probably for the best, Moira.”

“I think so.”

They looked at me with big floppy hound-dog eyes.

“Yes, probably for the best,” Miss Flynn said again.

“It is.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway, he’s got enough to worry about without me landing
that
on his lap as well.”

“I think you’re absolutely right, Moira. Better for everyone.”

“It is.”

“He probably needs protecting from it.”

“Oh, he does.”

“Yes.”

“Look, Sandra, I know he can be a wee bugger at times, and I lose my patience with him, but deep down he’s a good lad, and he’s not got long to go here now, as you know.”

AS YOU KNOW
WHA
T
?

Miss Flynn knew?

Jeeze Louise!

Was there nothing sacred anymore?

“No, I suppose he doesn’t have long to go here, which, I may add, we’re all sad about. Dylan will be a great loss to our school when he eventually leaves.”

Really? Was Miss Flynn talking about me leaving school? Or
leaving
leaving?

“I’ll make sure he pulls his socks up.”

“We’d appreciate that.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.”

“The fighting and aggression is something we can deal with in-house, but the truancy can be problematic.”

“Oh, he’ll be in school all right, even if I have to drag him here myself every morning.”

“It’s just that Dylan would be placing himself in a vulnerable, if not precarious, position if he were wandering the streets all by himself instead of coming to school, you know?”

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me, Sandra.”

“Drumhill is a sanctuary for students like Dylan.”

“My nerves are shattered with the thought of him all alone .
.
.”

“Exactly.”

“People laughing at him and teasing him .
.
.”

“Yes.”

“No, you mark my words, Sandra. He’ll be here every day from now on.”

“That’s all we ask, Moira.”

“And if there is anything—anything so much as a sniff of something—you’ll let me know straightaway?”

“Of course I will.”

“FULHAM, FULHAM, FULHAM,” I screamed, semi-bouncing off the comfy leather chair.

“What’s the big fascination with Fulham, Dylan?” Mom asked. This wasn’t one of those rhetorical questions.

“Fulham is the only team with no letter
S
or
O
or
C
or
E
or
R
in its name.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful, Dylan,” Miss Flynn said.

“No, you don’t get it. Fulham is the ONLY team in the Scottish, English, Irish, or Welsh leagues with no letter
S
or
O
or
C
or
E
or
R
in its name. The ONLY team, and I got it all on my own. Amazing.”

“Really?” Mom said in her I-couldn’t-give-a-flying-fahoola voice.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Of course we believe you, Dylan,” Miss Flynn said in her you-are-wired-to-the-moon-young-man voice.

I’d heard both these voices many times before.

“That’s what I call major brain gym, miss.”

“It certainly is, Dylan, it certainly is.” Miss Flynn seemed impressed with my brain-gym exercise. She would have felt pleased, as brain gym was her gift to me.

“You should try it, Mom.”

“Maybe on Sunday when the papers arrive I will,” Mom said.

“But that’s Ronan Keating. That’s not fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Mom said.

At that moment I wished I could press the massive
Family Feud
buzzer. The one that makes the
you’re so wrong that you’re a pure redneck
sound.

“That wouldn’t be a proper brain-gym exercise.”

“Nonsense.”

“It would be Ronan Keating,” I said.

“It would not be Ronan Keating, Dylan,” Mom said.

“Okay, I’m confused now. What’s Ronan Keating got to do with anything?” Miss Flynn asked.

“Oh, it’s the rhyming slang Dylan likes to use. ‘
Ronan Keating’
means ‘
cheating
,’” Mom said.

“Oh, I get it.”

“It’s like our own language, miss,” I said.

“That’s fabulous. Do you know any more?” Miss Flynn asked.

“Cristiano Ronaldo.”

“Which is?”

“That’s a killer to get. It means ‘
hot
,’ because ‘
caldo’
means ‘
hot’
in Italian, which rhymes with
‘Ronaldo
.’ So that’s like a Portuguese/Italian/English one, which is for advanced ­rhymers.”

“Oh, very clever.” Miss Flynn seemed thrilled.

“Then there’s Richard Gere.”

“Which is .
.
. ?”

“Beer.”

“Well, you’re a man with a bag of tricks, aren’t you, Dylan?” And she widened her eyes toward Mom, like what adults do when ten-year-olds ask them what the meaning of “
fanny”
is.

“Then if I go to the dentist, I’m going for a Bob Dylan.”

“Oh, I like that one.” Miss Flynn was flying with enthusiasm.

“But I never go to the dentist.”

“Aw, well, but it’s still a good one. Maybe I can use it.”

“If you want.”

“Know any more?” Miss Flynn asked.

“If a man and woman are guzzling glasses and glasses of wine, then afterward they might want to have a Billy Bragg—”

“Enough, Dylan!” Mom jumped in. “His mind is in overdrive sometimes.”

“Aren’t they all at that age?”

“That’s his father’s influence right there.”

“Right. So, I think we’ll wrap it up, Moira.”

“Okay, right you are.”

They both got up from their seats. That was my cue to get up also.

“And is everything okay with you, apart from .
.
. ?”

“Yes; why wouldn’t it be?” Mom seemed annoyed at this question, and she was short with Miss Flynn.

“Oh, no reason. Just thought I’d check, Moira, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m fine.”

I was getting a wee bit red and sweaty with wanting to say, “Shut up, Mom.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Miss Flynn,” Mom said, and put out her hand.

What happened to Sandra? Adults are weird sometimes.

“Thanks for coming in.” Miss Flynn shook Mom’s hand.

“Not at all. And remember: if he steps out of line, you know where to find me.”

“I won’t hesitate.”

“Well, thanks again for seeing us, Miss Flynn.”

“You can probably run back to class now, Dylan.”

“Can I not go home with Mom?”

“Do what Miss Flynn is telling you to do,” Mom snarled.

“But it’s only verbs we’re doing.”

“Exactly, and how important are they?” Miss Flynn said.

“But I know them all.”

“Even phrasal verbs?” Miss Flynn said. She was a crafty little devil.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Mom said. “Now, do what Miss Flynn is telling you, or I’ll take you there myself.” Holy Moly, that would be the biggest redneck ever!

“No, I’m going.” And I was out of there Speedy-Gonzales-on-Speed super fast.