Copyright © 2012 by Sally Grindley
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-61608-732-6
Printed in the United States of America
With thanks to Terri Passenger,
Chartered Educational Psychologist,
for her guidance
Chapter One
There’s a hurricane smashing through our house. There’s a hurricane smashing, trashing, bashing through our house. CRASH! BANG! WALLOP! The doors are slamming, chairs are falling, cushions flying, feet running; voices shouting, “STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!”
I’m hiding in my bedroom. I’ve barricaded my door. I’m not scared, but I don’t want to be caught up in it, and I don’t want the hurricane turning my room upside down, inside out.
A hurricane can cause total devastation. It can flatten everything in its path. Can you even begin to imagine that? Now try to imagine living with one. I bet you can’t.
There’s a hammering on my door now. “Go away!” I yell. “Leave me alone.” The hammering is harder, louder. I put my hands over my ears to muffle it. I see the door shifting. I run and lean against it. “You’re not coming in!” I yell. “Go and take a running jump. Go and take a running jump off a cliff.”
I hear laughter then, and a torrent of words. I don’t want to hear them. I press my fingers into my ears to block them out. A heavy kick shudders the door, followed by another.
And then it goes silent. So silent. Pin-drop silent. Is it over? I wait. Not a sound. I wait a few minutes longer, then pull the chair away from the door. I’m about to take hold of the handle, when the door crashes open—WALLOP onto my fist—and a deafening BOO! makes my heart boomerang across my chest. A grinning face shoves itself into mine and shouts, “GOTCHA!” before it yahoos and giddy-ups all the way down the stairs.
“Why don’t you grow up?” I bellow after it. “Why can’t you be normal?” I growl under my breath, nursing my bruised fist.
I hide my book under the bed. There’s no point in trying to read now, and I don’t want the pages scribbled on. I make my way downstairs into the living room. There are cushions all over the floor. The coffee table is upside down. Mom’s favorite photograph of me and my brother is in the fireplace. The glass is broken into hundreds of pieces. Mom is sitting on the sofa and I can see that she has been crying. Wills is cuddled up next to her, but I know she doesn’t want him there. Not after what he’s done, even if he can’t help it.
“Mom’s mad at you, Chris,” he says smugly. “Chris cross Chris cross.”
I look at my mother, who shakes her head dully.
“No, she’s not,” I say.
“She is, she is, she is,” insists my brother. “Mad as mad can be, Chris, because you made all this mess and spilled popcorn all over the kitchen floor and it’s all sticky wicky.”
I don’t bother to argue. “Shall I make you a cup of tea, Mom?” I ask.
“That would be nice, thank you,” she sighs.
“It’s the least he can do, isn’t it, Mom?” says Wills.
My mother doesn’t reply. Wills stares at her, right in the eyes, waiting for an answer, then he pulls her arm around him and says, “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to do it.” He begins to cry, and so does she, and I feel like joining in.
Chapter Two
My brother has ADD. Mom says it stands for Attention Deficit Disorder. I say it stands for Acts Dumb and Dumber, which isn’t very clever but it tells it like it is, and you try coming up with something better. Wills is thirteen, eighteen months older than me, but sometimes he acts like he’s six years younger. Sometimes he acts like he’s only two. Less even! Imagine throwing your food across the room when you’re thirteen. You just wouldn’t, would you? Not unless you were so, so, so mad with someone that you threw it at them because you couldn’t help yourself, but even then you probably wouldn’t because you’d be too worried that you’d get punished. Wills doesn’t care about getting punished. He’s been punished so many times, but it doesn’t make any difference at all. Mom says it’s like water off a duck’s back, because most of the time he doesn’t seem to notice it, and if he does, he just shakes it off. I don’t think he actually likes getting into trouble, but he can’t always stop himself, so he ignores the consequences.
The worst thing is that Wills looks older than he is. He’s nearly six feet tall, and big too. Not like the rest of us. Mom’s five feet nothing and as thin as a goalpost, Dad’s only five feet eight and shaped like a bowling pin, and I’m only just taller than Mom. Wills has a moustache already, though he hates if anyone mentions it. Mom says it shows up because he’s got dark hair. Dad used to have dark hair too, before it stopped growing, which Dad says was because Wills sent it into shock. My hair’s fair like Mom’s, and curly too, which is a pain because Wills teases me and calls
