CHAPTER 11

DAY 10: Monday, Christmas Day

No skimming, no money earnt for tinnie. You can never do anything interesting on Christmas Day.

This is how my Christmas morning goes every year:

5.45	Wake up.
5.46	Lie in bed, trying not to get up.
5.48	Get up, look under the tree, touch every present, squeeze them, shake them, then put them back.
6.00	Get bored waiting for everyone else to get up.
6.01	Wake up Squid and tell him everything he is getting.
6.07	Clear my throat loudly to wake up everyone else.
6.08	Pinch Squid so hard he screams and wakes up everyone, except for Dean.
6.10	Listen to Dad negotiating with Dean to get up.
6.11	Listen to Dad shouting at Dean.
6.24	Dean finally gets up.
6.25	Open presents.
6.26	Wonder why Squid gets more presents than everyone else.
6.28	Play with my presents.
6.29	Play with Squid’s presents, which are much better than mine.
6.50	Eat Dad’s special Christmas pancakes, which are the same pancakes he makes every Sunday, except he calls them Christmas pancakes.
6.55	Eat Dean’s pancakes because he has gone back to bed.
7.02	Get sent outside to play because Mum and Dad want to get ready for lunch.
7.03	Spend the rest of the morning waiting for something to happen.

Nothing ever happens on Christmas Day. You can’t have friends over because it’s a special day. You can’t go anywhere because it’s a special day. You can’t make any noise because it’s a special day. The worst thing about Christmas is Christmas Day.

Mum and Dad were arguing in the kitchen. Not so much arguing as having a ‘discussion’. It turns out when Mum said to Dad, ‘Don’t worry about getting me much for Christmas,’ it didn’t mean she wanted new wool car-seat covers for Dad’s Falcon.

I was hanging around on the front verandah, watching Squid play with his new remote control car.

He kept saying, ‘Digs, watch this, watch this.’

He’d try and make the car do a U-turn but it would just run into a wall or fall down the steps.

It had been the worst holidays ever so far. The world championship was off, I no longer had a best mate and I still needed to find seven hundred and thirty-five dollars to buy Uncle Scott’s tinnie.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that ‘Mr Black’ guy either. Maybe Wrigs was right and he was up to no good. I mean, if he was trying to sell the old house, why didn’t he just put up a ‘For Sale’ sign, or a sign saying ‘Private Property, Keep Out’? And why would he have just stood there watching while we were making our ghost film? It was weird.

Dad came outside. He backed his Falcon out of the garage. It was gleaming in the sun. He had buffed it especially for Christmas.

‘I’m just off to see if the shops are open.’

‘Dad, nothing’s open on Christmas Day,’ I said.

‘What about churches?’ Dad said.

‘They’re not shops.’

‘Still, it proves some things are open. So maybe I’ll find a shop.’

He roared off in his car. We could hear the big engine all the way down the road.

It was thirty degrees and not even eight o’clock in the morning. And it was still four hours until lunch.

‘It’s so hot my dog’s got a sunburnt tongue,’ I said.

‘We don’t have a dog,’ said Squid.

It’s not the same playing with Squid.

‘It’s just a saying, Squid, like saying, “It’s so hot my grandfather burst into flames.”’

‘Papa? You better tell Mum. He’s coming over for lunch.’

‘No, Squid, it’s a joke. Like, “It’s so hot you could cook an egg on the footpath.”’

‘Can you really?’

I hadn’t thought about that before.

‘Let’s try,’ I said.

Squid went and got some eggs out of Dad’s chicken coop. We cracked one onto the footpath outside the front of our house. But it just sat there. It didn’t even look like it was thinking of cooking.

We got some aluminium foil from the kitchen, folded it up like it was a bowl and put it on the footpath. Then we cracked another egg into it. But still the idea of frying itself didn’t even enter the egg’s stupid brain.

Have I mentioned before that I hate eggs?

I held my magnifying glass over the egg so all the sun’s rays hit the one spot, and slowly an edge started to go white. Really slowly. So slowly I was more likely to cook in the sun before the egg did.

Dad arrived back from the shops and parked in the drive. He was clutching a bunch of really lame-looking flowers, like the ones you get from a petrol station.

‘What have you got there, Dad?’ asked Squid.

‘Just something nice for your mother.’

He raced inside.

A heat haze was coming off the front of the car. I touched the bonnet. It was boiling hot. Then I had an idea that knocked me over like an angry reindeer who’d been towing a fat man around all night.

I cracked an egg straight onto the bonnet.

Squid was clenching his fists really tightly, which is what he does when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble. ‘Won’t that wreck Dad’s car?’

Thin dribbles started spreading out over the bonnet.

‘No, nothing sticks to this paint. It’s high gloss, like a non-stick frying pan.’ I was guessing. I was hoping I was right.

Squid shouted, ‘Look, it’s cooking.’

The thinnest end of the dribble was starting to go white. I touched it and it was sticky. Some of the stuff stuck to my finger but, worst of all, it looked like the paint under it was bubbling.

Dad came rushing outside again.

We were officially dead. I took the only sensible option and ran and hid down the side of the house. Squid was left standing by the car.

‘What’s up?’ Dad asked Squid.

Squid pointed at the bonnet.

Dad went up to it, touched it, and tasted it. ‘It’s an egg,’ he said.

‘A chicken must have laid it on the car,’ Squid said.

‘Wow,’ said Dad. ‘And look, the bonnet is so hot, it’s cooking the egg.’

Squid looked at Dad with his big eyes, as innocent as can be.

‘It’ll stuff the paint,’ Dad told him.

‘Bad chickens,’ said Squid.

‘We should get rid of them,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll clean it off when I get back. I’ve just got to see if I can find a jewellery shop that opens on Christmas Day.’

He jumped into the car and drove off.

I know Squid’s only little, but I reckon he’s got a lot of potential. Though I’m not looking forward to when Dad starts looking for the touch-up paint.