Blabber Mouth (6 page)

Amanda looked more alarmed.

I stood up.

Dad always reckons I'm a blabber mouth and he's probably right.

‘A proper race,' I wrote. ‘On the oval. A hundred metres. Me and you.'

Darryn read the note.

‘You're on,' he said.

I wrote some more.

‘The loser has to eat a frog.'

Darryn read that note twice.

Then he gave his biggest smirk ever.

‘You're on,' he said.

One of his mates, who'd been reading over his shoulder, tugged his sleeve.

‘That big tent's up over the running track, Darryn.'

‘OK,' said Darryn, not taking his eyes off me, ‘Monday lunchtime, after they take the tent down.'

He screwed the notes up and bounced them off my chest.

‘Don't have any breakfast,' he smirked as he swaggered off with his mates, ‘cause you'll be having a big lunch.'

Amanda unscrewed the note and read it and looked up at me as if I was a complete and total loony, which I probably am.

Before she could say anything, a voice boomed out behind us.

‘Amanda,' it roared, ‘get out of the gutter.'

It was Mr Cosgrove, coming out of the menswear shop.

Amanda jumped up and her shoulders seemed to kind of sag and instead of looking at him she looked down at the ground.

I didn't blame her.

His grey-green checked jacket clashed horribly with his irritable pink face.

‘You're a young lady,' he snapped at her, ‘not a drunken derro.'

Amanda still didn't look up.

Then Mr Cosgrove saw me, and an amazing thing happened.

In front of my eyes he changed from a bad-tempered father into a smiling president of the Progress Association.

‘Hello there,' he said.

I smiled weakly and gave him a little wave.

‘We're very grateful to you,' said Mr Cosgrove, ‘for giving up your time this evening.'

I looked at Amanda, confused, but she was still examining the footpath between her feet.

‘It would have been a rum do,' continued Mr Cosgrove, ‘if the president's daughter had been the only one at the community service evening without a community service project.'

I stared at him.

I fumbled for my notepad.

But before I could start writing, Amanda spoke.

‘Dad,' she said in a tiny voice, ‘you've got it wrong. Ro's not my community service project.'

Mr Cosgrove stared at her.

‘But three days ago you told me she was,' he boomed. ‘Who is?'

‘I haven't got one,' she said in an even tinier voice, still looking at the ground.

Mr Cosgrove stood there until his face almost matched his shiny dark red shoes.

‘That's just about what I would have expected from you, young lady,' he said finally. ‘Come on, inside.'

Amanda didn't look at me, she just followed her father into the shop.

As I watched her go, I knew I'd have to make a decision.

Do I turn my back on a friend?

Or do I allow myself to be turned into a community service project?

A helpless case.

A spazzo.

Sympathetic smiles.

Well-meaning whispers.

For the rest of my life.

I still haven't decided.

I promised myself I'd make the decision while I was walking home and I'm almost there and I still haven't.

I wish I was the carpenter in the song.

Compared to this, it'd be a breeze.

Even if I had run over the poodle.

If you've got a tough decision to make, talk it over with an apple farmer, that's my advice.

They're really good at getting straight to the guts of a matter and ignoring all the distracting waffle. I think it comes from working with nature and the Department of Agriculture.

‘It's simple, Tonto,' said Dad, after I'd explained it all to him. ‘If you do it, it's good for her and bad for you. If you don't do it, it's bad for her and good for you. I care more about you than her, so I don't reckon you should do it.'

I thought about Amanda at home with her angry Dad.

I thought about how her face would light up when she opened the door and saw me standing there.

Then I thought about my first day at school and how people with a temper like mine aren't cut out to be community service projects because if we crack under the sympathy who knows what we might end up stuffing into someone's mouth.

Squishy soap.

Smelly socks.

A frill-necked lizard.

‘You're right, Dad,' I said.

He nodded and reached into the fridge for a sarsaparilla.

‘But,' I continued, ‘I'm still gunna do it.'

