When Mr. Dog Bites (28 page)

“Don’t think this means you’ll get a shag out of me,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“I’m not going to shag you, Mint,” she said.

I thought my heart was going to need those two heavy irons placed on it to restart it, it was pounding so much. Mad CPR style. I couldn’t believe Michelle Malloy had actually used the word “
shag”
in my company. In real conversation. Twice. A-mayonnaise-ing or what? The fact that she said she
wouldn’t
shag me could mean that she really
did
want to shag me. Dad says that if a woman says she wants to do one thing, usually what she means is that she wants to do the opposite of that thing. Maybe this was one of these times? Oh, I didn’t know. Women are bloody confusing people.

“If I crash at your gaff, that’s all it’ll be,” she said.

“I know; that’s why I said it to you.”

“This isn’t anything, Mint,” she said, waving her finger between the two of us.

“I know it’s not.”

“No hand job either.”

“I know, Michelle, absolutely no jobs.” It was a puzzle why when people spoke of sexy stuff the word “
job”
was often in there somewhere.

“And definitely not a shag.” Three times. I couldn’t wait to tell Amir. Maybe he would be getting his own job tonight.

“Of course.”

“Not so much as a kiss.”

“It’s just a crash, Michelle.”

“Okay, then I’ll crash,” she said.

Wow! Times eighty.

Michelle Malloy would be sleeping in my bed tonight, with her head on my pillow. Bonkerinos! Maybe our feet would stroke each other as well, which would be a supersonic weird machine feeling, with her big foot and wee foot beside my normal feet. Touching. Oh! Jiminy Cricket!

“But if you try any funny business, Mint, I’ll cut your fucking balls off. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, and there defo would be No Way, José funny business ’cause I really wanted to keep my balls. I liked my balls.

“Okay, let’s go,” Michelle Malloy said, getting on her feet. “Fuck me, my head feels like a rocket has hit it.”

“I just need to tell Amir that I won’t be around after the disco. I’ll get you at the main gate, okay?”

“Okay.”

I rushed back into the Halloween disco and looked for Amir. He was still dancing with that girl, Priya. I went up to him right there on the boogie floor, pulled him to one side, and had a bff word in his shell.

“Amir, I have to go.”

“What’s happened?” he said.

“Michelle Malloy is crashing at mine ’cause she’s blotto, and she’s waiting for me at the gate and we’re going to go back to my room, but we defo won’t be shagging each other.”

Amir’s eyes lit up and his teeth became whiter than Daz. “You’re sh-sh-shitting me.”

“I’m not, it’s so true.”

“Are you going to poke her?”

“No, she’ll cut my balls off if I do. It’s just a crash, bud. I’ll explain all later.”

“Okay, captain.”

“You two seem like a packet of cheese and onion,” I said.

“Dylan, Priya’s the DBs.” This means the dog’s bollocks. “I think we’ve hit it off big-time.”

“Do you think you’ll need any rubbers?”

“No, she’s a n-n-nice girl.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I only asked because there was always something wrong with Drumhill students; why else would they be at the school?

“Not sure yet, but she’s a cracker.”

“Okay, bud, I have to dash. Michelle Malloy will be waiting for me,” I said.

I opened my gob and eyes super-wide as if to say,
Blinking, bloody Helen of bloody Troy
. Amir did the same. It was a happy time for both of us. There was no danger now that we were Reservoir Dicks. I flew out of the Halloween disco, speeding past Miss Flynn at the door and heading toward Michelle Malloy, who would be sleeping in my bed.

MY BED!

25

Crying

Tony the taxi driver drove us to the hospital in his maroon car. Mom was still a bit Mad-agascar about the whole Michelle Malloy crib-crashing night, but at least we were talking again.

Hong Kong Phooey!

I’d read that some men put this insane psycho drug into girls’ booze or grub so that they conk out, and when they do, these maniac men try to dip their wick into the conked chick. When we were walking home to mine on the night of the Halloween disco, I was thinking that if I lobbed a drug into the tomato soup I was going to give Michelle Malloy when we got home, I could have ticked
Have real sexual intercourse with a girl
off my
Cool Things to Do Before I Cack It
list. But I had NO sex drugs on me, and I was NOT a maniac psycho, AND it probably wouldn’t have counted, as only one of us (me) would be doing the heavy breathing and mucky talk.

If I’d known Michelle Malloy was going to yank all over my room, piss the bed, and squeal at the top of her lungs ’cause she thought she was going to snuff it, then I would never have asked her to crash in the first place. No, that’s not true—I still would have.

Even though I didn’t get a poke or any kind of job or as much as a kiss, I did get a good old-fashioned huggy hug. When it all got too much for her and she was roaring like a banshee in a fire I had to cuddle Michelle Malloy, soothe her head, and wipe her tears away. I liked that part. She snotted on my shoulder, but I didn’t mind—after all, they were Michelle Malloy’s snotters. Watery snotters at that. When she went back to her own house to puke in peace, have a bath, and sip some tomato soup (that was my idea), I found a wee note she’d written for me on my computer.

Thanks, Mint, you are a mad
.

Sorry for being such a F?*%ing B@?ch to you.

Give me a call sometime.

