My Big Mouth Read online

  For Dylan,

  my cool and kind hero

  chain reaction (noun)

  A series of events, each caused by the previous one.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Week One Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Week Two Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Week Three Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Week Four Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Week Five Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  It all started when I was ten.

  What was I like when I was ten?

  Let me paint you a picture.

  I wasn’t too tall, wasn’t too short. I could run quite fast, but I never once won a race. I wasn’t the goody-goody teacher’s pet kid at the front of the class photograph with jazz hands and cheesy grin, but I wasn’t the tearaway rebel sneaking out of the shot to set the fire alarm off either. I was just in the middle. A regular ten-year-old boy.

  And one thing I never was, ever . . .

  . . . was cool.

  I had a dog. Gus.

  Same age as me.

  Dad brought him home the week I was born. He said it was important to remember that human beings aren’t the only species.

  Lovable Gus. Rough fur like a toilet brush. He was a something crossed with a something else, like all the best characters, and nobody understood him like me. He slept in my room and I knew the sweet spot between his shoulder blades that when you scratched it, made him roll over and howl a thank you.

  Every now and then he’d get this crazy glint in his dark eyes.

  Not crazy like ‘I’m gonna bite your grandma!’-type crazy. No. More like:

  What’s that?

  It’s your tail, Gus.

  Nah, man. It’s a snake.

  Gus, it’s your tail.

  Snake.

  Tail.

  Snake!

  Gus . . .

  Snaaaaaaaaaake!!!!!!!!

  That kind of crazy.

  By the time I was ten, Gus was, like, seventy in dog years, which, looking back now, makes complete sense, seeing as all he did most days at that point was sleep underneath my bedroom radiator and fart.

  But he was a great listener, and when everyone else would ignore me, I always knew I could count on Gus to share my problems.

  OK, stop. Hold on.

  Are you a dog person? That phrase means someone who likes dogs, but it always makes me picture a human with a dog’s head.

  If you had a dog’s head, which dog would it be? I’d go with German shepherd, I reckon, or maybe one of those cool wolf-dogs with one blue eye and one brown eye. Yeah. Wolf-dog. Definitely.

  Maybe you’ve got a dog? Have you?

  Maybe as you read this, there’s a dog curled up underneath your radiator, snoring a doggy snore and dropping the occasional fart.

  Some people don’t like dogs. The idea of a dog sleeping under their radiator is not one they enjoy. They’re not dog people.

  I am. I would happily have a dog in every room in the house.

  I’m a cat person too. In fact, I’m pretty much an any-animal-in-the-whole-world person, really. Except owls.

  You don’t have to have a dog to be a dog person. Maybe you don’t have a dog, but you’d like one. If you could have a dog, what would it look like? Would it be massive, or a tiny pocket dog that hides in your coat all day, yapping at strangers? Something in between?

  What would you call it?

  Say the name you chose out loud right now.

  Done? Good. Words are powerful. Ideas can come to life when you speak them. Trust me. It’s like speaking them can make them real.

  Speaking of names, what’s yours?

  Say it out loud. Nice. I could use that.

  My name? Are you sure you need to know?

  I could tell you that my name is Lord Dungfart Trumplestink and it wouldn’t matter whether I was telling the truth, would it? It wouldn’t change what happened.

  Exactly. But I suppose I should start honest, at least.

  My name is Jason Gardner. People call me Jay.

  And I have a story to tell you.

  We lived at number 184.

  A skinny house in a street of skinny houses. Gus, me and three other humans.

  HUMAN NUMBER 1: Mum

  My mum was a nurse.

  If you’ve ever met a nurse, or better still if you actually know a nurse personally, you’ll know what I mean when I say that nurses are amazing. Doctors get all the glory when the news reporters do their interviews and they wipe their foreheads and strike a superhero pose after accidents, and they are pretty cool, but nurses, they’re the ones who work the real magic day to day. It’s a quieter magic that doesn’t need to shout, but anything that’s wrong with you, a nurse can put it right, and my mum was the super-mega-boss nurse.

  Any time you felt bad, my mum knew what to do to make you feel better.

  Got a headache? Lie on your left side in a dark room.

  Feeling a bit sick? Peppermint tea and a blanket.

  Chopped your hand off? Grab some frozen peas and a needle and thread.

  Anything at all that broke, Mum could fix it.

  Thing is, though, nurses work crazy hours. Mum would sometimes work all night and sleep during the day. When she was working nights, we had to tiptoe around the house so as not to wake her, because trust me, you do not want to face Mum if you’ve woken her up mid-sleep. She used to wear these:

  You’ve seen these before, right? On aeroplanes if you’ve ever flown on one. Or in old films. You don’t see them much in regular life because, to be honest, I’m not sure they actually work. Mum’s definitely didn’t. I’d come home from school, tiptoe in, step on one creaky floorboard, and Mum would come downstairs making a face like someone who’d just sat on a porcupine.