Dad grinned.

‘Good on you, Tonto,' he said. ‘I knew you would.'

Like I said, apple farmers are really simple down-to-earth people.

‘I've never been to a community service night,' continued Dad. ‘Hang on while I chuck a clean shirt on.'

My stomach sagged.

I hope they're also the sort of people who keep promises about behaving themselves in public.

Amanda opened the door and when she saw me standing there, she just stared.

‘Can I get a lift to the community service evening with you?' I asked. ‘Dad's gone on ahead.'

Yes, I know, it was a bit theatrical. Runs in the family, I guess.

Amanda's face lit up.

Mr Cosgrove's did too.

Well, sort of.

He stopped scowling and by the time we arrived at the RSL club he'd even smiled at me and told me not to be nervous because everybody there would be very sympathetic.

They were.

Amanda took me around the crowded hall and introduced me to people.

‘This is Rowena Batts,' she said. ‘She's vocally disadvantaged but she's coping very well.'

And everyone nodded very sympathetically.

Just before the fifth introduction I stuck a cocktail sausage up my nose to make it look as though I wasn't coping very well, but the people still nodded sympathetically.

When Amanda saw the sausage she pulled it out and glanced anxiously over at her father, and when she saw he hadn't seen it, she relaxed.

‘Ro,' she giggled, ‘stop it.'

‘I will if you do,' I said.

She frowned and thought about this, and then, because she's basically a sensitive and intelligent and great person, she realised what I meant.

At the next introduction she just said, ‘This is Ro', and I said g'day with my hands and left it to the people to work out for themselves whether I'm vocally disadvantaged or an airport runway worker.

Then I realised we'd been there ten minutes and I hadn't even checked on Dad.

I looked anxiously around the hall for a ruckus, but Dad was over by the refreshments table yakking to an elderly lady. From his arm movements and the uncomfortable expression on her face I decided he was probably describing how codling moth caterpillars do their poos inside apples, but she might just have been finding his orange shirt a bit bright.

Amanda squeezed my arm and pointed to the stage.

Mr Cosgrove was at the microphone.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,' he said, ‘welcome to the Progress Association's first Community Service Night.'

I smiled to myself because his normally gruff voice had gone squeaky with nerves.

‘He's vocally disadvantaged,' I said to Amanda, ‘but he's coping very well.'

Amanda didn't smile.

I don't think she understood all the signs.

Then I heard what Mr Cosgrove said next and suddenly I wasn't smiling either.

‘Now,' he said, ‘I'm going to ask each of our Helping Hands to bring their Community Service Projectee up onto the stage, and tell us a little about them, so that we, as a community as a whole, can help them to lead fuller and more rewarding lives. First I'd like to call on Miss Amanda Cosgrove.'

I stared at Amanda in horror.

She looked at me apologetically, then took my hand and led me up onto the stage.

Everyone applauded, except for one person who whistled. But then Dad never has grasped the concept of embarrassment.

I stood on the stage and a sea of faces looked up at me.

All sympathetic.

Except for Dad who was beaming with pride.

And except for the other Projects—a bloke with one arm, a young bloke in a wheelchair, an elderly lady with a humpy back, and a kid with callipers on her legs—who all looked as terrified as I felt.

Then a strange thing happened.

As Mr Cosgrove handed the microphone to Amanda and went down into the audience, my terror disappeared.

My guts relaxed and as I looked down at all the sympathetic faces I suddenly knew what I had to do.

I knew I had to do it even if it meant Amanda never spoke to me again.

Amanda coughed and spoke into the microphone in a tiny voice.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Ro and I'd like to tell you a bit about her.'

I tapped her on the arm and she looked at me, startled.

‘I want to do it,' I said.

I had to say it twice, but then she understood.

‘Um, Ro wants to tell you about herself,' she said, looking worried.

I made my hand movements as big and slow as I could.

‘We're not projects,' I said, ‘we're people.'

I looked at Amanda and I could tell she'd understood.

