do just goes right above her head. ‘Past the keeper’, as Dad says.
‘Yes, Amber. Anything you say, Amberrrr.’ I roll my eyes at her imaginary perfection as she glides across the carpet and shoves me out of the way. I pretend not to mind the pain as I ricochet off the wall. I don’t even mind the door slamming shut on my nose. It isn’t anything plastic surgery can’t fix.
As I stagger back down the hall, using wads of tissue to stop the massive nosebleed, I pretend to sing happily to myself: I’m in Heaven . . . I’m in Heaven . . . That is, until I start sneezing. Amber’s perfume can sometimes be super nostril clearing.
Okay, so right now you’re wondering if I’m a moron, right? Why don’t I go running off to Mum (Dad’s rarely around) and squeal, ‘AMBER’S BASHED MY NOSE IN!’ Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. For starters, no one would believe me. Two, I know she doesn’t really mean to be nasty. And three, and you won’t believe this, but I think I like her. And don’t ask me why, because that’s an even more difficult question.
And it’s not as though I haven’t looked for an answer. I mean, who in their right mind likes someone who’s so mean to them? But I did ask Jay.
Jay says, ‘You pick your nose a lot.’
‘Fake news!’ I say hotly. Then stop because I realise that might be a sticking point. I need to do that in private if it grosses people out.
Okay. Nobody’s perfect.
I do a quick mental experiment. A mental experiment is where you run the idea inside your head, like a little movie. Then you try to see if there are any problems.
I see myself strolling past Caitlin’s room just as the door opens and Amber comes out. I’m furiously picking my nose, revealing a truckload of lovable snot.
Amber’s liquid green eyes focus on me. ‘Somebody tell you there was buried treasure up your left nostril?’
I crack up. ‘HA HA HA! That’s a good one, Amber! Anyone ever tell you, you have an amazing sense of humour?’
All of a sudden, Amber gags and vomits all over me.
I follow her eyes and see an enormous green squishy booger stuck to the ends of my fingers, just as I’m about to put my fingers in my mouth.
Oops.
I come back to the real world with a slight thud. Yeah, that’d make someone not like you very much. But that never happened.
I ask Jay for some other examples of my flaws. Like how many could there be? After all, Jay and I share so much in common there can’t possibly be too many things wrong with me otherwise we’d be totally unlike one another.
Jay looks thoughtful again, then says, ‘Well, first of all there’s . . . ’
Half an hour later I have a list that’s longer than Mr Snipe’s homework-for-the-holidays.
Jay must be having an off day. I mean, selfish? Me? Short-sighted? Me? Arrogant, egocentric, blind, shallow, unreliable? Bossy, impulsive, lazy, picky, sarcastic, self-centred, stingy, thoughtless, messy and untidy? Stubborn, gossipy, gullible, frivolous, flaky, disorganised, callous, hurtful, forgetful, grumpy, vengeful, know-it-all (not!), ignorant, impatient, inattentive, insecure, irresponsible, jealous, envious, judgmental, reckless, scatterbrained, self-indulgent, tactless, ungrateful, vindictive, and – what?! Whiny – ?!!!
‘There’s not much room for nice things about me,’ I say, waiting for a barrage of goodness to flow from Jay’s mouth. After a super long moment I realise that either Jay can’t think of anything nice to say, or more likely is composing another extraordinarily long list that could take days.
Did I say I love Jay’s honesty? Not so much right this minute.
Not being one to shy away from the hard truths, I say, ‘Me, whiny? No way, Jay. I’m not whiny. I’m not! I’m nooottt!’
I get ‘the look’.
‘Hold that thought,’ Jay says, and then heads off to music class. I glare at Ethan. Ethan looks back. ‘I’m not whiny, am I?’
‘Nope.’ See! Ethan is a way better judge of character than Jay!!!
‘Hey, you got a dictionary on your phone?’ I ask him.
He nods. I look up ‘egocentric’.
For the next two days I parade around the house in my taekwondo uniform (this way Amber will see my dorky-frivolous-reckless-cute-yet-kind-of-cool side). Whenever I run into her I practise my Korean language skills on her.
In my best Korean, I say: ‘I’d love to take you out to a movie on Saturday afternoon.’
Jay later explains that I told Amber she needed to wear much more makeup and should stop farting in elevators. Hey, give me a break! Is it my fault Great-Grandfather Gong was Chinese, not Korean?
Mum says it’s a Freudian slip.
‘A what?’
‘It’s when you say something that you believe deep down that’s coming from your innermost thoughts,’ Mum says.
‘Uh-huh.’
Luckily, Amber doesn’t speak Korean (apparently I don’t either). All she says is, ‘James, you’re a moron trying to be an idiot.’
‘Thanks, Amber,’ I say, trying desperately to be friends. ‘I’m trying.’
‘Very.’
Just then, Caitlin comes out of her room. She eyes my taekwondo uniform.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ she says, suddenly breathing through her mouth rather than her nose. She has a bag over her shoulder. ‘We’re going to the vert. Amber’s teaching me to skate. You want to come?’
My eyes narrow. ‘Why are you asking me? Oh, I get it. You want me to fall on my bum and look like an idiot, right?’
‘You don’t need to fall on your bum to look like an idiot, James,’ Amber says and slams the front door behind her.
What is it with girls in this house slamming doors?!
As soon as they’re gone I sneak off to the vert to watch them. Why? It beats staying at home and picking my nose. I tell you, I don’t know why! I’m confused!
But then Mum walks past with Mr Freddo and Miss Waffles.
Mr Freddo is a homicidal Doberman who makes Lord Voldemort look like Goldilocks. Miss Waffles is a barf-ugly bulldog that I mentioned earlier, that farts anytime, anywhere, and not just in elevators. I rescued Miss Waffles from the side of a road after a car had hit her. Despite door knocking on every house in Abbotsford and surrounds no one claimed her. Considering her penchant for farting, I wasn’t surprised. She talks so much about nothing I named her Miss Waffles.
Normally,
