CHAPTER 1

‘What do you think, Cooper?’ My mum bites her lip. She doesn’t look too sure about her new creation. She tilts the box slightly so I can get a better look.

I take a step closer. ‘It’s disgusting,’ I say. ‘Brilliant.’

She grins back at me.

‘That truly is disgusting.’ My sister Molly appears at my side and stares at my birthday cake in silence for a moment or two. It sits in a large, flat, plastic box. A plastic scoop rests on top.

I shoot my sister a look. ‘We want it to look disgusting, remember?’

‘Why would you want to eat something that looks like kitty litter?’ She gives me her favourite you’ve-got-to-be-insane glare.

‘Because it’s fun. It’s different. It’s so cool it’s frosty.’ I turn back to the cake. The chocolate-coated liquorice on top (shaped like a you-know-what) look, awesome.

‘Eating your own waste is not cool,’ Molly informs me. ‘Did you know that—’

Molly likes to start a lot of sentences with the words, ‘Did you know that’. Now, I butt in before she can go any further. I make a loud noise like a siren. ‘Calling all units, calling all units …’

Beside me, Molly wrinkles her nose. ‘Really, Cooper? The fun police thing. Again?’

Whatever. I don’t care what Molly thinks. She doesn’t eat things like cake anyway. According to her, cake isn’t even proper food. Apparently it’s full of something she likes to call ‘empty calories’. Seriously. Anyone with half a brain could see the kitty-litter cake rocks. I bet it’ll taste great, too.

‘Suit yourself,’ Molly finally says, shaking her head. ‘Just remember that …’ Molly also likes to start a lot of sentences with ‘Just remember that’. But this time she stops suddenly. She stares off into space, kind of like she’s listening to something. Then, just like that, she walks away, not even bothering to finish her sentence.

I watch her until she turns into the hallway and is out of sight.

That girl is weird. And, lately, she’s been behaving even more strangely, if that’s possible.

Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related, let alone twins.

Mum doesn’t notice Molly being weird. She sets the box back down on the kitchen bench, then she gets busy counting things off on her fingers. ‘I’ve finished the boogers on a stick. I’ve finished the strained eyeballs and brain-cell salad. We just have to get the ingredients for “make your own mucus” and we’re set. Dad can buy everything for the hot dogs tomorrow morning. And I’ll make the pond slime just before everyone arrives.’

‘Pond slime?’ I say.

‘Think lemonade, with a few food colouring adjustments.’

(In case none of this makes any sense, I’m having a gross-out tenth birthday party tomorrow.)

Mum wipes her hands on a tea towel. She looks thoughtful. ‘I’m a bit worried about Molly.’ She glances up the hallway. ‘No party again this year. Who doesn’t like parties?’

The answer to that one is easy. ‘Molly,’ I say.

‘She doesn’t even want to go out for dinner,’ Mum sighs.

I think about explaining why this doesn’t mean very much. After all, there’s only one place to go out for dinner in Peregrination, population 203. You can choose from Indian, fish and chips, Chinese, Japanese and Italian. At the same restaurant. Not that what you order makes any difference, because crazy Mr Gregory will often give you whatever he feels like cooking anyway. Still, he has enough sense to always give Mum her sushi. She’s crazy for anything and everything Japanese. Fish and chips when she’d ordered sushi wouldn’t go down well with her.

‘You’d think she’d want to do something to celebrate her birthday.’ Mum focuses in on me. ‘Maybe you could talk to her?’ She lowers her voice. ‘To see if anything’s going on.’

I shrug.

‘I’m taking Jack for a walk.’ Molly has put on her sneakers and a cap and is carrying our golden retriever’s lead.

Mum gives me a pointed look. ‘Don’t you want to go too, Cooper?’

Er, no. It’s pretty much the last thing I want to do. But I know from her tone that I can’t get out of this one. ‘If I say yes, can I go to Ethan’s afterwards?’ I bargain. As the words leave my mouth, I congratulate myself on my brilliant strategic manoeuvring.

‘As long as you’re home in time for dinner.’

‘Okay. It’s five twenty-three now. So, in an hour or so?’

‘That’s fine,’ Mum says, giving me a strange look.

I realise I’d forgotten to look at my watch, or the clock, before I blurted out the time. Again. I know it’s weird that my body somehow always knows the exact time, but I can’t help it. It’s just … obvious to me. It always has been. And when I say exact, I mean exact. I’m like the speaking clock. There’s even this sort of ‘beep’ noise that goes off in my head. As in, ‘at the third stroke, the time will be five twenty-three and ten seconds’. And it happens in other ways, too. For example, I can tell exactly how long it will take to drive, or ride somewhere, with twenty different outcomes depending on whether there’s other cars around, traffic lights, whether I’m riding and talking to someone else as we go, and so on. Not that I tell anyone any of this. I’m smart enough to realise that when someone asks you how long it takes you to ride to school, they totally don’t want to hear twenty different answers. Hang on … I was supposed to be answering someone, wasn’t I? ‘Um, then, yes. I would love to take Jack for a walk with you, Molly.’

Molly simply gives me a withering look and I can tell she’s noticed the watch thing as well. ‘I didn’t invite you. But come if you must,’ she says.