The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group Read Online Free PDF Page B

Fergus. But Mum isn’t a complete fool. She knows a bit about chemical reactions. That’s why my length of pipe, my bottle of vinegar and my little plastic bag full of baking soda were all lined up accusingly on the desk when I opened my bedroom door.
    ‘That bicarbonate of soda gave me a real fright,’ she admitted, before I could say anything. She was standing right behind me. ‘I thought it was cocaine for a minute.’
    ‘Yeah. I figured you would.’ This was a total lie, of course, but I was trying to brazen things out. ‘That’s why I put it there. It was meant to be a joke.’
    ‘Toby, I know perfectly well what happens when you mix vinegar and baking soda. Don’t you remember that volcano we made when you were six?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I suppose I should be grateful. When it comes to science experiments, you could be growing your own marijuana, or distilling your own alcohol.’ She sighed into my ear. ‘So there’s absolutely nothing you want to tell me about Monday night? Before we start all these medical tests?’
    ‘No!’ I snapped. (Why didn’t she believe me?) As I marched forward to reclaim my room, she followed me in, fiddling and fidgeting. I’m used to that by now. I’m used to the way she can’t pass my open door without darting across the threshold to pick up a sock, or shut the wardrobe, or adjust my curtains. She has to fix things the way some people have to smoke cigarettes.
    This time, however, there wasn’t much left to fix. She’d already cleared out all the dirty laundry and half-eaten sandwiches, so she had to be satisfied with smoothing down the curled edges of my Fred Astaire poster. Yes, that’s right. I have a poster of Fred Astaire. So what? He was a good dancer – though I prefer Gregory Hines. I’d like to see you doing what Fred Astaire used to do. I’ve tried it myself and it’s impossible. Especially when you have to practise on a shag-pile carpet in a cluttered bedroom.
    Maybe my moves would be better if I had access to a converted warehouse, with a whole wall of mirrors and a shiny wooden floor. But where am I going to find a converted warehouse? Unless I start taking proper lessons, of course, and the trouble with that is . . . well, you know what the trouble with that is. I mean, come on. Lessons? Surrounded by hundreds of little girls in tap shoes? No thanks . I’m not Billy Elliot, for God’s sake. I’d rather be Dingo Boy than Twinkle Toes.
    Besides, it’s just a hobby. I enjoy it. I don’t want to ruin it with a bunch of lessons. Maybe if there was some kind of B-boy workshop at the local community centre, I’d consider joining that – though it would depend on who else was there. If the place was full of wannabe gangstas, with their fingers stuck out and their baseball caps turned back to front, then I wouldn’t want to go. Deadheads like that are worse than little girls in tap shoes.
    I guess I just prefer working things out on my own.
    ‘Do you think Fergus might be involved?’ said Mum, as I foraged in my schoolbag. ‘I realise you can’t remember what happened, but do you think it’s likely?’
    ‘Fergus had nothing to do with it,’ I retorted.
    ‘How do you know? If you can’t remember—’
    ‘I already asked him.’ At last I found my phone. ‘I rang him up and he didn’t know what I was talking about.’
    Mum absorbed this for a moment. Then she said, ‘Are you sure he was telling the truth?’
    I was draped across the bed at that point, scrolling through my messages as if everything was back to normal. I didn’t want to discuss my mysterious blackout. I wanted to forget that it had ever happened. The whole subject was like a dark shadow, lurking just outside; I felt that if I even glanced its way, it would pour through my window and engulf me.
    But I had to answer Mum’s question. Otherwise she would have assumed that I didn’t believe what Fergus had said.
    ‘Oh yes,’ I mumbled, lifting my gaze. ‘Fergus was telling the