Just Stupid! (17 page)

   What sort of boy is this Andy?

   I look at a photograph on a pinboard. The boy has his thumbs jammed in the corner of his mouth and his pointer fingers in the corners of his eyes. He is pulling his eyes down and his mouth up. And sticking his tongue out as well. What an idiot.

   I look in a mirror. I don’t look anything like that. I can’t be this boy. Whoever I am, I’m not Andy. Unless . . . I’d better just do a quick check. I rest the photo against the mirror. I put my thumbs in my mouth and my fingers in my eyes and try to pinch my fingers and thumbs together. I stick my tongue out.

   The resemblance is uncanny.

   But this can’t be right! I can’t be Andy. He’s sick! He’s disturbed! Me looking like him is just a coincidence. Yeah, that’s it. Just some sort of crazy coincidence. I don’t belong here. Somewhere, somebody’s probably missing me. I bet they’re really worried. I know! I’ll ring Missing Persons and see if anybody has reported me missing.

   I go downstairs and find a telephone. I ring up the police.

   ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’d like to see if anybody has reported me missing.’

   ‘I see . . .’ says the man on the other end of the phone. ‘What is your name?’

   ‘I can’t remember,’ I say.

   ‘You can’t remember?’

   ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m ringing you. I think I might be missing and I wanted to see if anybody is looking for me.’

   ‘Is this a prank call?’ says the man.

   ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not a prank call. I’m serious.’

   ‘So let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You’re the missing person, are you?’

   ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

   ‘Can you describe your exact location at this moment?’ he says.

   ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m in a house talking on the telephone.’

   ‘Excellent,’ says the man. ‘Case solved.’

   ‘Huh?’ I say.

   ‘Well,’ says the man, ‘as far as I can figure it, if you are the missing person in question then you just found yourself, so you’re no longer missing. Goodbye.’

   He hangs up. That wasn’t really as helpful
as I’d hoped. Just my luck to get the new guy. And my head is starting to hurt again.

   I sit down on the couch.

   There is a pile of books on the coffee table. I pick one up.
Coping With A Problem Child
. I pick up another one.
Your Non-gifted Child
. Under that is one called
Smack Your Child To Success
.

   Gee, that Jen must be a real troublemaker.

   The glass door slides open. I look up. It’s the woman from the photo, the man with the big ears and the girl called Jen. They are carrying plastic bags.

   ‘Well,’ says Big Ears, ‘don’t just sit there—give us some help.’

   ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘who am I?’

   ‘Andy, this is no time for a game of twenty questions,’ he says. ‘Get up off that couch and help us with these bags.’

   ‘So I’m Andy, am I?’ I say.

   ‘Andy,’ says Big Ears, ‘if you don’t get those bags into the kitchen in the next ten seconds I swear I will . . .’

   ‘Okay, okay,’ I say.

   I was right. He has got a bad temper. Best not to get him too upset. I pick up the bags and put them on the kitchen table.

   ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ says the mother, sighing. ‘The shopping isn’t going to put itself away.’

   I put my hand into a bag. I pull out a box of washing powder.

   ‘Where does this go?’ I say.

   ‘In the cupboard in the laundry,’ says the mother. ‘Where do you think?’

   ‘Where’s the laundry?’ I say.

   The mother takes the box out of my hands.

   ‘On second thoughts, don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘It will be quicker to do it myself.’

   ‘Mrs G,’ I say, ‘you think I’m your son, don’t you?’

   ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Worse luck!’

   Big Ears snorts. ‘That’s what they told us at the hospital,’ he says, ‘but I think there must have been a mix-up.’

   ‘Really?’ I say. This could explain everything. ‘Do you think there’s any way of checking?’

   ‘Try the zoo,’ says the girl. ‘They’re probably looking for you right now.’

   ‘The zoo?’ I say. I guess it’s worth a try.

   I turn to the mother.

   ‘Would you be able to take me there?’ I say.

   ‘Where?’ she says.

   ‘To the zoo,’ I say.

   ‘No!’ she says. ‘What is the matter with you, Andy? Why all these stupid questions?’

   ‘I’ve lost my memory!’ I say. ‘I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who you are.’

   ‘Very funny,’ says the mother.

   ‘It’s true!’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’m who you think I am.’

   ‘This is a poor time for another one of your incomprehensible jokes, young man,’ says Big Ears. ‘You’re already skating on thin ice bringing home a report with five E’s.’

   ‘Five E’s?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong with five E’s? Doesn’t E stand for excellent?’

   The girl snorts.

   ‘Five E’s for EEEEEDIOT!’ she says.

   The mother sighs again.

   ‘What about that talk we had last night?’ she says. ‘Don’t you remember what you promised?’

   ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t remember anything.’

   Big Ears screws up his face.

   ‘So let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You don’t remember anything?’

   ‘No,’ I say.

   ‘You don’t remember who you are?’

   ‘No.’

   ‘You don’t remember your name?’

   ‘I think it’s Andy,’ I say, ‘but only because that’s what everybody keeps calling me.’

   ‘I see,’ says Big Ears. ‘Well the best cure for amnesia is to do the things you normally do in a familiar environment. That should help jog your memory.’

   ‘But what sort of things do I normally do?’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. What am I like?’

   ‘Well for a start you’re really annoying,’ says the girl. ‘You play really dumb tricks and you do really stupid things.’

   ‘Really?’ I say.

   The mother laughs.

   ‘No, no, no,’ she says. ‘That’s just Jen having a little joke.’

   I was right. That girl is a troublemaker.

   The girl looks annoyed.

   ‘But, Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s true.’

   ‘That’s enough, Jen,’ says Big Ears. ‘Andy wants to know what sort of boy he
really
is. And we’re going to help him remember.’

   ‘Yes, please,’ I say, ‘tell me!’

   ‘Well,’ says the mother, ‘you’re very helpful. In fact, you’re never happier than when you’re helping others.’

   ‘I am?’

   ‘Yes,’ says the mother. ‘You just love housework.’

   ‘I do?’ I say.

   ‘But not just housework,’ says Big Ears. ‘You love working in the garden as well.’

   ‘Really?’ I say.

   ‘And you love being my slave and doing everything I tell you to do,’ says the girl.

   ‘I do?’ I say.

   ‘YES!’ they say.

   The mother hands me a pair of dishwashing gloves and a bottle of detergent. ‘The sooner you get started,’ she says, ‘the sooner you’ll get your memory back.’

It’s 6pm. I’ve washed the dishes, mopped the floor, cleaned the cars, mowed the lawn, cleared out the gutters, vacuumed every room in the house, cut the girl’s toenails and sorted her CD collection into alphabetical order, but nothing has worked. I still don’t know who I am. All I know is I’m exhausted.

   Big Ears walks across the backyard towards me.

   He is holding a biscuit tin and an enormous metal spring with a doll’s head jammed on one end. ‘I assume this is yours,’ he says.