There comes a time in every boy’s life when he has to seriously question the behaviour of his parents. It’s not that I don’t love my parents. I do. The problem is, they’re majorly embarrassing. They’re embarrassing to the point where I had to take drastic action.
Last month, Blue Valley Football Club held a trivia night to raise funds for a fence around the oval. Being mad about football, my parents dragged me along.
‘Perhaps one day you’ll play football for Australia,’ said Father in his thick Scottish accent. He adjusted his kilt as he got out of the car, but had forgotten to pull up his socks, which meant I copped an eyeful of his red-haired legs.
‘Or even better still,’ said Mother, her accent as thick as Father’s, ‘perhaps you’ll play football for Scotland.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ I said. ‘I’m Aussie. And besides, I hate playing football. I just want to play cricket.’
‘Be respectful, Harold,’ said Mother, rolling her ‘r’s. ‘You may have been born in Australia, but never forget the rich heritage of your forefathers in Scotland.’
‘I know, I know. I get it, Mother.’
Mother stopped me as we reached the door of the hall. ‘Let’s get you ready to impress any young lady footballers who may be in attendance.’
‘Please, Mother, no!’ I knew what that meant.
She put her hand up to her mouth.
Ptooey!
Mother spat into her right hand. Globs of gooey spit covered her palm. She ran her hand through my hair. The spit acted as a natural form of slimy hair gel and created a part down the centre of my scalp – the spit split.
‘And don’t forget your good-luck flower.’ Mother tucked a large Scottish thistle into my shirt pocket.
‘I look ridiculous, Mother.’
‘You are my handsome highlander.’
We entered the hall – early as usual – and took our seats. Father had booked tickets the minute they went on sale and organised a small table of three. We were sitting right near the front of the hall.
‘This is the reward for being punctual,’ said Father. ‘Harold, if there is any advice I can give you, it’s to always be early.’
Mother spat into her hand again and adjusted my hair, fiddling with it strand by strand. I could feel my cheeks getting hot with embarrassment.
Father sat, watching and grinning as other members of the community filed into the hall.
A microphone squealed to life. ‘Welcome to Blue Valley Football Club’s fundraising trivia night,’ said Mr Stout, coach of the team Father forces me to play in.
Father stood and gave an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
Mother stood up and joined him, clapping loudly. ‘Aye, pure dead brilliant!’
‘It hasn’t even started yet,’ I said. ‘Please, sit down.’
Mr Stout picked up a bundle of question cards and read the first one. ‘What is the capital of New Zealand?’
‘Auckland,’ whispered Father.
‘That’s not it,’ I said. ‘Miss Schlump made me learn this at school. It’s Wellington.’
‘Good lad, Harold,’ said Father, squeezing my cheek in his hand. He stood up and called out to Mr Stout. ‘It’s Wellington!’
‘Correct. One point to the McHagil table.’
‘Pure dead brilliant!’ sang my parents in unison.
Mother leaned over and kissed my cheek. I felt her lipstick transfer onto my skin and harden like dried clay.
Mr Stout read through a few more questions, before making a special announcement. ‘Members of Blue Valley Football Club, as you know, we are here for a good cause. The proposed fence around our field will add much character to the ground. Now, speaking of character, I need a volunteer to attempt to gain extra points for their table.’
‘Over here, man!’ called Father.
‘Mr McHagil, come on up,’ said Mr Stout.
‘Pure dead brilliant!’ said Mother.
‘Your challenge,’ said Mr Stout, as Father joined him on stage, ‘is to give us your best dance. I’ll award you a score out of five.’
Father wrestled the microphone from Mr Stout. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great honour to show you a dance handed down to me by my forefathers.’
‘The kilt dance,’ Mother whispered in awe.
‘The kilt dance,’ I whispered in fear.
Father’s eyes flashed and widened, as though set wild by some distant memory. He leapt off the stage and landed with a thud on the floor of the hall.
Everyone watched in silence as Father raised his hands slowly in the air and then let out an almighty bellow. ‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW, LET THIS KILT BEGIN TO FLOW!’
With that, he ripped his shirt off – exposing a chest covered in as much red hair as his legs – and threw it at Mother. She caught it and proudly held it close to her heart. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
Father bounded around the hall, his legs tapping like some mad wind-up toy. His kilt flapped about as he leapt from tables, ensuring everyone had a good view of his hairy legs. I hated it when he forgot to pull his socks up.
