t’s Tuesday night.

A very important night.

And not just because it’s Valentine’s Day, either.

It’s rubbish-bin night.

And what’s so important about rubbish-bin night?

Well, according to my mum and dad, the health of the entire neighbourhood depends on me remembering to put the rubbish-bin out.

Because if I forget to put the bin out, the garbage men can’t empty the bin.

And if the garbage men can’t empty the bin then we can’t fit any more rubbish into it.

And if we can’t fit any more rubbish into the bin then the rubbish will spill out over the top and onto the ground.

And if there’s rubbish on the ground then the rats will come, and if the rats come, people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.

And, the worst thing is that I will get the blame.

That’s why rubbish-bin night is the most important night of the week: the fate of the neighbourhood is in my hands. Every man, woman and child is counting on me to remember to put the bin out.

And I haven’t failed them yet.

I never forget.

Each week I tie a piece of white string around the little finger on my left hand to remind me.

The trouble is tonight I’ve tied it a bit too tightly and it’s making my little finger throb. It’s so tight that I can’t get the knot undone. I’m going to have to cut it with a pair of scissors.

I go downstairs to the kitchen.

I pass Dad in the lounge room.

‘Have you remembered what night this is?’ he says.

‘Yes, Dad,’ I say.

‘Have you put the bin out yet?’

‘Not yet,’ I say.

‘Well, don’t forget,’ he says. ‘I don’t want rubbish spilling out all over the ground. It will attract rats and . . .’

‘I know, Dad,’ I sigh. ‘If the rats come people will get sick, disease and pestilence will spread throughout the neighbourhood and everyone will die.’

‘You think it’s all a bit of a joke, do you?’ he says, leaning forward in his chair and pointing his finger at me. ‘Well, we’ll see how much of a joke it is when we’re up to our ankles in rubbish and rats and you’ve got bubonic plague and you’ve got boils all over your body, funny-boy! And we’ll all have a good laugh when bits of your lungs come flying out of your mouth and . . .’

‘Okay, Dad!’ I say, ‘I get the picture! I’m going to put the bin out, all right?’

‘Now?’ he says.

‘In a minute,’ I say. ‘Right after I cut this string off my finger.’

‘Don’t forget,’ he says.

‘I won’t, Dad,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

I swear my dad’s getting crazier by the day.

I go into the kitchen, pull open the second drawer down and start rummaging for the scissors.

Mum comes into the room.

‘Have you put the bin out?’ she says.

‘Not yet, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m just about to.’

‘Well, don’t forget,’ she says. ‘We don’t want . . .’

‘Rats,’ I say.

‘How did you know I was going to say that?’ she says.

‘A lucky guess,’ I say.

The phone rings.

I go to pick it up.

‘Don’t touch that!’ says Jen, pushing past me and beating me to the phone. ‘That’ll be Craig. Besides, shouldn’t you be putting the bin out? It stinks — I can smell it from my room.’

‘I’m surprised you can smell anything above your own stink,’ I say. Jen makes a face and picks up the phone.

I just keep standing there. She hates it when I listen in on her calls.

Jen puts her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Mum,’ she says, ‘Andy’s listening to my call.’

‘I am not!’ I say. ‘How can I be listening if you haven’t even started talking?’

‘You’re going to listen,’ she says.

‘Pardon?’ I say.

‘I said “you’re going to listen,”’ says Jen in a louder voice.

‘What?’ I say. ‘I can’t hear you. I think I’ve gone deaf.’

‘Mum!’ says Jen.

‘Andy,’ sighs Mum, ‘you’ve got a job to do. Just go and do it.’

‘All right,’ I say, but I don’t move. I just keep standing near the phone.

‘Andy,’ says Jen.

‘Okay, okay!’ I say. ‘I’m going!’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ she says, holding the receiver towards me, ‘It’s for you.’

‘For me?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says Jen. ‘Hard to believe isn’t it, but apparently someone wants to talk to you.’

‘Who?’ I say. ‘Who is it?’

‘Whom shall I say is calling?’ Jen says into the phone.

She smirks.

‘It’s Lisa Mackney,’ she says.

‘Lisa Mackney?’ I say. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Do you want me to ask her if she’s sure she’s Lisa Mackney?’ she says.

