What I Did by Christopher Wakling

Dad.
    â€” I hadn’t yet managed to sleep. What’s going on?
    â€” Billy, he says. I told you to . . . He trails off.
    â€” My name is Sheila Hudson, Butterfly woman tells Mum. She takes a clipboard thing out of her bag. It is made out of the same stuff as jeans so don’t drag it along the pavement or you’ll get holes in its knees. Now she opens the folder and takes out a little card and gives it to Mum. We have a similar plastic card thing at school which we put in the right box. Here I am, our cards say, completely at school and ready for my packed lunches. Mum takes Sheila Hudson’s card and looks at it.
    â€” Tessa Wright, says Mum, glancing at Dad. — How can we help?
    â€” Ms. Hudson was just on her way out, Dad says.
    â€” This is a delicate matter, Butterfly woman tells her jeans-pad thing. — I’m here because—
    â€” Some busybody has been spreading malicious rumors, interrupts Dad. His voice has balloons in it, now. Watch they don’t pop! He goes on: — I’ve told Ms. Hudson there’s been a mistake, and she’s going .
    â€” Rumors, Mum says. — What do you mean?
    â€” I’ll explain in a minute.
    Mum’s face has gone very still. It’s the same face she had when someone crashed into our car in the supermarket park. Let’s just drive slowly along here following the arrows shall we? But what’s this? Only a car jumping backward straight into our way. Crunch!
    â€” Are you all right? Mum asked me.
    â€” Yes thank you. We crashed!
    â€” Yes. Carefully she took a pen from the glove box. Then out she got, but not in a rush, the opposite in fact, more like a Slow Loris eating an orange: I’ll peel this thing, and then I’ll eat it, all in good time, just you wait and see. — Can I have your insurance details please?
    She blinks at the lady from the cow sill now and says, — Would you mind telling me exactly what is going on?
    The knitted butterfly tries to flap free again as the woman takes another breath but it’s pointless. — Of course, she says. Then she glances from me to Mum and Dad, moving her head too much as she does it, like the rubbish puppet at Jacob’s birthday. All the puppet could do was nod and clap and when it walked it looked like it was going in reverse. Watch out behind there. Crash. Herbivores generally have eyes on the side of their head which would make them very accurate in car parks. Nobody says anything for an odd long second but Dad folds his arms and this makes Sheila Butterfly take another flightless breath. There are loads of birds in Madagascar which can’t fly at all because of the useless predators.
    â€” I think it would be best if we three had a discussion in private, the woman suggests.
    Dad stares at her. Then he walks over to the bin and says, — Snack time, Son. What do you fancy?
    â€” Orange juice without bits in, I say very quickly. — And a chocolate chip biscuit.
    â€” Coming up.
    He opens the cupboard and takes out a glass. I stand on one leg because suddenly this is brilliant. But Dad is going underwater-slow. I can swim a width without breathing, nearly. Orca is another name for killer whale. Like peas, they come in pods. Come on, Dad, we’re all waiting here with baited hooks. But something isn’t right at all. Have you ever seen two strange cats on a wall? Well Mum and Butterfly remind me of that. They’re both standing way too still, watching each other, and waiting, waiting, waiting, while Dad makes a slow-motion snack. David Attenborough has a camera that he uses to catch the droplets polar bears shake off their top-predator necks. And Mum is chewing her lip. Don’t eat it, Mum, we have biscuits. But waiting for them to arrive is so boring I decide to stand on the other leg.
    No, no, no! How can a highly intelligent human being do something so slowly and still get it wrong? That’s orange squash, not