When Mr. Dog Bites Read online

  For Norrie

  Contents

  1 Lists

  2 School

  3 Letter

  4 Babe

  5 Buds

  6 Lies

  7 Pen

  8 Doctor

  9 Plans

  10 War Zone

  11 Chores

  12 Match

  13 Date

  14 Car

  15 Kidneys

  16 Classmates

  17 Millionaire

  18 Counseling

  19 Rap

  20 Costume

  21 Argument

  22 Characters

  23 Funeral

  24 Disco

  25 Crying

  26 Truth

  27 Robber

  28 Shopping

  29 Empty

  30 Good-bye

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Lists

  When I found out, the first thing I did was type “100 things to do before you die” into Google.

  The Internet is, like, wow! How do those Google people make their thingy whizz about the world in mega-swoosh style before sending me, Dylan Mint, all this big-eye info? No one could answer that question—I know this for a fact because I’ve googled it myself, six times, and there is nada on it. Nothing that I understand, anyway. Frustrating or what?

  But here’s the thing, which is capital letters FRUSTRATING: I was super disappointed with the info Google swooshed me because there were too many things on the list that I didn’t want to do.

  Ever.

  Who wants to “write the story of your life”?

  Or “ride a camel in the desert”?

  Or “go to the shops in your pajamas”?

  I mean, who wants to do that?

  Not me, that’s who.

  The three most bonkers things on the list were:

  1. Skydive naked with a video camera strapped to your head.

  2. Dive into a swimming pool full of beans.

  3. Have sex with your boyfriend or girlfriend on a train.

  All of them meant taking your clothes off, and there was No Way, José I’d take my kit off so everyone could gawk at my willy. Number three was the one I really didn’t get: surely a bed would be a comfier place to do the dirty. And there would be millions of people on a train—going to work or going on a shopping spree—so it wouldn’t be a private moment.

  I think whoever made up the list didn’t have the foggiest idea about cacking it. The info Google sent me was too Dire Straits, so I used my initiative and decided to do my own list. Special just to me. Not one hundred things, though—that was far too many, and there was no way on this earth I’d get through them all. Not in my state—are you mental? No, I’d settle for three: the magic number, and my number on the Drumhill Special School soccer team. For boys. (The team, not the school.)

  Oh, shizenhowzen!

  I lied. Not a biggie, but a lie is a lie is a lie.

  *

  When I found out, the real first thing I did was cling to Mom and wipe her tears from my face. She left my cheek all salty and yuckety. I’ve never understood why moms do that. Amir told me that his mom does that too when people shout “Paki” or “nig-nog” at them in the street. But Paki and nig-nog are opposites, so there’s No Way, José Amir and his mom can be both. I told him that, so I did. I also told him people who scream evil words like that have some brain-cell malnutrition and will probably end up living off welfare or working in the garden section of Home Depot or collecting shopping carts at Walmart.

  Amir is my best bud. He knows all about me. I know all about him too. He goes to Drumhill for his mental problems, which are too many to mention, but let’s just say he does a lot of staring into blank spaces and making bonkers noises. He also has a wee bit of a stut-stut-stutter. He’s a nut-nut-nutter, though, in a good way. We have a secret pact to not call each other any of those evil names other people call us. Especially the ones we hate. The ones that make our throats have lumps in them the size of gobstoppers. We sort of look after each other, because that’s what best buds do, isn’t it? We’re each other’s homeboy even though Amir’s real home is, like, on the other side of the world. But even if he had to go back there we would still be best buds, because we have a telepathic-brain thing going on.

  We haven’t had any man chat about who will be his new best bud when I’m away. Some things we don’t chat about. Whose mom cries the most? We do talk about that. It used to be his.

  Oh, shizenhowzen again!

