Just Crazy (4 page)

I pull the nozzle away from my eye and sit down on the side of the bath to catch my breath.

Right. That's it. Enough mucking around.

The vacuum cleaner is not the solution.

The Band-Aid is too well stuck.

I'm just going to have to do it by hand.

I grab the Band-Aid in the middle, pinch it as hard as I can and rip.

There.

It's off.

That wasn't so bad.

Hardly hurt a bit.

The trick to these things is just to get them over and done with as fast as possible.

I put the Band-Aid into my pocket — that could come in handy for annoying Jen later
on. She hates used Band-Aids. She thinks they're disgusting. Especially when they turn up in her sandwiches.

I stand up and look in the mirror

It's amazing. Six months — and all that's left is a faint pink rectangle with a grey gummy outline.

No scar. Nothing. Just skin. Normal, perfectly healed skin.

Oh no.

I don't believe it.

The Band-Aid is gone and my cut has healed but now I have a big red and black nozzle ring around my left eye. It's sort of a combination of a bruise and a blood blister.

I can't have my photo taken like this.

What am I going to do?

Now I won't look like an idiot with a Band-Aid under my eye — now I'll look like an idiot wearing half a pair of glasses.

Glasses.

Glasses!

What better way to get my photo taken? Everybody will look at the school photo and think, who's that intelligent-looking guy with the glasses? He must be sooooo smart.

But I'm only wearing
half a
pair of glasses.

I need to finish the job.

I know what I have to do.

It's going to hurt, but it will be worth it.

Like I said, I'm not scared of a little bit of pain.

I turn the vacuum cleaner back on.

It roars into action.

I put the nozzle up to my right eye.

Here goes.

PHOOMPH!

The nozzle grabs hold of my eyeball and starts sucking.

It doesn't feel quite as bad this time because I'm used to it, but still, it doesn't tickle.

I leave it there for as long as I can stand the pain. That should do it.

I turn around to hit the ‘off' switch, but as I do, the vaccuum cleaner hose crashes into the open bathroom cabinet and wipes everything off the shelf.

It all comes tumbling off the shelves and smashes onto the bathroom tiles.

There's broken glass and shampoo and razor blades and perfume and soap and tablets and foul-smelling ointment all over the floor And the vacuum cleaner nozzle is
still stuck on my eye. It's really starting to hurt now.

I go for the switch again but as I do I slip. I grab at the towel rail but all I get is a towel. It slides off and I fall down, hard.

OOF!

The right side of my face crunches against the tiles. I hit something sharp.

OUCH!

I lift my head.

I see a razor blade.

I see blood.

Blood!

My blood is on the floor!

And the vacuum cleaner is sucking my eyeball out.

I try to stand but I can't. My ankle hurts too much.

I can't reach the switch.

I'm pulling at the vacuum cleaner nozzle with both hands, pulling as hard as I can but I can't get it off.

I'm too weak.

I'm losing too much blood.

What a crazy way to die!

I drag myself across the floor towards the vacuum cleaner.

I push the ‘off' switch.

The roaring subsides. The vacuum cleaner stops sucking.

I hold onto the sink and pull myself up.

I look in the mirror.

Oh no.

This is bad.

I have a big red and black nozzle mark around my right eye — it matches the other one perfectly. I look more intelligent than I ever dreamed possible.

But what I also have is a razor blade cut — just under my right eye.

It's bleeding.

A lot.

I'm going to need a Band-Aid on that.

uick!' I yell. ‘We have to stop him!'

Danny and I are chasing Sooty down the hall.

He's just eaten the model flying saucer that we made for our assignment on aliens. There's nothing left except a few scraps of chewed cardboard.

It took us the whole weekend to make that. We made it out of paper plates, egg-cartons and toilet rolls. It was painted green and had these little aliens sitting in the cockpit we cut out from an egg-carton. Well, they weren't really aliens — they were two of Danny's toy soldiers but we melted their heads to make them look like aliens. It wasn't easy, either. We destroyed the whole platoon before
we got two that looked exactly right. The flying saucer looked great too — just like the real thing. We just left it for a moment and then Sooty goes and eats it. I'm going to kill him.

Once I catch him.