Father continued romping around, pounding his chest as he danced, signalling to the crowd to join him. Nobody did. And I don’t blame them.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Father’s legs worked harder. He stamped and stomped about, and probably danced a little too close to the table of old women from the nursing home. He slapped his chest with all his might.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
The dance reached its peak when Father – sweaty and puffing loudly – jumped back onto the stage for his final move – the kilt spin. He started twirling on the spot, getting faster and faster. He spun around and around like a human spinning top.
His kilt began to rise above his knees.
I jumped to my feet. ‘Noooooooooo!’
Father spun faster.
The kilt rose higher.
I screamed louder. ‘NOOOOOOOOOO!’
Father stopped spinning just in time and the kilt dropped back to his knees. He raised his hands in the air and brought them slamming onto his chest as hard as he could.
SLAP!
Everything was quiet.
Mr Stout tapped the microphone. ‘Errr … that was very … interesting … thank you, Mr McHagil. I award you two extra points, which puts your table in the lead.’
Mother stood up and cheered loudly. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
I was so hot from embarrassment that the Scottish thistle in my shirt pocket wilted like my spirits.
It wasn’t pure dead brilliant.
The trivia night was one thing, but Victoria Goldenhorn’s birthday party was another.
We arrived early as always and knocked on the Goldenhorns’ front door.
Ptooey!
Mother spat into her hand and gave me a spit split.
Father patted me proudly on the shoulder. ‘I’m glad you have friends, Harold. When I was your age, all I had was a couple of highland deer and my third cousin, Lachie.’
This didn’t surprise me. Father was always recalling snippets of his bizarre highland upbringing.
Mr Goldenhorn answered the door. ‘Hello, McHagil family. You’re a little early, but please come in.’
Mr Goldenhorn showed us to the living room. Damon Dunst was sitting on one of the couches, picking his nose with one hand and trying to flatten his curly hair with the other. I wasn’t surprised to see him picking his nose. Nor was I surprised that he was early. Everyone knew he was madly in love with Victoria.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ said Mr Goldenhorn. ‘I just have to finish doing my hair. I’ll be with you in a flash.’
Mother stepped forward. ‘Allow me.’
Ptooey!
Mr Goldenhorn’s hair was spit split in an instant. He didn’t know what had hit him.
Mother did.
‘You look pure dead brilliant!’
‘Ummm … thank you,’ stammered Mr Goldenhorn, scrunching up his face and disappearing down the hallway.
I could only cover my face with my hands and hope the rest of the party went better.
It didn’t.
Mother had thought it polite to bring a plate of food along. It was a nice gesture, if not for the fact she had made mini haggis balls. They looked like little meatballs – attractive on the outside, though hiding repulsive flavours on the inside.
Once the other guests started arriving, it didn’t take Mother long to remove the foil wrapping from her plate. It was a sacrificial offering. My reputation was about to be led to the slaughter.
A group of Victoria’s younger relatives, nicknamed ‘the Toddler Brigade’, quickly spotted the plate of food. If you could call it food.
‘Yummy-yum-yums!’
Yucky-yuck-yucks, I thought to myself. Having grown up on Mother’s mini haggis balls, I feared for the sensitive stomachs of the Toddler Brigade.
It turned out my fears were warranted.
Within half an hour the Toddler Brigade were holding their tummies and rolling around on the floor. A horrible gurgling sound began to sweep through the Goldenhorns’ house.
Victoria, who was being closely shadowed by Damon, thought he was the cause of the rumbling. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you might like to use the bathroom, Damon.’
‘It’s not me,’ said Damon, pointing to the Toddler Brigade. ‘Look!’
Shrieks and howls filled the air as desperate mothers and fathers rushed to their stomach-clutching children. The toddlers could hold it in no longer. Great gushes of spew spilled from their mouths.
Adults started gagging.
The Toddler Brigade kept vomiting.
‘What have they eaten?!’ cried Mrs Goldenhorn.
Mother checked to see that nobody was watching and slipped the plate of remaining haggis balls back into her handbag. ‘No appreciation for good-quality delicacies,’ she muttered under her breath.
Father signalled for everyone to quieten down. ‘Allow me to teach you all a calming technique handed down to me by my forefathers.’
I gulped. I knew what he was about to unleash.
The highland toe-tickle.
It was at this point that I decided enough was enough. I could no longer be publicly associated with my parents.
I walked straight out of the Goldenhorns’ front door and didn’t stop walking until I’d reached my own.
I lay on my bed and put my earphones in. It was the best I could do to block out Father’s knocks on my locked bedroom door. I was in no mood to talk about why I had left the party early.
I had to find a solution to my parental problems. So, I turned to the only place known to solve such issues – the internet.
I typed ‘embarrassing parents’ into my phone and clicked on the first link.
