Blabber Mouth by Morris Gleitzman

then she understood.
    â€˜Um, Ro wants to tell you about herself,’ she said, looking worried.
    I made my hand movements as big and slow as I could.
    â€˜We’re not projects,’ I said, ‘we’re people.’
    I looked at Amanda and I could tell she’d understood.
    She gripped the microphone nervously.
    I looked at her, my heart thumping, and I knew if she was a real friend she’d say it.
    â€˜Ro says,’ said Amanda, and her voice started getting louder, ‘that she and the others aren’t projects, they’re people.’
    There was absolute silence in the hall.
    â€˜I’m just like all of you,’ I said. ‘An ordinary person with problems.’
    â€˜Ro’s just like all of us,’ said Amanda. ‘An ordinary person with ditches.’
    She looked at me, puzzled.
    â€˜Problems,’ I repeated.
    â€˜Problems,’ she said.
    â€˜I’ve got problems making word sounds,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’ve got problems making a living, or a sponge cake, or number twos.’
    Amanda said it all, even the bit about number twos.
    The hall was still silent.
    â€˜You can feel sympathy for me if you want,’ I continued, ‘and I can feel sympathy for you if I want. And I do feel sympathy for any of you who haven’t got a true friend.’
    I looked over at Amanda.
    As she repeated what I’d said, she looked at me, eyes shining.
    We stood like that, grinning at each other, for what seemed like months.
    Then everyone started clapping.
    Well, almost everyone.
    Two people were too busy to clap.
    Too busy rolling on the floor, scattering the crowd, arms and legs tangled, brown suit and orange satin, rolling over and over, fists flying.
    Dad and Mr Cosgrove.

I jumped down from the stage and pushed my way through the crowd.
    People were shouting and screaming, and several of the men were pulling Dad and Mr Cosgrove away from each other.
    By the time I got through, Dad was sitting on the edge of the refreshments table, gasping for breath, a red trickle running down his face.
    I gasped myself when I saw it.
    Then I saw the coleslaw in his hair and the piece of lettuce over one ear and I realised the trickle was beetroot juice.
    Dad looked up and saw me and spat out what I hoped was a piece of coleslaw and not a tooth.
    â€˜That mongrel’s not only a cheese-brain,’ he said, ‘he’s a rude bugger.’
    He scowled across at Mr Cosgrove, who was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. Various RSL officials were scraping avocado dip off his face and suit.
    Amanda and Mrs Cosgrove were there too.
    I caught Amanda’s eye. She lifted her hands and rolled her eyes.
    Parents.
    Exactly.
    â€˜He called you handicapped,’ said Dad. ‘I told him that was bull. I told him a person being handicapped means they can’t do something. I told him when it comes to yakking on you’re probably the biggest blabber mouth in Australia.’
    â€˜Thanks, Dad,’ I said.
    â€˜Then he called you spoiled,’ Dad went on, ‘so I let him have it with the avocado dip.’
    Part of me wanted to hug Dad and part of me wanted to let him have it with the avocado dip.
    Except it was too late, his shirt was covered in it.
    I made a mental note to tell Dad avocado suited him. At least it wasn’t as bright as the orange.
    I took one of my socks off and dipped it in the fruit punch and wiped some of the beetroot juice off his face.
    â€˜Are you OK?’ I asked.
    â€˜I’ll live,’ he said, ‘though I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the guts.’
    I looked anxiously for knife wounds.
    â€˜Belt buckle,’ explained Dad. ‘I don’t think it’s pierced the skin.’
    He was wearing the skeleton on the Harley.
    â€˜I’d better get cleaned up,’ said Dad. He looked down at himself and shook his head wearily. ‘I’ll never get coleslaw out of these