‘No!’ I say, grabbing the receiver.

Lisa Mackney! Wow! She must have got my Valentine’s card. I slipped it into her bag this morning. I wonder how she guessed it was from me. Maybe the perfume on the envelope gave me away. Well, it wasn’t exactly perfume. I couldn’t find any, so I sprayed it with the pine-scented air freshener we use in the toilet. It went all over my clothes and I stunk of it all day. I guess she must have noticed.

Jen is still standing beside the phone.

‘Mum!’ I say. ‘Jen’s listening to my call!’

‘As if I’d want to listen to one of your juvenile phone calls,’ she says, walking out of the room. ‘I’ve got a life.’

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Hi, Andy — it’s Lisa,’ she says.

‘Oh, um, er . . .’ I stutter, trying to think of something clever to say. ‘Hi!’

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you,’ she says.

Is she kidding? It’s only the best thing that has ever happened in the history of the world. But I can’t say this. She might think I’m making fun of her. I have to act cool.

‘No,’ I say.

I can’t think of anything else to say. Which is funny because I’ve got so much to say. I want to tell her how beautiful she is and how much I love her and how I wish she would be my girlfriend . . . but I can’t find the words.

‘You’re not busy, are you?’ she says. ‘I can call back later if you’d like.’

What do I say to this?

If I say I’m not busy, she might think I’m some sort of loser with nothing better to do than just sit around the house. But if I say I am busy putting the bin out, she might think that I’m some sort of loser with nothing better to do than put the bin out.

I know honesty is supposed to be the best policy but in this case I think that dishonesty is even better.

‘No, I’m just taking a breather,’ I say. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of weight-training . . . those five hundred kilogram weights can be pretty tough.’

‘You do weight-training?’ she says.

‘Oh, a little,’ I say.

‘A little?’ she says. ‘Five hundred kilograms is a lot!’

‘Oh not really,’ I say. ‘That’s just a warm-up. It’s the thousand kilogram weights that are really hard.’

I hear Lisa gasp.

So far, so good. I think she’s suitably impressed.

‘Andy,’ she says, ‘can you be serious for a moment?’

‘Huh?’ I say. ‘I was being serious!’

Dishonest, but serious.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she says. ‘It’s important. I need to ask you a question. A serious question.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What is it?’

‘Did you send me the card?’

‘What card?’ I say, playing dumb.

‘The Valentine’s card,’ she says.

‘Oh, that card,’ I say, as casually as I can. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘I thought so!’ she says.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. I’m not sure what to say next.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ she says.

‘That’s okay,’ I say.

‘No, I meant in person,’ she says. ‘I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow morning? Before school?’

I can’t believe it! She’s practically asking me out on a date!

‘Andy?’ she says. ‘Are you there?’

No, I’m not here. I’m somewhere between the Earth and the moon I’m so happy. I have to try to come back. I have to answer her.

‘Yes!’ I say. ‘I’m here. Where would you like to meet?’

‘How about outside the park near the school?’ she says. ‘About 8.30?’

‘Okay, Lisa,’ I say. I’m keen to get off the phone now before I say anything stupid. ‘See you then.’

‘See you,’ she says. ‘And, Andy?’

‘Yes?’ I say.

‘It wasn’t a joke, was it?’

‘What?’ I say.

‘The card?’

‘No!’ I say.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’

‘Me too,’ I say. I want to add, ‘because you’re beautiful and I love you’, but I can’t actually make the words because my mouth is just opening and closing like a fish’s.

I hang up.

I can’t believe it.

The most beautiful girl in the world just rang up and asked me out on a date. What if she asks me to go out with her? Can she do that? Can a girl ask a boy? I don’t see why not. What if she asks me to marry her? Can we do that? Are we old enough? Will I need a ring? Or does the one who asks have to give the ring? What if she asks me to kiss her? I’ve never kissed a girl before. Not really. Not on the lips. How do you do that? I’d better go and practise on my mirror.

I don’t walk back up the stairs. I float.

Lisa rang me.

Lisa rang me and asked me out.

She asked me out.

I have to keep repeating it so that I can believe it.

Lisa rang me.

She asked me out.

