17
Pleasant and reasonable
After Mum and I cleaned up the mess Sir Tiffy had made on the kitchen floor* we put our unwelcome house guest to bed and thankfully we didn’t hear a MWAAAAAAARRR! out of him till the morning. (*Okay, the cleaning thing was mainly Mum, but I did fill up the bucket and hand her the mop. When it came to wiping the milk from Sir Tiffy’s backside, she was on her own!)
‘The poor thing must have slept like the dead,’ Mum said the next day.
Not surprising, I told her, for something that looked like a zombie.
Mum suggested I should give it a rest.
Just before midday on Saturday, The Pain kept his word (threat?) and turned up at our place with a heap more cat food and some other odds and ends. Then we had to suffer through his riveting explanation of Sir Tiffy’s tablets, medicine, vitamins and eye-drop routine. Mum kept nudging me the whole time and telling me to pay attention otherwise we might end up ‘accidentally poisoning the poor thing’. (Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.) Half an hour later I was sitting out on our back landing with my mother and The Pain having lunch.
Yes, you heard that right. Me, Mum and The Pain. Having lunch together.
Don’t worry, I wasn’t delirious with a fever or anything like that. It’s just that my mother had managed to make me feel mega guilty ever since the day of the Great Cheese Robbery when I had skilfully avoided eating with them. Plus, she’d also promised to take me clothes shopping if I promised to be ‘pleasant and reasonable’ in the presence of The Pain. What was that thing Macbeth said about a false face hiding what a false heart does know? Time to put my acting skills to the test.
I was doing pretty well too, and lunch itself was bordering on the bearable when things took a disturbing turn. My mother looked out across our back landing, took a bite out of her avocado and tomato cracker, chewed for a while then said, ‘Our backyard is such an embarrassment. Really it is. It was bad enough when we first moved in, but now it’s an absolute jungle.’
Cue The Pain to start singing, ‘A-wimoweh! A-wimoweh! A-wimoweh! A-wimoweh!’
I silently recited my new mantra. Must be pleasant and reasonable. Must be pleasant and reasonable. Must be pleasant and reasonable.
Fortunately for me, being ‘pleasant and reasonable’ did not mean I had to laugh myself stupid at The Pain’s dismal attempts at humour. So I didn’t. Instead I managed a microscopic movement of my lips that might have hinted at the faint possibility of the beginnings of a half-hearted pseudo-smile. I also said a quiet prayer that The Pain wouldn’t perform the entire song. Luckily my mother saved the day by groaning and putting her hand over his mouth.
‘Time to put those “a-wims” away,’ she said. (For my mother, that actually wasn’t bad.) ‘But I’m serious. Look at that yard. It’s a disgrace. You could film an entire David Attenborough wildlife special out there.’
Rubbish! Just more of Mum’s ridiculous exaggerations. They’d never be able to get film equipment through vegetation that thick. (Now that’s humour!)
But my mother did have a point. Our backyard was a bit of an eyesore. Basically, all you could see from our landing were overgrown trees and bushes, a mass of weeds and a crazy vine that would have been right at home in that old Jumanji film, covering everything in sight. Somewhere underneath all that vegetation was a patch of lawn.
Mum puffed out a breath as if just looking at it all was exhausting.
‘I think I’ll just have to pay someone to come in and clean the whole lot up.’
And that’s when it got truly disturbing.
‘Don’t be silly,’ The Pain said. ‘They’ll charge you an arm and a leg. You could do it yourself. I’ll give you a hand. If all three of us pitched in, I reckon we could have all the major rubbish cleared out and everything much tidier in half a day.’
Alarm sirens were screaming in my head. ‘Three of us’! I was hoping the panic and horror weren’t showing through on my ‘pleasant and reasonable’ face.
‘You think so? Really?’ Mum said. ‘No. No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
Exactly right, Mum. Good one. You couldn’t. You so couldn’t.
‘Then don’t bother asking and I’ll do it anyway.’
What?
The Pain slapped the table with both hands. ‘Too easy. When can we get stuck in? I’ve got a car club meeting tomorrow but I’m free all next weekend. What do you say?’