Do your parents constantly embarrass you? Does your mother leave lipstick marks on your cheek? Does your father’s public behaviour leave you squirming? Are you sick of feeling humiliated in their presence? If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, then ParentalRental is the app for you!
It was as though the description for ParentalRental had read my mind. I downloaded the app and swiped through the instructions. All I had to do was browse the list of parents and hire a pair for my next public outing. It was simple. And, considering the next public outing was Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner, the timing couldn’t have been better.
It didn’t take long to find the parents of my dreams.
Introducing Mr Sunset!
Occupation: Self-made millionaire.
Interests: Jetskiing, poker, travel, fitness, theatre.
Quote: Ever taken a ride in a Ferrari? I’ll make you the envy of your friends.
Introducing Mrs Sunset!
Occupation: Property investor, model.
Interests: Fitness, women’s fashion, travel, interior design.
Quote: With looks to kill, I’ll make your outing a thrill.
The reviews of Mr and Mrs Sunset confirmed my love-at-first-browse feeling.
Eagleboy: Best night ever! Got to ride in a sports car. Even picked up a girlfriend!
Sabrina555: OMGosh! Do yourself a favour and rent these parents. They are unreal!!!!! 
Guitar_dude5: Mr and Mrs Sunset are the best! I’ll be renting them again for my next outing.
HollyGurl99: THE BEST!! I WISH I COULD LIVE WITH THEM 4EVA!!
It was obvious what I had to do. I sent Mr and Mrs Sunset a request to accompany me to Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner.
I almost cried with joy when they wrote back and said they could.
Convincing Mother and Father the fiftieth anniversary dinner was cancelled was an important task, especially considering hundreds of the free tickets had already been snapped up. I had to make sure my parents stayed as far away as possible. I told them that lack of interest meant the dinner was not going ahead.
‘Aye, a real shame, that is, laddie,’ said Father, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he was not disappointed at all.
‘Well,’ said Mother in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘at least you won’t have to worry about being embarrassed by your rich heritage.’
Father gave Mother a knowing look. ‘There’s no need to get angry at Harold. He’s simply the bearer of bad news.’
Mother eased up. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right.’ A sly grin spread across her face. ‘Harold, why don’t you go to see a movie on the night of the dinner instead? It’s important to spend time with friends – not just family.’
‘I think I will,’ I said brightly. I couldn’t believe my luck. Mother had not only fallen for my excuse, she had given me an alibi to go to the dinner with Mr and Mrs Sunset.
I went back to my room, almost shaking with excitement. I sent a confirmation message to Mr and Mrs Sunset and transferred them money from my bank account. It was about six weeks’ pocket money, but worth not having to worry about being embarrassed. The Sunsets’ confirmation came through in an instant. Everything was in place.
Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner was going to be attended by the coolest parents on planet Earth. But the best part was, I would be their son for the night.
Meeting Mr and Mrs Sunset was like meeting Hollywood superstars. Except better.
To avoid suspicion from my parents, I had arranged for Mr and Mrs Sunset to pick me up from a bus stop a few streets away from my house. I was thrilled when a red Ferrari – roof down and engine rumbling – pulled up at the kerb.
Mr Sunset was wearing a black suit and sunglasses. His brown hair was slicked back, held in place with something clearly other than Mother’s globby spit. His wife wore a smooth red dress that hugged her model-like figure. Her immaculate long blonde hair looked like something from a shampoo commercial.
‘Don’t just stand there, Harold, my man,’ said Mr Sunset. ‘Hop on in.’ The brightness of his teeth almost blinded me.
I climbed into the back of the Ferrari and soaked it all up. Two of the most attractive humans I’d ever seen sat before me. The soft leather seat of the Ferrari was more comfortable than our best couch. The purr of the engine drew envious looks from a group of teenagers passing by. The evening was only just warming up.
Mrs Sunset turned around and blinked her blue eyes at me. ‘Harold, honey, we are going to have the most divine night.’
I was speechless.
She handed me a cold bottle of soda. ‘For the ride, my dear.’
The engine roared into gear and Mr Sunset turned the music up. ‘Feel free to choose the channel, Harold. Make yourself at home!’
We zoomed off and I opened the bottle of soda. It was perfect.
‘I don’t suppose you could put the football on the radio?’ I found myself saying.
‘Of course!’ said Mr Sunset, pressing his foot further onto the accelerator. ‘Enjoy the ride, my man – we’re taking the long way there!’
