That was the second time Razz had asked what was wrong with me. First because of Cindy. And now because of Jess. That night I lay in bed with all sorts of questions squirming around inside my brain.
Was I really that different from other guys my age? Would every other sixteen-year-old male have jumped at the chance to go out with Cindy Sexton again? Would they all have happily pushed the Play button on Jess Hambleton? Those questions kept me awake for ages. Or maybe I’d just eaten a bit too much of the takeaway we’d had for dinner.
Anyway, it felt like I’d been awake for hours when I rolled over to check the time on the clock radio. That’s when I found myself staring at a big heart monitor machine. A green line ran across a black screen. It was jumping up in sharp peaks in time with my heartbeat. On the top of every peak a little image of Kelly Faulkner’s face appeared for a moment then popped liked a bubble.
OK, I thought to myself, maybe I did finally get to sleep, and this could be a dream.
I checked out the room more carefully. It looked like a hospital and my bed was now suspiciously like an operating table. On closer examination I found that I was wearing pink pyjamas. They were covered in lots of little white whales. A doctor entered. Or to be slightly more accurate, it was Ronald McDonald in a white coat. There was an oversized badge on his chest. It had Ronald McDoctor – Surgeon to the Clowns printed on it in bubbly rainbow letters. He had a hamburger in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.
Yep, I was almost 100 per cent certain now that I was dreaming.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘I have some very McSad news to tell you,’ Ronny said. ‘I’m afraid you have the worst case of Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome I’ve ever encountered and it’s mutating out of control. I’ll have to operate immediately – otherwise you’re a goner.’
I jumped off the table and yelled, ‘I’m not going to let some clown who can’t buy the right-sized shoes operate on me!’ (I think I might also have suggested that he should go for a more natural hair colour and apply a lighter touch with the make-up.)
He began chasing me around the table. I shouted over my shoulder, ‘Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome’s not real! It’s just some stupid thing I made up when I was a little kid as an excuse for all the times I stuffed up! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!’
Ronny stopped in his tracks and smiled (It’s painted on. What else can he do?). ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ he said, chucking away the chainsaw.
How easy was that? What a pushover. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, but then RM held out his hamburger. It was huge. It also had a strange cord hanging from it that I hadn’t noticed before. Ronny grabbed it and yanked down. Deadly blood-covered blades shot out and rotated in a blur. Only looking back, I think those deadly blood-covered blades might have actually been beetroot slices. That was the clincher for me – a killer, petrol-driven, motorised hamburger. No way! This was definitely a dream and I wanted out!
I tried to wake myself up but I might as well have been sleeping inside a block of cement. Next thing I knew, the killer hamburger was gone and in its place Ronny Mac was holding up Prue’s old Ringo peg person and cooing, ‘Remember what happened with this way back in Year Nine? Was that normal?’ Then he pointed to a plastic bottle of cordial on the floor. He jumped on it and squished it flat. Yellow liquid sprayed all over me. ‘Last year?’ he said, ‘Sally’s pool party? You haven’t forgotten that, have you? Are you telling me that was normal?’ Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out … Wait, was that what I thought it was? He held out his hand. There was a tongue the size of a baby elephant’s trunk thrashing about on his palm. ‘And this? Do you honestly believe this kind of thing happens to normal people?’
Now Ranga Ronny was standing right over me and I was cowering in a corner. From that angle, with his crazy hair and that maniac smile, he looked just like a more colourful version of Razz. It was quite a comforting thought. Except for the giant, glinting knife he had in his hand.
‘Dude,’ he said McScarily, ‘there’s nothing to worry about, dude. I’m just gonna slice you open, dude and see what’s wrong with you, dude. We think you might be a dud dude. Hey, dud dude. That’s McAwesome!’
Then the room was crammed with all these weird people with three eyes or their heads on backwards or bodies like fish or toads or something. It was like a mutants’ convention. They pushed in beside Ronny and began poking me with sticks and spears and sesame seed buns and quarter pounders and chanting, ‘WHAT’S wrong with you, man! what’s wrong with you, man! what’s wrong with you, man! ‘
I lurched awake. I was back in my normal room. Hey, what do you know? It was all just a dream! (Please don’t tell Miss Tarango I wrote that. She’d kill me.) But right then I didn’t care. I was just so happy. There was nothing wrong with me after all. I was the same as everyone else. I was completely normal. I didn’t have Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome. How could I? It never even existed in the first place!
Of course I was wrong.
Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome certainly does exist. And just to illustrate the point, soon I’d be hearing the ‘What’s wrong with you?’ question directed my way again in real life. Only next time, the person asking the question wouldn’t be Razz.
It would be me.