swung open. Ziggy was still dressed in his surfer uniform. His hair was shaved at the sides and what remained was gelled into a diagonal mohawk. He could have been an escapee from a Nickelodeon sitcom. He looked at Colm like he was something heâd stepped in.
âHey,â he said without enthusiasm.
Great, Colm thought. Heâs doing his teenage rebel thing. Did he even realise that rebels donât have birthday parties hosted by their mammies? What a jerk.
A boy of four or five who looked like a miniature version of Ziggy ran towards Colm waving a silver baseball bat in the air. Without warning, he took a wild swing, cracking the aluminium bat right against Colmâs shin.
âHoly shââ Colm began, then bit his lip. The pain was excruciating. He hobbled around trying to walk it off. He wondered if it would be bad manners to give the kid a kick when his leg had recovered. Probably.
âThatâs my brother, George,â Ziggy said. âYou can leave the present on the hall table.â
He ran upstairs. Back to where the party was going on. Colm rubbed his leg furiously. Man alive, it really stung. He turned up the leg of his jeans and examined the injury. A huge red welt was beginning to form. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted George preparing for another swing, a smirk playing on his pink lips.
That kidâs properly mental, Colm thought. He dodged to his left as the bat arced towards his exposed shin, missing it by centimetres. It smacked off the front door, leaving a dent in the PVC.
George burst into tears when he saw that his mission had failed and that the new party-goer wasnât lying on the floor screaming in agony as heâd hoped. It was so unfair.
âWaaaaaah,â he cried and legged it into the kitchen as quickly as his spindly little pins would carry him. His mother emerged moments later, marching furiously towards Colm.
âWhat did you do to George?â she asked.
âN-n-nothing,â Colm said.
She leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.
âHeâs only five you know. What sort of boy picks on someone whoâs only five?â
âI didnât pick on â¦â
She put her arm around Georgeâs shoulders. âThe poor child is terrified. Look at his little face.â
George didnât look terrified. He stuck out his tongue.
âIâve a good mind to call your mother and ask her to take you home right this second,â she spluttered.
Please do, Colm thought. Heâd only been here for ninety seconds or so and already it was the worst birthday party heâd ever attended.
âWell?â said Ziggyâs mother.
Colm looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
âIâm waiting for your apology,â she said.
Apologise? No way, he thought. She glared at him. He tried glaring back at her, but found that when it came to glaring he really wasnât very good at it. He noticed that her make-up was heavily piled on and while her face was dark and had an unnatural brown tinge to it, her neck was porcelain white.
âSorry,â he muttered.
âHmmpph,â Ziggyâs mother replied and disappeared back into the kitchen.
âYou stink like smelly poo,â George said, and ran off to join her.
Georgeâs baseball bat attack was the high point of the party for Colm. He spent the rest of the time being ignored by all the guests, most of whom he knew from school or the estate.
He ended up in a corner of the kitchen eating bowl after bowl of the tasteless nachos no one else wanted to touch while Ziggyâs grandmother sat beside him telling him her life story. She was a nice lady, but it wasnât as if sheâd spent her life trekking to the North Pole or living with gorillas; sheâd worked in a shop for forty-seven years and had never been on an aeroplane.
When the food had been demolished and everyone had half-heartedly sung Happy
âHey,â he said without enthusiasm.
Great, Colm thought. Heâs doing his teenage rebel thing. Did he even realise that rebels donât have birthday parties hosted by their mammies? What a jerk.
A boy of four or five who looked like a miniature version of Ziggy ran towards Colm waving a silver baseball bat in the air. Without warning, he took a wild swing, cracking the aluminium bat right against Colmâs shin.
âHoly shââ Colm began, then bit his lip. The pain was excruciating. He hobbled around trying to walk it off. He wondered if it would be bad manners to give the kid a kick when his leg had recovered. Probably.
âThatâs my brother, George,â Ziggy said. âYou can leave the present on the hall table.â
He ran upstairs. Back to where the party was going on. Colm rubbed his leg furiously. Man alive, it really stung. He turned up the leg of his jeans and examined the injury. A huge red welt was beginning to form. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted George preparing for another swing, a smirk playing on his pink lips.
That kidâs properly mental, Colm thought. He dodged to his left as the bat arced towards his exposed shin, missing it by centimetres. It smacked off the front door, leaving a dent in the PVC.
George burst into tears when he saw that his mission had failed and that the new party-goer wasnât lying on the floor screaming in agony as heâd hoped. It was so unfair.
âWaaaaaah,â he cried and legged it into the kitchen as quickly as his spindly little pins would carry him. His mother emerged moments later, marching furiously towards Colm.
âWhat did you do to George?â she asked.
âN-n-nothing,â Colm said.
She leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.
âHeâs only five you know. What sort of boy picks on someone whoâs only five?â
âI didnât pick on â¦â
She put her arm around Georgeâs shoulders. âThe poor child is terrified. Look at his little face.â
George didnât look terrified. He stuck out his tongue.
âIâve a good mind to call your mother and ask her to take you home right this second,â she spluttered.
Please do, Colm thought. Heâd only been here for ninety seconds or so and already it was the worst birthday party heâd ever attended.
âWell?â said Ziggyâs mother.
Colm looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
âIâm waiting for your apology,â she said.
Apologise? No way, he thought. She glared at him. He tried glaring back at her, but found that when it came to glaring he really wasnât very good at it. He noticed that her make-up was heavily piled on and while her face was dark and had an unnatural brown tinge to it, her neck was porcelain white.
âSorry,â he muttered.
âHmmpph,â Ziggyâs mother replied and disappeared back into the kitchen.
âYou stink like smelly poo,â George said, and ran off to join her.
Georgeâs baseball bat attack was the high point of the party for Colm. He spent the rest of the time being ignored by all the guests, most of whom he knew from school or the estate.
He ended up in a corner of the kitchen eating bowl after bowl of the tasteless nachos no one else wanted to touch while Ziggyâs grandmother sat beside him telling him her life story. She was a nice lady, but it wasnât as if sheâd spent her life trekking to the North Pole or living with gorillas; sheâd worked in a shop for forty-seven years and had never been on an aeroplane.
When the food had been demolished and everyone had half-heartedly sung Happy
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