A big YES is what my mother said. She could hardly contain her excitement about the whole idea. I, on the other hand, was able to contain mine with hardly any effort at all.
Then The Pain turned to me.
‘So what about you, Maggie? We really could use all hands on deck. Are you in?’
I looked down at the table. I could feel two pairs of eyes burning into me as they waited for an answer. Three main considerations helped inform my response.
Firstly, by a strange twist of fate, I just happened to be taking a break from my intensely wild and hectic, bestie and hunk-filled social life, and as a result of this, I didn’t have any handy excuse for not being home next weekend. Bummer.
Secondly, I’d made that promise to Mum that until she inevitably dumped him, I would try to be ‘pleasant and reasonable’ to The Pain, which meant that if I didn’t help, you could bet I’d be kissing my shopping trip goodbye and embarking on an extensive guilt trip instead.
Thirdly (and most importantly), this was my backyard they were talking about – mine and Mum’s – not The Pain’s! Was I going to just sit back and let him waltz into Castle Butt and start changing it however he wanted, as if he was marking his territory or something? (Ewwww, gross!)
I looked up from the table and met The Pain’s gaze.
I smiled.
‘Sure,’ I said both pleasantly and reasonably.
And that’s how the humungous clean-up campaign aka The Big Butt Backyard Blitz was born. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be so bad.
But of course I had no idea what was waiting for me beneath all that vegetation.
18
A fatal feline attraction
Over the course of the following week it became obvious to me that Castle Butt was under heavy siege. Talk about your great Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane. I feel your pain, Macbeth!
Not only did I have to endure The Pain himself turning up at our house every two or three days either to ‘check on the Tiffster’ or organise something to do with the Backyard Blitz, but I also had the constant pain of his demented ‘daemon’ following me around everywhere like a bad smell. (Which he often literally was.)
Why me? That’s what I wanted to know. Why had Sir Tiffy developed a fatal feline attraction to me? Was it just because I was the one who fed him when he arrived? Was it some kind of cosmic karma payback for that talk I gave in Year Eight on The Curse of Feral Cats? Or was it because my uncanny resemblance to a ninety-one-year-old woman had resulted in Sir Tiffy confusing me with Mrs Monteith?
Whatever the reason, every time I turned round, there he was. If I went to the bathroom, he waited outside. If I didn’t shut the door to my room fast enough, he invited himself in. If I just wanted to relax on the lounge and watch television, he found me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, he’d track me down, drag himself on to my lap, paw away until he turned me into a human pincushion and then flop down and go to sleep – complete with full-throttle snoring and the inevitable dribbling.
What I wanted to know was, how was it even possible to tail someone so effectively when you could hardly see, smell or hear? Feline radar? Voodoo cat ESP? And just for the record, if you’re wondering why I didn’t stop him from climbing up on my lap in the first place or just pick him up and remove him when he did, the simple answer is, ‘ARE YOU INSANE?’ Have you seen Sir Tiffy up close? Didn’t I describe him well enough for you? We’re talking about the Spawn of Satan Gargoyle Cat here!
The one time I did try to stop him, he growled and glared at me with his one evil eye and clamped his jaw so
tightly shut that his mutant tooth stuck out like a dagger. It was TERRIFYING! So I just sat there and got spiked and dribbled on. Do you know how difficult it is to watch television or do your homework to the disturbing sounds of death-rattle purring while at the same time sending out positive telepathic vibes to a demented feline regarding his bladder control? No? Then consider yourself lucky!
Now in case you might think I’m merely being hysterical here or perhaps exaggerating the horrors of living with Sir Tiffy the Pet Cemetery Escapee, let me take a moment to inform you of some of the more creative ways the Tiffster managed to endear himself to me during just the first week of his stay.
• That night following my lunch with Mum and The Pain, Sir Tiffy used his limited sight, defective hearing and sense of smell to skilfully track, trap and capture an already dead and half-decomposed sparrow. Then to show his love and devotion to me, he deposited this glittering prize at my feet during dinner just when my mouth was full of takeaway chicken. Needless to say, my mouth wasn’t full for long. Or my stomach.