Mrs Sunset insisted we stop at an expensive clothing store on the way to the school. She had me try on all sorts of stylish clothes, and I found myself being bought a new outfit for the night – a kilt and button-up shirt. ‘You look a treat, Harold,’ she said. ‘As soon as I heard your faint accent, I knew we had to tap into that gorgeous Scottish culture of yours.’
I wasn’t so sure. ‘But kilts aren’t cool,’ I said.
Mrs Sunset knew otherwise. ‘I’ve just returned home from a Paris fashion show – kilts are the next big thing!’
We arrived at Blue Valley School ‘fashionably late’, as Mrs Sunset called it. ‘This way,’ she said, ‘everyone can see you arrive like the star you are.’
The crowd outside the school hall fell silent at the sight of the red Ferrari. Everyone was craning their necks, trying to see who was inside.
‘Smile and wave, Harold,’ said Mrs Sunset.
‘Take it in, my man,’ said Mr Sunset.
Everyone stared wide-eyed at us as we got out of the car and walked to the entrance of the school hall. Even Mr Sternblast looked impressed. He was probably surprised a school event could draw A-list-like celebrities.
Judging by the gasps and whispers from the crowd at school, Mrs Sunset had been right about her fashion tips.
‘Is that Harold?’
‘I didn’t realise he was so trendy.’
‘Check out his shirt.’
‘Look at that amazing kilt.’
‘I think I’m in love.’
‘Harold rocks!’
At one stage I thought I heard Father’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure.
Mr and Mrs Sunset walked either side of me, smiling for photos as we pressed our way inside the school hall.
The place was packed, but we managed to find three seats at a table near the back of the room.
Mr Sternblast took to the stage and tapped the microphone. ‘Welcome to Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner.’
‘Looks like he’s been here that long,’ whispered Mr Sunset.
I tried not to laugh too loud.
‘It’s fantastic to see so many people in attendance,’ said Mr Sternblast. He looked like he was thinking about smiling as he gazed over the crowd. He glanced at our table and Mrs Sunset winked at him, making his cheeks turn almost as red as the Ferrari. I was used to seeing him go red in the face, though usually for different reasons.
Mrs Sunset grinned at me, well aware she had made the principal blush.
Mr Sternblast thanked everyone again for coming and announced that the entree would be served. Then he disappeared to the side of the stage, barking at some younger students who were snooping around the drinks table.
The entree was mini gourmet pizzas, though I didn’t get to eat much. I was too busy posing for photos with kids who wanted to take a selfie with me and my parents.
‘Isn’t our Harold just divine?’ said Mrs Sunset, pouting her lips for one of the photos.
‘That’s our boy,’ said Mr Sunset, flashing his teeth at the camera.
At one stage I thought I saw Mother on the other side of the hall, though I couldn’t be sure.
There were several other people on our table – mostly Blue Valley School students and their parents – and Mr Sunset soon had them in stitches with his funny stories. He laughed as he told them about his exciting international business deals and the time he accidentally offended a Japanese banker in Tokyo by hogging the microphone at karaoke. He charmed them by serving the main course – spaghetti – and teaching them how to wrap it around their forks with a single turn of the wrist. One of the other parents managed to wrap spaghetti around her elbow, much to the amusement of Mr Sunset.
Although I was laughing, I couldn’t help but miss Father’s stories of the highlands. Still, it was a lot better than being embarrassed.
Mrs Sunset leaned over and ruffled my hair with her hands. ‘You suit the rugged look well, my dear,’ she said. ‘I know plenty of young models who would kill for hair like yours.’
I liked my new look too. But Mrs Sunset lacked Mother’s caring touch. I had to remind myself that it was better than the spit split.
After the main course had been cleared away, the guests moved their tables to the edge of the hall. There was to be a dance featuring hit songs from the past fifty years.
The music started pumping and Mr and Mrs Sunset took to the dance floor like ducks to water. They danced with silky moves, drawing more photos and admiration from those nearby.
It’s hard to describe how I was feeling. I wasn’t embarrassed. But I wasn’t happy. It was like my rental parents were part of some weird reality television show. I joined in the dancing, though I didn’t feel much emotion.
I did, however, feel emotion when I saw my real parents dancing on the other side of the hall. Worst of all, they were dancing with another boy!
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Mother and Father were busting moves with another boy. Who was he? Why was he dancing with my parents? And why were they even at the school dinner?
I hid behind Mr and Mrs Sunset and watched from a distance. That’s when I noticed something that almost stopped my heart. The other boy was wearing my clothes! It even looked as though his hair had been spit split. Mother leaned over to the boy and tucked a large Scottish thistle into his shirt pocket. I was stunned.