He runs into the lounge room and scrambles under the couch.

‘Get out!' I yell. ‘Get out right now!'

But Sooty is not stupid.

Dumb, but not stupid.

He stays under the couch. He knows how angry I am.

‘Ms Livingstone's going to be mad,' I say.

‘I know,' says Danny. ‘We're going to have to make it all over again.'

‘We might be able to make another flying saucer,' I say, ‘but we can't make any more aliens. We don't have any soldiers left, remember? You wrecked them all.'

‘I wrecked them all?' says Danny. ‘You were the one who had the blowtorch up too high.'

‘Yeah, well, whatever,' I say. ‘The fact is that we don't have our assignment.'

Danny shrugs. ‘We'll just tell Ms Livingstone that Sooty ate it,' he says.

‘What?' I say ‘Tell her “the dog ate it”?'

‘Yeah,' says Danny. ‘Why not?'

‘Are you kidding?' I say.

‘But it's the truth,' says Danny.

I shake my head.

‘Danny,' I say, ‘I know that and you know that, but to Ms Livingstone it will just sound like the most pathetic excuse in the world. Everybody uses that one!'

I'm not like Danny. I pride myself on my excuses. I may not get my homework in on time and I may not get the best marks, but I always have a good excuse. One that is original, brilliant and, most importantly, believable.

‘Yeah,' says Danny. ‘We need a really good excuse.' He thinks for a moment. ‘How about we tell her your house burned down?'

‘No good,' I say. ‘I used that one a few months ago. Ms Livingstone already thinks we're living in a tent while the house is being rebuilt.'

‘Why don't we tell her that the tent burnt down?'

‘Danny!' I say ‘Get real.'

Danny frowns and shrugs.

‘I don't know,' he says. ‘Why would Sooty eat our flying saucer anyway? It was just cardboard and glue.'

‘He'll eat anything,' I say. ‘Horse poo, dead
birds . . . you name it he's eaten it. He even eats his own spew.'

‘Gross!' says Danny.

‘Not to him,' I say. ‘He loves it. Sometimes I think he vomits just so he can eat it again.'

‘That's it!' says Danny. ‘Why don't we get him to vomit our flying saucer back up?'

‘Yeah, right,' I say. ‘That will get us a good mark. Ms Livingstone will be really impressed by a pile of frothy dog vomit.'

‘No, I don't mean we'd hand it in,' says Danny. ‘All we need is the aliens. We can build them another flying saucer.'

I can't believe it. Danny's actually had a good idea. It wouldn't be that hard to build another flying saucer. And we still have the written part of the assignment.

‘I guess it's worth a try,' I say.

‘But how do we get Sooty to be sick?' says Danny. ‘Is there a command for that?'

‘No,' I say. ‘And if there was, Sooty wouldn't obey it anyway. We're going to have to
make
him sick.'

‘How?' says Danny. ‘Force feed him dog food?'

‘No,' I say. ‘He can eat that forever and not be sick. Chocolate is what we need.'

‘Good idea,' says Danny. ‘Chocolate always makes me think better.'

‘Not for us, you dope,' I say. ‘For Sooty. One Easter, Sooty ate all my Easter eggs. A whole bag full. He was really sick then.'

‘But where are we going to get that much chocolate?' says Danny. ‘I don't have any money. Do you?'

‘Relax,' I say. ‘We don't need money. You stay here and guard Sooty. I'll be right back.'

I go to the laundry. Dad's secret chocolate supply is right at the back of the laundry cupboard. I don't know why we call it his secret supply, really. The only thing secret about it is that he doesn't know that we all know it's there.

I push the bottles of disinfectant and cleaning stuff out of the way and pull out a plastic bag full of chocolate. There are three bags of scorched almonds, a box of Jaffas, two family-sized blocks of milk chocolate, half a dozen caramel Easter eggs and a big tray of assorted creams. If that doesn't make him sick, then nothing will.

I take the bag into the lounge room.

‘Here, Sooty,' I call. I unwrap a caramel nut swirl. I crunch the wrapper noisily in my hand.
That ought to do the trick. Sooty can never resist the sound of food being opened.

He pokes his head out from under the couch.