BIFFZILLA VERSUS MOM

Everyone froze. In fact, as you can imagine, the atmosphere inside the car cooled down right away. The temperature dropped so much you could have used the inside of the car as a training pod for an Antarctic expedition.

“Whoa,” I said. It seemed to sum up the situation.

Getting puked on by a complete stranger can’t be much fun. Getting puked on by a complete stranger while dressed in a chicken suit must have been much, much worse.

And funnier, too, although a big part of me felt really (like, really) bad for Mom. She couldn’t help it, I wanted to say. Maybe I should’ve explained to Biff that a combination of jet lag, heat, travel pills, and an Aussie Airways tuna bake had combined to turn my nice, polite mom into a walking puke machine, but Biff didn’t look like he wanted anyone to talk to him, least of all me.

But, I thought, my hopes rising, we’re in Australia. They had a different sense of humor compared with the rest of the world. They were used to sharks and snakes and poisonous flowers. Maybe being puked on was regarded as a bit of harmless fun here.

No such luck. Biff wasn’t giving even the slightest hint that any part of being puked on came within the same solar system as being fun.

And—this is just a hunch—Mom puking on the mayor was probably the wrong way to start a cultural exchange. Right now, the chances of Hills Village and Shark’s Bay becoming best buds looked about as likely as me playing the saxophone on the moon.

“I. Am. So. So. So. So. Sorry,” Mom said. “Really sorry, Mayor Coogan. I couldn’t help it.”

She started trying to wipe the worst of the gunge off Biff’s neck but only managed to accidentally slide a chunky gloop of it right down the back of his chicken costume.

Biff squirmed out of her reach. He yanked a box of tissues toward him and began wiping the puke off by himself. Disregarding the hurricane outside, I rolled down the window to let in some fresh air. I was beginning to feel a little pukey myself, and I didn’t think Biff would appreciate a repeat performance. Being puked on once is bad enough.

“She’s been taking some travel pills,” I shouted above the howling gale filling the car. “That must be it.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Mom said, “I do feel a lot better now.” Then she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

A low rumbling noise, like someone dragging a heavy anchor over concrete, filled the car. At first I thought we’d hit something and lost a tire and the noise was the wheel scraping across the road, but then I realized it was Biff grinding his teeth. He was the angriest-looking giant chicken I’d ever seen.

He didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the vicious twist he gave the steering wheel to avoid a speedboat resting upside down in the middle of an intersection that he was about a millisecond away from turning around and putting us on the next bus back to Sydney. One more incident and I had no doubt that he’d mutate into Biffzilla, and the whole Shark’s Bay/Hills Village twin experiment would turn into a massive disaster.

I imagined slinking back home, a failure once again. It wasn’t a good thought.

“Maybe we should take her to the hospital,” Biff said when he had finally unclenched his puke-spotted jaw.

“Nah,” I replied. “She’ll be right, mate.”

I couldn’t resist.