  She loves music. Favourite type of music? Reggae. I’m assuming you’ve heard of Bob Marley? Reggae legend and cultural icon? If you haven’t, don’t worry, just go and make use of the internet and listen to his music and then come back. He’s amazing. Mum’s ultimate favourite. She used to sing ‘Buffalo Soldier’ when she was cooking. She doesn’t have the greatest voice, but she always went for it full passion, you know?

  I’d be sitting on my bed, reading a comic, Gus fast asleep under the radiator, and the smell of dinner would come wafting up the stairs as Mum’s amateur-reggae-star voice boomed through the floorboards.

  HUMAN NUMBER 2: Donna

  My older sister.

  Four and a half years older than me. If you’ve got an older sister, you’ll understand how special and complicated they can be.

  If you don’t, let me explain something: older sisters are STRONG. Older brothers might make more noise, but in a one-on-one situation, I’d take an older sister every time. M
aybe I’m biased because my older sister Donna was a fourth-dan black belt in kung fu. You ever heard of Bruce Lee? Martial arts legend? Movie star and cultural icon? If you haven’t, don’t worry, just go make use of the internet, find some old clips and then come back. He’s amazing. Donna’s ultimate hero.

  Donna was that girl at school who nobody messed with, not even boys. Everybody knew that if you started something with Donna, it usually ended up with you on the floor holding your bruised neck.

  The thing about an older sister is (and if you have one, you’ll know this), she is either your best friend, or your worst enemy. It depends on the day.

  On some days, she’s amazing. Like the time I came off my bike and cut my knee open, and Mum wasn’t around. Donna cleaned it up, put me on the sofa, wrapped my knee in a bandage, gave me a blanket and a sandwich and the remote control. Perfect.

  Then there were other days, when she used to just roll me up in my own duvet, and sit on me. All afternoon.

  Punching me every time I squirmed and forcing me to call her ‘master’.

  If your older sister is old enough to be going out on dates, here’s a tip I learned the hard way. You never EVER mention her love life, and you never EVER EVER tell your older sister that you think she looks good. Something about a compliment from their little brother is basically older-sister kryptonite. One time last summer, Donna came downstairs after dinner in her best dungarees and jean shirt, and I foolishly said something like, ‘Oh, Donna, you look lovely. Who’s the special person?’ And . . .

  CHOP! – straight in my neck – then she stormed off to her room and blasted her music while she got changed, leaving me in a crumpled heap on the hallway floor.

  Donna’s music isn’t reggae like Mum’s. Donna’s music is all made by bands full of boys with hair across their faces who play guitar and wear ripped clothes and sing songs about how everything’s rubbish and nothing really matters and we’re all just going to get old and die.

  So there were times when I’d be sitting in my room, with Donna’s moody music blaring through the wall, the boom of Mum’s reggae voice coming through the floor, and me and Gus just stuck in the middle like some kind of musical sandwich.

  HUMAN NUMBER 3: Dad

  My dad was a funny one.

  Kind of up and down. On good days, he was amazing.

  He used to make up stories. That was his job. Writer. He wrote books for grown-ups that I wasn’t allowed to read, but I didn’t really care because the stories he made up on the spot for us were so good. Best stories ever. Stories about getting sucked down the bath plughole to fight ninjas in the sewer. Stories about jumping out of bed in the morning and realizing you’ve turned into a rhino from the waist down. Incredible stories.

  When he told them, it felt like he pulled you in with him and you were almost living a movie inside your own head, directed by the coolest person alive. So much fun.

  Me and Donna used to sit on the living-room floor looking up at him as he spoke, feeling like we were witnessing actual magic. Then, when Donna got older and it was just me sitting there, Dad would let me help create characters and even sometimes do the voices. He used to say that stories are what bring us together.

  I remember on my seventh birthday, he pinned a laminated map of the world up on to my bedroom wall, one of those massive ones, that covered the entire space between my door and the window, and on the nights when he wasn’t working, before I went to sleep, Dad would sit on the edge of my bed and ask me to point to a place on the map. I’d stick out my finger at some random location, and Dad would then make up a story about that place. Greenland. Fiji. Cameroon. Out of nothing. Just like that. So cool.

  I remember asking him once, I was like, ‘Dad, aren’t you just lying?’

  Dad looked right at me and said:

  ‘No, Jason. See, there’s a difference. A lie is selfish. And a story is a gift. You’ll learn.’

  Coolest stories ever.

  On the good days.

  On the bad days, it was best just to leave him alone. Either in his room, at the desk, or downstairs in his chair. See, my dad had a chair. If your dad has a chair, then you’ll know the unspoken rule:

  WARNING:

  NOBODY SITS IN DAD’S CHAIR!