Mrs Sunset must have read my face. ‘Are you all right, honey?’
I nodded, though I was far from all right.
The boy started upping his dance moves. He was good. So good that a small crowd began to gather around him.
Mr Sunset saw me looking in the boy’s direction. ‘He’s pretty groovy, Harold, my man.’
He was better than groovy. He was groove itself.
‘He looks familiar,’ said Mrs Sunset, who had also noticed the dancing phenomenon.
The boy got so carried away in his dance moves that he didn’t notice the music stop. Or the fact the entire crowd was now watching him.
Mother and Father looked pleased with the boy. They smiled at him and gazed around at the crowd with proud expressions. Mother pointed to the boy and then put her hand on her heart. Father gave the boy a high five and grinned.
My head was spinning. Mother and Father had adopted some strange son. They loved him. They loved him and not me. I was their son. It should have been me dancing with them.
Blood pumped around my body harder than it had ever pumped before. I had to do something. I had to get the attention of the ones I loved, and there was only one thing I could think of.
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW, LET THIS KILT BEGIN TO FLOW!’
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
I ripped my designer shirt off and leapt into the centre of the dance floor, crying out at the top of my lungs. ‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
I slapped my chest with all my might.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Mr and Mrs Sunset shrugged their shoulders and looked on, probably wondering who exactly had rented them for the night.
I bounded across the room, urging the crowd to join my dance.
They didn’t.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
I thundered around the hall, slapping my chest like a boy possessed. My kilt flapped and fluttered as I romped about. I felt as free as a highland deer.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Finally, I stood, panting, in front of my real parents. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘this next move is for you.’ I started spinning around madly. I could feel my kilt rise above my knees.
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
I spun faster and faster, spiralling like a Scottish tornado.
My kilt edged higher. I could feel the air on my thighs.
Someone was screaming. ‘Stop him now!’
I spun faster still.
My kilt rose ever higher. I couldn’t remember if I was wearing underpants. But I didn’t care. I spun as fast as I could.
Mr Sternblast had had enough. ‘Stop this nonsense immediately, Harold!’
I stopped spinning and collapsed on the floor.
‘Smart move, my man,’ said Mr Sunset, patting Mr Sternblast on the shoulder. ‘Stopped him just in time.’
‘What the devil has gotten hold of you, boy?’ roared Mr Sternblast, his voice echoing in the hall.
I looked up at the principal. ‘I … I’m not sure.’
Mrs Sunset rushed over and helped me off the ground. ‘Are you all right, my darling?’
Father scratched his head. ‘My darling? Who is that woman, Harold?’
‘That woman is my wife,’ said Mr Sunset. ‘And this is our son,’ he added, pointing to me.
‘Is it true, Harold?’ The pain in Father’s eyes turned my stomach inside out. ‘Tell me who they are, laddie.’
‘I can explain,’ I said. ‘Mr and Mrs Sunset are my rental parents for the night.’
‘Rental parents?’ said Father. He looked even more hurt.
‘You and Mother kept embarrassing me in public,’ I admitted. ‘I wanted to come to the dinner with … cool parents.’ I pointed to Mr and Mrs Sunset.
The boy who had been dancing with Mother and Father stepped forward. He recognised Mr and Mrs Sunset. ‘Mum … Dad …?’
‘Oliver!’ cried Mrs Sunset. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m with them,’ he said, pointing to Mother and Father, who gazed sheepishly at the dance floor.
‘Who are they?’ said Mr Sunset.
‘They hired me to be their son for the night,’ said Oliver. ‘Ever since you started working for ParentalRental, I wanted to do the same. But I’m not a parent. So, I started working for FunSons. I came with Mr and Mrs McHagil tonight.’
It was my turn to be hurt. ‘Is it true?’
‘Aye, son, it’s true,’ said Mother. ‘We may be old, but we’re not stupid. We know you don’t like being with us in public. We hired Oliver to be our son for the night so we could enjoy ourselves without worrying about embarrassing you. We thought you were going to see a movie with a friend.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘I love you, Mother and Father,’ I said.
‘We love you too, Harold,’ they said, embracing me.
‘I love you, Mum and Dad,’ said Oliver, hugging Mr and Mrs Sunset.
‘And we love you, Oliver,’ they said.
‘Well,’ said Mr Sternblast. ‘I think that’s quite enough love for one evening. Time for everybody to go home.’
‘Harold,’ said Father, as we walked slowly through the hall door, ‘that was a very fine kilt dance. A very fine kilt dance indeed.’
I smiled at Father and said something I had been waiting to say for a long time.
‘Aye, it was pure dead brilliant.’