  *

  When I found out, one of the first real things I did was feel for my wee stone and rub it through my thumb and fingers. It’s more like a piece of green glass, really. But it’s dead smooth and soooooooooo green that from a distance people might think it’s a precious emerald. But people never get to lay their peepers on my green stone because it always stays in my left pocket. To me it is a precious emerald. Green is sort of like my best bud number two. I know it doesn’t chat, but it keeps me safe and soothes the old head when things get hairy canary. But Amir is my best human bud.

  I thought I might let Amir do some of the things on my list.

  2

  School

  When Back to School Day came on August 12, I knew it would be a mighty problemo for me. A paradox even, which is a bit like a contradiction. When I was having one of my normal days during the school holidays, Mom said things like, “Dylan, go out and play for a while. You’re getting under my feet.” This drove me round the Oliver Twist because I was sixteen years old now and everyone knows that sixteen-year-old geezers don’t play—we hang out or chillax. Also, and this is a capital letter ALSO, if I really was “under Mom’s feet,” that would make me a carpet, floorboards, or some sticky linoleum. So Mom’s down a point for that one. But the morning of my return to school Mom lost some major pointage for seriously twisting my melon, man.

  “Just what have you done with yourself over these past seven weeks, Dylan?” she said.

  I stared at her like a true teenage rebel rooster, not really knowing how to respond.

  “Eh?” she said. “Eh?” Ah, I got it! It was an actual question.

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “That’s right. Nothing.”

  Not true! I did mountains of brain-gym exercises, and on Championship Manager I got Albion Rovers all the way to the Champions League final, which took flippin’ donkey’s weeks to do. We lost 3–1 to Hertha Berlin. We had a tough time in that final.

  “You’ve not done a thing, Dylan.”

  “I’ve—’

  “Sat up in that room most of the time. You’ve hardly been out the door.”

  “Not exactly correct, Mom.”

  “You’ll become obese sitting in front of a computer day in, day out.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You will, Dylan.”

  “WON’T.” I didn’t mean to shout, but I don’t enjoy the feeling I have in my tummy when I’m made out to be an eejit. What Mom didn’t know was that I had a Strictly No Munching Policy when sitting at my keyboard, so the obese thingy was a fat red duck. Then I put my chin down on my chest and whispered to myself, “I won’t become obese.”

  “And you know who they’ll blame. Eh?”

  “Who?”

  “Me, that’s who, and your father . . . if he was here.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Your teachers, for a start. The folk at the clinic and the neighbors.”

  “Mom, I’m a hundred and twelve pounds. I have to do the crucifix position when I’m walking over drains.”

  Mom looked up at the ceiling. “Jesus! And now blasphemy.”

  Blah-blah blasphe
my. Mom lobbed in big mad words when she was losing the argument and wanted to teach me the lesson that old people know the score. But I knew what that word meant.

  “Mom, I’m not going to become obese.”

  “That’s what Tim Thompson’s mom thought.”

  “Tim Thompson’s not obese.”

  “No? You tell that to his trousers.” Tee-hee-hee. Mom cracked a funny. I love when Mom goes all stand-up.

  “He’s just got a bit of a pudgy belly.”

  Tim Thompson, a.k.a. Doughnut. Not because he shoves doughnuts in his gobby gob, but because his pouch looks like a massive round sugar-plum doughnut. Doughnut is the most horriblest person at Drumhill: he’s one of the baddies who love using the words nig-nog, Paki, mongo, and spazzie. This was another paradox (I think), because here I was doing a mad defending job on him when, really, I couldn’t stand him. If Doughnut went to school in America, he’d be known as the school dork or douche bag. At Drumhill he was just Doughnut the dick.

  “Well, all I’m saying, Dylan, is that I don’t want you sitting up in that room all the time. It’s not good for you. It’s not healthy.”

  “It’s not as if I’m hurting anyone.”

  “You’re fading away.”

  “Make up your mind! One minute I’m Blubber Boy and the next I’m Sammy the Stick.” Sometimes moms are real-deal barmy; no wonder someone invented the padded cell.

  “I mean your mind is fading away, Dylan. Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Look, Mom, I wish I could stay here all day and do some chatting, but I have to boost or I’m going to be late.”