I didn’t ring her. She rang me. She must really like me after all. After everything bad that’s happened.

I float into my room and flop onto my bed.

She loves me.

She loves me.

I lie on my bed and think about tomorrow morning.

I can see it now.

I’m walking up the road to the park. I have a dozen roses in my arms.

Lisa is standing there, looking beautiful.

Everything around her is sort of blurry, like in one of those romantic photos they have in the front of photographers’ shops, but she is in the middle in perfect focus.

She smiles and waves.

‘Hi, Lisa,’ I say, in a deep, strong and confident voice.

She looks into my eyes.

I look into hers. I feel like I’m melting.

‘Hi,’ she says in a voice so soft and beautiful that she sounds like an angel.

I give her the roses.

‘These are for you,’ I say.

She looks at the roses. Her eyes fill with tears.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she sobs. ‘Just beautiful . . .’

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ I say, putting my arms around her.

I bury my face in her soft perfumed hair — every strand shining like it’s spun from the finest gossamer.

‘Oh, Andy,’ she says, ‘you are so thoughtful . . . so wonderful . . . so gentlemanly . . .’

‘You forgot handsome,’ I say.

‘And handsome,’ she says.

‘And manly,’ I say.

‘And manly,’ she says.

‘And strong,’ I say.

‘Be serious,’ she says.

‘I was being serious,’ I say.

She stares at me.

‘Before we go any further I have to ask you a question,’ she says.

‘Anything,’ I say. ‘Ask me anything you want.’

‘Promise me you will answer truthfully, my darling,’ says Lisa.

‘I promise,’ I say.

She leans forward and whispers into my ear.

Her breath sends shivers through my body that run right down into my toes. I feel dizzy and I hear a roaring sound as the blood rushes to my head. It’s so loud I can hardly hear what she’s saying. All I can hear is a roaring sort of grinding sound.

Lisa pulls away from me.

She’s studying my face.

‘Well?’ she says.

‘Well what?’ I say.

‘What’s your answer?’

‘What was the question?’ I say.

‘I said,’ she says, raising her voice above the roar, ‘Did you remember to put the bin out?’

‘The what out?’ I say.

‘The bin!’ she screams.

The bin? The bin? What bin?

Oh no — the bin!!!

Suddenly the sun goes behind a cloud and the street around us is alive with rats — Lisa’s hair turns to cobwebs, the skin peels off her face and she crumbles into a crumpled mummy-like heap on the footpath. I scream. The whole street dissolves — Lisa disappears. I open my eyes. The room’s full of light. How could that be? I look across at the clock. It’s 7.30 a.m. I must have fallen asleep! The room is full of the roar and grind of the rubbish truck out in the street. And my finger is throbbing. I forgot to cut the string off. But even worse — I forgot to put the bin out!

I jump off the bed and charge out of the room. Luckily I’m wearing my Action Man pyjamas. I can run faster when I’m wearing them. I leap down the stairs in one huge bound and sprint for the back door.

I grab the bin. It’s heavy — feels like it weighs at least a thousand kilograms — but luckily it’s a wheelie bin. I tip it backwards and run as fast as I can with it down the drive — just in time to see the rubbish truck turn the corner at the bottom of the hill and disappear.

Aaggh!

Dad’s going to kill me!

Mum’s going to kill me!

If they don’t die from the bubonic plague first, that is.

I have to get this bin emptied . . . and there’s only one way to do it.

The rubbish truck can’t be that far away. They have to stop all the time. And I’m a very fast runner when I need to be.

I take off down the hill.

Or rather the wheelie bin takes off down the hill and drags me along with it. If it wasn’t for the stink this would be quite a fun ride. But at the bottom of the hill the ground levels out and I have to start pushing. I turn left up the next hill.

I can’t do it!

It’s too hard.

The bin is too heavy.

The hill is too steep.

Then I remember the rats.

I think of all the people in the neighbourhood who are going to die because I forgot to empty the bin. Little innocent children — still sleeping — oblivious to their fate. Oblivious to the fact that they are going to be deprived of life because I can’t even remember a simple thing like putting the bin out on rubbish night. The fate of the neighbourhood depends on me. I have to go faster.