M

Mom went gorilla-shit
and
piss with anger when she found out. After Michelle Malloy’s old dear came to pick her up from our house in the morning, Mom and me did some screaming, grunting, and barking at each other. She went, “DYLAN, YOU ARE A BLAH-RDY BLAH BLAH,” and I went, “I FUCKING HATE YOU, THIS HOUSE, AND ALL THE BLAH-RDY BLAH BLAH.” She said that it wasn’t that I had a girl vomiting in my room all night that “incensed” and “hurt” her so; it was the fact that I told her a “horrible and heinous” lie about Amir’s uncle’s funeral and that I had actually
lied
about “some poor man’s death.” Tony the taxi driver put another hole in our water-shite plan when he told Mom that Muslim people bury their dead after only twenty-four hours. It seemed that Tony the taxi driver wasn’t as thicko as all the other taxi drivers. I didn’t come out of my room for donkey’s days, which was tough because it still ponged of Michelle Malloy’s vomit, and the stains on the walls wouldn’t come off. I did some serious brain gym in there and nearly twiddled Green out of existence. Tony the taxi driver told me that Mom put tea bags and cucumbers on her eyes for two solid days after our scrap. We had a wee snigger to ourselves, and he said, “So don’t offer a cucumber sandwich to anyone if they come in for a chat” which Tony the taxi driver found hilarious-issimo. I pretended to laugh, as I didn’t want him to feel super embarrassed ’cause he’d made such a rubbish joke. Why in hell’s bells would you offer someone a cucumber sandwich if there were Cup Noodles and tomato soup in the cupboard? ADULTS!!!

It wasn’t all bad spending time in my puke room. I wrote a letter to Dad and sealed it with glue, extra-strong Scotch tape, and two staples. Just to be sure Mom wouldn’t sneak a peak. She had previously, and that counted for something around here.

77 Blair Road

ML5 1QE

November 2

Hi, big dude,

How’s it hanging? That’s American movie language. Yes, you’ve probably guessed it: I have been watching trillions of Yank films. My favorites are
Reservoir Dogs
,
Clerks
,
Weird Science
,
The Breakfast Club
, and
Buffalo 66
. Have you seen any of them? Actually, I’m not really sure if you and the boys get to watch films where you are based. It’s probably in case the airwaves are intercepted by the terrorists and they could quickly detect your whereabouts. Thinking about it, it’s not a good idea to put your lives at risk because of
Reservoir Dogs
or
Clerks
. If you want, I can write you a detailed synopsis of them. That’s what we’re doing in Mrs. Seed’s class, except the films she picks are sooooooooooooooooooooooooo Utterly Butterly mince.
Titanic
and
The English Patient
. OMG YUCK!!!!!!

Things are probably A-okay here. Mom is still the same. We’ve been having lots of fights (not fisticuffs) recently. I think it’s maybe because I am going through that phase—you know, the one boys go through when all they can think about is nudie women and doing the things that moms don’t like? Well, I think I’m going through that period. It would be good to have you here so we could talk about all that stuff and you could give me some man-to-man advice. I suppose I could ask Tony. He’s Mom’s new pal. He’s a taxi driver, but he’s got a brain in his head. I’m not sure, but I think he reads books when he’s waiting long hours on a fare; in a way it’s good brain gym. He comes round sometimes to chat and have a cuppa, but it would be too weird to ask him for some man-to-man chat, ’cause Tony the taxi driver isn’t my main man. By that I mean he’s not my dad. I used to think he was a right whalloper, but he’s not a bad big chap. He’s a mega fan of Pink Floyd and the Kinks. Do you know them?

I can’t take all the blame for the fights because I think that Mom is going through the mental change in her life. She is at that stage where women change their brain thoughts from one day to the next, and they don’t feel like they’re a woman any longer. It’s Billy Bonkers. Who would be a woman, eh? We have been doing exactly that topic in the “adult section” in our biology class, but to tell you the truth I’m not fully grasping it. It’s number 77 in the textbook, but I haven’t read it all yet. I’m more into English, drama, and PE.

One of my buds from school stayed over for the night, and Mom went barmy army because this bud was a girl. Nothing happened, though. She slept in my bed and I crashed on the floor. She snored loads and kept me up most of the night. That’s a good one to use to take the pure p*** out of her in the future. My best bud, Amir, the one I told you about, has a new bird. She’s like him, if you know what I mean. Her name is Priya. She’s in the year below us at school. I keep calling him a pedo cradle-snatcher, which he hates. But even though she’s his new girl best bud, I will always be his real best bud ’cause I won’t ever say things like “I don’t want you to kiss me anymore, Amir
”
or “Amir, I don’t want you to hold my hand.” He met her at the school’s Halloween disco (that’s another story). I haven’t asked Amir yet if
I
will always be
his
best bud (I will). Girls come and go, but best buds are like brothers from another mother for life, no?

I saw on the news that some of the troops are being sent home because our side has almost won the war and the people don’t really need their help any longer, and if they stayed, they’d become a nuisance in the eyes of the people, who would then start to hate and resent them. Is that where you are? Have you been given a date to return? I have asked Mom loads of times when you’ll be back, but she just says that you’ll “be home when you’re home.” I even asked Tony the taxi driver, but he said it was “out of his hands.” Tony the taxi driver used to park in your space, but after I gave him an old-fashioned tongue wagging he wouldn’t Dan Dare. I told you about it in my last letter, but there was a problem with the delivery of that one, which is ultraboring to go into now. I’ll bend your ear when you get home. I’m not really going to “bend” your ear—it’s just a saying.