  “So why are you still standing here talking? You don’t want to be late on your first day back. Good God in heaven, I don’t know!”

  I made a grab for my brand-new bag.

  Gray rucksack.

  No name.

  No logo.

  Jaggy diggy-in straps.

  Stiff zip.

  Rough as an old potato sack.

  A killer on the back.

  Everyone would know it was out of Kmart, Walmart, or some other nasty cheapo shop. Mom didn’t tell me where it came from. I didn’t ask.

  See, I was one of those cats who began a new school year decked head to toe in new gear. I never understood why, though, because I liked the last set of clothes I had. I think it was just to show that we weren’t really, really poor and didn’t have leather carpets or empty kitchen cupboards. But they were bottom-of-the-barrel cheapo outfits whichever way you looked at them. My new clothes told me that we were a teeny-weeny bit poor. Not as poor as the mega-poor kids, though, the ones with a bad odor off them, the borderline bums—they’ve got zilch. Their pot to piss in has a hole in it. They never have new bags or shirts or shoes or anything. It’s a sin. I feel heart-sorry for them.

  Mom helped me put the bag on my back.

  “Have you written to Dad lately?” I said.

  Mom said nada.

  “Mom?”

  “I heard you, Dylan.”

  “Dad needs his letters, you know.”

  “I’ll do it tonight.”

  “Maybe we can do one together?”

  “We’ll see,” Mom said, which I knew meant No bleedin’ chance. “Right, young man. You’re going to be late.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Try to be good, okay, Dylan?”

  “Sì, signora.” That’s Italian. Mom likes hearing me speak new languages.

  “Right, come here.” She reached out her arms, a move I’d seen tons of times before. I knew what was coming. I was used to it. “Look at you—you’re so handsome.” Mom’s “so” sounded more like “s­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o.”

  SMACK-A-ROONY!

  Flush on the face. Hitting lips, nose, and chin at the same time. Dis-gust-ing or what?

  Salt.

  Salt.

  Salt.

  I can’t wait until I’m too old for Mom’s slobbers. But thinking things like that made me sad in the dumps, and I’m not allowed to be sad in the dumps. So I didn’t think about it. Dad had told me that I was the man of the house now, and in my mind men of the house aren’t supposed to be sad; they’re meant to be like Hercules or Samson (before he got his hair chopped).

  “Try to be good, Dylan,” Mom said again.

  “I always do.”

  “Love you,” Mom shouted after me.

  I tucked my ear into my head and went M­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m­m in my mind, pretending not to hear her. Then the door shut and I knew that in two minutes she’d be Bambi blubbering. But I tried not to think of that, which is Hard Rock Cafe, so I tried to see if I could get all my fingers to touch Green at the same time without touching each other. That took my mind off it and made me think of sugar and spice and all things nice.

  I couldn’t fit all my fingers on Green, though.

  Bloody pinkie fingers!

  Why do we need them?

  3

  Letter

  Dec

  Hi Champ

  Youll probibly wake up and wondur were Ive gone two. Thats the thing about being in the army, you have to be ready to go at the drop of a hat and as my troop are part of a secret mishon this time we couldnt tell a sinnir when and were we were going. I hope you undurstand this kiddo. I cant say two much about our mishon or the opirations were going to do as it is far two dangerus. Not for me but for YOU!!! But the crappy thing is that they wont tell us wen were two get home. Im hoping in the nixt year. Supose it depends on how many arabs and suicide bommers we get. So your the man of the house now wich means youv got to keep it safe and look after your mom, dont let her burst your arse two much. Keep working hard at that school of yours and dont let anyone take the piss. Remember what I told you, always look out for number one. Mom said shed send letturs on to me if you want to write. So if you do, give the letturs to Mom ‚cause she‚s the only one who knows the address here at base camp, this is for securety reesons.

  See you soon.

  Love Dad

  4

  Babe

  Would you Adam and Eve it?

