20
At school everyone was yapping on about the Halloween disco so much that their chat was giving me major sore napper:
“What are you going as next week?”
“Don’t know. What are you going as?”
“I haven’t decided yet. What are you going as?”
“Not got a clue. What about you?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I was thinking of going as . . .”
BALLS, BALLS, BLAH, BLAH.
Not on your nelly did I ever want to go to the school’s Halloween disco in the first place, but as soon as Mom said, “There’s no way on this big round earth, Dylan, that you’re going to any Halloween disco after your behavior over the past few weeks. You must think I’m up a gum tree or something, young man,” I wanted to go so much that it hurt my stomach. I was desperate to go. I would have done the dishes and scrubbed the toilet bowl until March if only I could go. I didn’t know what she meant by being “up a gum tree,” but I giggled at the image of Mom sitting up a tree doing all the stuff she likes to do, drinking wine and watching Come Dine with Me, her soaps, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Then Amir kept texting, pestering my life to go. Almost every night my phone would play “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” at least five or seven times, always with some Billy Bonkers idea of what we should dress up as.
simon cowell + louis walsh?
no way, josé
batman + robin?
blow town
jedward?
r u up a gum tree?
a wot?
nuting
After the tussle with Skittle, Amir’s good books had me all over the front covers. I was, like, his bestest best bud. Better than his family, even. The daftest bit about the Skittle scrap, which made me happy as Homer Simpson at a hot dog festival, was that everyone seemed to forget all about my Massive Knock-back from Michelle Malloy. The talk now was all about how I had put Skittle in his place and how Dylan Mint didn’t take any shite from anyone. And even though I felt like Ralph Macchio from The Karate Kid I, II, and III, I didn’t want anyone to think I was a guy who didn’t take any shite. I didn’t want to be Dylan Mint, the Psycho of the School.
The groovy idea flashed in my head when I was seeing how long my ear could remain tucked inside itself. One minute forty-three seconds. Not long enough to get the Guinness World Records on the blower, but a tremendous starting point. My aim was three minutes.
wot about reservoir dogs?????
wot u on about?
itz a film
havnt seen it
watch it then
I will
thats wot we r goin as
sure?
sure
gr8
reservoir dogs it is so
reservoir dicks!!!
lol. U r mad amir
we all r . . . lol