She gripped the microphone nervously.

I looked at her, my heart thumping, and I knew if she was a real friend she'd say it.

‘Ro says,' said Amanda, and her voice started getting louder, ‘that she and the others aren't projects, they're people.'

There was absolute silence in the hall.

‘I'm just like all of you,' I said. ‘An ordinary person with problems.'

‘Ro's just like all of us,' said Amanda. ‘An ordinary person with ditches.'

She looked at me, puzzled.

‘Problems,' I repeated.

‘Problems,' she said.

‘I've got problems making word sounds,' I said, ‘perhaps you've got problems making a living, or a sponge cake, or number twos.'

Amanda said it all, even the bit about number twos.

The hall was still silent.

‘You can feel sympathy for me if you want,' I continued, ‘and I can feel sympathy for you if I want. And I do feel sympathy for any of you who haven't got a true friend.'

I looked over at Amanda.

As she repeated what I'd said, she looked at me, eyes shining.

We stood like that, grinning at each other, for what seemed like months.

Then everyone started clapping.

Well, almost everyone.

Two people were too busy to clap.

Too busy rolling on the floor, scattering the crowd, arms and legs tangled, brown suit and orange satin, rolling over and over, fists flying.

Dad and Mr Cosgrove.

I jumped down from the stage and pushed my way through the crowd.

People were shouting and screaming, and several of the men were pulling Dad and Mr Cosgrove away from each other.

By the time I got through, Dad was sitting on the edge of the refreshments table, gasping for breath, a red trickle running down his face.

I gasped myself when I saw it.

Then I saw the coleslaw in his hair and the piece of lettuce over one ear and I realised the trickle was beetroot juice.

Dad looked up and saw me and spat out what I hoped was a piece of coleslaw and not a tooth.

‘That mongrel's not only a cheese-brain,' he said, ‘he's a rude bugger.'

He scowled across at Mr Cosgrove, who was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. Various RSL officials were scraping avocado dip off his face and suit.

Amanda and Mrs Cosgrove were there too.

I caught Amanda's eye. She lifted her hands and rolled her eyes.

Parents.

Exactly.

‘He called you handicapped,' said Dad. ‘I told him that was bull. I told him a person being handicapped means they can't do something. I told him when it comes to yakking on you're probably the biggest blabber mouth in Australia.'

‘Thanks, Dad,' I said.

‘Then he called you spoiled,' Dad went on, ‘so I let him have it with the avocado dip.'

Part of me wanted to hug Dad and part of me wanted to let him have it with the avocado dip.

Except it was too late, his shirt was covered in it.

I made a mental note to tell Dad avocado suited him. At least it wasn't as bright as the orange.

I took one of my socks off and dipped it in the fruit punch and wiped some of the beetroot juice off his face.

‘Are you OK?' I asked.

‘I'll live,' he said, ‘though I feel like I've been stabbed in the guts.'

I looked anxiously for knife wounds.

‘Belt buckle,' explained Dad. ‘I don't think it's pierced the skin.'

He was wearing the skeleton on the Harley.

‘I'd better get cleaned up,' said Dad. He looked down at himself and shook his head wearily. ‘I'll never get coleslaw out of these boots,' he said, and squelched off into the Gents.

I wrung my sock out and realised that about a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at me.

As I was one of the attractions of the evening I decided I should try and get things back to normal.

I picked up the bowl of avocado dip and a basket of Jatz and offered them around.

Nobody took any.

After a while I realised why.

In the avocado dip was the impression of Mr Cosgrove's face.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Then I looked up and saw an even less pretty sight.

The real Mr Cosgrove's face, red and furious, coming towards me.

Mrs Cosgrove and Amanda were trying to restrain him, but he kept on coming.

He stopped with his face so close to mine I could see the veins in his eyeballs and the coleslaw in his ears.

‘I don't want your family anywhere near my family,' he said through gritted teeth, ‘and that includes you. Stay away from my daughter.'