• The following morning I awoke from a blissful dream of being squeezed in a passionate embrace and lustfully ‘fanged’ by some hot young vampire type only to find that Sir Tiffy was fast asleep on my chest and dribbling on my neck. SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW!
• That same day, because I’m such a kind and generous soul (and to ensure Sir Tiffy slept in his own bed) I encouraged Mum to buy a brand new warm and cosy, padded cat basket to replace Sir Tiffy’s ratty old one. The next morning when I checked on him, I found him snoring away in his litter tray while a strange, unpleasant smell wafted from his brand new warm and cosy, padded cat basket. (Guess who got lumped with cleaning duty?)
• On Tuesday evening I left my computer unattended for ten minutes and when I returned Sir Tiffy had used the keyboard as a bed and added twenty-three pages of gibberish to my Macbeth assignment. (Deleting it wasn’t too much of a problem, but finding the precise spot where my gibberish ended and Sir Tiffy’s started took ages!)
• The next morning I was running late for school and worried I’d miss my bus, so I rushed into the kitchen to grab a health bar for breakfast only to find that Sir Tiffy had performed his saucer trick again and sent another trail of milk spewing across the tiles. I discovered the presence of the previously mentioned milk trail only after I stepped in it, did the splits very impressively on the kitchen floor and gracefully planted my backside right on top of the soggy remains of a bowl of Little Bittie Kittie Fishie Bites. Choice!
• And finally, on Thursday afternoon following another excruciatingly tedious and demoralising session with Bert Duggan, I finally returned home to the sanctuary of my room, dumped my bag on the floor and threw myself face first on my bed – only to discover that Sir Tiffy, the Incontinent Cadaver Cat, had piddled on my pillow.
It was obvious that the universe had it in for me. By the time Friday arrived I was already expecting the worst.
Imagine my shock when the opposite occurred.
19
An actual male-type life form
I GOT ASKED OUT! By a boy! On a date! To the movies! Goal 2 here I come!
No, I’m not kidding.
No, it wasn’t a dream.
No, I hadn’t taken any mind-altering substances.
NO, I DIDN’T HAVE TO PAY HIM!
I’m speaking the truth. At school that Friday, an actual male-type life form (and you’ll never guess who!) made a serious enquiry as to the possibility of one Marguerite Simone Butt accompanying said male-type life form to a local entertainment venue for the purpose of viewing a contemporary cinematic presentation.
I can’t say it any plainer than that, can I?
YAY! I ROCK! GO ME! I AM THAT BOMB OF WHICH THEY ALL SPEAK!
Okay, so now I suppose you want me to tell you every last minute detail of how it all unfolded. Gosh, all right. If you insist.
Well, it was near the end of lunch and I was over at the resource centre standing in front of the Year Ten noticeboard. I was waiting to put my name down for an upcoming subject talk on Film and Television. Mum was finally coming around, even though she still insisted that the acting and the movie business in general was filled with people with ‘over-inflated egos, libidos and breasts and under-inflated morals, principles and brains’. Which I think is actually a slight improvement on her previous description of the industry as being ‘infested with shallow, attention-seeking, ruthless, sex-mad, egomaniacal, bottom-dwelling scumbags who just cannibalise each other to reach the top’. Like I said before, her views on this particular subject may have been a teensy-weensy bit coloured by personal experience.
Anyway, back to the story. The reason I was waiting to put my name on the list, and not actually putting my name on the list, was because there was someone else in front of me who was in the (slow) process of putting their name down on a different list. Probably the talk on Extension Genius or Advanced Nerd.
The person was Jeremy Tyler-Roy.
As I waited I started to wonder what kind of job Jeremy would end up in. Robot builder? Head scientist on Mars? Quiz show champion? Nursing home technician?
I wasn’t kidding with that last one. On our third visit while I was enduring yet another soul-destroying, blood-from-an-anaemic-stone conversation with Bert Duggan, Jeremy was running sessions for any of the residents who were interested (and there were plenty) on how to access the internet on the nursing home’s three ancient hardly-ever-touched computers. In no time at all he had them searching for old friends and relatives, looking up all sorts of things, watching some amazing, and from what I could hear, cacklingly hilarious videos, and even setting up their own email and Facebook accounts so that all their tech-savvy grandchildren and great-grandchildren could contact them.