I bend over and put every bit of strength I have into pushing the bin up the hill. I’m going up at such an angle that the lid of the bin flips back and whacks me on the head. It’s a blow that would have knocked anyone else out, but not me. I’ve got a very hard head. I flip the lid back and keep pushing. Nothing can stop me.

The roaring of the rubbish truck is louder now. I’m getting closer. I crest over the top of the hill and see it less than a hundred metres away.

‘Stop!’ I yell. ‘Stop! You forgot one!’

There are two men in fluorescent yellow vests running alongside the truck. They pick up the last two bins in the street and put them on the tray at the back. It lifts the bins up and empties the rubbish into the top of the truck.

I’m pushing the bin down the hill as fast as I can.

The men put the empty bins onto the side of the road and jump back onto the truck to ride to the next street.

‘No!’ I yell. ‘Please stop!’

One of them sees me coming and calls out to the driver.

The truck stops and I run up to it with my bin.

‘Well, if it isn’t Action Man!’ says one of the men.

‘You forgot this one,’ I say, panting hard. ‘From the next street.’

‘Forgot it?’ he says. ‘That’s not possible. Are you sure it was on the street when we went past?’

‘Yes,’ I lie. This is another one of those situations where dishonesty is the best policy. It’s a lie that could save many lives.

He looks at the other guy.

‘Did you forget this one?’

‘Nope,’ says the other one. ‘I would have seen it.’

‘Sorry, Action Man,’ says the first guy. ‘If it had been there we would have got it.’

‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’ I say.

‘I’m not saying anything, mate,’ he says. ‘I’m just saying we can’t take it. If it’s not outside the house then we’re not permitted to empty it. For all I know you could be from out of our area — you could be trying to dump your rubbish illegally.’

‘But I’m not!’ I say. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘You’d be surprised what people try,’ he says, thumping the side of the truck. ‘Okay, Mac!’

The truck takes off again and the man jumps up on the back.

I watch helplessly as the truck turns into the next street.

But I don’t give up that easily.

I know a short cut through to the next street.

All I have to do is take the bin through, put it into position and hide. They’ll empty it just like a regular bin.

I run down the hill a bit further and then turn right into a laneway. I push the bin for all I’m worth and within seconds I’m there.

Up in the distance I can see the yellow flashing lights of the truck. They’ve only just turned into the street. They’re still too far away to see me.

Good.

I push the bin across the opening of the lane and head towards the nature strip, but the bin hits the gutter and lurches sideways.

I lose control and it hits the ground, spilling rubbish everywhere.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Half of the stuff from our garage is lying on the road. Mum and Dad must have had another cleanout. I hate it when they do that. They’ve thrown out some really good stuff. And some of it’s mine. My old floaties. A house I made out of matchsticks. And my electric racing car set! I know the controls are missing, pieces of the track are broken and the cars have lost all their wheels, but that’s no reason to throw out a perfectly good electric racing car set!

I’d better check there’s nothing else of mine in there. I stand the bin up and look inside.

Oh no. I don’t believe it!

She’s chucked away the most valuable thing I own in the world — my faithful bath and shower companion — my rubber duck! I can see it’s little yellow beak peaking out from under the rubbish.

I look up.

The rubbish truck is about halfway along the street. I’ve got just enough time to get my duck and then scram.

‘Don’t worry!’ I say. ‘I’ll save you!’

I lean down into the bin, but I can’t reach. It’s right at the bottom.

I have to lean over further.

Uh-oh.

Too far!

I fall into the bin, headfirst into something squishy and smelly. It doesn’t taste too good, either.

And what’s worse, I can’t move.

I can’t get up.

The roaring of the truck is getting louder.

I kick my legs to try to make the bin fall over so I can wriggle out.

But my kicking is useless.

All it does is make the lid of the bin fall shut on top of me.

Now I’m trapped.

And nobody knows I’m in here!

The truck is right beside me. I can hear it. I feel the bin roll off the nature strip and land on the road with a bump. I think it’s being put on the tray. I’m rising into the air. It’s just like being in an elevator except much smellier.

I’m yelling my head off but it’s no use. They can’t hear me above the noise of the truck.

I clutch my duck. The bin tips upside down and we are dumped into the back of the truck with all the other rubbish.

