Read Online Head Spinners by Thalia Kalkipsakis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thalia Kalkipsakis
Tags: junior fiction
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side to side.
I tried one last time. âI didnât . . .â I stopped and sighed. What was the point? I looked down and nodded.
As we walked home, Connor hung back so that Mum and I could walk together, but I knew that he would stick close enough to hear what we were saying.
Mum tried to rest her hand on the back of my neck as we walked, but I shrugged her off. I was angry that Mum thought I had stolen the sandwich. I was angry and scared. I wasnât used to this kind of thing happening to me. Connor was the one who always got into trouble.
At first we said nothing, but Mum kept fiddling with her earring, so I knew she was working up to saying something.
I knew what it would be, too. It would be about Monty.
âI just donât understand,â Mum said eventually.
âNo, it doesnât make sense, does it?â I said hopefully, stepping over a puddle on the footpath.
âYouâve never stolen anything in your life!â Mum said.
âSo why would I start now?â I said, but my voice sounded thin. âThink about it, Mum. I didnât steal the sandwich. I promise!â
Mum shook her head sadly. âBut how did it get into your bag? I mean, no one else could have put it there.â
âYeah? Well it wasnât ME,â I yelled. I had no idea who had swiped the sandwich, but I couldnât shake the feeling that I was being punished.
Two weeks ago, Monty died. And it was all my fault.
On the day Monty died, I was home on my own, which didnât happen very often. I had a long list of things to do â handstands in the hall, computer games in Connorâs room â but first I was going to sneak some ice-cream.
After I waved goodbye to the car, I headed straight to the freezer, grabbing a spoon on my way. Who needs a bowl when youâre home alone? Yum.
Thatâs when I heard a knock at the door.
It doesnât take long for your life to change forever.
I will always remember exactly what the man said when I opened the door: âDo you own a scraggy black dog? Iâm so sorry. Weâve run over someoneâs dog.â
For some reason, the way he called Monty a âscraggy black dogâ made the whole thing even worse. I loved Monty just the way he was; I loved his curly hair. He had been the family dog, but he had played with me most of all.
At first I was in a daze. As the man carried Monty into our front garden I stayed quiet. It wasnât until after the man had gone that I realised how it had happened. In my rush to get back inside for ice-cream and computer games, I had forgotten to shut the gate. It was my fault that Monty had run onto the road.
I knelt next to Monty feeling dizzy with guilt. He just lay there, still and floppy. I wanted to shake him, to try to wake him up, but I knew he was dead. Blades of grass rested against his nose, but he didnât sneeze or move his head.
I loved Monty so much. If only I had shut the gate, then heâd still be alive.
It seemed like hours that I knelt beside him in the garden, sniffling and waiting for my family to come home. But it was even worse when they did.
As they climbed out of the car I started crying, hard and loud. But the words still came out, the words that were spinning around my head: âI left the gate open.â
Mum hugged me while Dad and Connor leaned over Monty. After a while, Dad went to dig a grave in the backyard.
I gave Monty one last pat and unbuckled his collar. When Dad came back pushing the wheelbarrow, I turned away. I couldnât watch.
Montyâs favourite stick was lying on the grass. I picked it up too. The wood was smooth because all the bark had been chewed off. Monty loved playing fetch with that old stick. For the rest of the afternoon I held that stick and the collar to my chest.
None of my family yelled at me or even seemed annoyed. They just looked at me sadly; even Connor said nothing about what I had done.
And that
I tried one last time. âI didnât . . .â I stopped and sighed. What was the point? I looked down and nodded.
As we walked home, Connor hung back so that Mum and I could walk together, but I knew that he would stick close enough to hear what we were saying.
Mum tried to rest her hand on the back of my neck as we walked, but I shrugged her off. I was angry that Mum thought I had stolen the sandwich. I was angry and scared. I wasnât used to this kind of thing happening to me. Connor was the one who always got into trouble.
At first we said nothing, but Mum kept fiddling with her earring, so I knew she was working up to saying something.
I knew what it would be, too. It would be about Monty.
âI just donât understand,â Mum said eventually.
âNo, it doesnât make sense, does it?â I said hopefully, stepping over a puddle on the footpath.
âYouâve never stolen anything in your life!â Mum said.
âSo why would I start now?â I said, but my voice sounded thin. âThink about it, Mum. I didnât steal the sandwich. I promise!â
Mum shook her head sadly. âBut how did it get into your bag? I mean, no one else could have put it there.â
âYeah? Well it wasnât ME,â I yelled. I had no idea who had swiped the sandwich, but I couldnât shake the feeling that I was being punished.
Two weeks ago, Monty died. And it was all my fault.
On the day Monty died, I was home on my own, which didnât happen very often. I had a long list of things to do â handstands in the hall, computer games in Connorâs room â but first I was going to sneak some ice-cream.
After I waved goodbye to the car, I headed straight to the freezer, grabbing a spoon on my way. Who needs a bowl when youâre home alone? Yum.
Thatâs when I heard a knock at the door.
It doesnât take long for your life to change forever.
I will always remember exactly what the man said when I opened the door: âDo you own a scraggy black dog? Iâm so sorry. Weâve run over someoneâs dog.â
For some reason, the way he called Monty a âscraggy black dogâ made the whole thing even worse. I loved Monty just the way he was; I loved his curly hair. He had been the family dog, but he had played with me most of all.
At first I was in a daze. As the man carried Monty into our front garden I stayed quiet. It wasnât until after the man had gone that I realised how it had happened. In my rush to get back inside for ice-cream and computer games, I had forgotten to shut the gate. It was my fault that Monty had run onto the road.
I knelt next to Monty feeling dizzy with guilt. He just lay there, still and floppy. I wanted to shake him, to try to wake him up, but I knew he was dead. Blades of grass rested against his nose, but he didnât sneeze or move his head.
I loved Monty so much. If only I had shut the gate, then heâd still be alive.
It seemed like hours that I knelt beside him in the garden, sniffling and waiting for my family to come home. But it was even worse when they did.
As they climbed out of the car I started crying, hard and loud. But the words still came out, the words that were spinning around my head: âI left the gate open.â
Mum hugged me while Dad and Connor leaned over Monty. After a while, Dad went to dig a grave in the backyard.
I gave Monty one last pat and unbuckled his collar. When Dad came back pushing the wheelbarrow, I turned away. I couldnât watch.
Montyâs favourite stick was lying on the grass. I picked it up too. The wood was smooth because all the bark had been chewed off. Monty loved playing fetch with that old stick. For the rest of the afternoon I held that stick and the collar to my chest.
None of my family yelled at me or even seemed annoyed. They just looked at me sadly; even Connor said nothing about what I had done.
And that
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