  Like he’s the king and the chair is his throne or something. I’m not sure why mums don’t seem to get chairs. They’re the ones who do most of the real work, as far as I can see, but none of them ever seem to demand their own chair like dads do. I don’t know who made that rule up or if it’s carved on the inside of some cave wall somewhere, but my dad had a chair and only he sat in it.

  Something I noticed from when I was really small was that people always seemed fascinated with what dads did. Like what your dad did for a job was some super-important information. Like if your dad had a cool job it somehow made you cool. I’m not sure who decided what jobs are cool and whether there’s some list written somewhere with all the cool jobs on, but people always wanted to know. You could have said anything. Just kept a straight face.

  What does your dad do?

  My dad is . . . an astronaut.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  My dad is . . . a professional wrestler.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  My dad is . . . an international assassin.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  My dad . . .

  . . . disappeared on a Sunday night while we were all asleep.

  It was the start of summer half-term in Year 6.

  A whole week off before the last five weeks of my junior school life. I woke up, ready for a fun-filled week of computer games and cartoons. And he was gone.

  Like someone had come along with some giant scissors and cut him out of the family photograph.

  He left hardly anything behind.

  A few old clothes.

  A shelf full of his old mystery novels and reference books.

  A pair of worn-out shoes.

  His flat cap.

  And his toothbrush.

  Was he coming back? Where had he gone? Why did he leave?

  These were the questions swimming round my brain, but whenever I tried to ask, Mum or Donna would change the subject.

  We don’t think so, they said.

  Not now, they said.

  It’s complicated, they said.

  Short, snappy answers, with pretty much no information in them, the whole time their faces letting me know they thought I was too young to understand. It felt like our house was holding its breath and I didn’t get how they could just carry on, doing normal daily stuff. But that’s what they did, and it seemed like that’s what I had to do too.

  The weirdest part of when someone leaves is the space. The normal places where you used to see them being empty. The bathroom. By the fridge. Their chair.

  It’s not like when someone is just out, at work or visiting friends. When someone leaves, the spaces you used to see them in almost feel like they’ve changed colour. Like a T-shirt that’s gone through the washing machine twenty times. Kind of faded.

  I don’t know if that even makes sense, but it’s what I mean.

  After a couple of days, Mum gathered up all of Dad’s old stuff into a bin bag and took it to the charity shop. The last bits of evidence that he lived here vanished just like him. But she forgot his toothbrush. Maybe she didn’t notice it. Maybe she wasn’t sure it was his, but it stayed there, in the little yellow plastic cup next to the bathroom sink.

  Every morning and night, that whole week of half-term, I had to look at it as I brushed my teeth. And every time I looked at it, I felt myself filling up with questions.

  Mum kept putting on a smile and saying I was now ‘the man of the place’, and even though that did feel kind of cool to hear, I still wasn’t getting any answers.

  Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Gus, I think I would have gone completely mad that week. Sitting on my bedroom floor in my pyjamas each night, looking out at the silver hook of t
he moon, I shared my thoughts and questions with Gus, and, even though he didn’t have any answers, just like always, Gus listening calmed me down.

  A whole week of brushing my teeth every night and every morning, staring at his toothbrush sitting smugly in the cup. Like even it knew more than me.

  Then, on Monday morning, first day back for the last five weeks of Year 6, I snapped.

  Brushing my teeth that morning, staring at his toothbrush, I could feel myself pressing too hard, the bristles of my brush scratching at my gums as the toothpaste froth spilt out on to my chin. I felt the word coming out of my mouth: ‘Enough!’

  And a switch inside me flipped.

  I spat, grabbed Dad’s toothbrush from the cup, threw it into the toilet and flushed.

  That’d show him.

  If I didn’t get any proper answers to my questions, then he didn’t get to leave his toothbrush there and make me think about him every single morning and night. I’d flush him away.

  Gone.

  It didn’t flush.

  I tried again.

  And again.

  I tried seven times. Have you ever tried to flush a toothbrush down the toilet? If you have, you’ll know. It doesn’t work. Something to do with a lack of density or something.

  In the end I had to pick it out with my fingers like tweezers, and throw it into the bin.

  Not as dramatic, but I’d done something. Something that mattered. The air in the house felt different. Like I’d popped a balloon. And I felt a kind of ticking in my stomach, like something had started.

  And that was because it had.

  Are you familiar with the term ‘chain reaction’?

  One thing happens, which causes something else to happen which is a bit bigger, which causes something else to happen which is a bit bigger, which causes something else to happen which is a bit bigger, and before you know it, you’re trapped under a big mess that you can’t control. Well, on Monday morning, first day back for the last half-term of Year 6, I started a chain reaction, with a toothbrush.