The stink!

The stench!

The horror!

This has got to be the most disgusting thing that’s ever happened to me.

I’m being churned around with all the rubbish. I try to scream but I get a mouthful of used tissues. Everything is a blur as bin after bin of fresh rotting rubbish is dumped on top of me. Mouldy vegetables, putrid fish and disposable nappies . . . I come face to face with a dead cat, but only for a moment — the churning just won’t stop. Every time I catch my breath and work my way to the top of the pile a new bin-load knocks me down and the churning continues.

I’ve got to get out of here!

I’ve saved the neighbourhood, but I’m going to die!

I’ll get bubonic plague.

I think I can feel it coming on already.

Dad’s right.

There is nothing funny about being up to your knees in rubbish — and when it’s over your head it’s even unfunnier.

What a pity I won’t live to tell him that.

Because I can’t fight it anymore.

I’m going to die, suffocated in rubbish.

I press my rubber duck to my chest, close my eyes and prepare for the end.

That’s weird.

Everything has gone quiet.

The churning has stopped.

Maybe there’s still hope.

I dig my way up out of the rubbish towards the light.

I push my head through a load of mouldy bread, empty dog food cans and used kitty litter.

But I don’t care. I can see the sky!

I raise my duck above my head.

‘We’re going to make it,’ I say.

My duck quacks with joy.

I squirm and wriggle the rest of my body out from under the rubbish until I’m sitting on top of it all.

I wipe the slime from my eyes and look around.

We’re travelling along a main road. The truck is obviously full and they’re heading back to the tip to empty it. I’ve got to get out before that happens. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as landfill.

We pull up at a set of traffic lights.

This is my chance to escape.

I climb down over the back of the truck onto the platform, and just as the truck starts moving again, I jump clear. I hit the ground running, trip and roll into the gutter.

Ouch.

It hurts, but it’s better than being in a rubbish truck any day.

‘Are you all right?’ says a voice.

A beautiful voice.

The voice of an angel.

I must be dead.

The bubonic plague got me after all and I’ve gone to Heaven.

But there’s something familiar about that voice.

I open my eyes.

It’s Lisa.

Lisa Mackney looking down at me.

‘Andy?’ she says.

‘Lisa?’ I say. ‘When did you die?’

‘Die?’ she says. ‘What are you talking about? We arranged to meet, remember?’

I sit up.

I look around.

This is not Heaven. This is Hell.

I’m outside the park.

Right where I said I would meet Lisa.

I’m right on time, but everything else is wrong. As wrong as it possibly could be.

There she is looking clean and fresh and princess-like, her soft hair shining in the morning sun. And here am I, sitting in the gutter in my pyjamas covered in rubbish, surrounded by flies, clutching my rubber duck.

‘I should have known you weren’t serious,’ she says, pinching her nose and backing away from me. ‘I should have known it was all a joke.’

‘No, it wasn’t!’ I say, getting up and stepping towards her. A big slimy chunk of maggot-infested meat slides off my shoulder and plops onto the ground in front of her.

She puts her hand over her mouth and takes another step back.

‘Keep away from me!’ she says. ‘You . . . you . . . you stink!’

I step towards her — kitty litter, cigarette butts and broken egg shells fall from my clothes and hair as I move.

She turns and runs.

I watch her. The girl I love. Running away from me in disgust.

What was supposed to be the best morning of my life has turned out to be the worst.

And the worst thing about it is that she’s never going to want to kiss me now. All that practice on the mirror for nothing.

But at least I got the rubbish out. At least the neighbourhood is safe once more from the bubonic plague.

There’s no telling how many lives I’ve saved.

Not to mention my rubber duck.

Perhaps all is not lost, after all.

I’m going to go home, cut this stupid string off my finger and have a long shower. A really long shower. I might even use some more of that air freshener — it was pretty strong. Then I’ll go to school and explain everything to Lisa.

I’m sure she’ll understand. In fact, I can see it now.

When she hears about what I’ve done, she’ll realise what a hero I am. She’ll apologise for saying that I stink. She’ll beg me to forgive her. I will, of course. And then we’ll kiss.

It’s lucky I did all that practice on the mirror, after all.