Cyber Boy was definitely showing signs of unexpected humanoid-like qualities.
While I stood there waiting for Jeremy to finish, I actually started to feel a bit bad. We’d been on three trips to Evensong together and I still hadn’t spoken a single word to him. Right then and there, I made up my mind to change that. After all, talking to Jeremy Tyler-Roy couldn’t be any harder than chatting with Bert Duggan, could it? It was time to break the ice and open up the channels of communication with Cyber Boy.
I stepped a little closer.
I cleared my throat.
And a voice came from over my left shoulder.
‘Whatcha putting your name down for?’
I turned round. It was Jason Price. I knew Jason vaguely from some Science lessons we had together. And like everyone else, I also knew a bit about some of the other members of his family. But Jason himself had never directed a question at me in his entire life before. Ever. Why was he doing it now? Weird.
‘Sorry?’
‘What talk are you going to?’
I glanced back at the noticeboard. Jeremy Tyler-Roy was moving off.
‘Oh. The Film and Television one.’ ‘You like movies then, eh?’
‘Movies? Me? Um, yeah. Sure. Yeah, I do.’ ‘Yeah, me too.’
Well, that seemed to have sorted that out. Jason Price and I – along with most of the people on the planet – liked movies. Handy to know. I filed that crucial piece of information away in my memory banks. With Jeremy Tyler-Roy now loping away in the distance, I stepped forward and wrote my name on the list.
For some reason Jason was still there when I’d finished. And still talking.
‘So you’re thinking of doing Film and Television next year?’
‘Ah, yes, probably. If I can convince my mother. I want to go into acting and maybe directing. Thought it would help.’
‘Yeah, I’m doing it too. Figured it’d be a bludge.’
‘Right. Cool. You’ve thought it through then.’
I was about to walk off but Jason still hadn’t finished.
‘So … then … maybe we could … catch a movie together sometime.’
I was confused. ‘Catch a movie together’? What a strange thing to say
. I mean really, what were the chances of Jason Price and I ending up at the same place when a movie was screening?
Then something clicked.
Wait a minute. Is he? Was he? Did he? Have I … just been asked out?
OMG, I think I had. I think Jason Price had just asked me out.
Do something. SAY something. SPEAK!
‘A movie? What? You mean … you … and me? Us?’
‘Yeah. If you want to. I can’t do much this weekend ‘cause I’ve got football on and then I have to help my brother with some stuff. But next Sunday would be good. Unless you’re doing something already.’
Doing something? Let me think. Does practising my milk splits in the kitchen or disinfecting my room of cat urine count?
‘Oh. Um … right … I … I think I’m free. Yeah. Okay. I guess we could … yeah … do that.’
‘Cool.’
Almost as romantic as that scene where Romeo meets Juliet at the masked ball, don’t you think? Anyway, before I knew it, the deal was done and the details all sorted.
Maggie & Jason’s Awesome Date Details!
Time: Next Sunday at 1 pm.
Place: Crystal Theatre Complex.
Movie: Destroyers of the Realm IV – Revenge or Death!
Okay, no, it wouldn’t have exactly been my first choice. Possibly not even in my top twenty. But to be honest, neither was Jason Price. Not that I was desperate or anything, but with the graduation dance only around five weeks away, that invitation had immediately improved my barely existent chances of having a partner on the night. And having a partner, any partner, was sure to improve my loner-loser image immensely. In short, it was no time to be super-picky.
Besides, Jason was all right. He was just like everyone else. He had his PROs and CONs.
Jason Price’s CONs:
• It was common knowledge that he’d just broken up a couple of weeks ago with his long-time girlfriend Brodie Fox. (The same Brodie Fox who in Modern History class one day asked if the United Nations was a football team. No comment.) But I was hoping that wouldn’t be a problem because I’d heard Brodie say on more than one occasion (perhaps not entirely convincingly) that she was ‘fine’ and the ‘whole break-up thing’ was ‘no big deal’.