  That’s cockney rhyming slang, which is strange coming from me, as I’m not cockney. It didn’t actually leave my mouth in words; I just thought it. But I thought it in cockney because we don’t really have Glaswegian rhyming slang for the word “believe.” I don’t think many people at my school know anything about cockney rhyming slang. If they did, they’d be using it constantly, which they don’t, and all the thick kids would be saying the word “cockney” all the time and laughing their tits off because it has the word “cock” in it. It’s my slang and no one else’s.

  Would you Adam and Eve it? On the way to school I eyeballed Doughnut with some of his cronies. It was the first time I’d seen him since the end of last year. I didn’t miss him. His belly jelly wobbled; he had extra blubber on him. Maybe Mom was right. He’d probably been inhaling ice cream and lard over the summer. She’s some super-sleuth cookie, my mom. He didn’t clock me. I kept a safe distance, all ninja-like. I tailed him, eyeballing his every move. Eavesdropping on his every laugh, his nasty comments about anyone and everyone. About my best bud, Amir. Amir says that Doughnut is just like a hole that’s looking for a doughnut. Amir should be on the stage.

  Doughnut’s comments about Amir started the rumblings.

  SMALL VOLCANO ALERT!

  It starts with Mr. Right Eye and quickly moves to Mr. Jaw, then the red-hot lava flows and Mr. Head shakes at super-rapid speed.

  Whoosh!

  Whoosh!

  Whoosh!

  Mr. Head is dizzy Miss Lizzy. That’s the worst bit.

  Mr. Sweaty arrives with Mr. Pong and Mr. Panic.

  Mr. and Mrs. Eyes start to pee themselves.

  Mr. Throat doesn’t miss the boat.

  Here he comes: Mr. Bloody Twitch.

  This is how life’s a bitch for Dylan Mint.

  Not far behind is Mr. Tic. Can’t stand that prick.

  It�
�s the docs who like to call them “tics.”

  I prefer “volcanoes” myself, because they’re like mega eruptions in my head.

  The main reason I’ve no street cred.

  I don’t suppress it—the docs with the big brains told me not to. “Always allow it to escape, Dylan, always allow it to escape,” one bright-spark doc said.

  I want to shout out.

  I want to scream.

  I want to bellow, holler, and yell.

  Soooooo badly it hurts like hell.

  Dylan, don’t shout out, scream, bellow, holler, or yell!

  Don’t bawl, “DOUGHNUT, YOU UGLY FAT WANK-BUCKET FUCK-HEAD SOCK-FACE BELL END.”

  Don’t shout that!

  Whatever you do, don’t shout that.

  The last thing I wanted was for Doughnut to march right over and rattle the ears off me, maybe even plonk his head on the bridge of my nose. I wanted my nose to be in one piece, so I did the opposite of what the super brains told me. I suppressed the volcano. I kept it in. Instead I brought Mr. Growl on as my substitution. Mr. Growl is not Mr. Dog’s little brother, though. He’s more like a gentle bear. Or a car engine that’s on its last wheels. I was terrified for a split second that Mr. Dog was going to be released. But he wasn’t. A phew moment.

  Bloody Nora. It meant I had to walk the long way to school. Away from Doughnut and his chums. I had to find a spot on my own, rub Green like a speed polisher and get it all out. Mount Etna or even Edinburgh Castle, which is also a volcano—not many people know that fact. I guess you need to have some sort of brainpower to know stuff like that. I’d been okay that morning, and my anxiety about returning to school was getting better; I was only teensy-weensy anxious. Now I had balmy, clammy hands and I kept swallowing saliva. But it was okay. I would be okay.

  Mom also said I was the man of the house while Dad was away being a hero and I had to start acting like a proper grown-up. I’d been doing some of that over the summer. Mainly in my room. It made me feel different from this time last year. More confident. Ready to take part in some of those conversations that terrified me last year. Ready to take no shit. It made me feel much better, knowing I was a man. Even though I was a sixteen-year-old man. I had biceps and triceps. I felt better, better, better. “Eye of the Tiger” better.